Please pause this persistent predilection pertaining to periodically passionate patterns of pretentious perceptual processing.

Sometimes thought processes get stuck, disconnected, trailing sinew and silken tissue in tragic agony, alone in the vastness, discarded, forgotten. Language has always felt to these sensibilities as a game; a tangled tale of otherwise tired terms and pithy patterns of phrase, of accents and admonitions, just another mode of expressions to become lost within, an entertainment of the mind otherwise disengaged.

Silly games of phrase aside, what is this about personas? It’s once again for the fourty fifth time come to my attention a simple question which is worth a simple answer. The question goes like this:

“Eva who? Winter… sssh own? Winter–schOEn? Winterschön? Ok. Where did she work before? .. and before that?”

or perhaps more directly,

“Eva who? I thought her name was Madeline.”

Indeed, who indeed. Many in my professional life know my middle name, Madeline… though some prefer Madeleine (like the cookies). I too enjoy those cookies, but I don’t care for my middle name much at all. Nor did I care for it during the years of my maiden name. I also didn’t like those early years when the trauma started, of the family which failed to protect me, and their surname which had to be changed.

I certainly didn’t like having to deal with those later years of having a stalker, of sexual assaults, of the red tape required by a name change, of relocation and another relocation, of new email accounts and licenses and passports and registrations and everything else. Who I was was taken from me by force, not of choice.