Exuscitatio (ex-us-ci-ta’-ti-o): Stirring others by one’s own vehement feeling (sometimes by means of a rhetorical question, and often for the sake of exciting anger).
How many of you have had your life fall apart because of something you accidentally did? Where you were blamed by cruel and unforgiving sticklers of being fully responsible for something totally out of your control? Where they took pleasure in seeing you suffer for being an innocent bystander, or the unwitting victim of somebody else’s wrongdoing?
All my life I have been a catastrophe magnet. I was on vacation with my wife in Russia when Chernobyl happened. We were on a tour of the facility when sirens started going off and we were herded into a bunker. I am American so I was immediately suspected of sabotage. My wife is Belarusian so they left her alone. I was interrogated for weeks, until President Reagan called Russian President Gorbachev and told him to “tear down that reactor and let my people go.” The phone call worked and my wife and I took a bus to Berlin, and a train to Amsterdam, and then a plane back to New York, where we were greeted by ex-patriot Russian criminals who took us to Cony Island for a celebration. They designated me a “Hero of the People” and pinned a medal onto my t-shirt. My t-shirt was emblazoned with a self-portrait of Van Gogh with a bandage over his severed ear. I had purchased it at the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam when we were passing through on our way beck to the US.
We were getting up to leave and go back to New Jersey when a huge fight broke out between two rival gangs—the “Borscht Brothers” and the “Blini Boys.” They had been involved in a turf war for hundreds of years—no matter where they were located they battled over territory. In Russia, it went back hundreds of years to salt mines, now located in Ukraine. Currently, the warring was over a “used” car lot on the Brooklyn/Queens border that had been wrested from the Mafia five years ago. Originally, they fought as brothers against the Mafia, and later, were brothers, until the growing sophistication of anti-theft devices and car alarms put a big dent in their inventory and the two groups divided to fight it out over the dwindling stock of stolen cars.
Imprudently, the fight included gunfire, a viscous food fight, and matryoshkaa doll bombs hurled at each other by the two battling factions. Vodka was poured on the celebration tent and set afire. It was total chaos. My wife and I ran for it. I was a little overweight, so she ran far ahead of me and waved as she boarded a bus. The police were summoned and hundreds of people were arrested. Among them was me. A policeman asked me what the medal on my t-shirt was for. I said “I’m a hero of the people for my bravery at Chernobyl—the nuclear reactor that melted down in Russia.” The policeman said “You’re under arrest. Put your hands behind you Commie saboteur.” After three days of questioning by the NYC police and the FBI, I was not charged with anything and released. I could cite hundreds of additional examples of unjust and unfair treatment I’ve endured.
My therapist has told me I should have my eyebrows lifted. Historically, being “low browed” has been taken as a sign of criminality. My therapist has low brows too, so I am suspicious of the truthfulness of what he’s been telling me. So, as a last ditch effort, I had my Tarot Card Life Reading done by Ruby Baby CGFT (Certified Gypsy Fortune Teller) who had read my sister’s cards and advised her to “Just close your eyes and jump in.” My sister jumped into an empty swimming pool at the park and got a concussion that she claims has made her think more clearly than she has in her whole life.
Ruby Baby’s summary interpretation of my cards was: “You are unlucky. Don’t talk to anybody. Stay home. Live in the basement.” Here I am: My wife does all the shopping. We eat on folding chairs by the furnace. I collect Social Security, compose techno music with Garage Band on my laptop, and peer out of one of the reflective film-covered basement windows, watching the seasons change and being grateful for Ruby Baby’s advice.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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