Category: Uncategorized

What’s in a name?


Little by little, I’m reclaiming my given name.

‘Jacob Russell’ is retired.

My earliest memory of name switching–3 years old. Lived in a little, two story, two bedroom house with my maternal grandmother, Lorain (Gramma Rein… who I watched die of a stroke, age 12, alone in our family cottage at Bass Lake) with my aunt, Carolyn–not yet 16. Murdered by her husband, in 1965… I washed the blood from the basement floor at the bottom of the stairs where she fell after he stabbed her 23 times… and my uncle Will–who was only 16. I did not like being called “Little Will.”

My middle name, Russell, was my father’s first name. I guess they figured I wouldn’t like being “Little Russell” and better, so they called me ‘Rusty.’ That was my name through childhood, and in my family–and to my summer friends. At school, (which was my prison…I lived only for the summer with my real friends) I tried Willard, briefly. By Jr. High, I accepted Russell. I took on “Jacob Russell” when I began submitting poetry and stories–in my early 40’s. That stuck for another 30 years, until I went to SMS for the first time… I needed a Faerie name.

The last time I saw my childhood friend, we were watching a kid catch strange little fish off the quay in Ludington… gobys. That name is forever linked to his memory, who died shortly before I went to SMS. My friend from age 3… inseparable friend, 6 months younger, and fearless protector while I was still in Chicago. I didn’t know it then… but I was in love him. He comes to me in dreams. That name is forever.

When I began to make art again, and thought how I would sign it–I had gotten news that my uncle Will had Altzheimers. He had been the big brother I never had, an artist and mentor. Introduced me to Kafka and Whitman and Alan Watts. Willard was also the name of my grandfather, who died 2 weeks before I was born. I will sign my art, “Willard.”

Have signed almost 1200 pieces of Art, since… Willard

“Willard” … so, 6 months short of 80… it’s all right to be, Willard now…

but you can call me Goby. 🙂

Thanksgiving, 2020

Thanksgiving…So much of my life has been spent trying to live … or escape from… or into the images, ideas, I had in childhood. Like the right way to peel a banana… or to be an artist… and as meaningless.

Years, decades .. .spent discovering that there is no joy, no escape into that feeling I had when I first took on those things as real. Shedding skins. Not like a snake. But like a mink skinned for its coat.

Thanksgiving… any holiday is like that.

We knew as children–imagining… everything there was to know and every pleasure that was to be had in those seeds of future longing. Futile longings.Let them go.
There is nothing more.
Remember.
But at peace.
………………………… there is no peace

Memorial for the Dispossessed

I thought when I first saw the Metro article on Mia Green’s murder, that the head caption had misgendered her…
“Mia Geen was found in the passenger’s seat of his car with a gunshot wound.”

“his car” referred to the murderer–and that was clear, following the headline: “Man charged with murder of…

… but it upset me… when I saw it riding the subway to a candlelight memorial service of a camp resident.. like…. everything in this world is broken.

The circle of mourners, and those who came to pay our respects, created a sacred space… candles like stars shining from the earth–under a canopy of trees; all around us, the profane world that sorts us out, as worthy or unworthy of life–the endless traffic on the Parkway–the lights of passing cars, for an hour.. outshone by our candles.

Prayers were said. A libation poured out on the ground from a beer can.

The sacred is still there.. waiting… waiting for us to give it room, to mark it’s boundaries, the lights, and signs, that tell us.. we still have a home in this world. If only we are willing to create… and fight for it….and claim it as our own.

…. Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba b’alma di v’ra chir’usei; v’yamlich malchusei b’hayeichon u-v’yomeichon, uv’hayei d’chol beit yisrael, ba-agala u-vi-z’man kariv, v’imru …. awmen.