Within a Sky Full of Earth

People ask about my name. Where it comes from. I often don't tell and most of the times I keep quiet, trying to mumble some birdish sound in between my teeth. Then they ask me something else and forget it. Why should I tell anyway? Fuck them, I think, with all those stupid questions. Asking me 'who are you?' or even in the third person, all eyes trembling with a funny face, 'who the hell is Ring Joid?'
As soon as they start, when I'm sitting in front of them, they holding a pen or a sound device to record my voice, I drift away to a faraway land where I find myself driving in the middle of a field full of dry unharvested barley, the sun up high, me raving the engine of some four wheeler bike. And suddenly something else. Crows or other type of straight birds, a swimming pool, some nice girls around, a glass of lemonade. Then how can I pick up with the mind in front of me, searching for glory on some sentence I might tell?
"Hmm?", I say, completely out of mark. And then they repeat the same thing again and again and I take a full breath to keep it on focus for a while.
"Oh, my name...", I restart, sometimes I'm in a good mood, and holding my lemonade in one of my hands I say, "I got my name on this book, with this guy called Holden Caulfield, a kid, you know him, his eldest brother's favourite writer was Ring Lardner, and I don't know why, that flipped my mind."
The other part I don't know, even if they ask me with a hammer I can't tell. I think it was my parents or something. My mom Joy and my father Void. "I really can't tell", I add. Because I never knew my parents but that's what I believe. Or maybe it was the name of a train station or the brand of the tyres on my full roaring bike.
Sometimes I get some piece of paper and I write them the place where they can find something about it. Something like this. And they sort of get happy and turn off the tape and go home. That leaves me satisfied.
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