Exergasia (ex-er-ga’-si-a): Repetition of the same idea, changing either its words, its delivery, or the general treatment it is given. A method for amplification, variation, and explanation. As such, exergasia compares to the progymnasmata exercises (rudimentary exercises intended to prepare students of rhetoric for the creation and performance of complete practice orations).
Sometimes I wonder about things. There are so many thing to wonder about, I wonder about a new thing every time. Yesterday, I wondered why I have hands. That was easy! I think “getting a grip” is the most important reason why I have hands. I wish I knew how to use them better. My father keeps telling me “You better get a grip pretty soon or you’ll end up in the shitter with all the other losers.” He keeps pointing out how I am 32 years old and I still live at home, my mother makes my bed and does my laundry, and I play the “Grand Theft Auto” video game that I got when I was in high school. I pointed out to him that I have a lucrative job at Speedy Lube and I buy my own clothes. But, most important I showed him my grip. I put my hand on his throat and started to squeeze. He started choking. I said, “See dad! I have a grip!” He started gurgling and flopping around like a fish, so I let him go. He yelled “I should call 911! The police would throw the book at you!” He yelled as he ran out of the room and started rummaging in his desk for his letter opener to defend himself with. I said, “Don’t worry, I know we have a grip and I’ll never show it to you again.” Pointing the letter opener at me, he said “Ok son, but we’re going have to put you in your ‘play cage’ down in the basement for awhile—maybe overnight.” I was used to this and even looked forward to it because when I was in the cage Mom made my favorite pumpkin pie and slid through the feeding hole when the pie was still warm.
They let me out this morning after two days. I needed to take a shower and change my pajamas. I wanted to wear my PJ Specials: Moon Walker Mike’s Lunar Landers. They were getting a bit frayed from all the years of wear, but you could still see the “Official Lunar Lander Deputy” badge printed on the chest. Although it was rare, today I wanted to think some more about getting a grip. I realized after a night in the cage that strangling my father wasn’t the best way to show I’ve got a grip. First, I crumpled up a piece of paper into ball. Then, I squeezed the boil on my butt that had been plaguing me for a month. I took a selfie for proof. Then, I set my phone on video and aimed it at the yard from a tree. I got on my wheelie bike, gripped the handlebars, and did a wheelie across the lawn. It was like the good old days when I once did a wheelie all the way to school—two blocks!
Grip. Grip. Grip. I had it! I proved it!
Now, Dad would not doubt that I had a grip. I was elated. No denying it now, and I didn’t hurt anybody showing it. But Dad wasn’t happy. Dad said, “Son, you don’t understand what ‘getting a grip’ means. It isn’t literal, it is a figure of speech.” I had heard of figures of speech when I was younger and Dad was an English teacher at Muffet Middle School, before the “incident.” Right then and there I decided to stop wondering about “get a grip” and start wondering why Dad was fired from Muffet and now runs a 12-man, 1 woman squeegee crew by the entrance to the Holland Tunnel in New York City. I wondered, and wondered, and wondered to no avail. All I could think was “Wow. He must’ve done something really bad!” So, I asked him.
He looked at me like a cornered rat and yelled “I was framed!” “Oh, did they take your picture and hang it somewhere?” I asked. “Eventually” he said, “But it never got to the point of being hung up.” From the look on Dad’s face, I decided to let it drop and wonder about something else.
Then, I thought abut the angels. It was high time I wondered how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. I had first been asked this question when I was an Altar Boy at St. Polyps Catholic Church. Father Joe had posed the question when we were passing the bottle of sacramental wine back and forth in preparation for Sunday services. We toasted Jesus several times, and then, he me asked the question. I burped and both we laughed.
So, the time had come to to deal with the angels. I laid down on my bed, put my hands behind my head, and started to wonder.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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