Antimetabole

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

Time stole my pants. My pants stole time. My pants were abducted by a jaunty clock poking away at the future with his lance-like hands. But then, my pants pocketed the clock and bolted out the door in a blur of blue denim. I lived in a fantasy world that gripped me instead of me gripping it. I am completely unable to function as a normal human being. I live in an animate world where everything seemed to have a soul, although they didn’t talk. They moved, and wiggled, and danced and fought with each other. Just last night I witnessed a fight between an aluminum mixing bowl and a potato masher. The bowl was burdened with a good deal of pink cake icing. But, it slowed down the masher, giving the bowl an edge. The fight was refereed by a carrot who seemed to me to be drunk. Then, I observed a bottle of vanilla extract spilled on the granite countertop—a sure sign of intoxication. The granite countertop looked like it was ready to shake the whole mess onto the floor. Of course, the floor looked angry at the prospect and rippled a little.

At that point, my mother waltzed into the kitchen smoking a “Lucky” and clutching a pint-bottle of gin (half-empty). “Cowsill! What are you up to?” she asked. In case you’re wondering, I was named after “The Cowsills” a one-hit wonder 1960’s rock band modeled after the Partridge Family. I was going to change my name to “Luger” when my mother died. I thought naming myself after a Nazi handgun would scare people and keep the bullies off my back. I had an uncle that everybody called “Slasher.” People left him alone, partially because he was in prison.

Anyway, I didn’t know what more I could say to my mother. I had told her in my head countless times that the world was alive—if the hills could be alive with the sound of music, why couldn’t everything else at least be alive, if not with music? I would hold a cocktail glass up to my mouth and start singing “Edelweiss” into it and she would sing along, half-sobbing. It didn’t help me at all.

I couldn’t tell anybody about the animate world I lived in. If I did, I’d get hauled off to the “Jerry Lewis Center.” This was a place where half my family had unwillingly stayed. Lewis’s farting shoes from “The Nutty Professor” were used therapeutically to great effect. But anyway, I kept my mouth shut. Mom’s midnight forays came close to catching me talking to the wall or a soup spoon. But, I was safe.

Then, one night, the world started talking. A dish towel told me to “Get the fu*k out of the kitchen.” Suddenly, the world fell silent again. I followed the dishtowel’s rude advice and discovered that outside of the kitchen objects are inanimate. I would go into the kitchen late at night solely for entertainment. I thanked the dishtowel, but it was it was too soon. The whole world went animate again. I went mad. I tried to poke out my eyes. My mother bought me my own farting shoes. She believes in Jerry. For my part, I’ve developed a friendship with a bedpan. We use Morse code to communicate. He can rattle out a message quite quickly. I put a dowel under him and he moves up and down like a seesaw. I facilitate his communication, like my mother did with my brother Bard, with a computer keyboard. My brother wrote a book about the benevolence of hamsters titled “Hamster Philanthropy and the Rationale of Seed-Based Economies.” He claimed to have interviewed 5,000 hamsters, but his ruse was quickly found out when he was confronted by a women holding a hamster that squeaked loudly and that Bard confessed he didn’t understand. His book booth was dismantled and all copies of his book were recalled.

Well, it’s time for bed. I just wished Pan “sweet dreams.” “Pan” is short for Bedpan. My nurse places him under my bed in case I need his help during the night.

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

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