Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.
Struggling walking. Vision dimming. Old person smell. These are the burdens we bear. As we imagine their inevitability, we feel their echoes from the future and assume the state of mind their presence induces. What possible benefit can accrue from thinking about one’s demise and ultimate death? What good can it possibly do to dwell on the inevitable end?
I want to live forever—drink a beer when I’m 300. Sometimes I feel like I’ve already hit 300 when I talk to people 30 and younger. I know this is a well-worn topic, but it still has some traction. I have a friend Bart who is 80. On New Years 1970 he froze his life in 1970. He rode a motorcycle and was covered with tattoos. He said “I don’t give a shit. I’m staying right here.” That would be with the “Beatles” and bellbottoms and love beads, and cheap beer, and hash. He never got married because he couldn’t find a woman willing to live his dream. He still works in the Chevy plant making car doors fit with a breaker bar. Oh, he wears Beatle boots with his bellbottoms. Now, they’re called “Chelsea Boots.”
I went to visit him. When he answered the door, I was shocked to see that he had gone completely bald since I had seen him last week. He laughed and told me he had shaved his head like Kojak. He was tired of the naked ring on top of his head. He said he had already gotten some “action” since he had shaved his head. An elderly woman had given him a cherry tootsie pop and had said “Who loves ya baby,” Bart was going to make his move, but these guys in white coats took her by the arms and walked her away. This would be a cliche if it wasn’t true!
Bart’s tattoos had turned into blurs of color—totally obscured. Time had obscured them. Luckily, when they started to go, Burt drew a map with a key explaining what each one was. For example, the tattoo he had of Elizabeth Montgomery (“Bewitched”) on his chest had turned into a maelstrom of color seemingly dripping toward his his belly button. But, it was clearly displayed on the map, with a brief synopsis of “Bewitched.” On his back there was a tattoo of Niagara Falls, running out of his shoulders down to his butt. It was almost discernible, except for the barrel with Bart riding it over the falls.
I asked him what it was like to be frozen in 1970. He told me it was like 1970. Oh, I thought that was pretty insightful. He asked me if I knew where he could “score” some bellbottoms. I said, “Maybe at the Salvation Army thrift store.” He laughed and then told me “They’re tapped out.” He told me he had heard of a place called “Internet” that sold things on computers, but he didn’t have a computer. I told him I’d have a look there and let him know.
“Do you remember the disco song ‘Funky Town?” He asked. I old him “Vaguely.” He jammed a cassette tape into his player, and “Funky Town” started playing. Bart started dancing, he was busting some sweet moves, twirling one hand like a lasso over his head and clutching his crotch with the other hand, sweating. Living the 70s. Suddenly, he grabbed his chest, cursing in pain, falling to the floor. I called 911. By the time the EMTs got there, Bart was dead. Heart attack.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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