A Name for Yourself
Some writers’ names have becomes adjectives: Kafkaesque, marxist, Orwellian, sadistic. If your name (or nickname, or blog name) were to become an adjective, what would it mean?
Impossible to pronounce, of course, but does that really matter? If you’re invisible, nobody’s going to be talking about you, so what you represent doesn’t require a name, let alone an adjective.
Although when I think about it…
Snow’s invisible – our Snow, I mean: a distinctive person-size smell who moves from room to room following the action. His name might be a trifle unorthodox (we named him), but he still has one, doesn’t he.
He first strolled in about 50 years ago, when we were living in a rather grand old house on campus. My sisters and I (adults by then) were up in the attic concocting a surprise for my father. Perhaps he was intrigued by the unusual activity, or maybe he’d been stirred up by the renovations, but either way, he kept popping up on the stairs – following us down to the landing – heading up the stairs again. When he didn’t mosey off in the next few days, my father – ever practical – called in the university maintenance team, complete with meters, gauges and multifarious detectors, to look for trapped possums, gas leaks etc – although he didn’t smell like that, poor Snow. All to no avail, of course. Snow took himself off until they were gone, then wandered back, moving hither and yon as the mood took him.
Sadly, the house was tied to the job, so when my father retired, we said farewell to Snow and hoped the next incumbents would be kind to him. But Snow had other ideas. He came too.
Over the years, my children got used to him turning up for celebrations and special events (he’s a party animal, is Snow) but he’s often around in times of stress, as well. As if to say It’s OK, I’ll look after you.
So what am I getting at here? Nothing, probably. That’s the beauty of being invisible. You can be anything or nothing.