2 January 1981, All Saints Cemetery

My dear boy —

A new year means nothing to Robert Anthony Wilson Died 23 June, 1897, Death Shall Not Part Us. He is as he ever was, a perfect companion—silent but attentive. I come here to read all of your letters and compose the replies. Even when it’s raining, which, as you know, it always is. Even when it isn’t, it is, for the pathetic fallacy reigns like a despot over me, and I do miss you. (Read the Ruskin I sent you for the reference.)

Thanksgiving sounds like a horror for American fauna, but I will allow since it provides me with the image of you happy and sated (though I do wish I, rather than an unfortunate fowl, had the honor of being the cause of this). I live on memories of your face, with the peace of a saint’s, against the pillow, your eyes closed, those obscenely wide pink lips turned up in the corners.

Oh—do I scandalize you? You’ve written that my letters make you blush, and I want to picture that, too.

You should have gotten my Christmas package by the time you read this (Cassandra especially wants you to know that she made the mince pies herself), and if you’re a well-mannered young man, you will have written to me already to tell me what you think of the tape. Who would have thought that mournful pup Percy Grey is a formidable guitarist? Cassandra found him on our doorstep in December. He was looking for a singer, I was looking for a reason to go on—and so here we are. He already knew the drummer and bassist. We’re calling ourselves The Forge for now—because of the act of making—forging—something, but also because I’m sure someone will discover I am a fraud soon.

Sometimes I feel like I was only ever real when I was in your arms.

Love and crime,

Bard

January 12, 1981

Dear Bard,

I guess I’m not as good as I should be because I didn’t write to you about the tape before I got your last letter. I’m sorry. I was in Washington D.C. with my mom for her swearing-in ceremony. This is the stationery from the hotel.

What can I say about your tape? It would be stupid for me to pretend I’m not jealous. I wish I were the one making music with you, but I’d be miserable if you stopped just because of me, and what you guys are doing is so good that it would be even worse. You’re right, Percy is a great guitarist and everything is really tight but not so much that it’s not emotional. I’m probably not explaining it right. The way you put words together and make people feel what you feel when you sing them makes me dizzy knowing someone like you loves me. I liked the slow song, the one where you mention kissing under a torn awning in the rain. I remember that night. And what we did later, too.

Do they know about us? Your bandmates, I mean. I hate thinking that you’re hiding who you are. I’ve met a few people at college who are my friends now, I guess, and they know about you. 

My dad’s coming around to the idea that his son won’t be bringing girls around, not like that anyway. Not that I bring any boys home like that. Not until you come visit. I hope you can someday because I miss you. I had this weird fantasy that you’d surprise me by visiting at Christmas and I wound myself up thinking about it. I’m mad at myself for not going to visit you over my school break, but my parents wanted to spend it together and I guess I get that.

I miss you. I know I wrote that already, but I miss you so much. I miss you. I want you. I imagine being with you every moment I can.

Love,

Kai

P.S. Tell Cass the mince pies were delicious.

P.P.S. You’re not a fraud.

24 January 1981

Darling Kai —

Thank you for the surprise call! What a thrill to hear your voice after all these weeks apart! And, oh, that catch in your breath, the sounds that weren’t words! I’ve missed it all dreadfully.

Of course my bandmates know about you—I can’t very well keep you secret, and Percy remembers you anyway. I try not to dwell on what the rest of the world thinks of us, but I am glad that you’ve found people you trust. You must tell me more about them. My bandmates beside Percy are both Milton lads, sandy-haired and denim-clad, with the very laddish names Tommy and Paul. They enjoy a pint and good records and are more than tolerable. We have a show coming up at a club that’s rumoured to be scouting grounds, so the next time I write, we very well may be on our way to recording an album. I’m relieved you liked our songs; it felt like something of a betrayal to write words to anyone’s music but yours for a while.

I received your package, and thank you heartily for the albums and the lovely drawing of Oscar Wilde. How did you never tell me you draw? Victory is disappointed you didn’t stay here and go to school with her. She sends her greetings. She’s the star of the Milton art world and there’s talk of a show in London. She demands the honor of your presence if there is one.

And I humbly entreat you for the pleasure of your presence—more than your presence. The word “love” does not have enough meaning when it comes to you.

In agony,

Bard