WHAT'S IN A NAME?

What's in a name?  Apparently quite a bit.  It obviously provoked Shakespeare into giving it some serious thought, and he certainly had better things to do with his time.

I mean, think about it.  When you hear the name Harry what pops into your mind first?  I know, I know, Clint Eastwood certainly sexed up the image with his 'Dirty Harry' movies and Prince Harry is obviously no slouch; but, really; what is your initial visual response?

Odds are you probably picture if not an old, laid-back, pot-bellied guy with suspenders and a half- chewed cigar; at least a guy with glasses and perhaps less hair than more.  You might picture a bookworm or a friendly, old Uncle; a senior citizen or a nerd.

So, if you have the name Harry, then it is incumbent upon you to either conform to that image or to redefine that presumptive collective portrait like hunky Clint did in the 70's and 80's and Prince Harry is doing because, well, he can do whatever the heck he wants to.  Obviously, the latter is a hell of a lot more daunting simply because you are working against the tide of popular visualization.

According to my birth certificate it states that my name is Susan Tucker Creamer.  This was the obvious and conscious intention of my mother and father.   Then how is it that rarely have I ever been referred to by my given name of Susan?

It is as much my name, as Moon Unit Zappa's is her name.  It is as much my name as Madonna's name is her name or Cher's name is hers.  And even if those close to Moon call her Moonie or,  if Sonny called Cher, Cherzie; or, as I have heard is the case, those close to Madonna call her Madge, we still know these women as Moon Unit, Madonna and Cher.  No one being introduced to them for the first time would dare to be so presumptuous as to refer to them by any name other than the one first given unless otherwise invited by them to do so.

So, please explain to me why for my entire life, I have been called Suzi?  


Oh, it wasn't always spelled that way.  It started out Susie, but that spelling was no longer hip by the time I reached 5th grade in 1965, and so I replaced three letters with two others and Suzy was born.  Still, I would have preferred being Susan.  

 Yet I don't recall ever being afforded the option, and since as I was growing up, the only time I was referred to as Susan, was when I was in trouble, you would think that I would have developed a natural aversion to the use of my formal name based on the negative association; but quite the contrary.  I embraced it even more.   I suppose that, as a direct result of my inherent rebelliousness, it was  logical to make the connotative leap and equate Susan with autonomy, freedom, power, and adventure!  

My mother claims she named me Susan for a couple of reasons: One, because she felt it had class.  She said it brought to mind Grace Kelley.

The second reason was because it was a second choice.  I was supposed to have been named after my father's late mother, Sara.  However, my grandfather had remarried by the time I was born and my parents didn't want to engender resentment from my step-grandmother.  It was a legitimate assumption, although unnecessary as the poor woman died before I could even walk.

So, Susan/Susie  it was.  But it got worse.

In 1967, when I was in 7th grade Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention came out with an album and an iconic fictional character and vocalist who went by the name, Suzy Creamcheese.

 I was Suzy Creamer.  Can you see what I was up against?  I didn't stand a chance.

But to the delight of nearly everyone of that generation who was even remotely savvy, I was and will forever remain Suzy Creamcheese.  There was no way after that point that I could realistically entertain any hope of reinstating my given name to it's rightful place, so I took the only option left open to me, which was to replace yet another letter, thereby giving birth to Suzi.  

It is not my name, nor my preference; but, as I mentioned earlier, I've been swimming against the current of collective perception and; subsequently, swallowing massive amounts of subjective preconceptions and opinions from the tides of popular culture about who and what I must be for over half a century. At this point I'm drowning in misguided imagery and misunderstood characterizations.

I don't hate, Suzi.  She's got her good points; but, overall, she is seen as being a little light in the lantern.  Not that I consider myself to be some sort of rocket scientist, but even Frank Zappa painted Suzy as being a tad in denial about her darker, more cerebral side.  


I can be silly, lighthearted and whimsical; but I can also sit for an eternity lost in thought as I grapple all logic while trying to understand the underpinnings of absolutely everything.  I don't think Suzi has that same mental fortitude.  Or at least no one thinks she does based on her name alone.

But I could not be Susan for yet another reason.  Aside from the insistent preference of both friends and family to retain the cuter, more frivolous-sounding appellation; I had another reason entirely my own.   For some reason completely unfathomable by me, whenever I introduce myself to anyone as Susan,  almost invariably by the time we part they are bidding adieu to Sue!  

Now, I apologize upfront if this offends any legitimate-and-loving-it Sue's out there, but of all the names in the world, that is one that least resonates with who I am. I have no problem addressing anyone else by that name, but the minute those two vowels and one lone consonant are uttered and assigned to me, it is like fingernails down a chalkboard. 


 No.  It's worse.  It is like a verbal evisceration of my entire consciousness.  It is a bad, bad mistake.

I did make an heroic attempt to vanquish both Susan and Suzi to the outer reaches of bitter memories once I graduated from high school.  I viewed going away to college as an opportunity to reinvent myself; and since I was an art and English major and those departments are practically required to service bohemians and renegades,  I decided to simply go by my middle name, Tucker.

It is a perfectly androgynous name full of character and quirkiness; and it would have remained in use to this day had I not married a very traditional sort of man who, upon meeting me said, "What the hell kind of a name is that for a girl?  Don't you have a normal one?"

So long, Tucker.


But I suppose it could be worse.  My nephews and niece are French and when my nephew was very small he couldn't pronounce Suzi and, instead, pronounced it Zu-Zu.  I understand that the familiar word for Aunt in French is Ta-Ta.  

That's right.  I am Ta-ta Zu-Zu; and, yes, there are some juicy visual implications there.

I don't think even Suzy Creamcheese could live that one down.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

Every once in a while life hands you a rose.  It seemingly comes out of nowhere and is almost always completely unanticipated, however, you find yourself unable to ignore the other-worldly fragrance or to equate the gesture to anything other than as being a gift from the Heavens.

That happened to me recently in the form of a lovely and supportive email from an old friend whom I've long loved and admired even when he wasn't able to love or admire himself.  Of course, that was back in the days when we were of an age endemic to feelings of insecurity and prone to risk-taking and self-destructive behaviors; but the curious thing was that even back then I could see the light behind the haze of confusion and knew this guy possessed qualities fairly unique to all of us awkward creatures of earth and that one day he'd realize these things himself.  Once that happened, the world would be in for a treat.

I think it is happening now; the awakening to a renewed and deeper sense of value, purpose and grace. The fact that we've re- connected at this moment in time is no accident because we are both on the precipice of new phases that will bring us each into a long-awaited fulfillment in terms of recognizing and mobilizing the more enlightened options within our respective life plans.

This is an example of the 'collision of souls' that I referred to in an earlier blog.  Those rare and extraordinary bonds that exist before all memory and serve as a lifeline in the dense bog of our mortal incarnation.  They are a reminder that we are not in this alone; and, indeed, that we truly require the love and encouragement of others to succeed at our divinely-appointed sojourns here, especially from those who understand us.

I am sure there is a reason that these precious and sacred convergences are so uncommon.  Being prone to uneven tempers, imperfect actions and a general lack of appreciation, the only way we seem able to truly cherish such exceptional blessings as they surface in our pedestrian lives is by knowing that they are far from ordinary and may never come again.  It forces us to hold onto whatever light they bring to us and make the effort ever after to incorporate that incandescent beam of blessed consonance into everything that we do and not to squander the wisdom or misuse the supernatural boost it gave our soul.

Doing right by others is a mammoth responsibility.

That fact has been very recently brought home as the result of another different but fascinating and revelatory exchange of emails between myself and a former neighbor of mine a hundred years ago when I was about thirteen and had just moved to Kansas City from New York with my family.

 Reading his entertaining, well-written accounts and verbal re-enactments of the people, times and events that are now over forty years behind us has provided me with a much-needed sense of continuity as well as with the undeniable reminder that everything counts!  What we say and do in this moment and space in time has lasting implications and will eventually provide the material that becomes who and what we are as we exit this earth-bound arena at whatever point that happens.

I've also realized that often we are not in control of people's perceptions or of their subjective experiences of us, which can be unsettling; particularly if we are perceived negatively or judged falsely.

But the reality of that can also be oddly comforting because it encourages us not to get overly upset or distracted by those occasionally unpleasant corporeal interfaces, since there is little we can do to change them.  When the threat of despair looms I do as my sister does when faced with such odds:  She raises her hands up to the sides of her head and brings them gracefully down in a motion similar to what you might do to gently wave away smoke and she softly chants, " LET IT GO."


I have been fording my way through some profoundly deep currents of thought lately; brought about as they have been by these felicitous communications, as well as by those abjectly painful ones; and I can only expect that at some point I will understand more clearly why this is so.

 Although, today it is gloriously sunny and unusually warm, and I would like nothing more than to step out into the middle of it and disappear.  However, I did that last week and am now forced to forgo any thoughts of frolicking in the sunshine because I have work to do.  There is art to be created, paintings to paint and jewelry to be designed and assembled all in preparation for my once-monthly, three day commitment as a vendor in a magical place downtown called Good JuJu.

The website has been up and operational for a few weeks, but no sales yet.  My Web god, Johnny, says that it takes time and that I need to promote the site now.  I'll get to that as soon as I make the capital to do so, although I did replace some pieces I did not like with others made recently that I do.  I freshened it up a bit.  Whoever coined the words, "It takes money to make money." was evidently not kidding!  I am making some sales outside of the site at least, so I'll get there eventually.

And as I think I've also alluded to before, I'm discovering that I'm far more emotionally vested in the writing of this blog then the business of the website.  I suppose that comes from the awareness that well-crafted words have a far more powerful and providential capacity to uplift, enlighten, engage, encourage and entertain than does either a well-crafted painting, drawing or frivolous piece of jewelry.  Still, the world would be a loathsome and unbearable place without the visual transcendency of art and ornament.  Of course, I include music in the mix, however, I have no special claim over that domain other than the paltry ability to play Oh Susannah on the harmonica, so I tend no to dwell on it beyond my limited capacity as a devoted listener.

Now it is time to get back to work.  The doors and windows are open, the birds are singing, and the rose bush outside my door is just now coming into leaf.  How lucky, then, am I to already be filled with it's perfumed expression.  "What's in a name?  That which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet."   Thanks, Mr. Shakespeare.  I think I'll call it,  "miraculous."

If Thinking Makes It So, Where Is My Poolboy?

John Wheeler, one of Albert Einstein's colleagues and the guy who invented the term, black hole, said that, "No phenomena is a real phenomena until it is observed."  Even Albert himself made the statement,  "The difference between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."

What mystics have known for centuries, science is now just beginning to entertain and that is the fact that nothing outside of consciousness exists; that not one single particle of matter with any real properties exists until it is observed.

This truly gives some weighty importance to the saying, "Thinking makes it so."

So, if consciousness holds all the cards and can create either a Royal Flush or a Dead Man's Hand, I am wondering what the hell is wrong with mine that it has had me losing at Old Maid for half a century?  Go fish!

I wake up everyday to conditions that are less than ideal in terms of my personal happiness.  Does this mean that it is all in my head?  Are they trying to tell me that all the years of suffering, insecurity, aloneness, ineptitude, self-loathing, doubt and verifiable incompetency that I have lived through were a figment of my imagination?  What the hell!

I suppose I could approach this from one of two angles:  The one approach would be from the vantage point of the annoyingly tenacious optimist in me, who would interpret this as great news.  This would mean that all the menacing, disappointing, disillusioning and disturbing elements and incidents in my life, past and present, are not real and that I shouldn't have to worry about the future because it I simply refuse to observe negativity, it will never come into existence.

This would also mean that I am really still twenty-five and that I am intelligent, beautiful, holy, humorous, philosophical, perfectly healthy, incredibly gifted in all manner of thought and deed, and basically damn near perfect.

And I suppose it then stands to reason that the stains in my carpet are not really there, nor is any of the dust or grime or dirty laundry.  Not unless I say so, anyway.

Of course, the realist in me would point out that if, indeed, nothing exists outside of my consciousness and since I've spend over five decades bumbling around subjecting myself to accidents, injuries, heartache, imperfections and unfulfilled dreams; something within my consciousness must be deeply flawed.

And if this is true for me, then what about all the other people in the world?  They don't seem to be doing a heck of a lot better than I am.  Why do they still lose their jobs, break their legs and get fat?  Why isn't everyone who auditions for American Idol a winner?  How come some people have ugly dogs?  Or ugly kids?

And since money is such a determining factor in whether a person can eat, have a home, get healthcare, clothes and material pleasures, why don't we all simply stop observing currency?   Would it all, then, go away leaving us with only those things we want to observe?

Obviously, I'm being facetious here.  The reality of and implications behind this truth are mind-boggling, and if I had the capacity to fully understand and initiate action on the theory in a physical and pragmatic sense, I would be sharing it on Youtube in all my glowing incandescence instead of blogging away with such strife-funded dedication.

As it is, I'm writing about that primarily as a way to distract myself from the escalating "dis-eases" as they  circumnavigate my life like karmic vultures constantly reminding me that my own choices and actions have converted me into this choice hunk of prey for the gods of recompense and retribution.

I guess I've been observing a lot of the wrong things.

However, I did survive a dinner out the other night in spite of the intestinal discomfort working against me due to my inherently shy nature and my distain of and impatience with 'happy talk'.  With the exception of the couple hosting the evening, the restaurant held a table of 'unknowns', which immediately clued me into my lack of power over the universe and observable intentions.

 Fortunately, I sat across from an engaging couple; he was a judge whose forte is adjuicating disability claims and she was an attorney specializing in family law.  They met on an internet dating site and seemed so perfectly suited to one another and so in love that I had to intentionally stifle my covetous reaction.

My other half spent all but about fifteen minutes over in the bar area of the restaurant where he had a clear view of whatever basketball game was life or death that night, as opposed to all the other nights.  He's usually the guy who is there but not actually.

 I frequently find I have to explain him to strangers before they arrive at an even less flattering conclusion about him on their own.  Probably not at all unlike the preface you might give to others before you show up at some affair or event with a relative you're hosting on a weekend pass from an  asylum.  He's not overtly hostile or dangerous and certainly has no pre-conceived intention of being rude, but his inherent myopia combined with an inability to cope with not having his way can sometimes pose major challenges in social situations with all but the most understanding and forgiving of people.

We all have our priorities.  Unfortunately, ours tend to be antipodal, but after twenty-seven years we've learned to operate outside the laws of natural physics just to keep the peace and retain a certain measure of cohesive functioning.

Relative to the whole business of consciousness and our decision those long years ago to inhabit the world as a unit, it does sometimes make me wonder, "What were we thinking?"   For my part, I justify the decision by clinging to the theory that opposites attract.

Consciousness aside, life is what you make it, and I suppose that if our collective consciousness' as a species were all that spectacular, we wouldn't be on this earth right now forced to discover our true divinity and holiness under such raw and volatile cosmic standards.

Relativity and intention in our flawed state of being have only so much power.  In theory almost everything sounds good, but since we are here and subject to the laws of our imperfection, I guess we'd better stop whining and get on with the task of bettering ourselves.

It reminds me of an incident I read about in the newspaper when we lived in Scottsdale, Arizona.  The city had recently installed several of those roadside cameras that photographed speeding offenders.  A guy received a speeding ticket in the mail along with a photograph of his vehicle in motion.  In response, he sent the police a photograph of cash money in the amount of his fine.  They, in turn, sent him a photograph of a jail cell downtown.

Enough said.

SPORTING FOR FUN AND SURVIVAL

I could be wrong, but I think I'm starting a campaign to exercise myself into oblivion.  The really odd thing about this relatively new development is that it is so antithetical to how I would normally characterize myself.

I am absolutely the cerebral type.  My chief residence has always been in my head with occasional get-away visits to my heart on weekends, holidays and when I'm running away from consequence.  The heart is a great place to retreat to when the oppression of trying to do everything right becomes overbearing.  It's a great place to find solace, as well, once you've realized you've done most of them wrong.

But lately I've been logging increasingly more hours on that damned elliptical in distracted and exhausting animation; galloping away like an old mare that has been stabled too long but still has enough wind left to course that open landscape one more time.

Or so she believes.

Lord, I sound like I'm dying.  My mother was alarmed at the title of my very first blog post for the same reason.  She said, "What do you mean A First Glimpse of the Final Inning?  It sounds so, well, final.  Is everything alright?"

Of course, everything isn't "alright," which is the reason I write at all.  If I had succeeded in finding perfect happiness, I would be out there enjoying it!

As it is now, I am able to function only after having established a sort of psycho/spiritual detente by employing my penchant for writing and my compulsion for being perpetually occupied and engaged.  Whatever sodden regrets and garden-variety failures I harbor now graciously give me time off for psychotic behavior as long as I keep telling their stories, and, unfortunately, I've got plenty of them.

However, if my workout sessions become anymore compulsive and lengthy, I might have to renegotiate the terms to include physical rehabilitation as well as heavy doses of mood-altering pharmaceuticals.

I don't know how it happens exactly.  I begin my routine with the same peevish reluctance and determination to do just the bare minimum ostensibly to avoid becoming overly bored; but after about fifteen minutes, I find I'm no longer in charge.

Once those sweat glands commence production and the adrenaline and dopamine levels have lifted the veil of my resistance,  I retreat to my mind and become like a battle-ready femme-fatal consort to the Titans or the true descendant of Cynisca of Sparta, who was the first woman champion of the Olympics and, ironically, the first woman to breed horses.

I wonder if she dealt with a lot of old, gray mares?

By the time I have either returned to planet earth or have physically exhausted myself to the extent that pain is registering between my beleaguered left knee and my consciousness, I'll have been at it for nearly two hours with my hair and clothing being almost as wet as if I'd just swam the Channel.

This may not seem like a big deal to any of those fit and stalwart souls who regularly pound out hours in marathon runs over hill and dale;  but I don't come even remotely close to either that level of physical perfection nor the mind-boggling endurance capacity it takes to accomplish such feats.

The closest to 'athletic' that I have ever been was managed in my youth when I spent my all of my summers swimming competitively on the team at Winged Foot Golf Club.  And that came only out of a need to impress my father who had been a swimmer and diver in his own youth; racking up medals at The Larchmont Shore Club, Deerfield Academy and Dartmouth College.  Not only was he a gifted athlete but a privileged, highly-educated intellect as well, which, upon meeting him is immediately evident to this very day.

Looking back, I'm not sure what I hoped to gain by my soggy efforts.  I was a great swimmer, however, educationally my name and the word remedial were synonymous.

So, even though I did manage to intimidate myself enough to become one of the top two female swimmers in my age group every summer, the whole mis-fitted endeavor also induced an horrific intestinal backlash producing gut-twisting stomach aches before each competition; a condition that continued to manifest throughout my entire life whenever a situation arose where I was expected to "best" someone else.

To find myself at midlife squarely centered in this bohemian den of self-imposed exile should come as no surprise.

But right now I have to reload the big guns of fraternization and prepare to meet eight people for dinner, only two of whom I know, and I can feel the familiar intestinal tensing mount in apprehension of the event.

From my perspective, as a life-long casualty of bewildering filial defections, the idea of opening myself up to a whole new gaggle of potential assailants is terrifying, but I am doing my damnedest to put aside my anxiety and defensive posture and let in what or whomever is curious or desperate enough to think of my company as a worthwhile adventure.

When it comes right down to it, everything in life is a bit of a sport,  although the only really worthwhile competition is with oneself.  I just have to remain conditioned, do my very best and remember to be gracious with myself when I lose and not boastful when I come out on top.  Oh brother.

Swimmers, take your mark!