Monthly Archives: May 2024

Dendrographia

Posted on May 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dendrographia (den-dro-graf’-ia): Creating an illusion of reality through vivid description of a tree.

The eucalyptus trees carry me back in time—their pungent smell, waving leaves and smooth mottled bark. after a rain, the smell of the Gumnuts in puddles is especially strong— like Vick’s Vapor Rub. The eucalyptus’s trees are tall and storks nest at their tops.

What does this matter? I had returned unscathed from Vietnam and was going to the University of California at Santa Barbara. I was on the G.I. Bill. I was grateful. The Eucalytus trees were down by the lagoon. I would go there in the early evening and think. I was going to be the first person in my immediate family to graduate from college. All the courses I took filled my head with wonder—all but “Ancient Greek Philosophy” which made me crazy. It involved too much memorization. It was taught by a wise-ass TA who would not listen to any of my ideas. But anyway, that was only one course. Everything else was amazing, nurturing, enlightening, fulfilling. I’ll never forget: I was taking a course in California geography. Included in the day’s lecture was a segment on a type of rock formation. That afternoon when I was riding my bike back to my apartment, I saw the formation by the road. For me, it was a big deal. Now, the roadside was more than a roadside—it was a piece of California geology. That night there was a pretty good earthquake. The apartment parking lot looked like sloshing water. My neighbor ran out of her apartment in her nightgown, jumped in her car and drove away. My Pong fell off the bookcase and all the books fell off the library’s shelves. What a mess!

The campus was on the ocean. Although there is residue from an oil spill, generally the beach was sandy and nice. Some days, I would carry a beach chair to class and go to the beach afterwards. I never wore long pants the whole time I was there. That was my idea of paradise.

Every Thursday, if you went to the record store in Isla Vista naked, you’d get a free record. The turnout of nudies was sparse, but there was a turnout. A crowd would show up to watch, and of course, that was the point. They would buy records,

When I went to Australia a few years ago, I got to see eucalyptus in their natural habitat. Beautiful.

I live in the North Eastern US now. Maple trees predominate. Silver bark and beautiful red foliage in the fall. I tap the sap for syrup, and plain sap as a sweet and delicious beverage. To tap a tree you drill a hole and tap a spline in gently. The splines have hooks that you hang collection buckets from. When the buckets are about 3/4 full, you empty them into a large tub. Then, you divide the contents of the tub and boil down the smaller portions into syrup. The whole house smells like maple syrup, but it takes a lot of sap to make a good amount of syrup. But, it’s worth it.

I also have a small apple orchard that I make cider and applesauce from. I have a hand-powered apple-grinder and cider press. For applesauce we just core the apples and cook them. I put the apples scraps out in the yard. It is entertaining to watch the deer fight over the scraps—pushing each other around. Oh, last year we made hard cider. We used champagne years, and according to everybody, it was great. I’ll never know myself. I am not permitted to drink alcohol, but I smelled it, and it smelled good.

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.

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Diacope

Posted on May 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

“Give me a dollar. Give me a dollar now! A dollar in my hand! A dollar! Come on, dickhead!” I was a street person. I was totally unsuccessful at getting money from people. They would tell me to back off or get lost, or take a shower, or go back to the halfway house—that sort of thing. Sometimes they’d hold up their stuffed wallet and taunt me with it.

I had a deep philosophical commitment to living on the streets. Well, it was more than that. I was raised in a series of refrigerator boxes in back alleys. My father died of food poisoning when he was 38. My mother never remarried. She said “the single life” was more fun. We had a smaller auxiliary box that I would sleep in when she brought her men “home.” I was about ten feet up the alley and put cigarette filters in my ears to block out the sounds. One morning I went to wake her up and she was laying on her back, dead. She had a vegetable baggie from the supermarket pulled over he head. That’s when I became chronically angry. That’s when my income plummeted—I became rude when asking for handouts.

The State of New York had recently instituted a group anger management program for street people. It was hoped that it would “mellow out” the streets. There were a lot of angry street people. We met in vacant lots in our respective cities. I was located in Rochester. Our vacant lot was for sale to be developed as a parking lot. The sessions ran from May first to July fifth. We learned special “polite” begging strategies. For example, we got down on one knee and would say “Kind sir, may I induce you to part with one George Washington?” Or, “Sir. Life is fleeting and my hunger overwhelms me. Will you gift me a dollar so I may quell my hunger?” We recite the begging words together in class, filling the vacant lot with the sound of need, not greed.

We graduated in quite an elaborate ceremony. All of Rochester’s big shots were there, including the mayor. He came over to me and we shook hands. I asked him for a dollar with one of my new routines. He asked me who the hell I thought he was—he’s the Mayor and Mayor’s don’t give money to bums. I punched him in the jaw and knocked him to the ground. I was arrested and was put in jail for ten days. I repurposed my money begging sayings into cigarette begging sayings. It worked really well on my fellow prisoners. I left jail with a small bag of cigarettes.

Now that I’m back on the streets I mug people outside of hotels. I stick a gun in their ribs and say, for example, “Would you please be so kind as to give me your wallet? I have bills to pay.”

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.

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Dialogismus

Posted on May 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dialogismus (di-a-lo-giz’-mus): Speaking as someone else, either to bring in others ’ points of view into one’s own speech, or to conduct a pseudo-dialog through taking up an opposing position with oneself.

Am I talking to myself? Hell no. I’m thinking out loud. It’s like reading out loud. Much more texture. Much more meaning. Much more significance. It’s like a glass of wine vs. a glass of water , or a bowl of ice cream vs. a bowl of gruel.

It was Saturday night and I was hanging out at “The Lucky Trout” country dance hall. I lived in Boukville, NY between a cornfield and a highway. The only other business in Bouckville was the “Rte. 20 All Night Diner.” The dance hall kept them going. The drunks would flock there when the Lucky Trout closed. They specialized in Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast, in keeping with the Route 20 theme.

I was drinkin’ shots a beer and eatin’ popcorn from a red plastic bowl. I was waitin’ for my Piggy Fingers—my favorite bar snack—little sausages with toothpicks stuck in them, and special sauce called “Chicago Fire.” It was so hot it could set your teeth on fire.

Suddenly my stool started spinning of its own accord. Two bars with handle grips popped up. I grabbed them and I took off. I flew through the swinging saloon doors and up into the sky, propelled by jet engines in the stool’s legs. I flew past an airliner and a little kid waved at me. The next thing I knew I was landing on the moon. I got off my stool. I looked to my right and there was a picnic table. I walked over to it. It had the initials “JG” carved in it and the date: 1964. That was history! I looked around some more but didn’t see anything else of interest. I got back on my stool and took off. As I was taking off, I looked back down and saw a bowling trophy lying on its side in the moon dust, and then, whoosh, off I flew. Destination Earth!

I flew through the doors of The Lucky Trout and landed where I took off from. Nobody noticed. I ordered “another” shot and a beer. I ordered some more Piggy Fingers. The waitress set them down in front of me and they started squirming around like big caterpillars. They were making a soft squeaking sound like baby birds. I called the waitress over and asked her what the hell was going on. she called over Mickey the bouncer. He dumped my Piggy Fingers on the floor and pushed me off my stool. He told me to get out and to come back when I had achieved a drug-free lifestyle.

I got out into the parking lot and I could not find my car. It was a restored pea-green Corvair. It was worth thousands. I called the police. When they arrived, my car appeared behind a dumpster. The police weren’t happy. When they left, my car disappeared. I decided to take an Uber home and sort it all out tomorrow. The driver was dressed like a clown. That was too much. I told her to be on her way and decided to wait out the insanity at the Rout 20 All Night Diner. I sat down in a booth and looked around, and everybody looked like me. Then, the waitress came to my booth. She did not look like me. Aside from being a woman, her hair was blond and mine is black. I ordered The Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast: three fried eggs, four slices of bacon, two slices of toast, grits and a napkin printed like a roadmap. I ordered a cup of coffee too.

People kept coming over to my table asking if they knew me. They all had my name. It was awkward, The sun was coming up. I finished my breakfast and headed back to the Lucky Trout parking lot to find my car. I got to the parking lot and all the cars partied there were pea green Corvairs. I found my car by its license plate. Finally, I could go home. I started it up and it made a poof sound and turned into a pumpkin. It was Cinderella sitting next to me. She asked me if I knew where her shoe was. We got married and lived happily ever after. She blew off the Prince for me. I felt lucky.

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.

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Dianoea

Posted on May 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dianoea (di-a-noe’-a): The use of animated questions and answers in developing an argument (sometimes simply the equivalent of anthypophora).

Sheriff: Can you give me a hug? Sure you can! Can you tickle my ear? Sure you can! Can you give me a smile? Sure you can! Did you shoot Mr. Buckworth in the head with that shotgun over there? Sure you did! Boom! Where’s his head? Over there by the bed! Are you in big trouble? Yes you are! Is murder a big deal? It sure is Miss Pondlake! Come back here! Hey!

Miss Pondlake ran down the stairs and out the front door. The man she had murdered was the plumber. He was rude and too familiar with her. She had phoned him and when he got to her front door, he had pushed it open and barged in waving wrenches and carrying a yellow no, 2 pencil stuck in his protruding butt crack, and he said “ain’t” which frightened her—she had only heard “ain’t” in detective shows on TV. Especially, from the bald man who ate lollipops.

The plumber said he was going to “clear her pipes upstairs in the bathroom.” That alarmed her. She did not want him to “clear her pipes,” it sounded lewd. He said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs so I can take care of those pipes.” He insisted, so she could give hm a recommendation for his “work.”

She kept a loaded shotgun by her bed since her former husband had broken into her house and insisted on reading her “The Little Prince” to her at gunpoint. It was the worst experience of her life, defamed “The Little Prince,” put her into 2 years of therapy, and motivated her to keep a gun by her bed.

Now she was on the run from a huge misunderstanding. She was living in Mexico City playing accordion in a Mariachi band named “Camino Del Amor.” She learned how to play the accordion in high school, where she played mostly German and Italian music growing up in New Jersey. “Camino” worked in one bar in Mexico City. They played every night and she loved it. However, she missed her cat Toolabelle. Her sister was shipping it to her—quite a convoluted process. Convoluted enough so it put the police on her trail.

Then, one night, what looked like a cop from back home showed up at the bar. He told her the case a had been dropped—it was a tragic misunderstanding, triggered by lingering trauma and threatening-sounding ambiguous language. she thanked him for bringing the news, but she was going to stay in Mexico City. She was going to marry “Camino’s” harmonica man Jesus.

But, then the “policeman” pulled of his jacket revealing a yellow wooden pencil stuck in his butt crack. He said: “Everything I told you is true, but I still can’t accept my father’s murder, and you murdered him.”

She said, “Come over here for a big hug.” The Plumber’s son complied and headed toward her with arms outstretched. He called her “Mommy” as they hugged. She was repulsed, but did not want any trouble.

The plumber’s son left in a couple of days, and Toolabelle, her beloved cat, showed up at the post office. It was wonderful having her to pet and play with again. She stopped thinking about her past and made her way into the future.

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.

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