Suture

'So,' she said with a sway, as she surfed the Zak-line. 'I was right, can't you see, when it came to eBay? Just auction your stuff, and all will be fine. Abandon materialism; just live for the day.'

'But, don't you regret that you're selling your past?' He was drinking again; he'd forsaken his fast. He'd forsaken the regime that ensured he stayed stable. He was downing the vino and feeling less than able; to maintain his equilibrium in meetings and crits. If he were honest, he'd admit he was losing his grip.

'Losing my past, well there's certainly something to ponder. But my family history's so dysfunctional that I'm tempted to wonder. To wonder if I need to dwell on what's done. In terms of our surname, I am now the only one.  My father is gone, and so is my brother. My mother remarried; swapped our last name for another. So I'm thinking of choosing a name of my own. A name that I like; one that has a nice tone. A name that reflects what's essential to me. You can do it by deed-pole, for a nominal fee.'

'Yes, you can change it by deed-pole, I've seen the brochure.  But, listen, if you don't have a past, can you hope for a future?'

'Yes, you can if you take on the notion of suture. A psychoanalytical term, but it seems to make sense, whether you're inhabiting the past, present or future tense. Suture's about failing to notice the 'seams' that stitch together one's belief in certain realities and dreams. I guess you could call it a suspension of disbelief. Now, if you steal someone's name, are you considered a thief?'

He was no longer listening; was uncorking some wine. As for her, she had just stepped off the Jibline. And, quick as a flash, she jumped onto the Chill. As with suture, maintaining one's balance on a slack-line was a matter of will. For a second she wobbled, and looked ready to fall, but she lifted her arms and suddenly stood tall. The tension was perfect; the line was quite still. Like eBay, this slacking was proving a thrill.