Thursday, May 8, 2008


The Name (by Louis Jenkins)

Instead of an idea a name comes to you, a name that no longer has any connection to the owner of the name. It sounds merely rhythmic, musical, exotic and foreign to your ears, a sound full of distance and mystery. A name such as Desmond Tutu, Patrice Lumumba or Menachem Begin. You forget the names of acquaintances and the name of your first true love but this name comes to you. It repeats like a tune in your head. It refuses to go away, becomes a kind of mental mumbling. You say it to yourself over and over. It is your mantra, "Boutros Boutros Ghali..." Then suddenly as it came, the name vanishes.

Deep in the night, long after your own name has flown away, a voice wakes you from a sound sleep, a voice clear and certain as the voice that summonded Elija, saying "Oksana Baiul."

and also, these, less famous, funny still: Glonnie Turbyfill
Errol Dunkley

the first is my mantra. the latter, Andy's.