Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].
There I was standing in front of at least 200 people who had come to hear what I think. I do public performances of what I am thinking. No holds barred. Whatever I’m thinking comes out of my mouth. I signaled the start of the performance by clapping my hands twice. Here I go, “Clap, clap.”
“My tooth hurts. What’s for lunch? I need to adjust my underpants. No! Not here. I really don’t care about my shriveled parents in the nursing home. When are they going to die—oh—not today, please I need to get a haircut. You need a haircut? What about your famous ponytail? Where did that go? To hell with everything else in your life. I wet my pants in my car last week on my way to my daughter’s graduation. I couldn’t go with wet pants. Maybe that’s why I wet my pants. She’s been a pain in the ass ever since she came screaming into the house as an infant. Don’t you love your daughter? No! I’ll be glad when she goes off to the third-rate college she got into, somewhere in Montana. You are a true-blue asshole. So, these are my thoughts. Unfiltered, asocial, they can’t be judged. There’s no reflection here. Give me a break “other voice” blah, blah. I need to sit down, but there’s no chair. What’s the matter sissy boy? Can’t stand up for a half-hour? Eat me! I was scared in the war. Do I need a new car? No. Will it rain? I don’t give a shit. That woman in the third row is really fine looking. Jeez! I hope I get paid for this set by next week. My bookie is getting aggressive. Maybe I’ll have Sal take care of him. What? You’re going to hire a hit man? Maybe, but not likely. I am custodian of my fading parents’ assets, which are huge. I think I’ll go out for sushi tonight. Where do they get all that fish from? Should I go to this year’s Halloween party? Pagan craziness. No way. I think I’m having a mild heart attack. Let’s take a break.”
The audience gasped. I passed out and dreamed of a wedding. It was mine. I was marrying Alice in Wonderland’s divorced mother. She was banging me on the chest and yelling “come on!” It was like having sex with my first wife. She was rough. I had an Apple Lightning port in my chest, and she plugged me into a wall outlet. I felt a massive electric shock and I woke up, or at least I thought I woke up. I saw a tunnel, sort of like the Holland Tunnel, with a light at the end of it. I ran into the tunnel, toward the light. When I came out into the light, there was a squeegee man standing there. He sprayed me with window cleaner and started squeegeeing my hospital gown. Then, I really did wake up. There was a man in white holding a thing that looked like a squeegee and dragging it around on my chest. He looked at me and said “Sonogram.”
What? Stranger things had happened than men having babies. The man in white elaborated, “The Sonogram is of your heart. Nobody knows why you’re alive. We must study you, with your permission, of course.” So now, I’ve become a professional scientific study subject. I have a suite next to the “rat room” with all the amenities, including a hot tub. Each day a group of scientists gather around my leather-upholstered recliner and argue with each other. They’ve even gotten into shoving matches. As far as I can tell my heartbeat has gone away. Instead, my heart has become more like a leaf blower, blowing my blood through my veins and arteries. My IQ has gone through the roof and I am able to write beautiful, meaningful poetry that makes my nurses cry and fight over tucking me in at night.
So, anyway. Here I am, a certified anomaly. I’m thinking of joining a sideshow where I project the live sonogram of my leaf-blower heart, while I sing “I Left My Heart In San Fransisco,” “Heart and Soul,” “Heart Breaker” and possibly, a few others. I would perform in front of a giant screen, singing and dancing. In the dance I would be laying on the stage making pumping motions with my arms (like a normal heart). I would stop and then slowly stand making swirling leaf-blower motions with my hands, recovering from my heart attack, and finishing my act vibrantly with “Heart Breaker,” waving a handgun and leaping and strutting around the stage Mick Jagger style. I know this sounds corny, but that’s what will make it a success. Oh, I will wear a red full-body leotard with a black silhouette of a leaf blower on the chest. Too bad “Heart” is already taken as a stage name, or I’d take it. I’m thinking of “Infraction,” or maybe “Heart Attack,” or “Cardiac Arrest.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.
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