It started with a beetle.
(photo from here)
The kids yelled at me to come look in the bathroom sink.
This beetle had come out of the drain. My son repeatedly flushed him down with a swirl of tap water. And the beetle repeatedly made his way back out. His escapes from the sewer became progressively faster. Clearly, this was not an ordinary bug we were dealing with. He thrived on adversity.
Tough bugs always put me in a Kafka, a la “The Metamorphosis” frame of mind. Any bug that can figure out what a human is doing, strip through the layers of absurdity, clearly that bug was human at some point.
(Suffice it to say, I dispatched with the bug, indulging in my inner 10 year old boy, dousing it with hand soap, shaving cream, and air freshener. I don’t think it came back. Of course, if it did, I’ll only find out late one night when it’s too late.)
I’m re-telling the story later, and I describe the bug, the whole situation, as “Kafkaesque”. And then (as it usually does) my train of thought jumps the tracks. Can you imagine writing a piece, or in a style, that is so unique, so influential, that an entirely new word is made up, in order to attribute it to you?
I let my mind go to the conceited place, and wondered what my mark on the worldof literature could possibly be. Keeping in mind, of course, that since I’ll never be famous, it would have to be something pretty obscure.
What will be Ginnyesque?
Descriptions of breakfast food in semi-pornographic shapes?
And hey, while we’re at it, what’s your mark going to be?