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

Breaking into Westminster

Dear Jenny,

I’m not sure if you are asking about how I would break into Westminster the castle or Westminster the dog show.  Breaking into a dog show would be much more amusing than a royal residence, in my opinion, so I’ll just assume you meant that.  I suppose my reasons are irrelevant, but let’s say I’m doing it to steal the dog that wins Best in Show.

First, we should discuss how to gain access to the backstage area. I assume that this area is fairly secure, so we shall have to pretend to belong.  The easiest person to impersonate would be a dog owner, because I won’t have to know how to do anything but look posh. To pretend to be a trainer or groomer would be much harder, as I would actually have to interact with a dog at some point (I’m not the best with animals).  So, wearing a pastel suit, sensible heels, and pearls, I would find myself backstage.

Obviously, I would have to wait until after the show to steal the winning dog. This part was a bit trickier for me to figure out. I think I would have to have several accomplices for this part, especially one who has access to show dogs. Once the winner was announced, I would contact my partner to tell him which breed one, and he would rush me another dog of that same breed. During the celebration after the show, a second accomplice would attempt to steal the winning dog.  As he fled, I would intercept him carrying the decoy dog, and pretend to recover the winning dog. He would escape with the actual winner, while I would return triumphant with the fake. This part will obviously work better with a smaller dog.  After I had returned the dog, I would make my excuses and leave quickly to claim whatever reward I was promised for kidnapping a show dog from Westminster.

I hope you enjoyed this hypothetical scenario, even if it is painfully obvious that I know nothing about heists. Please don’t ever ask me to actually steal anything. Thanks.

Love,

Gena