My greatest source of power lies in my thoughts. So ask me what I'm thinking. And maybe I'll tell you.

In a Name.

From Latin, significare, as sign, has come to be a central term for the semiological question, What is in a name? On a purely denotative level, one's name often serves as a representation of parents' hopes for their child's identity. While being knit in the womb, my parents already opted to name me Rebecca, after the Rebekah in the Bible, in hopes that I too will be a woman of generosity, graciousness, and kindness. As De Saussure says we are "always already hailed" in signification by the doctor's cry, "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl!", whereby pegging us into very specific gender roles for the rest of our lives, we are also hailed by our names at the very moment of birth.

But furthermore, this act of signification, giving someone or something a name, goes hand in hand with significance. It is no coincidence that we attempt to constantly define that which is beautiful. And we do this by giving it a name, a suitable name which is representative of its significance. In fact, everything we sense around us -- every object, every organism -- is given a name to signify it as a concept, beautiful or not. Everything is given a name to signify that it exists. Although, arguably, is something non-existent simply because it doesn't have a name? Perhaps not. But can something be significant if not given a name?

That which is not given a name seems to me like a vampire. It is ghostly translucent; it is undead. It is a memory once meaningful, or perhaps meaningless. It almost exists, but mostly only haunts everything else that is given a name. It is, and can only ever be, Anonymous.

Deli-boy Drama

The Joy Luck Club, a masterful novel and film unfolding the tales of four Chinese women who are best of friends, sprouted the inspiration for our own circle of four -- except we go by a loftier name. Boys typically assume that we amuse ourselves like any other group of girls -- you know, strip down to our bras and panties and have tickle fights. But no, not this savvy and sophisticated foursome. We live it up, la dolce vita. We prepare cuisine for fine dining.

So our menu for the evening included a warm baby spinach salad tossed with fresh mushrooms and pancetta in a vinaigrette; a wild mushroom risotto; tiger shrimp cooked in a Riesling seasoned with sprigs of rosemary; and a chocolate-flavoured cheesecake. As eventful as the actual cooking can be, our trip to the grocery store proved to be more eventful this time -- specifically, at the delicatessen counter.

On the quest for pancetta, cured belly of pork (sounds gross, but its taste resembles that of bacon), we found ourselves eyeing all the prepared meats -- smoked chicken, turkey, bologna, ham, proscuitto (my personal favourite) -- no pancetta. Oh wait. The deli-boy, a young gentleman no more than seventeen years of age, informs us that they do in fact have pancetta stored away. Holding the chunk of pork in his hand, he asks how much we want...200g, 500g, 1 pound perhaps...

Perfectly serious, we say, "Two slices, thanks."

His eyes shift. Two slices? Who the hec orders two slices of meat? We flash him a debonair smile, and he hesitantly smiles back, eyes shifting. Perhaps these girls meant two thick slices...

"How thick would you like the slices?"

We hold up our hands and indicate approxiamately 1.5mm with our index and thumb. We can't help but giggle at the incredulous look on his face. But, we are the customers after all. He hands us our two 1.5mm slices of pancetta, smiling suspiciously.

* * * * *

While cruising down the aisle to pick up the arborio rice for risotto, we stare into our big shopping cart and our two slices of pancetta. By this time, we're getting hungry. We look at each other, look at the pancetta again, and acknowledge with our eyes that we need more pancetta. Granted, the pancetta will only be used for tossing with the greens, but our two measly slices will not even stretch that far. Then, the impending doom of having to go back to the deli counter sets in. What will the deli-boy think? We'll seem like such idiots. Whose brilliant idea was it to order only two slices anyway? We stood there in the rice aisle and conferenced as to which girl would be best suited for the mission. But no one should have to suffer such humiliation alone...after all, we're friends right? So finally, we decided to return to the deli counter, altogether.

With each of our hands clutching the shopping cart, we casually moseyed over to the deli counter again. Is the deli-boy still there? Rats. He just saw us. And he's smiling at us. Oh no, what if he thinks we like him? We stop the cart and sheepishly stare face-to-face at the deli-boy for a few seconds.

I blurt, "Um...I think we need more pancetta." We flash him another smile. "Another two slices, please."

As many problems as I have with Neitzsche's existential philosophy being an overwhelming drive to materialism, what with his apostasy of the Christian god, "God is dead.", I refuse to be so quick to dismiss his entire philosophy, as I've learned much from him. He is a great thinker and a brilliant rhetor. One should think that I'd be outrageously offended by Nietzsche's renunciation of Christ, but spend a day with the Sophists in my Rhetoric classes, and you'll thank Nietzsche for his politeness. No, Nietzsche can pick on God all he wants, for Christ will be redeemed one day. But where's the redemption for the little girls?

"The third sex.--- 'A small man is a paradox but still a man; but small females seem to me to belong to another sex than tall women,' said an old dancing master." (The Gay Science, Nietzsche)

And yet another great thinker says...

"Greatness of soul implies greatness, as beauty implies a good-sized body, and small people may be neat and well-proportioned but cannot be beautiful." (Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle)

Who am I to speak up against two mighty philosophers? I can only cross my arms and mutter, "Nietzsche and Aristotle, go pick on someone your own size." Hmph.

the stamp of her name

Red ink, once fresh, fades and bleeds into a vague memory.
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the spark of her wit

Red cigarette, how sexy, burns to its life's end and snuffed into night.

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the soul of her voice

Red lips, once sealed his secrets, smudged by another's kiss.

Friends, my apologies for not posting lately (Benson, this one's for you!).

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The Anti-climax.

I strive for it, pray about it, lose sleep over it, cry about it, sweat for it, obsess over it, daydream about it, grow sick over it, sacrifice for it, hope for it, hope for it, hope for it -- all for one glorious and heroic Moment. And then it becomes a memory.

It can be music, it can be him, it can be God; It is life. And what is left of me after this moment but a faint nostalgia of what was, and little hope for what is and what will become. What is left of me but a silly romantic longing for, well, I don't know. Euphoria, perhaps. Even the mosquito circles around the room for an hour before its opportune Moment to rest on her plump upper arm to finally feast and drink in her plentiful blood, only to be killed on a full belly. Dying is an art, like everything else. Right?

I tell you, anything is better than the anti-climax.