On the firmament of many names...

“Why, can you imagine what would happen if we named all the twos Henry or George or Robert or John or lots of other things? You'd have to say Robert plus John equals four, and if the four's name were Albert, things would be hopeless.” ~Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth

Dear Diary,

In my sleep I was told by a sleeper cell you must not be called Diary anymore. Now whether it came from an ethereal daybed or an insidious apse in my lexicon doesn’t matter. The cell slept, and the cell didn’t show: its message snored. Instead, crosswords appeared—larynx across and yes down. Daisies were daubed in the miniature airspace above that, and there was a peal of bells. Later, nothing moved again. Eventually, in a springing breadth of light, behind that appeared ligature across and game down.

And so I woke obedience. Also, I woke obedience and astronomy; I woke obedience and astronomy and music. I said look. I said I think Diary is a meteorite and a diploma and future. Responsibility falls on all of us. Everyone please turn around. So we didn’t face each other during the imagining exercise a long time. Grief made us want to, at moments, but we fought like hell, stoics against hell. Greif because there are too many names. Greif because each one is good and then vanishes. The lists thronged. The lists carried torches of fire…, I woke myself.

When I opened my eyes I knew this would be a ferial day. I would make certain not to gaze at screens or other vehicles of bafflement. I would put on clothes. I would put clothes away. I would put water on the dirt my plants lived in, and try not to feel so venerable. Images of your face upbraided newly thin air. Standing still amidst owned objects I acted like a solar system to me: a bigot of space. Your face became faces. I said I am a bigot, I bigot, I am big. Bigger than you Diary. I absorbed sentimental humidity as an absence. An uncommon thirst doubled over. I resisted missing you again, but was not certain what missing meant. In this way I failed at longing. So the burden of your replacement pressed again.

Then an urgency to write for words. Send off for a stratagem to gain spectral crystallization. Questions renew: Are you forensic anymore? Are you a solution of loose nucleotides? Are you going to photograph well in this light? Does your geometry spell a prayer only children’s' inner ears understand? Theory and tests, theory and tests: these are the nearest neighborhood frequencies I associated with the great number of names. If I am the messenger how could you listen? How can you hear me when I do not know what you will be called? I am contained by too many answers.

I leave the house quickly. I leave with the assembly:

Rabbit; zigzag; glove; bishop; seashell; wave from nowhere; horseback…

The earth reports.

Whenever.