Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.
All right, you’re right smart ass. You made me contradict myself again. You claim it is either day or not day, I realized after I asked “What about the Twilight Zone?” that I was wrong. I thought that was an example of something between day and not day manifest by an expanded view of time—sort of an other-worldly time ticking out an expanded understanding hours, minutes, and seconds. Rod Serling would say at the start of each episode The Twilight. tZone:
“You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That’s the signpost up ahead – your next stop, the Twilight Zone! Narrator : You unlock this door with the key of imagination.”
There is something about truth that isn’t liberating—it does not set you free, rather it enslaves you to its pronouncements. This is another stupid idea of mine, maybe at the top of the list. So much insanity is premised by “It’s true that. . .” Anybody who tries to refute the ”truth” Is bad, sometimes worthy of execution. But we know the actual truth is bereft of feeling, unless it is tangled up with sincerity— with being truthful. And so, we come to belief. It is a choice to do something with truth that makes it true. Then, there is faith—maybe just a willingness to act on something because it is grounded in, or consistent with, a social institution’s keynote as a voice in the wilderness.
I could write a pretty bad book about all this. I really don’t know what I’m talking about. But, when I was twelve, I was chasing fireflies in the field behind my house. The field grass was tall, and Dad had mowed several trails. There was a fire pit where I sat down after I got bored with the fireflies. Suddenly a man in a red suit emerged from the grass. He pointed at me and I rose around three feet off the ground. He turned and started walking and I followed him three feet off the ground. A patch of woods off the field had been cleared and a Suburban Propane delivery truck was sitting there.A staircase descended from the side of the truck’s storage tank. Floated up the stairs and landed on my feet as the door closed. The interior of the rank was huge. There were rows of seats like an airliner. The man told me not worry—that no harm would come to me. There was a little test he would give to me. He started asking questions. First: How many fingers do you have? I said 10. He said “Wrong: You have 8 fingers and 2 thumbs.” It went on like this for 15-20 minutes. Then, he said “Thank you for your cooperation and the door opened, and I floated out. I woke up at the fire pit to the roar of the propane truck taking off.
I told my mother what happened and she told me to shut up, or I’d end up with Aunt Lucy at the State Hospital. I said, “But Ma, it is true. It really happened.” She picked up the phone and I recanted.
I am 43 now. I have noticed there is a man in a red suit that hangs out across the street from my apartment. The other day he pointed at me and started laughing.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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