The first week of college the young clown changed her first name. At her first class discussion she discovered three other people wearing the same name. She leaped into the fray, identified herself anew and never looked back. She wore her new name like a a rare flower tucked behind one ear, a color from a distant planet with no known competitors. Her family tried to insist on her old name, but what did they know? What did names even matter in the long run? Like one of her professors said, either Homer wrote those epics, or someone else with the same name. Ask George Elliot, ask Mark Twain. A name was at worst a label, that fades and slides off the rusty can rolling in the bilge. At best it’s a signal beamed from the Great Beyond, a beacon from under the horizon miles offshore, that might intersect with how you see yourself, enough to give you a bearing, guide you home.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Jun 2013 11:35:04 +0000
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