July 21, 2009

Dearest BA,

It is summer in Davis. I am reading the writings of Foucault and perspiring constantly. The oppressive heat has aided me in my personal objective of a period of seclusion in order to hone my individual creative voice, which is something that I don’t believe anyone who is not in an MA program should have the privilege to cultivate. Yes, creative voice. Now that I have been alone in my intermittently air conditioned apartment for two months without human interaction, I can hear you.

My only regret is that I have not heard from you. I have been thinking, BA, and I have realized that as my creative voice becomes increasingly clearer, it sounds more and more like yours. You, your deep droning voice, your commitment to language poets. Remember how we met, BA? That first reading in Sacramento, how we shared a secret smile over the seven minute poem that was written using only two letters of the Greek alphabet? You do not know the extent of my excitement when I realized that we were enrolled in the same MA program at Davis. I went home that night, drank half a bottle of whiskey and read Camus’ L’Etranger to my pet rabbit, Jacques. Then I cried.

But I digress. The reason I am writing to you is to ask for a favor. As I plan to continue with my hermitage for at least another month, I cannot emerge from the dark cave of my self reflection to go buy groceries. My supplies of brown rice and fair trade coffee have run low. You will find an envelope of money and a collection of poems I wrote for you underneath my front door mat. Please leave the food on my doorstep. I will be watching from the kitchen window, wishing that I could open the door and welcome you in.

But woe, the things we do for the sake of art.

Until next time,

AB