THE THINGS THEY
CARRIED WERE NOT
ALWAYS THEIR OWN
(false names)
Like George Orwell and Rebecca West, an agreed-upon premise each,
sometimes the false things you decide upon just end up working well.
Eric Blair and Cicely Fairfield, down and out no matter. A band of
Gypsy-Romanys brushing through town would have no less problem
than this in the taking - draperies, maybe cars, and even a dog or
a cat. Jewelry, tools. But never names? Who ever heard of that?
-
I park this purloined nomenclature on your couch forever, and
please there let it stay : I can be all of my imaginings, and the
stronger for the doing. You will little notice what I do or say.
Adventures such as these come along but once; my friends,
were they ever still around, would say. They tell you all
about me. But now - alas - I have none at all, and there
is no one present to attest yo my worth. I never stole
a thing, far less this majestic name with which I jest.
-
I've just - darest thee let me say - grown tired of the
battlements and towers; I weary of carrying these
frightful arms up all these stairways again. For what?
To fight a fruitless mob of enemies down below me
at the moat, squabbling and screaming their now
unsightly mismash, claiming fealty to another
King I hardly know, nor wish to. Death then,
to all of them, their scribes and what they
write as well. Give me my straightened
name and real - with that I'll walk away.
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