Until a Place is Given a Name
By David McLendon.
We stood and we moved and we stopped at a point. You stood and you moved. I stopped at a point. I mention this to you meaning what? I received your postcard from Northern Ireland. Your dispatch from Indianapolis. The book you sent me (Wittgensteins Neffe) from Austria. The parcel delivered from Prague. Stop. I’m about my pages again. It’s been years since I’ve been about my pages again. Do you recall the pages I began when we shared for a time our lives in that place in Michigan? The name of the place of it. Do you recall how I shared with you how a place is not a place until a place is given a name? A brief wide comfort settled through me in the beginning in that place where for a time you and I shared our lives in that place in Michigan. Stop. A place is not a place until a place is given a name. Pheasant Run Circle. The name of it. How it placed me. How we shared for a time the place of the name of it. Stop. I don’t know where you are. I’m writing to you without knowing where you are. If you recall the pages I began all those years ago, you know without pause that for me to begin them again—or again to commence where I left them off—places me in a good place, a difficult place, a place essential, and I want you to know why I’m writing to you all this time later, to let you know, to let you know when distracted or turned untoward my pages I stand from my chair at my desk by the window, I move to a point, which is always the window, and I turn from the window and return to my chair at my desk, to sit and to write to you. Excursus. Excursus meaning what? A kind of motion. Motion as a delay of moving forward. A motion untoward. Untoward moving toward what? Stop. The name of the place each word of it a noun. Pheasant Run Circle. Implying when combined a kind of motion. A place is not a place until a place is given a name. We shared a good run in that place. In the beginning we shared a good run. I recall snowstorms and thunderstorms and bold grass and cooking over a fire and the nightsky and some birds and a tree and quilted mornings and holding you holding me and a good blanket and the moon. Pheasant Run Circle. The sound of the name lets us see the place of it. We shared for a time the place and the name of it. We shared a good run and in time we turned it from under. You stood and you moved. I stopped at a point. Parts of this not all of it are somewhat complete and partially inaccurate. Longing corrects nothing. Winged and encircled. Noun to verb. Turn it from under. Run.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David McLendon is the editor of Unsaid. He resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Monday, April 17th, 2017.