Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.
Have you ever seen into the future? Probably not. But, you’ve probably “seen it coming” at some point in your life, maybe just as often as “I should’ve see that one coming.” This is how we grapple with the future as as it transforms into the past. Most of us live in the illusory Now Town. We think there’s a “time” called the present. We say “There’s no time like the present” which ironically is true—there is no time like the present, unless you consider the future and the past “like” the present.
Tarot cards have helped me to jump into the future’s abyss. I have a life reading every week and every week my life reading is different. Maybe I don’t wait long enough for my life to unfold, or maybe they’re misinterpreted by Madam Kyrigizy. The last one concluded with “You will catch something big.” So I talked some friends into chartering a fishing boat—Pearl Jam—and we went out after Bluefin Tuna. I hooked my friend Freddy in the back when I went to cast from Pearl Jam’s stern. I guessed Freddy was the “something big” I was supposed to catch. We got him unhooked, bandaged him up, and kept fishing. We paid a lot to charter Pearl Jam and wanted to use all of our time, still hoping to catch a giant tuna whopper. So, I cast my line again and hooked into a guy going by on a jet ski. The line snapped and he kept on going. I felt lucky for that until we sailed into a shark feeding frenzy. The was a bloody jet ski bobbing up and down at the edge of the swirling water.
The skipper—Moochy Bar—hit full throttle to get the hell out of there. My friend Bob fell overboard when Skipper Moochy hit the throttle. We circled around and one of the mates picked up Bob with a gaff hook. He was flopping around on the deck making loud squeaking sounds It was messy, but we saved him from drowning. The idiot had refused to put on a life vest when we left the dock. Now, we had to go back to port. We couldn’t get the gaff hook out of Bob’s butt (it had stuck in his hip bone) and we had to go to the hospital to get it removed.
An ambulance was waiting at the pier. Now, Bob was screaming and yelling, so the orderly injected him with something to make him shut up. Bob passed out and didn’t make a peep all the way to the hospital. We pulled up to the emergency room and went in with Bob through the sliding doors. He was laying there passed out on the gurney with the gaff hook hanging out of his butt. The emergency room was filled with coughing geezers. The ones that weren’t coughing looked dead.
Bob was rolled into the operating room and the gaff hook was successfully removed. We all went our separate ways. I got home and turned on CNN long to see Trump say something was a hoax. Then, I started to cough, and cough. I coughed so hard I felt like my lungs were turning inside out. I had a fever. I went to the hospital emergency room again, and sat there with all the coughing geezers. They put me on a ventilator and the nurse told me I had caught COVID, in one of the biggest epidemics ever. Through the haze I remembered what Madam Kyrigizy had predicted from the Tarot cards, that I would “catch something big.”
My fate had been sealed. I was destined to “catch something big.” I got out of the hospital one month later. I had a new appreciation for life. I told Madam Kyrigizy what had happened. She said, “Time always tells.” Now, I am fascinated with ambiguity, and the use of pronouns to project almost infinite possible ways of passing through the future’s portal and almost infinite ways of getting lost. I have learned that you only know where you are after you’ve been there.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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