no perfection, especially when in love

I've been catching up on the love letters between my favorite two poets straddling the late 19th/ early 20th century school, known as the – School.

Man, nothing is more romantic, nor charmingly goofy as the correspondences between François Pepperdine and Bea F. "Beef" McKenzie.

I like the old age letters, around 1948, when Beef writes to Francis, likening his poetry to a film device found in movies about diamond heists, where the flawed gem correlates with the flawed motives of the anti-heroes hoarding stolen goods. I'm not sure just what she means, maybe the translation from French is off, but its sounds rad.

And Francois is so smooth, he actually reads this letter (and we're talking about a 60 year old man) and spends the next month training for a diamond heist just to prove himself a grounder in reality for others remains in the realm of metaphor and analogy. He assembles a team for the heist and nearly goes through with it, if not for his fatal flaw...

See, the – School had the audacity in attempting to measure out metaphor in terms of epistemology and experience. They hoped to quantify from two ends–the individual experiencing the meta (and to break down into groups 5 sub-types based on race, class, dental hygiene and diet) and the potential/kinetic energy within a metaphor (based on connotations, flexibility of language within the context past use). There was a lot of wine drinking during experimentation, and the – School will always be remembered for that.

And Francis was part of that school. He took Beef's phrase and measured himself, measured the meta in the language and geared up to act as a vessel in bringing this meta to reality. But, as we mentioned, he simply couldn't have his corporal form act in that capacity.

As much an idealist as he was, his fatal flaw was to have a fatal flaw–that there is no perfection, especially when in love with a woman nicknamed "Beef."