Where do names come from?
When the storks drop perfect babies fresh born at where the road of life forks
Do they come with perfect baby labels that grow up to be names?
If so how does the stork bear the weight of a name, a name with all the history and power?
And how do they choose which heavy name to put on which baby as they lay cradled by clouds
Each face cherubic and soft, their spirits naught but a whisper in the wind of time
How do these storks know to give one a soft name like Isabelle and another a hard name like Richard
Though both are identical in perfection
Or maybe the babies choose in their blind curiosity as they crawl and giggle in the unknown, their chubby fists clutching forever clutching until they find a name
I wonder how do the storks carry such a heavy weight and travel through the world of impossibility and brave the winds of time to reach the forks of life’s road
But we all know that storks don’t exist except for in our minds where we conjure them to explain away the things we are too young to grasp
So now I ask like when I asked my mother where babies came from and she told me that one day she felt sick and threw up and there I came
But even then with my infantile mind still a landscape of bizarre colors and fantastic imaginings that I can now only reach through the release of my dreams I knew there was more
Even then I knew that there was more than a simple purge to bring me into this world screaming
In the dark recess of my mind I had a shadow of the memory of the shadow of the memories shadow of the pain of birth
Now with science and teachers I know what happened though I may have known more as a child who believed that his mother threw him up into the world and tried making his own babies but they would only splatter the ground in a mess and never rise to speak
So now I ask again, where do names come from?
But I am afraid that maybe we are too young to understand our human minds still too infantile to grasp the concepts and so we say only that God one day felt bad and puked out Abraham, Faith, Enoch, Moses and Joseph
Our black and white minds straining to recapture the dream within a dream that is the creation of our name of ourselves but the colors are too bright and we can not grasp it
So we create storks in our black and white worlds to carry our black and white names and miss the beauty of what those names are
We forget that lurching stumbling search of our birth as we looked for a name in that formless darkness before we were
The pain of the battle we fought to be who we are our toddler fists bashing into toddlers faces as we grasped in that darkness for a self
And when we grasped it and became Jack, Jill, John or Jacob that exquisite release of self and presence and knowledge of who we are
But then we were dropped by the stork and born to the world and in the blood, pain confusion we lost our name and we lost our color
And we gooed and gaaed in a blank black and white world crying for something we can not remember to miss or forget to remember, the ember in our hearts hurt
Burning with the desire for our names and ourselves that we fought for and won for
That name that whispers dirty secrets in our souls and is who we are and where we are going
We can not understand nor can we stand it, so we kill ourselves and each other in search of our names hoping that fighting like we fought before time was born will help us remember to forget
But even as we paint this black and white world red with the blood of our crying children we can not capture the names because we still think that one day God felt bad and threw up our names
So we fight on and on puking and puking trying to make our own names with the blood but it only splatters to the ground again and again
And we like the child that could not understand why he couldn’t make babies of his own to love and cherish can not understand why we can not make names for ourselves
Just as a mothers screams stirs the shadow of a memory of the pain of birth so too does the beautiful agony of music whisper the memory of our names to our souls
And art is the painting of the reflection of a shadow’s reflection of our names painted in a moonless midnight but with just enough light that we can almost see the colors
As I write now my fingers pulsing with blood and my eyes dancing and blurring on this page I can almost see my name
My name and my pain and myself given birth to by God, ripped out of the substance of the universe and bound to my corporeal self making me immortal
So that when my blood is spilt and my body is a memory of ashes floating through an imaginary wind I will still have my name to remind me who I am.
Maybe then after thousands and thousands of years of existing as a memory as a name passed down through the ages and gaining in wisdom I will finally be old enough to know
And then I too will scoff and laugh at the thought of God one day feeling bad and puking out my name
Then I will realize that spilling blood in a killing flood is not how to remember
Or maybe just maybe the next time I am born and bear this name that will last forever, maybe, just maybe, I will forget to forget.