Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.
So many qualities. So many characteristics. So much to see and marvel at. Plump. Stiff. Pointing toward the sky. It’ll always be one of my favorite things. I harvested it and put it in vinegar in a jar. I have it on my mantle, backlit by a candle, sitting on a saucer my little sister made in her pottery class at the community college. I love how the jar and the saucer provide an aesthetic temper to the floating vice. I can’t help but see it that way—as a vice—given the sensual distraction it provides from my otherwise useless life.
I work at the airport picking up trash in the grand concourse. I have a scoop with a handle and wheels and a trashcan with wheels. I make my way through the concourse over and ver in a checkerboard patter so I don’t miss any floor. Somebody else empties the trash by the seats. My job is “random litter” decorating the concourse floor. The weirdest thing I ever found was an artificial leg. It was leaning up against the wall outside the men’s room. I looked inside the restroom before I harvested the fake leg. There were no one-legged people inside the men’s room, so I took it. I noticed it had a tag glued to it. It said: “If found, call Tim Small at 409-222-3434.” So, I called the number and Tim asked if I’d bring the leg to him. I said I would and he gave me the address. It was in the ritzy part of town. When I got there, I was impressed by his mansion. There was a fountain and statues on the lawn. There was a Tesla parked out front as well as a golf cart.
I rang the doorbell. It played the chorus from Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” with excellent sound quality. The door opened and Tim introduced himself. He had two legs! I sad “What the f*ck is going on here?” He said he should’ve told me and profusely apologized to me. He handed me an attache case filled with twenty-dollar bills. Then, he tour me his story: The leg had belonged to his father who had lost his leg in the Korean War. They were a team, begging on the streets for NYC. His father would roll up his pant leg, and he would hug the leg and cry and say “My daddy sacrificed his leg for you.” They made tons of money. He invested their earnings in hula hoops and bobby socks and made millions. He believes his father’s leg is a lucky charm, and also, it comforts him to hug it, like he did as a child.
I was completely amazed and the attaché case filled with 20s helped me believe his story. This experience was the brightest spot in my whole life. It kept me from diving out my apartment window. Now I have my “light in the forest” shimmering on my mantle. It brings me joy. It’s just one of those things.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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