In my mind I was quite certain that this was the first line of a somewhat suggestive poem by e. e. cummings with a matching title. The Internet demurred, returning instead a poem with that title by a guy named Henry Reed about weapons. I queried Dr. Coyle, my oldest bud and go-to guy for English poetry, who sadly confirmed the Reed citation. I will not, however, allow this reality to stand in the way of one of my favorite more fantasy-like activities. Hence we can consider the better title of this post Today We Have the Naming of Things.
And I do, I name things - and critters. This goes well back beyond the significant time we spent coming up with a name for the Black Labrador puppy we hope to purchase in the Spring. Dickens won out over Euripides - in part because we couldn't imagine hollering "Stay Euripides!" Or "Sit Euripides!" But I also name critters whose relationship to our lives is more tangential.
There is a chipmunk that lives, at least sometimes, beside our frontdoor or under the pine tree just across the walk. I have named him - or maybe her - Rasputin because he or she, is, after all, a monk! Rabbits live in the row of dense pine trees that separate our backyard from the church parking lot just to the north - well, at least one rabbit does. He silflays most evenings in the dusk. If you recognize the verb, you will understand why I have named him Hazel and his occasional smaller companion Fiver. (Spoiler: think Watership Down.) And then just last night our security camera caught a coyote sauntering across our patio in pursuit, no doubt, of a midnight snack or assignation. I immediately named him "Wiley." Who else could he be?
You get the idea. But I take it a bit further and name inanimate objects as well. A couple pertinent examples, first, Boswell. There is a backstory.
Many years ago, when my older daughter was attending college at George Washington University in DC, I was visiting Dr. Coyle who lived in the area. During the night a thunderstorm swept the area and I became aware of a dog scrambling beneath my bed. I got up, thus releasing the tramped canine who scampered away. As I began this post I contacted Dr. C, who confirmed the identity of the trapped pouch with this composition:
My Boswell
Faithful companion, devout biographer,
beloved spaniel, my Boswell. Attentive
to all particulars, you reconstruct my day
from trace evidence on pants, underwear,
and boot soles, record my comings and goings
from the opening and closing of doors,
my moods from modulations in my voice.
You store all this data in a capacious brain,
a sensory registry rich beyond words.
Pheasant flusher English-bred to rouse grouse
from the gorse, contented now to plod
about the house with a rag puffin
in your fluffy cheeks, you lie down opposite me
in the den each night, one eye closed,
the other on me. If a hand extends beyond
the chair’s arm, you pad across the room,
nudge my fingers with a wet bulbous nose,
drop at my feet a snot-covered bird,
sit on your haunches, awaiting my praise,
looking immensely proud.
I have tried ignoring you—it never works.
Such is the nature of English breeding.
You jack up my hand with your snout
so it rests on the plateau of your head,
nod to bring on strokes of affection, then slide
the length of your body under my hand
so I drag my nails across your coat
withers to rump, loosing dander and dry skin
your own nails can’t reach. As hind legs
give way in spasms of joy, you lift your muzzle
to the heavens, move your head side to side,
eyes shut, thankful the world provides
such bodily pleasure for the gift of a cloth bird
you give up gladly each night again and again.
And now you sleep, your legs twitching, still running,
still retrieving across the fields of praise.
I returned this inadequate bit of doggerel:
My Boswell
I too do have a Boswell
Tho’ my Boswell is a bear.
A black and white small panda
Draped in cloth instead of hair.
His daily tasks are simple,
Naught for a bear to dread
Especially when you realize
They are all performed in bed.
Therein he must support my head
At just the right incline
To read my book or tablet
‘Til Morpheus I find.
Thereafter he is free to roam
‘Cross bedclothes, here and there
And on the rare occasion
He rests upon his chair.
I have also named our new Acura TLX, purchased after the sale of our North Carolina home and a loyal but tired 2009 Yaris. Our new gleaming white vehicle is named Shadowfax. (Think Gandalf, Lord of the Rings.) My sculpture and images are usually named after the people or places that served as either models or inspiration. I chat with them in passing or as I compose their successors:
Here's Lookin' at You Kid - Casablanca
Roan Inish - Google it.
So what is this inclination to name inanimate objects, and to indulge in one-sided conversations with them? I dunno. I suppose Freud would have multiple fantastical explanations for the phenomenon. Having studied media for nigh onto half a century, my explanation is more simplistic - the habit fulfills a communicative need.
My wife need not hear my exhortations to Boswell, "Where the hell are you? Ah, ha! Hiding under a pillow again!" Or my query to Wiley, "Where are you off to sneaky, Dude?" To Pearl, "You comfortable in those new glad rags?" Roan Inish, "Still a seal today, huh?" But these "uni-versations" amuse me and are somehow comforting.
Ironically, given that you receive these posts online, the internet rarely contributes much to my desire for feeling a connection to folks. When I open my iPad in the morning a communication from a person that I know is a rarity. Corporations, marketers, pundits, candidates, conmen and hipsters fill my inboxes with drivel - from the inane through the meaningless to the offensive. Even to stay informed about friends and family one often needs to visit some corporate site or another - Facebook, Reddit, LinkedIn, Instagram.
Delete, delete, delete, delete, delete, delete, d d d d d!
I do recognize the irony of this being yet another message cluttering up your screen. But I would assert it differs from most in significant ways.
First, we know, or have known each other on real, often quite significant, levels. So I remain actually concerned about your life.
Second, as should be clear from point one, there are not many of you. How could there be? Despite my adolescent conviction that one's capacity for love was infinite, I now realize that a heart can be divided into only a limited number of spaces.
Third, I will never ask you for money for cause or campaign.
Right, Boswell?
Right, Big Guy.
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