June 8, 2001

scatopy

It's a word I made up by myself. Don't bother looking it up. It has no origin in logic; I wanted a word that meant 'overview' without any of the responsibility of thoroughness. My defective brain came up with two words, 'catalog' and 'survey,' tossed in the word 'prologue,' and came up with 'scatopy.' I'd claim it was Latin, if it weren't for the fact that the Flamingo knows better, so I'll pretend it has Greek origins and move on from there.

I've lost the knack of writing. The inclination, too, but that's secondary; I used to be able to vomit words on a page and have them read back as something approximating my speaking voice. They still do that, more or less, but either my speaking voice has gotten awfully stilted, or I've pretty much lost any remnant of the sense of humor that used to be. Or, maybe, I'm reading back over my stuff and realizing that I never wrote very well to begin with. Screw it.

It's been long enough since I maintained this journal that there're more things to talk about than there's energy in me to write. To sum up the last few months in one simple summation:

Tara got married. Changed her name. Bought her a boat. Bought sister a kayak. Climbed a wall. Fell in love. Quirk died. Was a bridesmaid. Bought clothes. Norwegian moved. Started Aikido. Work out daily. Run a mile. Missed Bay to Breakers. Lost mind. Was acting manager at work. Found mind again. Got tax refund. Paid off credit cards. Rode a motorbike. Going to Ashland. Bought TV and DVD player. Traded turtles. Bought Palm Pilot. Practiced rollerblading. Bought bike. Got contacts. Need new shoes. Tripped a lot. Gained weight. Made friends. Kayaked. Didn't fall in. Quit school. Watched movies. Spent money. Bought checks.

And now, if I find myself in need of material to write up, I can just refer back to that list of the last four months and pick out choice morsels to scribble about. Half the year is gone already, and four entries have made their way to the page; I find it highly doubtful that I'll be any more successful about 'catching up' in this year than I was in any previous year. I suppose it doesn't hurt to be optimistic.

There are new characters in my life, a couple of them just barely believable, and one of them utterly unlikely. I won't bother introducing them, exactly; they'll just creep into conversation from time to time, and I can leave it up to the imagination of the reader to create real names and faces for them. Imaginary people are rarely the equal of real people, but there's something to be said for exercising the mind. Nobody is quite the way that they are.

That's enough scatopy for now. We'll move on. I'm bored with it...

The Guy, -- notice how sneakily I introduce a new character? -- came yesterday with a new Pocket PC that he had gotten from work, complete with free e-books of some of my favorite classics. The Innocence of Father Brown, for one; I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed reading G.K. Chesterton, a staunch Catholic in all his ways, not utterly bereft of a sense of humor. In addition, however, he also had installed a copy of Kai Lung's Golden Hours, an old classic that I once read because its quotes were being constantly tossed back and forth between Peter Wimsey and Helen Vine. I formed an intention of getting a copy of the book, back in those days, and never did. Now, it seems, I can't get one. Amazon has failed me; a complete set of the Kai Lung volumes is no longer in existence, at least that I can purchase. This is what comes of postponing until tomorrow what one can delegate today.

We went to Indian buffet today for lunch. I'm constitutionally incapable of going through a meal at this restaurant without spilling something on my white, (always white!) shirt. Turmeric has a vengeful temperament.

Back a bit, to the hasty overview of the last four months. Somewhere in there, I mentioned that Quirk had died. He did, back in .... I don't remember when, exactly. It must have been February, or thereabouts; he was old already, and so it was hardly a surprise. At the time, the journal was winding to a hiatus state, so I didn't bother to put it in.

My new apartment ostensibly didn't allow pets -- turtles don't count as pets, precisely; they're more like bric-a-brac -- so I had to farm out Quirk to some kind-hearted person who was able to supply a temporary haven for displaced dwarf hamsters.

I found the perfect location and hostess in Vak, the slightly hyperactive tech writer I'm friends with over in Operations. I told the gathered tech writers that it was the perfect metaphor in terms of gifts, for all the world as though I'd planned the entire thing.

"The hamster has a little wheel in there, you see. You can run and run and run on that thing and never get anywhere."

Several days later, still enamoured of the bright-eyed little brown thing that had landed in their midst, a few of the writers came drifting by to tell me that Quirk never used his wheel. "All he does is sleep and eat," they informed me, worried. "Is he okay?"

"He's just lazy." He was. In terms of intellectually stimulating pets, he was probably down by paramecium and chia pets.

This didn't stop the tech writing team from lavishing love on his unworthy little head. Each of them renamed him to suit their own preferences. During the course of a day, he would be identified as 'Munchie,' 'Squish,' 'Fang,' or 'Brown Thing.' All of them showered him with seeds and toys; he graciously accepted them all, hid the seeds, chewed ruminatively on the toys, and rewarded his worshippers with sniffles and blank stares. A dwarf hamster is not really the most fulfilling animal in the world when it comes to reciprocal affection; I'm in a position to know, having been on the receiving end of several thousand puzzled dwarf hamster stares. A dwarf hamster grows to recognize certain things: the hand reaching down means danger, and a tub of seeds hovering overhead means food.

On the other hand, the owner of the hand and the owner of the seeds meets with a total lack of recognition. After three years, this gets to be a little irritating. Not that one really expects a whole lot from a dwarf hamster anyway, but for pity's sake. Is it too much to ask that after three years of constant care and attention, a dwarf hamster should be able to recognize me?

I'm not bitter. I'm not. (Stupid cat toy.)

When Quirk finally died, a month or two later, Vak came by to fetch me. "I didn't know what to do with his body," she sniffled, and trailed me back to her cube.

"I'll take care of it." It was, after all, my responsibility, ultimately.

"Are you going to bury him? Maybe outside under the roses?"

Um....yeah.

While nobody was looking, I emptied his cage into the garbage can, and cleaned the pan thoroughly. The new Program Coordinator came trickling out of the office just in time to catch the tail end of this performance.

"Aww, poor Nibbles," she sympathized. "Did you bury him?"

"Um...."

I glanced guiltily at the garbage can. She followed my gaze.

"You buried him in the garbage can?"

"I didn't have a shovel."

She squeaked wordlessly for a minute, then accused: "You heartless bitch."

That's me, yo. The Teflon Tyrant.

I offered to buy the tech writing team a replacement pet, perhaps something in the snake department. I personally want a gekko, just for the hell of it. Of course, I buried my last pet in the garbage can, which is -- I'm told -- symptomatic of an emotional eunuch.

"Can we feed people to it?" they wanted to know. "Could you get us an anaconda?"