Name

Deciding on the names of everyday objects can be a trial: couch or sofa or settee is merely one example of a trivial dilemma along these lines. Any distinctions to be drawn between these three are probably rather fine but the choice of a name will almost certainly convey something to the person you name it to. Us or them can be decided by something this simple.

My name is not important to anyone else. It does not tell them anything, but for me it is a sign that I am myself.

The name »mez«
is also a bit challenging in relation to her actual real-life persona, as
several of her net.art pieces aren't credited to her as such, but
have various author titles attached – mz post modemism,
mezchine, ms Tech.no.whore, flesque, e-mauler, and
mezflesque.exe (her latest incarnation). Ask the net.artist mez
about her real (birth) name and listen attentively through the
gagging noises that emanate from her throat. You might hear an
intelligible answer, but I doubt it. This isn't because she's got some
exotic speech impediment or strange form of throat disorder. It's
all down to the fact that since 1995 she's been changing her
author name almost as frequently as her hairstyle. And this
frequent name-changing behavior is somehow inextricably caught
up in her extensive net.art creations. I'd guesstimate that her alias
swapping has occurred about 8 times in the last 4 years. Better
yet, I'll just ask just her.

A name is that by which we distinguish objects verbally. For different people, different sounding names have different connotations. A birsplatch does probably not engender as positive a response as does crissobren.

human beings are »the naming animal.« if there is no name, we invent one. a thing isn't real till we've named it – or so we tend to think.

I chose Josef as my name, several times. I like the F. I find it gives it an interesting sound and look. Aesthetics are important to most.

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Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

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I was born with one name. Or rather two.

My own, my personal, my individual name. Eta. Eta. Eta I am and Eta I have always been.

But the second name of my name. That was never my own. Often changing, always given. Usually defined by man or culture or society or religion. Sonnok and Grey and Blue and Maverick.

Until finally I set aside the pretense. I embraced the reality. The tilde stands for all names, for all possibilities, in that there is only ever an approximation which labels but never defines.

Names have more significance for Catholics than they do for other people; Christian names are chosen for the spiritual qualities of the saints they are taken from; Protestants used to name their children out of the Old Testament and now they name them out of novels and films, whose heroes and heroines are perhaps the new patron saints of a secular age. But with Catholics it is different. The saint a child is named for is supposed to serve, literally, as a model or pattern to imitate; your name is your fortune and it tells you what you are or must be. Catholic children ponder their names for a mystic meaning, like birthstones.

I never hear the name, or read the name, of Yarmouth, but I am reminded of a certain Sunday morning on the beach, the bells ringing for church, little Em'ly leaning on my shoulder, Ham lazily dropping stones into the water, and the sun, away at sea, just breaking through the heavy mist, and showing us the ships, like their own shadows.

There's this guy named Clarence. You hate him. Then you meet another guy named Clarence. This second Clarence has done nothing to you, but you will associate hime with the Clarence you hate and will probably be prejudiced. »No power in names,« you say? Think again. Not many kids named Adolf these days...