and I am becomes obsessed with names.
more so than physical activity or the beauty of things of abstract nature. it seems names have become the very thing that I wonder on names. and words and power to become my true calling if you will.
when one keeps the company of so many artists and performers, names become a fluid thing. there are given names, governmental names, maiden names, assumed identities, aliases. indeed — i feel like a hobbit at a Wizards forum. or a damsel in distress drowning in a sea of super-heroes. it is a fascinating sensation. no one is simply Roger, or Dick, or Linda. we are all disfigured in cloaks of nomenclature. layer upon layer. till who or what is underneath is simply too difficult to surmise.
peruse all you like.
perhaps I should find a nice, comfortable pseudonym behind which to blurt and bark carelessly. i am, instead, the only naked guy in a room full of steely-eyed physicians.
“what’s wrong with him?”
“i don’t know — what do you think, doctor?”
“it is a curious case, doctor. is he a man or something less. or something more?”
“we’ll need to run a few more tests, doctor.”
“yes, yes. more tests. i agree.”
in the mean time, I compensate for my name-nudity with other forms of slipperiness. i am always coming and going. #alwaysleavingsomewhere. i arrive unannounced, i leave with out fanfare. i am where ever my car is. and it is moving more than it is still. in this way, though it is known exactly how to call me, the people with mouths can never truly know where they need summon me from. call out my name, and know me. but there is a kind of anonymity in that too — i’ve been admonished for my modesty of late — and is there any worthy comeback for that? — for the not having a name is shocking to me, but it is generic to people who walk around over-laden with names and spells and general incants. you can forget how to say mundane things.
so call out, know me. but not where. or see me right before me and forget you are looking at me.
funny how hearts can be broke and yet, some how, keep expanding and expanding. until the cracks and creases from past hurts are then just great big spaces inside. spaces in which one can put new smaller hearts. smaller hearts susceptible to smaller hurts. smaller hearts, smaller hurts.
and the big heart, which tears itself apart slowly — entropically — is become a universe of smaller thriving heart ecosystems. all separated by the now too large and too regular flesh of the bigger thing. there is a universe of hearts in side of me now! all spinning, and pulling in moons. all pulling and pushing against one another. bending the internal spacetimes.
so, so many hearts. so many tiny microcosms. they nurse, and they bleed. and, i bet, i could give a few away. lay fallow for a time, and grow yet more. after all, the world is a dark and hurrying place. a heart farm is not a terrible commodity in an artists. you need a rending or two and then you can either: be broken.
or realize, you know one heart really isn’t enough anyway! and hearts beget hearts. in that way, the heart is like worm.
finally — sometimes music is just a name for something — some naked thing — that we’ve been staring at too long. upon which we run too many tests. inconclusive. until you let the music out into space around you. then, suddenly, you say, “ah… i *know* you. have you been here the whole time?”
such a thing, from my dear friend Walker Swain and his partner in crime, Jay Nelson. together, you can call them out as Corona & Modelo. or, you can let them in the space around you.