I name my world. When I can’t, when I am unable to — let’s say I am camping inside a wet tent and am down to my last pair of wool socks, if I am quiet and listening carefully, comes the shadow against the blue of canvas, presenting words like roasted mittens, or long-elbowed boy. Naming the world realigns the stars etched against the life lines on our palms.
You can only see them when you do not look.
I name my shoes, the vehicles I drive, the pumkins we carve, but realized on this walk- I didn’t know the names of anything we saw. Moreso, I wasn’t inclined to rename anything. Everything had already been named. We have names for the flower and its petals, we have names for the October air. When we name something, do we stake a claim?
I didn’t want to stake a claim. I took the Vow of No More Making Names. Dropped the vow into the HeretoforeThereafterUnamedCreek- with three witnesses pressed against me.
And this one, while I was on my knees, holding steady, waiting for the slight breeze to subside so I could take this photo- I was almost thinking: Flattened Bloomer.
|Jack O’Jacky, brother to Jack O’Punch, son of Jack O’Dult|