A recent writers’ workshop asked participants to spend ten minutes writing without censoring or perfect grammar or spelling corrections—just free-mind writing with no policing ourselves. “My name is [blank], and I am [blank].”
This is my reply, as written. No changes.
My name is becoming less and less important. Old label off a vintage fruit crate. Faded but once important with some female native scantily clad holding up a pear or an orange. Maybe grapes?
It’s profoundly clear now how important the crate has become, versus the label. Paper, adhesive, logo and metaphor gone. Rough, warm wood continues holding, transporting; rustic and splintery silvertones.
My name is almost useless as my purpose comes to the fore, though that is in flux these days as I am needed incrementally less by one specific person.
And I am on the edge of recreation and re-creation, to set out without being so attached to my name but more proud of, and attached to—or rather—embracing of, my purpose.
My name is fruit crate, makeshift bookshelf, vessel, junk shop treasure, workbench soldier, favorite shape, first apartment coffee table, craftsmen perfection, and I am taking on new meaning with every new label, every new transformation; with every discarded idea that does not work, fit or suit my purpose.
But, you ask, Your Name??
It’s “Fill-in-the-Blank” to some, and “Everything” to at least one (the one who needs me less bit by bit). In the end it does not matter what you call me.
How you treat me matters more.
Sunday, February 20, 2011