Coenotes (cee’-no-tees): Repetition of two different phrases: one at the beginning and the other at the end of successive paragraphs. Note: Composed of anaphora and epistrophe, coenotes is simply a more specific kind of symploce (the repetition of phrases, not merely words).
“I am the master of my destiny!” I yelled this at my medicine cabinet mirror every morning at 7:00 am, either before work, or taking up my position on the sofa on Saturdays and Sundays. And then, I yelled as loudly as I could “My future is bright!”
“I am the master of my destiny” is purported to have magical aspects, translated from an Icelandic Rune found in the stomach of a Minke whale being prepared for “Moby Dick on a Stick” in Reykjavik. It was purportedly a popular saying among Vikings. I had been doing what I was told all my life—from my mother admonishing me to use a fork instead of my hands to eat, to being on time for appointments, to refraining from murdering people, no matter how much I hated them. I was a follower. A dupe. A pushover. A wimp. But now, my future is bright!
I AM the MASTER of my destiny. I stopped using toilet paper. At first this was difficult, but now I just stand up and pull up my pants, confidently striding out of the bathroom. I am a law unto myself. There is no limit to what I can choose to do or not do. Now, I push people out of my way on the sidewalk. Now, I fart with gusto on elevators, or in other enclosed places. Now, I call people “shithead” whenever I feel like it. Last week I called my son shithead twice a day. He is a toddler, but I’m sure he got the point. Then, I flipped over my desk at work and yelled “This place sucks!” I was escorted from the building, but I had made MY point. I am autonomous. Let’s face it: my future is bright!
POSTSCRIPT
“I am the master of my destiny” turned out to be the wrong credo to guide me! It might have worked for Vikings, but it didn’t work for me. Unfortunately, my “master hood” has not worked out very well. My wife left me with our son and has filed for divorce. I lost my job over the desk flipping incident. My abstinence from toilet paper has cost me all of my friends. They don’t want to hang out with a guy who smells like shit. But worst of all, my wife told me she would consider foregoing the divorce if I checked into “Rising Purpose.” It is a “refuge for lost souls who have gone bug nuts, providing custom-tailored therapy to meet their needs, and render them less looney.” Their credo does not say it, but drugs are a part of the therapy. My therapy is “Yes Therapy,” where I say “yes” to everything a Rising Purpose confederate says. I am rewarded with a candy kiss for “suspending” what they call my “Nasty No-No.” I take three pills a day from an unmarked red bottle. They make me compliant and what the doctors call “Yessed Up.” I graduated from “Rising Purpose” with honors and continue “Yes Therapy” over Zoom. I’m still taking my medication and get “Yessed Up” every day. I got my job back. My wife and I are happy together again. Our son is more less normal, and I’ve started using toilet paper again. My future is bright!
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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