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nothus_a_um

Member Since 2008

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Monday Nov 23, 2009

Nov 23, 2009
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There's a man at the corner of Classon and Willoughby that I have to pass, every day, on my way to classes. I call him Shouting Man. He's your classic street-prophet: an ancient suit, optimized for outdoor living with new pockets made of various materials. Large, army surplus backpack with filthy sleeping bag. Huge, I-am-the-messiah beard.

At some point in my school career, he discovered my name. Maybe he heard a friend talking to me, though I'm not so sure, now. I tend to avoid him. Every morning he greets me with a loud call of "HEY _______!" Sounds distract me. Loud sounds pulse in my vision like bright lights, a form of synesthaesia that is really destructive in cities. I hate that he knows who I am. I cross to the other side of the street, and walk towards campus.

Last Thursday, I passed him, and he didn't say a word.

When I pass friends on the way to a lecture, they say "hey," or "hi." My professors are hard-pressed to know who I am outside a student number and mumbled comment. This city is full of people, and they all have names - I assume. Their parents know them, their close friends. But this information is irrelevant, vestigial. We hardly ever refer to people with their names.

That night, I made my weekly call home. My parents saddled me with this name, a binomial that determines my provenance. But they barely ever use it. Like a zoologist specialized in a particular species, they use nicknames. Friendly monikers. Kind approximations. Where is my name, in this city?

That Friday, I went out to a concert with a friend. We walked by Shouting Man on our way to the MTA, and he didn't say a word. I was abstracted on our walk towards NYU, noticing only her nominatives. She never called me by name, instead using "man." Dude. Guy. She wanted to stay by the stage, but I went up to the balcony. Listened. Took notes.

Who uses names, nowadays? Not one person in that venue, all night. It's too personal. We agree with friends by saying "yeah, buddy." "That's right, Paul" is too personal. Too collegiate. Too formal, because I refer directly to him - his opinions, not a concept in general.

I sat above the band, looking down from the balcony at my friend. At the crowd. A surging mass of humanity, 20-somethings, hopeful and dreaming. Each person a little similar vector of needs, accomplishments. Merging into each other. Indistinguishable. Unnamed. The volume of the music, the quality of the lights, the sound of all those bodies - I can't stand loud noises. I blinked at the flashing, and the crowd was gone. The band was gone. The lights were off, and they had disappeared. What happens to us, when we go unnamed for too long?

Saturday, I got up early, and made coffee. I brought it to Shouting Man, and introduced myself.
dasha:
Well Nameless Norm, How does one end up wearing a sweater/coat in a shower, unless this is when it was expressed to use a bucket...
Nov 26, 2009

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