This Place of Prose and Poetry. Lucian Krukowski

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СКАЧАТЬ I was too gangly—all knees elbows and premature ejaculations. So she gave me the name instead—“Luscious,” a name that had we actually shared it—said it to each other during all those hidden hours—would have been the catalyst for sounds and movements (and epiphanies) that we could both have had—for all the however many times to come.

      As I grew older, my naming became more neutral—less wound or shield, and more the simple label I needed in college classes and among my now more friendly friends. The name that survived the early shifts of hope and pain and became my standard for those years was “Looshun”—“Loosh” for short. It was not the one I would have choosen as the exemplar of my qualities—but it did identify me without malice.

      But sometimes, choosing a version for a naming is a serious matter. These circumstances are typically divided into whether the asker is male or female. When a man asks: “How do you pronounce your name?” I am on guard: Be careful how you answer; don’t give away too much; make sure your voice is slightly growly. So what did I say? Usually, I said “call me Lou.” Other times however, feeling more theatened than usual, I would roll out my heavy weapons: “Actually, when I was in the Marines they called me `Ski’ —all the Polacks (heh, heh) were called ‘Ski.’ There was private Ski—me; there was a Captain Ski—Tarski; and there also was a General Ski—Dombrowski.”

      “You were in the Marines?”—the fellow would yodel. “Well actually I was drafted.” I said. “I didn’t know they drafted into the Marines,” he said. “Oh yes, Korean war; when the Chinese came over the Yalu, they needed men fast you know, one out of three at the induction center—bam, bam boom—I was boom.” “Did you go to Korea?” “Well, no, (heh), I stayed in North Carolina, missed the fighting—too bad, (heh, heh).”

      On the other side of gender, I took a woman’s asking “How do you pronounce your name?” as an opening to the erotic. It seems to me that the men ask the question aggressively and the women ask it suggestively— pronunciation as seduction. “Now that you ask,” I would say, “shall I tell you, in passing, how interesting I am? The Polish `Lucjan’ is actually a modification of the Latin `Lucian’—of course you know the Roman poet of that name.” “Well yes,” she would say, “I remember reading him, but that was some time ago—a little while ago in college.” “Yes, yes” I would answer—“the French made the ‘a’ into an ‘e’ as in ‘Lucien Lelong’ and the Italians countered by keeping the ‘a’ and adding an ‘o’ as in ‘Luciano Pavarotti.’ But I would prefer that you call me whatever sounds best to you.” “Oh yes, I’ll do that, I’ll try them all on you.”

      I have constructed—for myself as well as others—a real heritage, not entirely false but admittedly embellished, with a name for every occasion, with comrades both international and historical, alluding to a colorful and checkered past. It is a testimonial to the value of the liberal arts that my changing names became a way of life—a reasonable way to survive in war, love, and the confusing years that followed.

      NAMES IN POEMS

      Dearest Loosh, you are so louche.

      But I’ll not meet you in the hay today.

      Perhaps tonight, when the bed-bugs bite—

      although we must remember

      that they like us best

      those times we scratch and sweat—

      before the light returns at morning.

      So they do; it’s true; and so do you—

      like me that way too.

      But a little blood and many scratches

      are good for healing the painful swellings

      of our hidden and forbidden noonday itches.

      Shoosh, Loosh!

      The dogs are listening to your laughter.

      And Lokshen listens to me laughing too—

      laughing at your scratched-up torso,

      the flakey skin beneath my nails,

      the blood-flecked sheets,

      and the curious ways you have

      of making love.

      FIVE PROSE WORDS

      Five words need attending to. They are: What, When, Where, Who, Why.

      The first three refer to the world outside us—to that which occurs; to the time(s) of its occurrence; to the place(s) in which it occurs. The last two (who and why) refer to the ways we are in the world—so as to accommodate the recognizing of the “who” that writes about the world, and looks for reasons (if any can be found) that bring our particular “who” to a juncture with the “why” that has us write.

      There are clear young folk as well as some older wooly ones—who have no difficulty in answering “where?” with a “there!” Such “there-thinking” affirms the value of the place where the thinker may contingently be. “There,” they say, is neutral between any and no-where—a good safe place to hang out. But this affirmation of a “somewhere” can move (the rest of) us from the ecstatic uncertainty of free spirits to the analytic doldrums practiced by the sober and mature. The object for these latter, is to precisely find the “where” of their “there.” But there are those others (myself included) who doubt there ever is a “there” that will stay put anywhere.

      Consider, as an example, the current mind-brain controversy: Where is the location of thought? Why, in the mind! But the materialist view locates this “where” within the structure of the brain—the thinking mind just is (in) the physical brain. Such a thesis, dualists counter, is of only elliptical help in this inquiry, for it illuminates a consequence of brain-language infatuation—a neuronal “there”—a place where the more sceptical “who’s” do not cogently—or comfortably—find themselves.

      Views that propose multiple locations for cognizing existence do not include doubts that the brain is the structural arbiter of these locations—there is no brain-free (brainless) cognition. What is in doubt is the presumption that all our experiences can be located and explained by physical analysis (manipulation) of the brain, and its relevant language: It is a stretch too far, e.g., to find loving, hating, reflecting, hoping, etc.—embedded within discrete neuronal correlates.

      The notion of “mind,” my argument goes, offers more linguistic room for affective, lived-life, descriptions: We are “mindful of,” “have a mind to,” are “in” or “out” of our minds, we do not know our “loved-one’s mind”—or the “mind of God.” (It seems evident that God has no need for a brain—if so, brainists must all be atheists). The dead had minds that once were full but now are closed forever to our asking—but not to our remembering. It seems that fussing with nerve-endings in their lobal locations—alive or dead—gives us neither answers nor memories.

      The answers preferred by “who’s” —

      at whatever place their “where’s” may be—

      suggest themselves before the morning pee.

      They СКАЧАТЬ