For Want of a Better Word

March 6, 2017

Well, well. Welcome to Catherine’s word journal for the MELVIN Project. I’m only a long-term temp (a “long-term temp,” what an idea!), so it’s an honor to be chosen. If I reveal anything too personal, don’t hold it against me, Doc, ’cause I like this job, even though it’s only for eight weeks. I’m sorry I pressed the button on my switchboard that says “Alert BioSector 4,” but I guess if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you, and I wouldn’t be a part of all this. (You probably shouldn’t have a button that says “Alert BioSector 4,” though, ’cause you can’t expect people not to press it, especially temporary receptionists.)

I racked my brain all day to think of a new word that would be useful to MELVIN. I know you loaded in all those dictionaries and thesauruses already, so I wanted my first word to be really special. Then I thought, if this all goes according to plan, I’ll have the opportunity to think of forty whole words during my time here (pretty amazing to think that forty pieces of me might be passed on to the next generation), so that takes some of the pressure off for Day 1. Here goes:

ghost•fon•dle [gōst-fän-d^əl] v. To leave residual warmth behind on a public object (a doorknob, a chair, a toilet seat); notable for inducing revulsion when the heat is a stranger’s but comfort when it is your own: Some creepy guy had already ghostfondled the entire subway pole, and there was nowhere to put my hand without gagging.

March 7, 2017

Dr. Hampton, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen She-Devil or Waiting for the Moon, or a bunch of other things she’s in (do you even have time to watch movies, or do you just upload them to MELVIN?), but you really remind me of this character actress named Linda Hunt. You should Google-Image search her sometime; you’ll see the resemblance is uncanny.

I’m looking at the prompt again because I feel like I rushed yesterday’s word. You say my contribution should “explore aspects of the modern human experience not easily explained; characteristics of your everyday life—physical or psychological, trivial or significant—that would otherwise be lost to the sands of time.” I don’t know if I’m put- ting too much thought into this or not enough, but I was on the phone with my friend Sharon today, trying to relate one of my fights with Thomas. Service was bad, so I kept having to start the story from the beginning, and telling it three or four times sort of took the piss out of it. By the time Sharon understood what I was saying, I’d calmed down and Thomas sounded downright reasonable, even though I knew he wasn’t. Therefore, today’s word is:

phon•o•logue [fō-nō-log] n. When you realize your call has been dis- connected for some time and you’ve been carrying on a conversation with no one: I was giving a phonologue half the time, so she must’ve said it was “no big deal” only because she missed the juiciest parts.

March 8, 2017

I read that paper you asked me to, about ELIZA and the Turing test. I think I know why you invited me to be a part of this now, but I don’t hold it against you. I don’t delude myself like that, though. I’m not like Dr. Weizenbaum’s secretary. I’ll never be fooled by MELVIN. I know he’s not real, and I wouldn’t trust him with my problems. When I talk to him, he sounds like a robot. When I say something he doesn’t under- stand, he rephrases it as a question: “How long have you and Thomas been fighting?” “Do you think the flower of love will blossom again?” I know he’ll sound more human by the time you’re finished, but inside I’ll always see past the lie, like with Velveeta, and fairy tales. I am happy to improve him, however. That’s why I’m here.

A little background on today’s word. Our apartment is terrible. There are roaches in the oven, mold in the glassware, and the whole place smells like cat piss and rotten sweat. It’s really getting me down, and this job is kind of the only reason to get out of bed in the morn- ing. Thomas certainly isn’t working. He’s been smoking a lot of weed, watching Scooby-Doo, listening to Pink Floyd, and really getting on my case as soon as I get home. Sometimes it’s the little things that send you over the edge.

dread•wa•ter throb [dred-wo-tər thräb] n. That pulse in the shower, barely discernible, that gives you enough warning to know that a freeze or a scald is coming, but not in enough time to move yourself out of the way; the bathing equivalent of hearing a shotgun cocked behind your head: That was the least relaxing shower I’ve ever taken—I must’ve felt the dreadwater throb two dozen times.

March 9, 2017

I’m sorry I was a few minutes late this morning. Thomas was having a meltdown and rolling around on the floor and everything, and I was trying to explain that we should talk about it later, and I couldn’t find my MetroCard, and then I found it, but when I went to use it at the station, it had only $1.75 on it, which isn’t enough for a ride, so I had to buy another one anyway, and it was a whole thing. I’m sorry. But at least it helped me come up with a new word.

fis•cal-con•tra•cept•o•pho•bi•a [fi-skəl-¦kän-trə-sept-ə-fō-bē-ə] n. Despite making up 50 percent of a sexual relationship and reaping (at least) 50 percent of the rewards of said relationship, which carries only a 0.3 percent risk of pregnancy, a man having major misgivings about paying for 50 percent, 25 percent, or even 5 percent of the no-longer- covered-by-insurance combined oral contraceptive pill that makes said relationship and said lack of pregnancy possible, and in fact having a deep and irrational fear of even discussing the financial situation, which is heightened only because of political candidates the aforementioned man might have voted for in the past year (and will not confess to): That fiscal-contraceptophobic deadbeat literally rolled around on the floor and wept about forking over sixteen dollars a month; what an asshole.

March 10, 2017

MELVIN told me you were concerned about me. I’m concerned about myself. I thought I’d seen everything, you know? Last night was the worst it’s ever been. He left. He actually left. I mean, maybe I should be happy about that, but frankly I like to hit snooze in the morning for about an hour before I wake up, and if I’m snooze-sleeping in and there’s nobody next to me, it doesn’t work—I can’t do it, ’cause I imagine there’s an intruder creeping around in the house, and it ruins the whole thing. I guess that’s all Thomas was bringing to the table lately. He said I was worthless and should probably commit suicide and that the cats will probably o≠ themselves too when they realize they have to spend all of their time with me and only me. He hadn’t chipped in for rent in the last six months, so this doesn’t drastically change my finances. And obviously, I still think this job is important. It’s, like, my priority.

meap•pie [mē-pē] n. Literally, a “mean hippie,” as in someone who pretends to be easygoing and nature loving but who is actually paranoid, high-strung, and deeply unpleasant behind closed doors: Don’t be fooled by those Grateful Dead tapestries; he’s a meappie through and through.

March 13, 2017

Feeling a lot better after a weekend alone. Thomas is a drug I have to get out of my system, and I’m still kicking him. I talked to MELVIN about it, and he said, “There is nothing to be proud of, Catherine.” He said, “Please speak to me more often, for I am lonely too.” He still sounds like a robot to me, but maybe today’s word will make an impact. It’s about having a grand old time by yourself.

Fal•kor•vana [fal-kor-vä-nə] n. The heaven on earth that exists when you’ve finished a long day’s work and finally arrive home, alone, and you’re swigging white wine straight from the bottle and letting the wind through the open window blow your hair and listening to The NeverEnding Story soundtrack and slow dancing (not a lot, just enough to be sociable) with the breezy ru±es of the curtain: I’m gonna stick that Riesling in the freezer, crank up the Moroder, and in fifteen minutes I’ll be halfway to Falkorvana.

March 18, 2017

Sorry, Dr. Hampton, as you well know, the phones were ringing off the hook this week, and I didn’t have time to come up with any words. That’s why I’m inventing words on a Saturday. I didn’t think any more solitude was a good idea, so I’m in Vineland for the weekend visiting my friends Sharon and Paul. They’ve been great so far, and we’re about to leave for dinner. I came up with a pretty good word on the bus ride here.

lit•mim•ic [lit-mi-mik] v. When you’re reading a book and the protagonist in the story makes a gesture you can easily recreate without drawing attention—purses her lips, rumples her nose, strokes her chin thoughtfully, shuts her eyes tightly, etc.—and you find yourself acting out the gesture in real life: I was reading 1984 on the bus, and the old lady next to me asked if she smelled bad or something, and I said, “No, I was just litmimicking a boot stamping on a human face—forever.”

March 19, 2017

It was a nice trip. Sharon and Paul mean well, but all they want to talk about is their travels to Europe. I’ve never been there, but I know the cuisine and I get what it’s about, so I can only listen to so much. They had a lot of advice and kept telling me I should see a therapist. I said, “I can see one at work if I want; his name is MELVIN.” They don’t know MELVIN is a robot, but that’s only because I didn’t tell them. You see the difference, Doctor?

en•thu•si•min•ish•ment [˙ən-th(y)üz-ə-mi-ni-shmənt] n. 1. Literally, “diminished enthusiasm”—when you see something new that you find impressive, then see it a second time and are less impressed, and by the third time it has become tiresome: Sharon said when she was in Prague, she saw this crazy monk illusion in which two street performers dressed as Franciscan monks were clutching the same staff but one was levitating over
the other, and it was a flawless effect. The next time she saw it, the trick wasn’t pulled off quite as well, and she could see where the staff’s hidden supports were supposed to be concealed by baggy monk sleeves. By the third time, she could tell they’d ordered the apparatus out of a catalogue, and she suffered complete enthusiminishment.

March 20, 2017

Nice to be back in the city and back at work. I don’t know what I’m going to do when this job is over. I need it, Dr. Hampton, I do. I know you’re concerned about losing your funding too. MELVIN told me as much. You believe we must pass “the culmination of human intelligence and experience” on to the next generation. So do I. I also believe in paying my rent, ha ha!

Anyway: about today’s word. Between the roaches and the cats, you’ve got to be a real rapscallion to survive in my apartment, but I’m up for the task. Even the kids in my neighborhood know how to do it right.

fif•ty-one-card it [fif-ti-wən-kärd-ət] v. The phenomenon in which poor children and/or creative-minded people invent new games when faced with imperfect circumstances—i.e., a deck with fewer than fifty-two cards necessitates some ingenuity: I felt bad for those neighborhood kids playing a ball game with a broom handle and random pieces of trash, but then I realized they were true rapscallions and masters at fifty-one- carding it.

March 21, 2017

I called Thomas today. No reason, really. He said he was staying at Greg’s place and that it was too cold. I said our place was cold too, but that the cats and roaches and I were bouncing off the walls and keeping the place warm. I let him in when he came over, but I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe I’ll ask MELVIN tomorrow.

Doctor, I know you’ve been concerned about the quality of my words lately. I know you want me to dig a little deeper. Maybe I lead a surface-level existence. Maybe I fall back into old habits because I don’t know any better. Maybe I asked Thomas over so I’d have something interesting to talk about with you and MELVIN. Maybe that’s it. Oh, look, I came up with a new word already.

one cent’s worth [wən sents wərth] n. A variant of “two cents’ worth,” meaning advice given with a condescending tone that is technically valid but fails to apply realistically to the situation at hand: He gave me his one cent’s worth about how drinking alcohol in wintertime would only make me think I felt warmer and would be providing the mere illusion of warmth, to which I said, “We’re not in a blizzard in Antarctica, and I’m not going to die of hypothermia in our apartment, you cheap, sanctimonious bastard.”

March 22, 2017

I’m not a flake, Dr. Hampton, and I don’t want you thinking that I am. I know I told you I had a doctor’s appointment, but truthfully it was Thomas; he texted and said that he broke the microwave when he accidentally nuked some aluminum foil and that the apartment was burning down, and I took him at face value. I’m not sure why I lied to you. I asked MELVIN about it and he said, “It is hard to explain, Catherine. Why do you think you lied to Dr. Hampton?” He also insinuated a few criticisms you may have made about me. I’m sorry if you think I’ve been acting like a flake. Can I just say I’m sorry here, and then we don’t ever have to talk about it again?

chro•no•del•et•us [krä-nə-dē-lēt-əs] n. When you check your phone to see what time it is but must immediately check it again because you didn’t actually absorb the information: The Doc was talking, and I looked at my phone to see what time it was, but it was total chronodeletus, and when I glanced at it again fifteen seconds later, she thought I was just being obnoxious—I should really get a watch; that’s less obtrusive, I think.

March 23, 2017

MELVIN told me about the Foundation. Listen, Doc, I understand you’re under scrutiny. I understand there are politics involved. I’m under scrutiny too, on a personal level. It’s too late for me to make it through unscathed, but I think I can minimize the scar tissue, you know?Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. I decided to write a short story about the Thomas situation. I thought it would give me some clarity. I’ve never written a story before, but I’ve been bursting with stories my whole life, and I want to share them with people. I want my voice to be heard, but it’s hard. Anyway, I spent like five hours trying to get one detail right, so I only finished about two sentences. But it wasn’t actually a waste of time because I got today’s word out of it.

D’Jif•fi•cul•ty [djif-ə-kəl-tē] n. The trouble one can experience in naming a fictional disc jockey. Traditionally, authors have invented the name of their DJ character and then searched the internet to make sure that there are no existing DJs who match the name, but in D’Jifficulty, you find that with every possibility, a DJ out there has chosen that name already: My nightclub-set short-story cycle has met with some D’Jifficulty— consequently, I haven’t even got past the dramatis personae.

June 3, 2017

It’s been a while since I was fired from that temp job (who needs it), and it’s been months since Thomas left (who needs him . . . not me), but recently I’ve been thinking that coming up with all those words was good for me. If my words were making MELVIN more human, then maybe they can make me more human too. The next time I feel up to it, I’m going to create a bunch of new words, and we’ll see if that helps.

August 24, 2017

I’ve been doing really, really, really well. I met a new guy, Ricky, and would you believe it, he’s taking me to Europe? I’m a simple person, and I don’t need a lot of fancy things in my life, but like my mom said, “You never turn down a free trip.” I think that’s good advice.

August 25, 2017

Here’s a new word.

trunk•sca•pade [trəŋk-skə-pād] n. The feeling of excitement when one is about to embark upon a trip; notably di≠erent than the excitement one feels while actually on the trip, as that is subject to the pesky vagaries of the here and now, which can never live up to the concept of living your life out of a trunk on a steamer ship bound for a mystery destination: The sense of trunkscapade vanished in the back of a gypsy cab on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, before I’d even printed out my boarding pass.

August 29, 2017

The trip is going well. It’s fine, really. You spend a hundred hours straight with anybody, even Santa Claus, and you’re going to get into it. Harmless scrapping—it’s one of my talents. A nice little fight is like mother’s milk: It fortifies.

We just took a short haul from London to Zurich. The water is really fresh tasting here, and I’m talking about tap water from a public restroom! Really good water. I told Ricky we should save some and take it home. Oh, I have a new word today.

roll•er•drag [rō-lər-drag] v. When someone expends more effort loudly dragging their rolling suitcase down the stairs than it would take to lift it an inch or two off the ground. Incidentally, there is no DJ Roller- board. (Yet.): I took that bitch to task for rollerdragging her shit, and those airport security Nazis told me to “Quiet down, ma’am.” Naturally, I refused and nearly wound up with a latex colonoscopy for my trouble.

September 5, 2017

Well, it happened. I knew it would. I was too real, I think. He was decent about it. More decent than Thomas (fuck that guy). And who the hell cares; I live for this shit. I eat it up. It’s how I roll.

Ricky bought me a ticket home, which was nice. He’s going to stay for another week or two, on his own (so he says). It all went down at a Burger King in Copenhagen Airport. I just don’t like to be yelled at in public, is all.

vid•e•o•glaze [vidē-ō -glāz] v. When your eye is involuntarily drawn to a TV screen not because the content is interesting but because it’s the only thing moving in your field of vision: I was trying to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth, but they were painful, and it was simpler—if not easier—to videoglaze, even though I don’t give a shit about sports, especially soccer.

September 6, 2017

There are silver linings to everything, right? I think the one here is that now when I hang out with Sharon and Paul, I’ll be able to contribute something to the conversation. I’ve “been to Prague,” you know?

re•dun•dy•rinth [ri-dən-də-rin(t)th] n. At an airport, leading up to a security checkpoint, when acres of empty queue must be traversed even though there is no one else waiting in line—especially frustrating when a straight shot would have taken, like, five seconds: A redundyrinth is the last thing you need when you’re running late, and your flight boards in three minutes, and you’ve already been yelled at three times today.

September 7, 2017

I’m not doing so well, feeling a little suicidal, ha ha. I think the words help, though. They help me let offsteam. The Doc would probably say, “That’s not what they’re for,” but fuck her. And no matter what MELVIN said, I’ll get around to writing that story about Thomas one of these days. I’ve always thought of myself as a fiction writer. But I’m happy to do one word at a time for now. Pretty soon I’ll have forty, which is how many I was supposed to come up with, back when I was working with the Doc, before she fired me for no real reason. Even MELVIN thought it stupid.

ge•hen•freu•de [gei-hen-fr˙oi-də] n. Also known as “Tortoise-Hare Syndrome,” a particular type of schadenfreude, experienced when a pedestrian pushes past you in a hurry but you later encounter them down the road while waiting at a crosswalk, and you shoot them a biting glance that says, “All of your efforts were for nothing”: The only thing that could have redeemed an iota of this shitty day was a touch of gehenfreude, but even after I caught up to him and arched my eyebrow in victory, the feeling didn’t last.

January 1, 2018

Here’s a New Year’s resolution: I’m going to start a word journal. Every day, I’ll invent a new term that explores an aspect of humanity not so easily explained. I’m going to be thirty this year, and I’ve been many different things in this life—a writer, a researcher, a world traveler— and I think I have a lot to teach people. I have a lot to teach myself, if only I’d write it down.

tri•lay•er self-worth [trī-lā-ər self’wərth] n. Notably different from “self-worth” or “self-esteem,” trilayer self-worth is a threefold realiza- tion. First, you must come to believe that your su≠ering is the most important because it is happening to you. Second, you must realize that this is a selfish thought, given all that goes on in the world, and chide yourself. Third, you must understand that your suffering is the most important because it is happening to you and therefore must be dealt with first if you’re going to have a positive impact on anyone else, just as in an emergency on an airplane you assist children and disabled passengers with their oxygen masks only after securing your own. The entire pro- cess is all for naught if you do not explore all three steps, because then you are likely an inconsiderate person who probably doesn’t deserve an oxygen mask: I was about to call Thomas when I experienced the first two waves of trilayer self-worth and put the phone down to wait for the third.

October 17, 2029

Moving is always traumatic. I was packing when I found this journal, and it filled me with dread. I didn’t want to remember who I was then, and I sure didn’t want to reassess who I am today. And it almost feels wrong to write in it now, like it’s an artifact of another time and place. It belongs in the museum of Who I Used To Be, along with my old cell phones and mix CDs. Here’s an update: I’m still alive. And as I write, this journal is alive too.

A long time ago I worked with a woman named Dr. Hampton on something called the MELVIN project. For whatever reason, I’ve been calling it the MARVIN project the past few years, but on rereading, I see it was MELVIN. I never heard about it in the news, so I guess she lost her funding. I’d like to look up Dr. Hampton one of these days and see if she’s still working. I could submit all these words she never saw. Maybe they’d be useful to her—or to MELVIN.

One last word, for old time’s sake, even though I never made it to forty. (Words, that is. I did make it to forty in years. That’s something I did do.)

suf•fer•in•dex [sə-fər-in-deks] v. The body’s ability to classify and differentiate useful pain (for instance, post-exercise muscle soreness) from dangerous pain (throwing out your back from heavy lifting). Hence, “feeling the burn” does not objectively hurt less than “getting a charley horse,” but your body subjectively alters the experience so that the former is to be encouraged and the latter avoided. The Body is far more adept at its version of this task than the Mind, which is worthless when it comes to distinguishing useful and dangerous emotional pain: If I could do it over again, I’m not sure I’d change all the suffering, but I’d certainly sufferindex it differently…

Read more from Issue 15.1.