Words

Dear Becky,

 

words are a hard. they’re so important, but so easy and so complicated and so everything that we ever mean or want. I suppose that’s why there are so many theories. It’s all so semantic structuralism, positivism, deconstructivism, structuralism i’m not a big fan of the deconstructive. when I think about it too much my head hurts.

all that business about something begin defined by what its not, french derrida,

everything is contradictory, it just all seems like pretentious bullshit. in my weaker moments, though, the theory makes more sense than i would like it too.

words are just symbols for things, and the words, no matter how good they are,

even if they sound like a hyperbole of perfection, are never as good as the real thing.

maybe if i write the word line in a line it will somehow jump the distance between the word and the thing itself. i’m not even sure that would work very well.

line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line

no, that didn’t really help. i suppose my problem is the difference between the word

on the page and the spoken word, even the word in my mouth and the word the pen writes

are different. the poem in my head is above love, the warm just got out of the bath feeling but writing it down somehow turns it into cheap lust and hot tubs. just close enough

to sort of relate, but only in the neurons between my brain and my hand. reading it out loud turns lust into hate and revenge, boiling kettles screeching steam into the midnight air. i don’t seem to like reading my own poetry out loud, i sound too much like

a broadcaster on national public radio. not enough emotion, just the news and weather

at five, followed by schubert’s piano sonata in b flat. then i’m all nervous because most

people fear public speaker more than anything else in the world. my hands tend to shake which makes it difficult to read the words on the paper, so i can’t be worried

about what words are going to come out of mouth. if I somehow managed to

write a poem about what was in my head, i want to make sure I say the right thing

(this never happens). reading is damn frustrating but it all makes sense somehow.

it makes it hard to talk write think about life if you’re not sure what you will actually say.

Love,

 Gena