Fast Away the Old Year Passes

Ah, how the year's flown in! I'd meant to see things, and do things, and earn lots of money. I was going to write a book, I think, and draw something really exciting. Oh, and I was planning a picnic, and all--me, a salami, and half a loaf of pumpernickel in the park. There were supposed to be fireworks and gourmet dinners, and maybe a Chesley award. (Ha! For me? Can you imagine?)

Now, here's what really happened:

January

In January, I slept a lot, watched a lot of television, and nearly got hit by a car. When I wasn't snoozing, woozing, or staring death in the face, I was working on various indeterminate projects. It wasn't a terribly exciting month. I watched the fog rolling in off the harbour, and thought about silly things I did when I was younger. (I didn't quite dare think about the future. I didn't want to jinx it. Every time I imagine a wonderful future, something nasty happens. Take the day I moved back to Vancouver, for instance. Everything was green and sunny, and then I got food poisoning. And then it started to rain. And then, not twelve months later, I nearly starved to death! Yea, down the path of dreams lies a slippery slope!)

February

I've never liked February. Next to November, it's my least favourite month of the year. Everything's all grey and used-looking. People have given up all hope of spring. You can see them in the streets, all bunched-shouldered and stroppy. Tempers are short, and gas-station attendants are more likely to give you change for a ten when you paid with a twenty. Nothing is good about February, except my mother's birthday. And that's not so brilliant, either: I usually forget it, and get lumped with enough guilt to last me till next time.

This year, February's highlights were as follows: a spider invading my flat; an e-mail that said "FUCK YOU! --The Snake"; and my toilet springing a leak. That leak worsened and persisted, resisting all attempts at do-it-yourself plumbing, till well into the summer. By the time it got fixed, the toilet was losing more than a gallon of water per day. Back in February, though, the leakage was no more than a cupful or two every week. I was keeping it in check with a strategically-placed towel.

March

March got off to a puzzling start, when I discovered a misprint next to my entry in Spectrum #11:

Artist: Socar Myles
Title: The Revenant
Medium: Blow
Size: 8 1/4" x 13 7/8"

Blow. Go figure. A comment on the quality of my submission, perhaps? A stray sexual fantasy? The mystery was never solved--all inquiries were summarily ignored. I haven't submitted to Spectrum since, although this has been due to lack of funds, rather than any particular grudge.

The day after the Blow was discovered, Stella died. Stella was my giant rat. Although, to all outward appearances, we hated each other--Stella bit me constantly, and I, in turn, pelted her with fruit and invective--we were inseparable. I went to sleep watching Stella clambering about the bars of her cage, and she went to sleep in a pile of my torn-up clothes. Whenever I sat at the computer, with my feet dangling down unprotected, Stella came sneaking up to bite them. Those bites were really love-bites. And the bloodstains on the floor were love-stains. (Yeuch!)

Stella had cancer, though. It was hidden under layers of fat and muscle, and I didn't feel it till it was too late to save her. She died on the operating table. I drowned my sorrows in bad poetry. Silliness is the best medicine, what?

April

After Stella's death, my apartment seemed awfully noisy. There were creakings and skeekings and scrapes, and even the occasional thump. Having all these noises, and no-one to blame them on, was giving me a creepy feeling. I hadn't planned on buying any more rats, but under the circumstances, what else could I do? So Rat A and Rat B arrived, and March turned into April. Rat B turned out to be an idiot, incapable of staying out of the dustbin, walking a straight line, or cleaning the top of her own head.

April was also noteworthy in that several threatening letters arrived from the Royal Bank of Canada. They were going to take away my credit card. They were going to put black marks on my credit report. They were going to close my chequing account and forward me to their collections department. All was fear and confusion...and then I paid my bills.

May

In May, toads started exploding in Hamburg. Bystanders reported watching them puff up to three times their ordinary size, then detonate like grenades. Filthy, warty toad-grenades. A virus was blamed, at first, but it turned out to be the work of hungry packbawkies. Crows were pecking into toads for their livers, and leaving entrails all over the place. Though it was all rather messy and unpleasant, reports of toad-splosions were, by all accounts, grossly exaggerated.

Meanwhile, I was sharing the Rat's Nest with Gail. She was getting ready to marry David, and needed a place to stay while her permit to enter the States came through. I liked having her around. She was always bringing home photographs of the city. I saw the spring foliage at Stanley Park, and various seasonal festivities down the harbour. I saw local landmarks I'd never known existed. I felt like I was part of things again, although I wasn't often well enough to join in.

June

In June, I spilled a bottle of Sprite over the kitchen floor. I also painted a book-cover, and twenty-four colour spot illustrations. Furthermore, I did forty or fifty 2" x 2" greyscale spots. I did most of this at night, because the days were very hot. At the end of it all, I decided to stop doing digital art. I hated sitting in front of the computer all night. It was giving me a permanent headache.

July

I have no idea what I did in July. Somehow, I forgot to write about it. I must've been doing something else--what was it? Was that the month Frits was here? Yes, that must have been it. Frits came to Vancouver in July, for three weeks. It was brilliant. I didn't have to pay for food all month. (Ha, ha!) My health had improved somewhat, so we got together almost every day. We exchanged news (and a fair bit of gossip), and chatted about everything from painting to our weird Internet acquaintances. I even got him to admit that Katamari Damacy might be fun. (He would not, however, concede that Boston Pizza has a delicious menu. I'm on my own on that one.)

August

The best part of August was watching Rat B's antics grow ever loopier. The worst part was Gail's departure, under grave circumstances. Poor David had been diagnosed with lung cancer, which would prove fatal before the year was out. Nobody knew that then, though. Nobody had any idea what to expect. It seemed like a lot of folks started holding their breath that day, and didn't stop till just recently.

I had my own minor medical odyssey in around there, involving several visits to Saint Paul's Hospital, and an embarrassing encounter with a God-bothering nurse. Brilliant, that: lung disease, with a side of you're going to hell! (I've got another appointment next week, come to think of it, but a friend's taking me in. No God-botherer this time.)

September

In September, I was very tired. Instead of getting some sleep, however, I was out nearly every morning at the crack of dawn, camped out near the trash-heap behind my building. I'd been bitten by the birdwatching bug, see. I was looking for finches and robins, but I mostly got bums and Downtown Ambassadors mistaking me for a bum. I was asked to move along from my own back stoop! When I explained about how I was just looking for birds, I was advised to wear my "bird coat" on future expeditions. I'm still puzzling over that one.

October

My mother visited in October. It was the first time I'd seen her in seven years, but she hadn't changed a bit. I mean, she really hadn't changed. She took over my apartment right away, just like she once did with my bedroom. She rearranged all my things, and threw away all the garbage. Except, see, our definitions of "garbage" aren't quite in accordance. Me, I see garbage as coffee-grounds, empty soup-cans, all that sort of thing. Old Christmas cards, socks from 1982, shoes with holes in them, those are memories. Keepsakes, sort of thing. Mother, she's got a simpler view: is it being used for anything? No? Then it's garbage.

I rather miss my puppy-print training bra.

November

Last month, I sold more drawings than usual. I got my Visa bill down under the $6,000 mark for the first time in years, and kept it that way. Even with Christmas shopping, international postage, and ridiculous holiday-related telephone bills, I still owe less than fifty-five hundred. Bloody impressive, that. By this time next year--

December

--by this time next year, I'll have accomplished the following:

1) Got my Visa bill down to $3,000 or less;
2) Sold loads and loads of drawings;
3) Had that picnic in Stanley Park;
4) Impressed people with my new-found kindheartedness--starting now, I mean to cuss less, gossip less, and use less sarcasm. Oh, and from now on, anyone who talks to me and doesn't feel better for the experience gets their money back. (Haw, haw, haw! There goes the less-sarcasm bit, already.)

Finally, by this time next year, I'll have won me that Chesley award. Really. Just see if I haven't*.

* Oh, no! More sarcasm!