Dear Jacinda,
How are you?
Good, I hope.
Here I am at Auckland International Airport on my way to Europe, with a copy of your new book.
I am writing this open letter to you at the ODT website because you no longer reply to my emails.
You are very often in my thoughts.
They are very animated thoughts.
Not in the sense that I am founder and managing director of Animation Research.
But, actually, a bit like it.
Because the way I think about you is like some sharp-nosed sprite from the underworld, waving to the commoners with one hand and stealing their hopes and dreams with the other.
That’s what I see when I sit at the Koru Lounge and stare at the photo of you on the cover of your book.
I cannot take my eyes off of it.
TUESDAY
Dear Jacinda
I missed my flight thanks to you.
I didn’t hear the boarding announcement because I was too busy staring at the photo of you on the cover of your book.
So here I am still stuck at Auckland International Airport, and I’ve had better meals. I don’t like the coffee. I need to change my clothes. And the fault is all yours.
I stare at the photo of you on the cover of your book and see someone consumed with self-interest.
I see the embodiment of evil, a white walker who brings winter with it — I see death.
The coffee really is that bad.
WEDNESDAY
Dear Jacinda
Here I am at last on my flight to Europe. I am in the middle seat of an aisle in cattle class in between an obese conspiracy theorist with bad breath and a hollow-eyed woman who keeps breastfeeding an otherwise screeching infant. You know whose fault this is. I can see it in your eyes in the photo on the cover of your book. It’s a look of guilt.
"Damn right," the man next to me says. He expands on his theories the entire flight. I pray that this waka will reach its destination before I lose the will to live.
THURSDAY
Dear Jacinda
It’s quite a long flight.
FRIDAY
Dear Jacinda
Here I am in the streets of New Delhi. I got on the wrong flight. An easy mistake to make. Not my fault. Your fault. Also, I have lost my luggage. I gather it has gone to Paris. I think of it going around and around and around and around on the carousel as I stare at the photo of you on the cover of your book.
I am vaguely aware of the traffic. I would like to change my clothes. I wonder how it is I lost my wallet and passport. The world is full of thieves. I don’t have to tell you that. You are a light-fingered criminal who has feathered the nest of your own waka. You took and you took, and you took.
"Come along with me, sir," a policeman says. "You cannot stand in the middle of the road."
Did you know that the Tihar prison is one of the largest prison complexes in the world?
They tell me I can read your book in my cell while I wait to see what they will do with me. But I don’t want to read it. I just want to stare at the photo of you on the cover.
By Steve Braunias
