Names
Names are unavoidable in any story. Even “one’s own.”
One could defer to a lot of “I-statements” and praise the first-person format. But maybe there’s a lost art with the alternative, even if it feels repetitive and masquerades the thoughts as someone else’s. But all thoughts are always someone else’s. Maybe.
The trouble with names is the same as any container. Formless comes into form. All with its crevices, cradled into a shape. If one sinks into one’s own story, it seems far more preferable to forgo such things. This is why most names which appear around here are foreign in nature – less attachment. Less likely to make mistakes.
Maybe the insight is to fully embrace anything as its own entity. All thoughts, feelings. Which may further the schism between the observer and the story a little more. To clasp that protective-trinket along the edge.
Since “I-statements” can reverb a little too much to the unsuspecting. Every “I” one reads – can the subsconscious discern?
This also allows the characters to expand and kindly infuse, unravel into something you may love to read about.
漫画みたいな。
Still, each name chosen started as a difficult endeavor.
Finding one that seems natural to pop up between sentences.
The primary mover.
That’s the trouble with foreign names – it stuffs itself into the story.
What’s more preferable is that which dissolves.
Something which you glaze over but know it well.
Wheatley wished it was easier, but deferred it for a later date. Even though he knew that such words would trickle out and contort, harden as wax into something ideally ignored, it was still worth watching how the water could swash around.
And Wheatley took delight in however it does form its shape – whether a heart, a jagged line, a fault line. He felt secure in that even if this represented him, or a part of him, or something beyond him, it was far more detached than the typical game of avoiding all pronouns, most subjects, any form of identity.
He wondered whether, instead of water, oil would be a more preferable liquid. Because of the residual it leaves.
But of course any human is 70%+ water. So he was content with water.
“You’d be surprised how much water remembers.”
Wheatley
“Crunch down more features. Use some more corporate speak, maybe.”
Anna scrunched her eyebrows and stared down. First at her crossed legs, then up toward her Starbucks frappé before taking another sip.
“There’s something awfully sterile about it, when you put it that way– I don’t know,” she confessed abruptly.
“You really think there’s nothing else you can do to get a promotion?”
“Most corporate advancement is dictated by how long you hang around. The best thing to do is to adopt some sort of indifference, however you want to. I don’t know.”
Anna and Wheatley both stared down the metallic table. Sparkling water was Wheatley’s choice of drink. Hint of lime. To the left of them was a long line of employees for the Chinese dumplings special. Slack groups raved about it. This was the only cafeteria on campus to offer it, so there was a clockwork stream of people from the shuttle drop off.
“It’s fine. What are you doing to get ‘ahead’?” Wheatley replied.
“Well my last one-on-one went pretty well, actually,” Anna remarked. “She said that as long as I keep my current pace I’ll be–“
Wheatley’s snores startled him awake.
Dry mouth, sore throat. Cold air.
It took a bit to make the connection that the loud noise was him choking on his tongue.
Pulling his sunken state out from his lounge chair, he set course for some tea. Chai tea. Peppermint later, maybe.
He hasn’t seen Anna for awhile now. Maybe half a decade.
Well, not just Anna. Wheatley hasn’t hung out with anyone around his age in years.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There were a few gatherings. But they felt more like performances rather than gatherings. Lines rehearsed, questions loaded, Wheatley knew how to guide the conversation how he wanted: dodging any sort of spotlight. And, to be fair, this was quite easy to achieve. Who wouldn’t want to talk about what they’re up to and interested in instead?
Regardless, these gatherings were–luckily–quite rare, and quite easy to forget. If there was ever a visceral lack of companionship, Wheatley blamed no one but himself. Jossling in his backpocket were text messages left unread. Little blue dots from number-strings, not names–one day he decided to delete all of his contacts. At the time he thought the ones that mattered he’ll be able to remember. Sometimes this works.
Sometimes Wheatley dreamt he, himself, was assigned only a number. A barcode on the neck, in the usual dystopian novel. Maybe throw in a few ascii characters, like NieR:Automata. Because being called ‘5z’ seemed to point to something more.
Not that it renders anyone with such a nickname as an android. Just that, such a name puts what’s important on center-stage: what did 5z need to do? What is 5z’s function? What purpose will 6t fulfill? Where is y6 currently? What is the project status?
It felt more honest this way. And awfully efficient.
But, really, the thing about a name like Wheatley is how it has this undertone of being irreplaceable. A human life, with its shrivels and sniffles. Along with a candy bag of aspirations, nucleic eyes.
To Wheatley, these attributes were for others.
Pouring boiled water into his cerulean mug, he took pride in being subtle and subdued. Silent to a fault. Ashamed to have any pride at all, frankly.
Because he knew he was replaceable.