Haver Nom
Haver Nom
S´ajunten 3 elements casuals, dos d´ells recollits a la pila terrosa d´un mercat d’antiguitats, fruit del tria i remena, del rebotre, i un tercer agafat al vol, immaterial. Són, començant per terra, el diari de joventut de la Maria Montserrat Casaramona encetat el 14 d´Octubre de 1925 i que dura uns mesos, un àlbum de cromos de les races de gossos més conegudes acompanyats de quatre ratlles escrites i, a l´eteri, la resposta espontània, brava, ofesa que li surt de l´ànima a una àvia quan el venedor li deixa anar, esperant ploure, el preu d´una petita figura de porcellana de color pell, un bell gran danès que li vol fer companyia tot el que li queda de vida fins que es trenqui: “Recony! Demana bé i et contestaré!”.
Els tres elements formen aquest relat, el de la paraula i la cosa, el de la paraula i allò que diu, l´esquelet i l´ànima.
Però no és nomenar, és acostar-se. Acostar-se i comprometre´s a preservar a mort els sentits de les paraules tresorejant-los amb formol dins de pots de vidre o engelant-los (convertir-los en Engels gelats, els Àngels no es gelen ni es gelaten) a la Terra del Gel, centenars de metres avall va, envidreïts com a mamuts per a la il·lusa eternitat.
Per això, sense anar més lluny, l´Ed va agafar la porta del bar del mercat d´antiguitats, calent a mitja tarda. Ja es començava a sentir cansat, sabia que tocava l´hora del desesper, com cada dia. No és desesper, és purificació. A la mà duia la llibreta de la Maria Montserrat Casaramona, tres euros, l´àlbum de cromos de les races de gossos, cinc euros ben regatejats, i ballant pel cap el “demana bé i et contestaré”. Volia escapar de l´aclaparador mercat, però just acabat de demanar un xut de Fot-Li, va saber que ho tenia magre. Per les orelles li entrava de tot i gruixut: la conductora del telenotícies, una quenocalla traspuant per la silueta bífidus actius, fustigant el gènere com de costum; l´encorbatat de la maleta de pell obrint i tancant fortunes de blablabla, amb els calçotets marcats i el Loewe cantant; el cambrer clacant dels del pàrquing 6 del bloc per si algú li feia que sí, tot esperant la safata de birries a la barra; el missatge del pesat d´en Riu, company de pis: “He trobat curro. El món és millor”; i l´escurabutxaques llampeguejant mireumes metàl·lics i matxucant “Premio” “Premio” “Premio”. De tot per les orelles.
—Premi? Un Premi? —es pregunta en veu alta intentant tapar tanta xerra estantissa. No és premi, és una pastanaga.
Desesperat.
L´Ed rebufa. Tothom i tot, fins el més petit objecte inanimat d´aquell barutxu, escopinant paraules i més paraules. Per l´Ed, totes llefiscoses, pudentes, com si Maria Santíssima anés estrompinat.
—Més que estrompinats —pensa l´Ed, potser m´ha sentit— és un vòmit incessant. Insuportable —xerra sol—: No és una estrompinada, és una gitada. Paraules amunt i avall, a dojo, tapant boques aquí i allà, d´un sol ús. Ja ho tinc —clica els dits. Ara crida més—: Potinamenta. Significats manejats, rejuntats, enganxats on no pertoca. Ningú ha llegit el diccionari si no és per porquejar barroerament i encabat mentir. Mentir sabent o ignorant. No és la paraula, és l´ens.
Demana un paper al cambrer —a aquest, els ulls li brillen com l´escurabutxaques sempre que algú necessita—, però ha d´estar per la feina, posa mà al cul, estira la llibretota quadriculada i mal arranca un full.
—Si més no —diu—, t´explico què ha passat aquest matí al pàrquing 6. Només una paraula: sang.
No és sang, és pintura. L´Ed, paper a la mà, fa que no el sent i busca racó amb taula, d´esquenes a la porta. Ja no hi és: va escrivint i tatxant, també gitant. En fa via, no perdi vena. Repassa, primer paràgraf: “El significat de cada paraula serà descrit amb pèls i senyals. A tal fi, contindrà un mínim de 5 adjectius associats, 5 explicacions paral·leles, 5 models propis, 5 imatges representatives i exemples de les seves variacions habituals, senyalant les desnaturalitzacions més freqüents (pèrdues d´essència) que haurà sofert i separant-les en dos grups: el primer, les falsificacions (significats amb falses aparences, intencionadament enganyoses) i el segon, les adulteracions (mescles impròpies de significats)”.
Segona embranzida: “Si no tinc un nom per a tu, cosa, no existeixes per a mi. El meu món tindrà poques paraules (a casa hi haurà pocs mobles), serà pobre, inconscient, hauré de ser violent, condemnat a postes de sol en blanc i negre, només tindré sís i nós, no podré ni conversar, els matisos..., però allà fora hi ha color! I a més, si els significats són borrosos, la meva realitat també ho serà, i les meves emocions..., tot plegat formant un món de plàstic, manipulat”.
L´Ed s´atura. La natja li ha fet pessigolles. És un whats que el fa badar. Vejam. Volia ser la Maria Montserrat Casaramona que l´escriu des d´allà, sí, des d´allà; però ha estat un rampell teclejat des d’aquí per un chien commun, el bastard: “Els noms acaben fent nosa. No donis nom a la cosa: nota i prou. Puta mania tant soroll! Calleu, collons i amb el Santíssim! El nom és allò que queda a la pedra!”. Aquesta no se l´esperava.
I llavors és quan d´imprevist en passa una de ben grossa. A l´Ed se li ha acabat el paper: se li ha acabat el món. Ara, o salta o vola. Sent l´alè del cambrer al clatell esperant demani. “Recony! Demana bé i et contestaré!”, li ressona al cap. No vol girar-se. No és girar-se, és cagar-se. Com que saltar és pels curts, decideix volar. No és volar, és alliberar-se.
Agafa carrerilla amb el diari de jovenesa de la Maria Montserrat Casaramona. Tria paraula... paraula... paraula com si volgués pessigar els núvols. Després, els noms dels gossos nomenats lladren engatats i, seguit, apareix la crida: no és significar, és essència. I segueix començant... i acaba seguint: no és insistir, és bressolar.
Però l´Ed ha d´aterrar. El bar tanca, fastiguejat. Ara, ha d´anar a buscar la porta passant per dins d´un mercat que es refreda, trepitjant papers i cartrons. Distret, punteja amb el peu allò que semblen les restes d´una petita figura de porcellana de color pell, trencada pel mig. S´ajup. Té part del cos entre dits, la cua està sencera, enganxada a les dues potes del darrere. Falten el cap, el coll i les potes del davant. L´Ed se sent commogut: els detalls s´ageganten per moments. La història no el vol deixar anar, el seguirà vagi on vagi. Ell, la necessita per volar.
No és insistir, és bressolar. No és nom, és Haver Nom.
S´ajunten 3 elements casuals, dos d´ells recollits a la pila terrosa d´un mercat d’antiguitats, fruit del tria i remena, del rebotre, i un tercer agafat al vol, immaterial. Són, començant per terra, el diari de joventut de la Maria Montserrat Casaramona encetat el 14 d´Octubre de 1925 i que dura uns mesos, un àlbum de cromos de les races de gossos més conegudes acompanyats de quatre ratlles escrites i, a l´eteri, la resposta espontània, brava, ofesa que li surt de l´ànima a una àvia quan el venedor li deixa anar, esperant ploure, el preu d´una petita figura de porcellana de color pell, un bell gran danès que li vol fer companyia tot el que li queda de vida fins que es trenqui: “Recony! Demana bé i et contestaré!”.
Els tres elements formen aquest relat, el de la paraula i la cosa, el de la paraula i allò que diu, l´esquelet i l´ànima.
Però no és nomenar, és acostar-se. Acostar-se i comprometre´s a preservar a mort els sentits de les paraules tresorejant-los amb formol dins de pots de vidre o engelant-los (convertir-los en Engels gelats, els Àngels no es gelen ni es gelaten) a la Terra del Gel, centenars de metres avall va, envidreïts com a mamuts per a la il·lusa eternitat.
Per això, sense anar més lluny, l´Ed va agafar la porta del bar del mercat d´antiguitats, calent a mitja tarda. Ja es començava a sentir cansat, sabia que tocava l´hora del desesper, com cada dia. No és desesper, és purificació. A la mà duia la llibreta de la Maria Montserrat Casaramona, tres euros, l´àlbum de cromos de les races de gossos, cinc euros ben regatejats, i ballant pel cap el “demana bé i et contestaré”. Volia escapar de l´aclaparador mercat, però just acabat de demanar un xut de Fot-Li, va saber que ho tenia magre. Per les orelles li entrava de tot i gruixut: la conductora del telenotícies, una quenocalla traspuant per la silueta bífidus actius, fustigant el gènere com de costum; l´encorbatat de la maleta de pell obrint i tancant fortunes de blablabla, amb els calçotets marcats i el Loewe cantant; el cambrer clacant dels del pàrquing 6 del bloc per si algú li feia que sí, tot esperant la safata de birries a la barra; el missatge del pesat d´en Riu, company de pis: “He trobat curro. El món és millor”; i l´escurabutxaques llampeguejant mireumes metàl·lics i matxucant “Premio” “Premio” “Premio”. De tot per les orelles.
—Premi? Un Premi? —es pregunta en veu alta intentant tapar tanta xerra estantissa. No és premi, és una pastanaga.
Desesperat.
L´Ed rebufa. Tothom i tot, fins el més petit objecte inanimat d´aquell barutxu, escopinant paraules i més paraules. Per l´Ed, totes llefiscoses, pudentes, com si Maria Santíssima anés estrompinat.
—Més que estrompinats —pensa l´Ed, potser m´ha sentit— és un vòmit incessant. Insuportable —xerra sol—: No és una estrompinada, és una gitada. Paraules amunt i avall, a dojo, tapant boques aquí i allà, d´un sol ús. Ja ho tinc —clica els dits. Ara crida més—: Potinamenta. Significats manejats, rejuntats, enganxats on no pertoca. Ningú ha llegit el diccionari si no és per porquejar barroerament i encabat mentir. Mentir sabent o ignorant. No és la paraula, és l´ens.
Demana un paper al cambrer —a aquest, els ulls li brillen com l´escurabutxaques sempre que algú necessita—, però ha d´estar per la feina, posa mà al cul, estira la llibretota quadriculada i mal arranca un full.
—Si més no —diu—, t´explico què ha passat aquest matí al pàrquing 6. Només una paraula: sang.
No és sang, és pintura. L´Ed, paper a la mà, fa que no el sent i busca racó amb taula, d´esquenes a la porta. Ja no hi és: va escrivint i tatxant, també gitant. En fa via, no perdi vena. Repassa, primer paràgraf: “El significat de cada paraula serà descrit amb pèls i senyals. A tal fi, contindrà un mínim de 5 adjectius associats, 5 explicacions paral·leles, 5 models propis, 5 imatges representatives i exemples de les seves variacions habituals, senyalant les desnaturalitzacions més freqüents (pèrdues d´essència) que haurà sofert i separant-les en dos grups: el primer, les falsificacions (significats amb falses aparences, intencionadament enganyoses) i el segon, les adulteracions (mescles impròpies de significats)”.
Segona embranzida: “Si no tinc un nom per a tu, cosa, no existeixes per a mi. El meu món tindrà poques paraules (a casa hi haurà pocs mobles), serà pobre, inconscient, hauré de ser violent, condemnat a postes de sol en blanc i negre, només tindré sís i nós, no podré ni conversar, els matisos..., però allà fora hi ha color! I a més, si els significats són borrosos, la meva realitat també ho serà, i les meves emocions..., tot plegat formant un món de plàstic, manipulat”.
L´Ed s´atura. La natja li ha fet pessigolles. És un whats que el fa badar. Vejam. Volia ser la Maria Montserrat Casaramona que l´escriu des d´allà, sí, des d´allà; però ha estat un rampell teclejat des d’aquí per un chien commun, el bastard: “Els noms acaben fent nosa. No donis nom a la cosa: nota i prou. Puta mania tant soroll! Calleu, collons i amb el Santíssim! El nom és allò que queda a la pedra!”. Aquesta no se l´esperava.
I llavors és quan d´imprevist en passa una de ben grossa. A l´Ed se li ha acabat el paper: se li ha acabat el món. Ara, o salta o vola. Sent l´alè del cambrer al clatell esperant demani. “Recony! Demana bé i et contestaré!”, li ressona al cap. No vol girar-se. No és girar-se, és cagar-se. Com que saltar és pels curts, decideix volar. No és volar, és alliberar-se.
Agafa carrerilla amb el diari de jovenesa de la Maria Montserrat Casaramona. Tria paraula... paraula... paraula com si volgués pessigar els núvols. Després, els noms dels gossos nomenats lladren engatats i, seguit, apareix la crida: no és significar, és essència. I segueix començant... i acaba seguint: no és insistir, és bressolar.
Però l´Ed ha d´aterrar. El bar tanca, fastiguejat. Ara, ha d´anar a buscar la porta passant per dins d´un mercat que es refreda, trepitjant papers i cartrons. Distret, punteja amb el peu allò que semblen les restes d´una petita figura de porcellana de color pell, trencada pel mig. S´ajup. Té part del cos entre dits, la cua està sencera, enganxada a les dues potes del darrere. Falten el cap, el coll i les potes del davant. L´Ed se sent commogut: els detalls s´ageganten per moments. La història no el vol deixar anar, el seguirà vagi on vagi. Ell, la necessita per volar.
No és insistir, és bressolar. No és nom, és Haver Nom.
To be Named
Three chance elements come together, two of them gathered from the earthy heap of an antiques market, the result of moving and choosing, of throwing away, and a third caught in mid-flight, immaterial. They are, starting from the bottom, the diary of a young Maria Montserrat Casaramona begun on 14 October 1925 and covering a few months, a sticker album of the best known dog breeds accompanied by four written lines and, in the ethereal, the spontaneous, fierce, offended response that comes from the heart of a granny when the seller tells her, expecting it to rain money, the price of a small skin-coloured porcelain figure, a beautiful Great Dane that wants to be with her the rest of its life until it breaks, “Christ! Ask nicely and I’ll answer!”.
The three elements make up this story, that of the word and the thing, the word and what it says, the body and soul.
But it’s not naming, it’s approaching. Approaching and undertaking to maintain the meanings of words till death, preserving them with formol in glass jars or glaciered (converting them into frozen Engels, Angels can’t be glazed or glace) in the Land of Ice, hundreds of metres below, mammoth-like blocks for all innocent eternity.
That’s why, without looking further, Ed grabs the door of the bar in the antiques market, warm in the mid-afternoon. He was already beginning to feel tired, he knew it was time to despair, as every day. It’s not despair, it’s purification. In his hand, he carried Maria Montserrat Casaramona’s notebook, three euros, the sticker album of dog breeds, a well-haggled five euros, and rattling around his brain “ask nicely and I’ll answer”. He wanted to escape the overpowering market, but having just ordered a shot of Fot-Li, he knew it would be difficult. He heard everything thick and fast: the newsreader, a motormouth oozing an energetic bifidus body, thrashing the material as usual; the guy with the tie and the leather briefcase opening and closing fortunes of blahblahblah, strutting his stuff and reeking of Loewe; the waiter chatting about car park 6 in case someone said yes, while waiting for the tray of bevvies at the bar; the message from the tiresome Riu, a flatmate: “I’ve got a job. The world is a better place”; and the slot machine flashing metallic lookatmes and harping on “Jackpot” “Jackpot” “Jackpot”. All ringing in his ears.
“Jackpot? A Jackpot?” he asks out loud trying to drown out so much stale chatter. It’s not a jackpot, it’s a carrot.
Desperate.
Ed snorts. Each and every one, even the smallest inanimate object of that dive, spewing words and more words. For Ed, all of them sticky, stinking, as if, my God, the squits.
—More than the squits,” thinks Ed, perhaps he heard me, “it’s an incessant vomiting. Unbearable.” He talks to himself: It’s not the squits, it’s chunder. Words left and right, pouring out, filling mouths here and there, disposable. Got it,” he snaps his fingers. Now he shouts louder: filthy mash. Meanings managed, re-joined, stuck where they don’t belong. No one reads the dictionary unless to muck around and later to lie. To lie knowing or not. It’s not the word, it’s the being.
He asks for a piece of paper from the waiter, whose eyes shine like the slot machine whenever someone is in need, but he must focus on the job, he goes to his back pocket, pulls out the squared notepad and rips out a page.
“At least,” he says, “I’ll tell you what happened this morning in car park 6. Just one word: blood.
It’s not blood, it’s paint. Ed, paper in hand, pretends not to hear him and looks for a table in the corner, with his back to the door. He’s no longer there: he’s writing and crossing out, also regurgitating. He’s on a roll, he doesn’t lose track. He checks it, first paragraph: “The meaning of each word will be described in great detail. To that end, it will include at least 5 associated adjectives, 5 parallel explanations, 5 own models, 5 representative images and examples of its common variations, highlighting the most frequent denaturations (losses of essence) it has suffered and dividing them into two groups: the first, falsifications (meanings with false appearances, intentionally misleading) and the second, adulterations (strange mixtures of meanings)”.
Second shot: “If I don’t have a name for you, thing, you don’t exist to me. My world will have few words (at home there will be few pieces of furniture), it will be poor, thoughtless, I’ll have to be aggressive, condemned to black and white sunsets, I’ll only have yeses and nos, I won’t even be able to chat, the nuances..., but out there, there’s colour! And what’s more, if the meanings are blurred, so my reality will be, and my emotions..., all together forming a world of plastic, manipulated”.
Ed stops. He feels his buttock tingle. It’s a wearisome whatsapp. Let’s see. He wanted it to be Maria Montserrat Casaramona writing from beyond, yes, from beyond; but it was an outburst typed from here by a chien commun, the bastard: “Names end up being a nuisance. Don’t give the thing a name: observe and move on. So much sodding noise! Shut up, for Christ’s sake! The name is what remains on the stone!”. He wasn’t expecting that.
And that’s when suddenly something big happens. Ed finishes the paper: it’s the end of the world. Now, either jump or fly. He feels the waiter’s breath on the nape of his neck, awaiting his order. “Christ! Ask nicely and I’ll answer!”, echoes in his mind. He doesn’t want to turn around. It’s not turning around, it’s giving in. As jumping is for simpletons, he decides to fly. It’s not flying, it’s breaking free.
He takes a run-up with the diary of the young Maria Montserrat Casaramona. He chooses a word... a word... a word as if wanting to catch a cloud. Afterwards, the names of the named dogs bark enthralled and, then, the assertion appears: it’s not meaning, it’s essence. And he continues starting... and ends up continuing: it’s not forcing, it’s swaying.
But Ed has to come back down to earth. The bar closes, worn out. Now, he must find the door passing through a rapidly cooling market, trampling on papers and boxes. Distracted, he gently kicks at something that looks like the remains of a small skin-coloured porcelain figure, broken in half. He crouches down. He holds part of the body; the tail is in one piece stuck to the two back legs. The head, neck and front legs are missing. Ed feels moved: the details become more exaggerated before his very eyes. The story doesn’t want to let him go, it will follow him wherever he goes. Him, he needs it to fly.
It’s not forcing, it’s swaying. It’s not name, it’s to be named.
Three chance elements come together, two of them gathered from the earthy heap of an antiques market, the result of moving and choosing, of throwing away, and a third caught in mid-flight, immaterial. They are, starting from the bottom, the diary of a young Maria Montserrat Casaramona begun on 14 October 1925 and covering a few months, a sticker album of the best known dog breeds accompanied by four written lines and, in the ethereal, the spontaneous, fierce, offended response that comes from the heart of a granny when the seller tells her, expecting it to rain money, the price of a small skin-coloured porcelain figure, a beautiful Great Dane that wants to be with her the rest of its life until it breaks, “Christ! Ask nicely and I’ll answer!”.
The three elements make up this story, that of the word and the thing, the word and what it says, the body and soul.
But it’s not naming, it’s approaching. Approaching and undertaking to maintain the meanings of words till death, preserving them with formol in glass jars or glaciered (converting them into frozen Engels, Angels can’t be glazed or glace) in the Land of Ice, hundreds of metres below, mammoth-like blocks for all innocent eternity.
That’s why, without looking further, Ed grabs the door of the bar in the antiques market, warm in the mid-afternoon. He was already beginning to feel tired, he knew it was time to despair, as every day. It’s not despair, it’s purification. In his hand, he carried Maria Montserrat Casaramona’s notebook, three euros, the sticker album of dog breeds, a well-haggled five euros, and rattling around his brain “ask nicely and I’ll answer”. He wanted to escape the overpowering market, but having just ordered a shot of Fot-Li, he knew it would be difficult. He heard everything thick and fast: the newsreader, a motormouth oozing an energetic bifidus body, thrashing the material as usual; the guy with the tie and the leather briefcase opening and closing fortunes of blahblahblah, strutting his stuff and reeking of Loewe; the waiter chatting about car park 6 in case someone said yes, while waiting for the tray of bevvies at the bar; the message from the tiresome Riu, a flatmate: “I’ve got a job. The world is a better place”; and the slot machine flashing metallic lookatmes and harping on “Jackpot” “Jackpot” “Jackpot”. All ringing in his ears.
“Jackpot? A Jackpot?” he asks out loud trying to drown out so much stale chatter. It’s not a jackpot, it’s a carrot.
Desperate.
Ed snorts. Each and every one, even the smallest inanimate object of that dive, spewing words and more words. For Ed, all of them sticky, stinking, as if, my God, the squits.
—More than the squits,” thinks Ed, perhaps he heard me, “it’s an incessant vomiting. Unbearable.” He talks to himself: It’s not the squits, it’s chunder. Words left and right, pouring out, filling mouths here and there, disposable. Got it,” he snaps his fingers. Now he shouts louder: filthy mash. Meanings managed, re-joined, stuck where they don’t belong. No one reads the dictionary unless to muck around and later to lie. To lie knowing or not. It’s not the word, it’s the being.
He asks for a piece of paper from the waiter, whose eyes shine like the slot machine whenever someone is in need, but he must focus on the job, he goes to his back pocket, pulls out the squared notepad and rips out a page.
“At least,” he says, “I’ll tell you what happened this morning in car park 6. Just one word: blood.
It’s not blood, it’s paint. Ed, paper in hand, pretends not to hear him and looks for a table in the corner, with his back to the door. He’s no longer there: he’s writing and crossing out, also regurgitating. He’s on a roll, he doesn’t lose track. He checks it, first paragraph: “The meaning of each word will be described in great detail. To that end, it will include at least 5 associated adjectives, 5 parallel explanations, 5 own models, 5 representative images and examples of its common variations, highlighting the most frequent denaturations (losses of essence) it has suffered and dividing them into two groups: the first, falsifications (meanings with false appearances, intentionally misleading) and the second, adulterations (strange mixtures of meanings)”.
Second shot: “If I don’t have a name for you, thing, you don’t exist to me. My world will have few words (at home there will be few pieces of furniture), it will be poor, thoughtless, I’ll have to be aggressive, condemned to black and white sunsets, I’ll only have yeses and nos, I won’t even be able to chat, the nuances..., but out there, there’s colour! And what’s more, if the meanings are blurred, so my reality will be, and my emotions..., all together forming a world of plastic, manipulated”.
Ed stops. He feels his buttock tingle. It’s a wearisome whatsapp. Let’s see. He wanted it to be Maria Montserrat Casaramona writing from beyond, yes, from beyond; but it was an outburst typed from here by a chien commun, the bastard: “Names end up being a nuisance. Don’t give the thing a name: observe and move on. So much sodding noise! Shut up, for Christ’s sake! The name is what remains on the stone!”. He wasn’t expecting that.
And that’s when suddenly something big happens. Ed finishes the paper: it’s the end of the world. Now, either jump or fly. He feels the waiter’s breath on the nape of his neck, awaiting his order. “Christ! Ask nicely and I’ll answer!”, echoes in his mind. He doesn’t want to turn around. It’s not turning around, it’s giving in. As jumping is for simpletons, he decides to fly. It’s not flying, it’s breaking free.
He takes a run-up with the diary of the young Maria Montserrat Casaramona. He chooses a word... a word... a word as if wanting to catch a cloud. Afterwards, the names of the named dogs bark enthralled and, then, the assertion appears: it’s not meaning, it’s essence. And he continues starting... and ends up continuing: it’s not forcing, it’s swaying.
But Ed has to come back down to earth. The bar closes, worn out. Now, he must find the door passing through a rapidly cooling market, trampling on papers and boxes. Distracted, he gently kicks at something that looks like the remains of a small skin-coloured porcelain figure, broken in half. He crouches down. He holds part of the body; the tail is in one piece stuck to the two back legs. The head, neck and front legs are missing. Ed feels moved: the details become more exaggerated before his very eyes. The story doesn’t want to let him go, it will follow him wherever he goes. Him, he needs it to fly.
It’s not forcing, it’s swaying. It’s not name, it’s to be named.