Onomatopoeia

Onomatopoeia (on-o-mat-o-pee’-a): Using or inventing a word whose sound imitates that which it names (the union of phonetics and semantics).

My head sounded like a seashell: I could hear the ocean in it: k-shooosh, k-shooosh, k-shooosh. The tide was going in and out all the time. I believed if my head was cut in half it would be full of surfboards and beach umbrellas and fishing boats offshore. I often imagined I was inside my head, relaxing at the beach. But inevitably there would be a storm with high winds, and I would have to leave.

Getting inside my head was easy, but getting out was hard. To get into my head I just wished I was there, and zoom, there I was. Getting out, the storm in my head would make it totally dark. I would keep sliding down the side of my brain until I exploded with rage and yelled “Get me out of here Jim.” Jim was the lifeguard who sat in a chair-tower waiting to rescue people. All the girls were in love with him. It was no wonder: he looked like a Greek statue of Adonis. Unlike me—nobody paid attention to me. I just put in my earbuds and listened to Bobby Vinton, Dion, and the Janey and the Peckers—an under-appreciated rock band from the 60s.

Anyway, inevitably I would feel Jim’s arms around me as we scaled the side of my cranium to its soft spot where I would exit through my scalp. It was tedious and scary getting out, but I loved my head-beach, especially in the winter when it was 20 degrees. I’d look out my eyeball window and see all the people in their goose down coats, shivering.

At some point my forays into my head started to annoy people. I was told I was completely unresponsive when I went into my head. I thought that was stupid. I was responsive—running around the beach, talking to Jim, eating a hot dog, etc.

One day when I was inside my head, without me knowing, I was taken to the hospital. When we got there, Jim suddenly threw me out of my head, and apologized, saying it was part of his job. I didn’t understand. I looked around and didn’t like what I saw. I tried to get back into my head, but no matter how hard I imagined I was there, Jim blocked the way. Suddenly things like earphones were put on my head, and a rubber thing was shoved into my mouth.. Then, I felt like the inside of my head was being destroyed. I passed out,

When I awoke, I immediately climbed into my head. Jim was lying dead at the bottom of his watchtower. The ocean had turned into brown goo. The sand had turned hard, like concrete. I realized that without Jim’s help, I couldn’t get out of my head. I was stuck, and angry too. About two hours later, a silver probe descended into my head. It found Jim and poked his chest. He came to life. He was weak, but he struggled to carry me up the side of my cranium. As I climbed out of my head, I heard a zapping sound and Jim screaming in pain.

It’s such a mess inside my head, I don’t ever want to go back ever again. I miss the refuge it afforded me, but more than anything, I miss Jim.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.