Dear,
a series of letters
Dear Home,
Always waiting patiently. By home I mean by house and I mean my most current place of residence. Living with even one other person means it will always be warm and alive. This is perhaps a subtle concept, object permanence. I am just starting to understand: my home lives even without me to witness.
I know this because it often changes. We got new lamps behind the couch. I had only imagined them. I wonder what it is like coming home after many years, do you first notice what has changed or what is the same?
In the home my parents call their childhood home, in the home my parents call their childhood home there is an eclectic collection of photos, art works, mirrors, and memories, curated such that they denote home itself.
The chandeliers in my grandman’s home for example: made of porcelain, painted in a typical dutch style, featuring small children, flowers. Recently, my uncle discarded these chandeliers, in a remodel.
The home is entirely changed from the outside: the pink exterior to a modern slate black. Barred slightly rusty balcony railings on each floor, replaced by clear shiny window panes. The exterior is marred with all attributes of newness.
But stripping the floors, replacing the furniture. Scrubbing the place of even the smell it is still home. Even if a boulder dropped from the height of the crane, the house would stand in memory.
When balloons lift the house from up into the sky-- I rewatched this movie on my journey home-- it is not the location of the house, but the house itself that matters. But the house is ultimately destroyed. The grief associated with the house is not grief but rather acceptance of a deeper grief, the loss of a loved one.
We don’t mourn the dirt, dust, and trash that leaves every week: change is but a sign we are alive.
Cordially, with love and dedication,
Dani.
Dear Writing,
Writing is lying in a cold bed-- a marriage where a california king isn’t enough distance, so sleep on the couch, get another house, how is it possible we felt this was about one another for a moment.
We should be very grateful to memory-- but I curse it just as often when I drive by that strip of road where I used to turn right to you, and now continue straight, down, first exit at the roundabout. Most days I don’t think twice, some days I think many times.
Unrequited is the word for this, but no love is fully unrequited. Flattery always yields some level of infatuation, maybe a brief moment of confusion. But flirtation isn’t love, even if it puts certain ideas in my imagination. On some level I know, I must know, there is no future here. So, if we were in love, it was mutual.
What does this have to do with writing? For me, everything.
It is all part of the game, the dance, the allure, the lover on the urn chasing and chasing the woman he will never know.
He will stay, chasing, because paintings do not move, but maybe people can.
My warmest regards,
Dani Madan
Dear Family,
Yesterday I felt really bad. I used my family to fill the space on what wasn’t supposed to be a date but felt like one. I knew I was talking too much about my brothers (confirmed later when you told me your mom was dead, dad addicted to meth, and you no longer talk to your sister).
I couldn’t stop, rattling off one story after another. I’m sorry you don’t have family, I thought about saying, you can have some of mine! This would have also been the wrong thing to say, but it might have even slid by you, you might’ve even found it charming or funny. In these situations the air is different. In your infatuation I can do no wrong.
I wonder if you remember it differently now, shades off.
Wishing you well, always,
Dani Madan
Dear New Years,
Spotify wrapped has come out so the new year is underway.
I am just about hitting the age where it brings some despair at getting old (this will amuse some). I thought maybe things would be different at 22. I am not sure where this reality lies; neither in my wildest dreams or my worst fears, and therefore, maybe exactly where it should, somewhere in the middle.
I quite like the notion of the new year because I think it is a universal reminder that we are alive! The days too often, too simply and seamlessly slip to memory. But every 365 days(and maybe a few times in between), a day turns from morning to afternoon to night and the world collectively cheers. Universally, we acknowledge the Earth doing its dance, I imagine it feels seen. Morning has turned afternoon has turned night, and we are back exactly where we were 365.25 days ago.
I don’t mean to diminish the achievement. Like collecting 200 at GO, we start this revolution with pockets brimming with optimism and hope
Cheers,
Dani Madan