Being Here for You

Dear Hannah,

It’s April 6, 2020. Everything has changed overnight. Going outside is limited to essentials, I spend my days indoors and find the chance to escape at night. I sit on one of the benches of the deserted Grand-Place and look up at the night sky. The stars are still there, but still only few of them are visible in the city. It makes me long for your nighttime view in rural Vermaaklikheid. I want to look at the stars from the small verandah outside your kitchen. I wonder:
Could you sit there for me tonight? Could you be my eyes?

Dear Hannah,

I have the urge to play loud music – without disturbing any neighbours – and move around freely; to dance, jump, let go of all the things going on. I was thinking that your studio, standing alone in the olive grove, could be perfect for this.
Could you go there for me? Will you be my feet and legs and ears today?

Dear Rita,

This morning, as I put on my everyday clothes, I thought about how there are no more occasions. I mean that there is nowhere to go to, nobody to visit, nothing to ‘dress up’ for. I miss it. Could you put on a dress and some red lipstick and take a walk to my favourite cafe there (the one on the corner)?

Dear Hannah,

Tomorrow morning I’d so love to wake up early in nature, with the prospect of a whole day of quiet ahead. I would like to go outside and feel the wind for a moment while watching the valley come alive. After this I’d come inside and have a coffee or a tea (both fine). A quiet morning far from here, in your middle of nowhere.

Dear Rita,

The sun goes down now just after 6pm and it’s as if someone switches on the night. The darkness is abrupt and I miss those long summer evenings. I wish to be outside at dusk when the light is lingering, possibly with a glass of wine (which is now prohibited here and seems quite extreme? Oh and cigarettes and tobacco also banned – the black market must be thriving).

Dear Hannah,

I’m writing to you from my sofa, staring at the ceiling. Like most ceilings, it is painted white.
I’m aware that the following request is restricted for you at the moment, which makes me hesitant.
Still, if you could make your way to the sea in the coming days, can I have a look at the waves and the horizon, take a deep breath of sea air?
It might be the thing I long for most.

Dear Hannah,

I’m seldom alone these days. With the curtains open, I can even sense the presence – and the eyes – of the neighbours across the street (who are always at home these days too). I would like permission to disappear for a while. Would you find a place and way for me to be completely alone? No one will know I am there, I will meet no one, it will be just me and the landscape and other, non-human creatures.

Dear Rita,

I miss the anonymity that you have in the city. I know all of the few people I meet here.
Today I want to go to a place full of people, knowing that no one knows me.
I want to become invisible (in a crowd).

Dear Hannah, 

I’m thinking so much about the kids in your village today. I wonder how they are. I wonder how the situation affects them. I remember them vividly.
I know you can’t go and visit them at this time. Is there anything you can think of to bring me closer to them?

Dear Rita,

I know that you are visiting your parents as it is permitted and ‘safe’ now in the Netherlands. It makes me realise how much I’d like to see my father (again), and have another walk with him. I quite often try to recall the memory of our last walk together on the farm so that I don’t lose it. The pace was painful; each step was a huge effort. 

Can you take a walk with your father for me? It’s a chance to have another walk as a daughter.

Dear Hannah,

I am moving between places. After having spent so much time at home in lockdown, it’s quite disruptive. I feel restless and vulnerable. I want to be able to come home and be at ease there. When I think of your place with its large wooden dining room table, the herbs growing outside the kitchen and the Persian carpet, I can imagine feeling at home there. Could you be (t)here for me?

Dear Rita,

I’ve been here in the countryside for months and months now and I am really missing life in the city. I think it’s intensified by not being allowed to leave. Could you spend some time in the city for me?

Dear Hannah,

Your August is in winter, mine is part of summer. I can’t believe it’s already mid-August. Didn’t we start this exchange in April? The pandemic has done something strange to my sense of time. I’m afraid that summer will be over soon now and it makes me feel rushed. I haven’t felt this way for so long.
There, unlike here, weeks and weekends seemed not really separate and the overall experience of time was different, slower perhaps.
I’d like to keep this request simple:
Could you take your time for me?

Dear Rita,

These days I feel the weight of this time, a world that seems heavier than usual. I am finding it hard to justify having ‘fun’. Fun might seem to be trivial but I do miss it. Play. What does fun mean now?

Dear Rita,

However I try, I’m just not able to find any rest at the moment. I need to rest deeply. Can you find some rest for me?

Dear Hannah,

We are in a second lockdown here, which means I’m mostly inside the atelier again. It’s harder for me to surrender to it this time. I know the room and I know the view from the window. Close to everything that I see is human made; the houses with the brick walls, the gutter where the pigeons perch, the copy machine in the office building across the street, this desk and chair, my water bottle, the tea bag and its text card (today it says no joke: life has meaning).
I reflect on this word lockdown. Indeed, I feel locked in and long to break free. If I could just go into ‘the wild’ for some time…

Dear Hannah,

My dreams are vivid and detailed at the moment. As if the night compensates for the decreased activity of my days. I wake up and I think: it was a dream. It wasn’t real. Was it? I reminisce about each of my visits over the past months in your here. They have a dreamlike quality. I wonder: Will you remember my dream for me tomorrow morning?