LETTER TO WATER 2024
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An ongoing, open, collaborative project including anyone who contributes a letter to water.
Premiered at Cameron Art Museum October 19, 2024 as part of FlowILM Choreography, concept, scenic & costume design by Karola Luettringhaus Dance: Lauren Cranidiotis, Karola Luettringhaus Sound: Carl Kruger, the dancers, and audience members Letters by audience members and students of the UNCW Creative Writing Department under Professor Dr. Sayantani Dasgupta. Poetry by Alea Coburn Supported by UNCW Recycling, UNCW and FlowILM, Cameron Art Museum. Further performance opportunties Cucalorus Film Festival, Sarus Festival 2025, others tbd |
You can contribute a letter to water here through the form below and you can contribute your letter at our next performance. See calendar for more info.
Water needs to hear from us! Water is a person. Write a letter to water! Surprise us! What is your relationship to water? Confide in water, ask water about herself, tell water what to do, apologize, tell water a joke, whatever comes to mind. What does your relationship to water reveal about yourself? How does water shape us, and how do we shape water? |
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BRUCE LEE IS JEALOUS OF YOU
Dear Water, Bruce Lee is jealous of you. You are formless, strong, beautiful, and destructive. You can fit in with any crowd, well, maybe not if oil is around. You can take on any shape you wish to. Something as small as a cup, or a pot, but you can also be something bigger, a pool, or an entire ocean. How can you be so small to fit inside of a small cup that can be consumed by a human in its entirety, yet gargantuan enough to eDortlessly hold a blue whale no, thousands, hundreds of thousands of blue whales while also being able to fit in more crabs and fish with room to spare? Bruce Lee wants once said you should strive be formless, like water. He means to be able to adapt to any environment you are in. How did you learn to master this? Why are you the lifeblood of well, life? What makes you special enough to be the one thing every living thing needs? And how have we managed to tame you? You are manipulated by humans to do their bidding, like everything else in this world, but you are formless, unruly. We cannot entirely control you. You fight back. The oceans hurl waves and waves of destruction at people whenever it feels like it. And even those who are safe from the oceans are not out of harms way. You fly high into the sky and rain down upon us while bringing your Greek gods to aid in attacking us. Zeus throws his thunderbolt at us while you are trained by Ares to become arrows just so that you can attack earth, all the while Poseidon is watching from above, allowing you to do what you want. Yet you keep us alive. So which side are you on? ~ Maxwell Adams For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta BREATHE UNDER WATER
Dear Ocean, It’s been over three years since I discovered that I could breathe under water. It amazes me how beautiful everything is down here, quiet and peaceful. I remember being angry at society, how easily they’ve made this world fall apart. Nobody is there for you anymore; everyone just cares about themselves. So, I went for night swim, I wanted the cold water to hold me and let me drift aimlessly. But then, those storm clouds gathered around me by a sudden heavy downpour of rain, making it impossible to escape. In a moment of panic, I fought against the waves until my last breath or, so I thought. I woke up deep down the ocean, alive, more than I had ever been. I watched as a frilled shark wisped its tail from side to side or a gulper eel move their long, narrow body back and forth as if I’m not their prey but rather one of them. I’ve never felt safer and loved by you. I’ve made the choice that this is where I’ll live moving forward, no more city, no more land, this is home. I’ll bring my bookshelf and my bed and my plants. Oh, I can’t forget Peter Parker (my Betta fish), he’ll love it here too! Thank you for the freedom that you’ve given me and for showing me that in the midst of chaos, there’s tranquility. Sincerely, A human girl. ~ Thania Zainostorres For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta FEET FIRST OFF A STUMP...
Dear Water, Did you appreciate it when I came flying feet-first oD a stump at least thirty feet into the air? Did it scare you when I was pushed through your surface tension and caught by the grace you gave me for not landing the wrong way? I've dove, flipped, flopped. and plopped through that liquid wall just to be caressed by something of grace, something so surreal to have my breath held floating in an embrace I could not imagine in my wildest dreams. To be free floating in something so pivotal to what makes our Earth ours, it feels like I am back to the primordial soup. I am just a fish waiting to adapt and grow legs, but for now, I eat crustaceans and avoid the giant sea monsters of the ancient world. To free fall into water is a type of freedom that can apply diDerently to most, but you just understand your job to care for those that fall into you. It is a merciless type of care, one that is unforgiving and able to leave room for nuance. You will not help me when storms rage, or rain falls, or lightning strikes. All you can do is catch me and hold me floating. Is it you that gave me a love for nature so young? This idea of a world a little more muted, so disconnected from what is above that liquid wall; that breakthrough to a world where I must catch my breath but I am far too comfortable to want to leave this world full of possibility behind. I can't see well, but knowing there is so much life around me is just as scary as it is comforting, I can be among them for the time being, but your unforgiving nature may prove me wrong. Can you caress me one more time without the fear of your strength, or shall I slip once more through your barricade? ~ Walt Tillery For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta I USED TO DESPISE YOU
Dear Water, I’m sorry I used to despise you. I curse you out and yell at you just because. Let’s be fair. The only reason I am writing is that I would say we have a pretty good relationship right now. But years ago, when I was traveling in my grandparent’s trailer for the best summers of my life, you were my worst enemy. I hated being interrupted by playing in the dirt and mud to shower and go to bed. You washed oD all the fun. I hated when I had a fresh silk press, and remembering a droplet from you would ruin my hair. You did. You have. You will probably continue to ruin my hair. Oh, when I had minor cuts and drove into the ocean. No, don’t blame the salt. You were there, too. Do you remember my worst day ever in middle school? Yeah, that day. You just had to make it rain at the end of that day. I was not in a sad music video. You knew it wasn’t needed. Yet it rained. I was already crying. Wasn’t that enough? Oh, wait. This is supposed to be an apology. Something tells me you will soak up my letter and not bother to read it. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m grateful for you. It’s just hard sometimes to think about the ruined moments because you were there. But then I think about what would happen if you suddenly disappeared from my life. It’s a scary thought, but what if you had enough? I may not have had the best times with you, but I had some memorable moments with you. You were there when I carried water bottles with my now best friends in a tropical storm. That was fun. Watching the rain as I lean against the window on a road trip is fun. Some of my best writing is because you inspired me. So, I am sorry. There will still be times when I will curse you out, but I feel better now that you know why. Sincerely, Bri ~ Bri Talmadge For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta |
THANK YOU FOR BEING YOU
Dear Water, Thank you for being you. So sorry us humans have contaminated you, but you spring eternal through the evaporative process; thus removing contamination through your wisdom that comes from source. Rain goddess: I believe you are source connected; if not the very God herself. I worship you, drink your nectar, stare at your beauty in collected pools, oceans, rivers and tears. I love you, water. Water is me. Charlotte Burnett SO MUCH TO BEAR
Dear Water, You have so much to bear. As your waves crash, the sky booms in response. Each step you take haunts the townspeople. As you run down the streets, people lock up their homes and show you no kindness. As your tears flood the streets, people worry about you, not for you. Oh my dear, how you must wish to be anyone else. Your power isn’t your greatest weakness, but it is your biggest strength. As you provide life, other creatures will thank you soon enough. They will thank you for the nourishment you provide. They will admire your kindness and willingness to help. As the beads of sweat that fall from you and onto plants, flowers, and trees, they will smile. When their babies grow, they will thank you. When you bless them, they will smile. Oh my dear, how you must be exhausted. Tired of giving and giving without receiving. Tired of how people run you dry, down to the last drop. Tired of how people pour oil and other chemicals into your home. Tired of litter outside your home. Tired of people getting rid of you to build structures that will fall to your power. Oh my dear, you will survive this. Though it might not feel like it now, your tears will soon dry up. All the ruined structures will be replaced, and all the damage will be washed away. The change will be what everyone needs. For now my dear, I wish you well until we meet again. My old age will take me soon, and I will see your beauty for the last time. Be kind, but most importantly, be forgiving. Let the pain be washed away. To be renewed, with a kiss from nature, let change guide you in a new direction. ~ Hali Ramos For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta DROPETS THAT SPLATTER...
To the droplets that splatter across my window. I wonder if there was ever a time that I resented you. I wonder if there ever was a time before a smile would creep on my face when I saw the dark clouds and gray skies that preceded you. The mornings when, instead of the bright, blinding golden light, it was the calm, washed-out kind that put my heart at ease. I love the rain, I feel like I always have and likely always will. Even when I was a kid, back when the thunder would scare me into the arms of my mother or grandma, I would have an underlying fascination and sense of tranquility with the flashing lights and dewy window. I used to be told to never take a shower while it was raining (for what reason, I don't know), but I would always be drawn to standing in the bathroom with the clinking sound of the rain hitting the vent on the top of the roof. In school, I would cherish the days when the rain would flood the playground and force everyone to recess in the classroom or the gym. I think one of the things I hate the most about the rain is when it seeps through my shoes and down to my socks, making each step feel like I'm walking in mud. And I know the other thing I hate about the rain is the smell. When I was in middle school, I felt like I became aware of everyone else's love for the rain, and alongside that—probably even more so—was the love for the smell of the rain. And I never understood it, and I've tried so hard but just couldn't. There are so many other admirable, fascinating, beautiful things about the rain, but the smell isn't one of them. The rain will always be one of my greatest loves, and I hope you know that. I hope you know that when I open my curtains and let the gray light filter through my room, there is no better feeling. Sincerely, Vivy. ~ Viviana Perez For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta BUBBLES AND SQUIRTGUNS
Dear Water, Thank you. Thank you for the little things like bubbles and squirt guns. And the big things like indoor plumbing. Thank you for snow to go out to play in, and thank you for snow to stay inside and hide from. Thank you for sweat to cool me oD. And thank you even more for sprinklers in my neighbors’ yards when I run by. Thank you for puddles to jump in. Thank you for rainbows. Thank you for coDee, diet pepsi, and whiskey. A big thank you for ice. Thank you for making my hair curl up. Thank you for ice skates and hot cocoa. Thank you for cannonballs and popsicles. Thank you for being there on a hot day or before a terrifying feat. Thank you for baths—to heal and to hide in. Thank you for sand. Thank you for rivers that bank so hard they eventually wind back on themselves. Thank you for house plants. Thank you for pontoon boat rides with friends. Thank you for mushrooms after a long rain. Thank you for where those two oceans meet but don’t mix. Thank you for self-service car washes with friends and a cd. Thank you for pruny fingers after doing the dishes. Thank you for extinguishing, satiating, cleansing. Thank you for bounty. Thank you for answering our prayers. Thank you for clouds that look like dogs, dinosaurs, and Jesus. Thank you for always forming to your container. And thank you for being a perfect metaphor. Thank you for making babies squishy. Thank you for giving us a reason to chin-chin before dinner. Thank you for filling me up, rolling me in the waves, and reminding me how small I am. Thank you for slipping through my fingers; Thank you for the all reminders of how precious and powerful you are. Signed, Alysse ~Alysse Messick For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta DEAREST CONDENSATION
Dearest Condensation, We noticed you again today, and though we respect your processes, can no longer stand by as you wreak havoc on innocent paper products. Pressing soggy against the cardboard edge of a notebook. Sliding slick slippery down the back of carefully constructed cups. Dripping from air conditioning units onto family photos, half-finished puzzles, library books. You come at times we don’t expect, rolling in before breathtaking thunderstorms with the rise of Humidity. You’re so unlike the raindrops whose heavy presence beats terribly on forgotten lemonade stand signs left to disintegrate on front lawns. You come quiet in still sticky moments. You trickle in silent slivers, beading against plastic surfaces until you descend down upon our thin, delicate surfaces. Your dampness infiltrates our fragile constitutions. Even our most well-crafted comrades, reinforced with layer upon layer of wrapping, fall fast in the face of your moist destruction. Despite our many water-proofing attempts, the first rise in the dew point spells impending doom for all our kind. To condense the quantity of complaints about you and your watery ways, we the paper products banded together to form The Paper Coalition. Please direct any future statements accordingly. Wide and college ruled sheets, shiny photo paper, thin cups and chunky straws, ancient book pages, crumpled bills; all have joined in harmony for the sake of proDering peace to you, Condensation. We have been polite in our prior engagements, asking only for warning or shelter before you attack. Unfortunately, your lack of proper response demands we take further action. We insist you make like Transpiration and start helping us like your friend aids the trees, or we will be forced to retaliate by retaining your water and halting the proper water cycle. The choice is yours, Condensation. We request a reply prior to the next heatwave. Unfortunately Yours, The Paper Coalition ~ Anna Ford For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta |
OH, HURRICANE
Oh, Hurricane, Why must you bring big buckets of water instead of toy pails? Why do you feel the need to cause suDer amongst our kind, with your spiked winds and directionless window smashing? I hear the patter of your rain against my roof, my windows, and turning dry, hard, wooded easels into soft, supple, art. Pools of your water collect not just on the ground, but in cars, and in homes. You may help the droughts of our world, but bring a force like no other. Why can't you dissipate across the ocean of nothing instead of a wrath of everything? Your tempest, a cyclone, pushes me side to side out on the stretch of road. The sweat drenching my face from fear. My hands, sore from the clutch of the steering wheel. Schools cancel, jobs seize, and days are paused once caught sight of you. You have no soul, but are angry and aggressive with your whirlwind body. Your daughter, the tropical storm, bares a witness to your reign. My kind see you as a monster who do nothing but cause suDering. Wreaking havoc may just be a game to you, but we were born to lose. Winning at a game of chess while we're the pawns. What do you think happens when you disappear? We may give you a name that is kept in the history books, but you're written by my kind that survived you. Your rain that is left behind drips down the leaves of plants and feeding those animals alike. You strip us away from our power, our food, and our plumbing, so that we could eventually strip you away from your clutch you hold so tightly onto us. We're learning more about you, our scientists and engineers are acknowledging you and your path so that we can evolve. Good luck with your continuing reign of terror. We'll succeed. Yours Truly, An ant to you. ~ Ashton Healey For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta LAKE DOGWOOD
Lake Dogwood, Do you know what it is to drown? I don’t suppose you would. How could you? You just want to expand, to fill whatever space you’ve been put into. What do you care if that space is our lungs? We opened our mouths; we can keep you out, but only for so long. Our bodies fail us in the end. Which is funny, considering how much of us is water. There’s a joke in here somewhere. Forgive me, I’m too tired to find it. It hurts to drown. They say drowning is silent, that’s why so many people—even lifeguards—miss it. They say it’s easy. Fast. That’s how it gets missed—nobody sees one form in a mass of hundreds go under and not come up until its too late. I guess they breathed too much to struggle. Let you in too quick to take it back. I remember the way my fist beat against the fiberglass as my lungs screamed. Everything in me howled breathe but I knew if I did—a rat in a trap only now aware of it. You tore me from my so-called safety and down into your grasp, one arm tangled in the remnants of my ruined tube, life vest uselessly slamming my head into the underside of the boat in a vain attempt to push me back to the surface. The head trauma combined with the shock into a corona of confusion, one thought echoing through my head. I am going to drown. I didn’t. Obviously. But I don’t remember how I escaped, I just remember the pain as I broke the surface, lungs sucking in oxygen, lump forming on my head and an arm bent the wrong way. I don’t fear the collective you, per say, I go in plenty of backyard pools. I think it’s more accurate to say I know where I’m not welcome. I never did set foot in you again that week, no matter how the camp counselors berated me for it. You made your point. Sincerely, Another body caught in the current ~Sascha Sizemore For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta TO THE WATER STAIN BEHIND MY FAUCET
To the water stain behind my faucet, and the chip you have taken from the paint. I am leaving slowly. My bags are mostly empty, and my drawers are mostly full. I have caught you twice now, growing and spilling yourself along the wall. I imagine you creeping farther, washing the edges of things I can not see. I imagine you tearing through the mortar, weakening the bricks. I imagine you sick and fuzzy, black mold licking at your feet. I imagine I ought to leave. I catch you growing, and instead, I ask you to wait. You tell me you can't. You tell me I am ignoring time. You tell me I am lying. I catch you again, moving, creeping toward the floorboard. I beg you to stop, to slow down, but you say nothing. I imagine the walls collapsing, the brick tumbling in and in, crushing me against my mattress while I sleep. Wind and storm and rain all following, sweeping me away. To my landlord, There is a leak in the bathroom. It is spreading. Please come fix it. I am leaving, because I can not live here. Because this can not be home. But my bags are mostly empty, and my drawers are mostly full, and the smell of fresh, wet paint makes me think maybe, maybe, maybe. There is a question. I will answer it tomorrow. To the water stain behind my faucet, I am glad you are gone, you rushed me and you pushed me and I hate you. It is so strange without you here. I miss you. This place feels new. The walls are blue now, and I know that would make you angry, hungry, bold. There is an empty suitcase shoved beneath my bed. I am ignoring it, asking it to wait, but it whispers to me in my sleep, and my dreams are purple. They ask me: wouldn't you like to stay? ~ Lexi Bonin For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta THE WORLD IS AN OCEAN
Water, The world is an ocean and, today, it woke up covered in fish, belly up with no oxygen--their eyes marble stars. The day before, it woke up hugged by a blanket of duckweed, bringing nature to the pig-tailed toddler in the suburbs. The week before, it was red, and the people jolted past with their noses in the crook of their elbows. Before that, it was brown. I can only imagine that before that it was so clear, that we could see the pebbles through the smooth, unsalty waves. When I was younger, my mother told me the world rose out of an ocean and gods jostled you until you spit out the moon and medicine. My mother also told me that when the world ends, you'll swallow us whole. She never said we'd eat you instead. I wonder, when pesticides and animal feces trickle into you, do you become one with them? Or do you shrivel against them like an unwanted hug? Does it bother you, water, to share the ocean with motor oil, PFAS, burial ash, human bath, car parts, paint chips, broken teeth, and fish corps; do you notice it? Do you wish us gone like we wish cockroaches gone? Do you despise us more than you despise volcanic ash? Water, the world is an ocean, so you are the world. And I only wish I knew what I could do to make you pure. But for now, all I can say is I'm sorry. ~ Nitya Budamagunta For UNCW Creative Writing Class CRW 420-001: Short Stories from Here & There Fall 2024 with Prof. Sayantani Dasgupta |
