...to be your self you must name your self...

Who am I?  What am I doing here?  What is the point of it all?  “How did I get here?” a talking head might ask you.  

You will be called many things in this life, but most often you will be called your name.  I spent a good portion of my life being called something my parents decided at the last second in an argument after my mother just bled me out while my father, football distracted, was making some corpo-food product copy for his bingo buddies.  When it was all said and done I think they wanted to call me Hazel but failed to tell that to the birth certificate. 

“What is your name?”

Simple.  Routine.  Pleasant.  Repeatable.  Valued information to be sure.  But for the past 25 years this event has been anything but for me.  

My name is CansaFis.  CansaFis Foote if you want to go extra long.  When you say this out loud however, most folks greet you not with the typical smile and handshake, but rather an eyebrow raise, head tilt and…

“Huh?”, “What?”, “Enh?” or “Gesundheit!”

And the dreaded but inevitable…

“What is your real name?”

We live in a chaotic and conspiratorial world, internet bred to be distrustful of that which we are presented with.  Is google a search engine or an ads company tracking my every action?  Is amazon an online goods service or an ads company tracking my every action?  Is facebook Meta an online community or an ads company tracking my every action?  What is yahoo?  Anyhow I digress…

My real name is CansaFis.  I gave myself this name when I was 16 years old.  Actually that is not completely true.  I am pretty sure the godz, or some god, and/or trauma induced psychosis, brought me this moniker.  To assume a full role in its creation requires some element of self possession I am unsure I fully possess.  

I’m driving a car staring at the clouds and letting the radio blast me a delightful booty mix from DJ Bumblebee (I think that was their name…but was it their real name?), when it hit me.  

An aqua crystal colored cotton candy fluffed hill of clouds spoke…

“cansafis”

Mildly, at first.  A simple declarative statement as though it were reading the return tag at a library desk.  I tilt my head to the sky, eyebrow raised inquisitive glare and think back…

“cansafis?”

The clouds repeat louder and more demonstrative this time…

“Cansafis!”

This has cleared no confusion on my end so I repeat the question…

“Cansafis?”

“CansaFis!” they shout and there I am, red light green and heading down the road with something to seriously consider.  What does this mean?  What is Cansafis?  

“CansaFis!” they shout again with an electricity I can’t ignore, the uncertainty slowly fading to a monkey-skull-scratching clumsy acceptance that indeed the cloud is right.

“CansaFis!?!” I definitively question the universe back.

“CansaFis!” it shouts

“CansaFis!” I shout

“CansaFis!” it shouts and we are in agreement.  CansaFis is a word.  

But it is more than that.  My mind gut burps, alerting me to this new esophageal truth.  I am CansaFis. It is me and I am it and thenceforth I get to be the it it is.   I do as one must in situations such as this and immediately call my pal.

“My name is CansaFis” I tell him.

His voice shrugs with the wtf who cares attitude of a moth ripped sweater tucked sweaty in the bottom of a dusty hamper.

“Ok”

And so there you have it, official!  I am CansaFis and what more could there be to it!?!  How can a man deny talking curly clouds and their airly desires?  What could a simple being do with such curious cumulous beckonings? 

I head upstairs and shout it to my brother, my sisters, my mother, my father! This is it. I found my me and this is him standing before you. I am CansaFis!   My real name is CansaFis.  My birth name, my government name, my nickname, my anonymous moniker, my maybe name, my sometimes somebody, my anytime hey-you, my do-I-know-you, and my whispered somethingesses may be all different from that.  But my REAL name is CansaFis.  The clouds win.

The microwave beeps a pepperoni hot pocket to oozing stinky life and a roomful of shrugged shoulders remind me, who you are, as defined by a name, isn’t really interesting to anyone but maybe yourself (are you still reading this?).  

But is it REAL?  

The great Crown Prince Arcadia aka Urine Man says to be yourself you must eat yourself (a strong argument for why he subsists only off of his own piss and the sun).  I say to be yourself, you must NAME yourself (and/or let a cloud do it for you).