I’m tired. Today, my class all arrived 10 minutes early, so we started early with the promise that I would finish early. 25 minutes into the class, I took a look at my watch.
Quick, give them instructions for the homework. Pass it out. Let them go. They sat there stunned.
Go away. Class dismissed.
A half hour early. I realized it when I walked out into the empty hall. Too late to call them all back.
April fools! Please come back! I was only kidding.
I just wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t sleep well. Woke up too early.
I’m a dingbat.
A dingbat? What does that even mean? A stupid or eccentric person, if you Google it. One of the things about being human is the ability to describe something through a name. Why does something need to be named? Is every sound music? Yes, to some. Does every music have sound? No … to some.
Humans have the irresistible urge to name everything, to describe everything. I’m OCD. I’m depressed. (I’m tired.) I’m unlucky. I’m cursed. I’m ADD or ADHD. I’m straight, I’m gay, I’m trans, I’m sis, I’m queer. My pronouns are he, she, it, they, her, his, its, their. I’m paranoid. I’m stupid. I’m incorrect, politically, racist, narcissist, pure, complex, an alcoholic, tea-total, addict, a junk-food junkie, vegan, vegetarian, fruitarian, Unitarian, atheist, pantheist, agnostic, religious. Maybe none of those. Maybe I’m just different.
Everything I know is wrong. Maybe.
I call myself Anne. Rebecca Anne Martin, writer, musician, eroticist, driven, nuts, closet nudist, novelist, poet, supernova.
Sometimes naming something is a crutch. Must call it something. Can’t explain it? Call it God, then change God into our own self-image. Call it a miracle, then pray for it. Prince kept changing his name, even to the point of using a symbol – which was essentially an unnamed name.
Quick! Call it something or it will cease to exist.
Yes, I know. We can’t refer to something without naming it, but maybe some things should be left without. Just sayin’.