by any other name

Heroin.

Is the word part of the scourge? Is it a swish of the sword?

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, Heroin as a word was coined in 1898 in German as a "trademark registered by Friedrich Bayer & Co. for their morphine substitute. According to tradition the word was coined with chemical suffix -ine (2) (German -in) + Greek hērōs 'hero' (see hero (n.1)) because of the euphoric feeling the drug provides, but no evidence for this seems to have been found so far."

So what if the name were changed? No, no, no, we're not talking about the myriad demimonde, street, underworld, pop culture, and user-driven slang terms. Not that. Change the name. A new coinage. A coin of the realm of hypnotic transport and molten reverie.

Do words matter? In ancient times, identity was conferred by the very act of naming. There was a power to it. The Hebrew Bible is rife with examples of this.

What would the new word be?

Could such a word have such powers as to be salutary, salubrious, and beneficent?

And even if that were true, would such a move erase allure? Because after all, danger, menace, and perilous risk are part of the game, part of the ritual, yes?

What would that word be? The opposite of "hero"? Hardly.

As the Bard put it in Romeo and Juliet, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet.” As if to say, "Call heroin by any other name, and you get the same results."

Is it so? How would we conduct a peer-reviewed study to find out?

In "Sacred Emily" in 1913 (year of my father's birth), Gertrude Stein wrote: "Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose." (Did you know that in one version of this immortal declaration Stein put it in a children's story, carved on a tree trunk, round and round?) So, does Gertrude Stein side with Shakespeare on this semantic matter, or is she saying, "It's futile; it's beyond description; it is what it is"? (Or something else entirely.)

Heroin is heroin is heroin is heroin. 

What do you think? What do you feel? Tell me more. Especially addicts. Weigh in on this. 

Do words matter?

How much?

we need to talk

The door opens.
We need to talk.
The door closes.
We need to talk.
About what?
You know.
No, I don't.
You know: that.
What that?
Oh. That that.
Yeah.
So what do you want to say?
I don't know. Nothing.
What should we talk about?
You made me feel . . .
I made you feel?
Stop interrupting.
I'm not --
I'm confused.
I'm lost.
Remember that time when . . .
No, I don't remember that time when . . .
Think back.
What did you feel?
Chills.
Chills?
And fever.
That was hot.
And cold. Freezing.
What were we talking about?
I forgot.
You never said.
I didn't?
We need to talk more.
We do. Like this?
Like this. Or like something. I don't know.
Why not?
Stop.
Why don't you answer?
Sometimes it's like you're speaking a foreign language.
Which one?
You speak in tongues.
Sounds sexy.
Stop.
Can you learn that on Duolingo?
I suppose.
We need to do this again.
Word.
Word for word.
Ditto.

the vow

We took vows. We made a vow of silence. We all did. Some complied more than others, or so we have "heard." I took a vow of silence. During the Ceremony itself, the Presider spoke no words, nor any sign language utterances. All the Candidates knew in advance this was at the heart of the Ceremony, not the only vow but a critical one. Stark in its simplicity, its lack of protocols, aberrations, rewards, punishments. We knew this out there in the world. We knew this, we were told, warned, if you will. We could've run right then and there. I could have run. We complied. We affirmed by standing as one, rising from the pews, our white cotton robes rustling (the robes took no vow of silence!), our cowls covering our heads. Obviously white vestments or black. Had to be either one. We stood as one. However, two Candidates, one male and one female, refused, they remained seated while the others stood. The Ushers politely ushered them out into the blaring noon sun. No remonstrances, no frowns. They were told, we were all told, this was a last chance to shun the vow of silence, to make a silent statement of rejection -- or freedom, if you subscribed to such a worldly view. Better now than later.

I stood. I assented. I had no hesitation. If I were to hesitate, would I have remained seated? We will never know, will we?

The first week was the hardest. Such a new means of living, with so little training or practice! The Ushers were tolerant, letting the odd, random spoken word to escape, as happened with many, if not most, of us. Things like "yes" or "no" or "what." One quickly learned that such monosyllabic slips faded away, subsided, stopped, given no conversational milieu to flourish in. After all, what does "what," "yes," or "no" even mean without a prompt or context or wordscape? Almost nothing.

I napped a lot at first. The antidote to this, the Ushers knew, was work in the fields. Raking, pruning, digging, mulching, watering, transplanting. The work was a boost to my spirits, uplifting, despite the hard labor involved.

By the end of the first year, the silence became a routine, an atmosphere, a given. I can't speak for anyone else (obviously, I am not permitted to speak at all), but I was surprised that the wordless soundscape (coughs, sneezes, burps, farts, yawns, knuckle cracklings continued to flourish) did not create a white purity, a pristine echo in my heart and mind. Quite the opposite. The silence, for me, evoked a roar of white noise. No, no, that's not quite right. Sure, there was the static of anxiety, fear, and restlessness, but that was nothing compared to the relentless interior monologue gonging in my head, made silent only by sleep, which over time became increasingly sparse.

Wasn't this the purpose of the vow, to silence, or quell, the running commentary of my mind? Weren't they trying to soften, eventually mute, our narrative (a worn-out word), our editorial board, our storyteller without lips or voice?

Voice. That word. Voice. Do I have one? (Whispers in my cell have proved inconclusive.) I am convinced that my voice persists; it has not vanished; its imprint can still be felt. 

And that is why I have written this crumpled note, unfolded into legibility, I pray. Hear my voice. Rescue me. I can't speak for any of the others. But rescue me. I've had enough. Get me out. There are rumors, scribbled on napkins or toilet paper, that some have made it out.

I'm screaming. I'm shouting. 

Can you hear me?

next kiss

Female. My age range (meaning within fifteen or twenty years my junior; within, meaning potentially one year my junior, or seven, or six months; hate my shallow chronological standard if you must). Equal to my height or shorter or taller. Equal to my weight or less than, but not 100 pounds (cf. hatred disclaimer above and modify accordingly). Lips not striated, thin, or parched. Full. Supple. Soft. Lipsticked, possibly amply and possibly boldly red. Not arid yet not slobbery. Preceded by mutual visual, olfactory, tactile, and verbal cues, signals, codes, mutually deciphered on some primitive and inescapable level. Daytime. Not morning. Initiated by me (to atone to myself and the world for a lifetime of uninitiativeness). But an element of surprise not adorned with aggression. A dollop of serendipity. Tentative. A false start. The risk of failure. And then the at-first subtle though soon sure and unmistakable reprise and reboot of First Kiss (see preceding post), the sought-for though unexpected betrayal of the rules of the universe, allowing the participants a taste of sparkling history and young wonder. Crackling of burnt dendrites.

first kiss

Not the first first. Not counting paternal, maternal, fraternal, or sororal kisses. (I don't have any sisters; not biologically; metaphysically, yes). And not counting that time with my cousin Paula, the one she initiated on the couch at her house on Avery Street, the same day I was wearing her jeans. Why? Did I have a pee accident in mine? The surprise and the confusion of girls' dungarees having a strangely configured button and zipper, on the side, not in the front, like mine. Her jeans fit. We all knew they would. I grew up with Mom holding up a dress, sweater, or blouse in front of me, to discern whether the purchased gift for Paula would fit, which it always did. This continued into high school. You're thinking, Here comes the transvestite confession. It didn't go that way; I suppose it's not too late if that's what my readership wants or if that's where sartorial adventure leads me. The Paula clothes trial run was awkward and frustrating but inconsequential and without shame or fear. These days? No one'd care if I tried the clothes on, for feck sake. I was, what?, twelve the most. We had all gone to the circus, down on Magee Avenue, near the dump. The smell of peanuts, shit, straw, and cotton candy in the air under the big-top tent. The kiss was quick and nothing, a joke. It was Paula's way of demonstrating how she was more worldly, more "mature," than I was, though she's only six months older than I. She had to check that box off; I'll teach Paul. It didn't teach me anything, nothing except grist for an oft-repeated, shallow family tale: "My first kiss? It was with Paula. Can you believe it?" But it was innocent, dry, fleeting. I was like, Really? That's it? But that's not the kiss we're talking about, is it? No. We're talking about a first kiss, that kind that crossed a line into another country. Sure, I had kissed my high-school girlfriend, on the huge rock, at night, by Long Island Sound. It was Paula Kiss 2.0. You're incredulous? Believe me, in this day and age, some fifty years ago, such innocence existed. Correction. More fear than anything else, more than innocence. She was the same way. Our platonic arrangement worked well enough, albeit with anxiety and frustration, speaking only for me. Fifteen-year-old boys aren't that innocent, you say? fine. Philip Roth covered all that in Portnoy's Complaint. No one can top that, least of all me. So, fast forward to college, sophomore year. College! Nineteen years old. It's a mixer. A dance with girls invited from a neighboring women's college and a nursing school. A live band doing 1968 covers. Sweaty dancing. Fast dances and slow dances. During a break, we're sitting on two folding chairs, on the sidelines, as it were. Her name was almost Sue Lamb. Leave it at that since there's an infinitesimal chance she is reading this; what's the need for anonymity? It's a salute to her, not a shaming. It was dark, most of the lights out. The band resumed playing. She kissed me. It had to be her move, had to be by the very nature of the players playing. She kissed me. I mean kissed me. the heart-stopping thrill of liquid galvanic surprise. Humans do this?! No one told me. and what could they have said? The time in the seminary when we, at a boys' prep school, were performing a play in English class and I wisecracked to the protagonist, played by Emmett, "Give him a French kiss." Everybody laughed, including me, as if I knew what I was saying. I knew it was sexual and a joke of frivolous inappropriateness. Beyond that, I knew nothing. Our kiss, Sue and I, was a mutual exploration, an anatomical festival through molten rivers and thunderous rapture. A forbidden meandering of lips, tongues, teeth, and hot breath. The band, the crowd, the lights, the night, the crickets all stopped. As did the planet. Does this ever have to stop? So many fleshly boulevards and alleys to traverse. "I love you." I couldn't help it. So what if I had just met her? So what if she recoiled? "What?"

I would have married her. I would have, on the spot.

REPLY TO ALL

ohmygod. Oh my ever loving god and higher power. I didn't mean it. OMG. I would've never hit SEND. I'm screwed now. I'm fucked. I'm gonna lose my job because of one stupid email. You just can't say those things to a client, not by accident and certainly not on purpose. OMFG. I was totally joking, but no one will care and it won't matter. You don't even say those things to a friend, not unless they know you and your twisted, convoluted, hyper-ironic, self-deprecating, quasi-sarcastic so-called sense of humor, a sense of humour (for our Canadian brothers and sisters) that is rapidly degrading and vanishing as my fingers tap on the keyboard. You. Do. Not. Say. Those. Things. Full stop (for our partners in the U.K.). I ran to IT, but they said it's impossible to stop that email, to halt it, to disappear. They rolled their eyes and then guffawed. Gawd! What am I going to do now? FMH! And I don't mean "flexible metallic hose," no siree, Bob, check your Urban Dictionary. Maybe I can plead temporary insanity, a spasmodic tic of digital Tourette Syndrome coupled with Surplus Attention Impulse Disorder (SAID), which is why I "said" what I did. Anyone who knows me knows about my SAID challenges, my SAID imbroglios and stumbles. But will HR accept this? No, of course not. If we had a union, it'd be a grievance procedure, a slap on the wrist (or somewhere else hahahaha; there I go again), and that'd be the end of it. If I was lucky. If I were lucky. REPLY TO ALL. Every other time, I have been so deliberate, sure, careful, vigilant. "Do not REPLY TO ALL," I have warned myself as many times as a lap around the beads, as many times as the mala beads on my right wrist, my fake Buddhist beads, 108, if you must know. What if I say somebody else came to my desk and did it? It's worth a try! Naw. Not even in this wide-open, free-for-all, unprivatized workspace. Who am I kidding? Give me a banker's box (or bankers box or brand name Bankers Box). I'll start packing up my office now. You say we don't have an office, we have an open plan? If you say so. I'm gone. Include me out, oxymoron and all. Exeunt omnes. Stage left. Exit moi. I'm already off the network. I can't even hit REPLY TO NONE. 

the eyes have it

Are you laughing at what I just said? Smirking?
I didn't say anything. No, I was not laughing. Or smirking, as you call it.
But your eyes are smirking.
Eyes can't smirk.
Yes, they can. You just proved it. Look at yourself.
I can't look at myself. That's impossible, like 'watch your head.'
But your eyes are still smirking, mocking me.
If you say so. Speaking of which, please stop yelling at me.
I'm not yelling.
You're yelling at me with your eyes.
Eyes can't yell.
To quote someone in this conversation, 'Yes, they can.'
Where are we going with this?
Who said anyone's going anywhere?
I just want to be clear.
Is that possible?
For us?
For anyone.
Does it matter?
You know, it's all about the journey, not the destination blah blah blah.
What time is it? I have to go.
Does anybody really know what time it is? Go? Go where?
Anywhere but here.
Here we go again.
Then close your eyes.
Don't get lost now.
Too late.