Aphaeresis

Aphaeresis (aph-aer’-e-sis): The omission of a syllable or letter at the beginning of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

I am nothing. I am low. I have no self-confidence, My pants are too tight, my feet smell, I own a cat named Buffalo Bill, my left hand is bigger than my right hand, I can’t thread a needle, I eat only canned food, I’ve never had an intimate relationship with another human. I am chronically constipated. I snore. I have many personal problems. I don’t get along with other people. I steal things. I am annoying. I keep pointing out people’s faults. I get punched in the face at least once per week—I bleed all over my shirt and whine. My life is a disaster, but, I’m gifted. Round and round I go. I am the world-record holding pirouetter.

When I am spinning I go into a trance, like a dervish. The world blends into one blur and my woes dissipate in the mist of dizziness. On one toe, spinning, spinning, spinning, my toe begins to smoke—my big toe is on fire metaphorically. For my record, I twirled non-stop for a week. I was hungry and sleep-deprived, but I kept going. Round and round like a merry go-round.

I have founded “The Whirlies,” a refuge for compulsive spinners that provides a no-questions-asked sanctuary. Any time, day or night, the sanctuary is open to people who need to safely whirl with arms outstretched, looking up at the ceiling, watching it blur into oneness. When the client is whirled out, they are provided transportation back to where they live—no matter where.

I discovered my whirling “gift” in college where I became a dizzy addict, needing to get dizzy at least once a day. I got hooked on dizziness after reading “Yearning, Spinning, Burning: Being Dizzy, Being Cool.” I got into being dizzy and my life improved. I would spin on one toe on the quad and crowds would gather and cheer me on. The adulation was addictive. At first it was the primary reason I spun. But now, as you’ve gathered, I seek spiritual sustenance from the spin. While in deep dizziness, I have had numerous visions. Last week I found myself pounding on the door of a chicken coop. I was down on my knees and crying. I was holding a cracked egg in one hand and a hatchet in the other. I was yelling “I will crush your baby,” Different-colored feathers were coming out of my mouth. Suddenly, one of the chickens turned into my mother and pecked me in the eye. I stood up and ran after her with my hatchet. When I caught up with her I chopped off her head. I felt no emotion. I was grateful that I had become a sociopath and just walked away with no remorse.

So, there are so many complexities to being human. Our maladies are a blessing and a curse. I know, I’m spinning my life away. But, it is my gift—up on one toe, torso spinning free, like a cosmic top, or an axle supporting the stars, or a washing machine spewing washwater down the drain.

I will put a spin on it

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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