Metabasis (me-ta’-ba-sis): A transitional statement in which one explains what has been and what will be said.
The words have been spoken. Now, I will speak more words, and then, even more words. Words. Words, Words. It’s a stampede. A riot. A whole lotta’ words. They have meanings. They affect people similarly and differently. They are words—almost worlds—if only words had that “L”, meanings would be more rounded, more global, but not more circular. Now that I’ve made no sense, let’s try to find out why.
I was raised by wolves. My father was a butcher and my mother sold used cars. My father quoted Plato all the time, the passage in Gorgias about cutting meat at the joints—a metaphor for dividing and organizing a speech “naturally.” My mother used to say “Stand in front of the rust.” She was so cool—ready to deceive, and cheat, to make a sale—to bring home the bacon for me and Dad, who would literally bring home the bacon from “Mighty Meaty,” his marginally successful butcher shop.
When I turned 16, my parents told be they could finally afford to buy me a toy for no more than $25.00. All those years I had spent without store-bought toys did not prepare me for my parents’ offer. I had just finished fashioning a horn to make a mooing sound. There was a dairy nearby and I was going to go there and moo at the cows. This was a very specialized toy that reflected my unique interests. Like a word, my moo horn had meaning—meaning that couldn’t be found in a dictionary.
What could I get for $25.00 that would appeal to me? Gambling. It had always fascinated me. My investment was a fake mustache I could wear at the “Shooting Moon” casino to conceal my age. I didn’t know that much about gambling games like dice, so, I went for the slot madness. I cashed my $25.00 in bills for 25 silver dollars. I had seen a slot machine with a $25,000 jackpot. All you needed to do was put a silver dollar in a slot and pull a giant handle. After my first pull it came up all zeroes, and a recorded voice said “Pull my handle again.” I did, and got the same result until finally, I pushed in my last silver dollar and pulled the giant handle. A recorded voice said “Holy Shit” and started singing “You’re in the money!” A huge pile of silver dollars was growing at my feet, pouring out of the front of the machine. An attractive woman asked me if I “needed help with the money.” I had read “The National Enquirer” enough to see right through that scam. Then I realized it was my mother. I said, “Sure Ma. How did you know I was here.” She told me she didn’t know, she comes to “Shooting Moon” nearly every afternoon, before she starts cooking dinner for the family.
By then, they had set up a security barrier. The floor was covered with silver dollars. A man in a sort of uniform came up to me and handed me a check for $25,000. “Good luck.” he said. Just then, my fake mustache fell off. I picked up off the floor, stuck it back on, and said calmly, “Incognito.” I shook his hand and walked out of “Shooting Moon” with enough money to maybe buy a car from my mom, or 50lbs of pork chops from my dad. But more than anything, I wanted to invest in the stock market. I did. I am a billionaire. Yesterday, I ate lunch with Elon Musk.
Now, we get back to words. It was a long haul. Without words we’d be living in pods and squeaking at each other, we’d be doing some kind of hula dance at our front doors to decide which way to go, we’d howl to achieve consensus, we’d honk on the way south and north so we could stick together, we’d rub our legs together on warm summer nights. But no, we have words! Sometimes I think I’d rather honk, or maybe purr.
There you have it. We’ve been there. Then we we’re here. Next we’re headed there.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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