Auxesis (ok-see’-sis): (1) Arranging words or clauses in a sequence of increasing force. In this sense, auxesis is comparable to climax and has sometimes been called incrementum. (2) A figure of speech in which something is referred to in terms disproportionately large (a kind of exaggeration or hyperbole). (3) Amplification in general.
His brain was bigger than Plymouth Rock. Intuitions became thoughts, thoughts became discourses, discourses became actions. Slow, medium, fast: he was like a box fan on a sweltering August night turned up all the way.
I was always jealous of Bill—I knew what he has is nature’s gift, not nurture’s labor. We grew up together. I was always behind him. I thought I was smart, but I knew I wasn’t a genius, but I thought maybe I could be. I wanted to be a genius. I wanted to think big thoughts, say intelligent things and prove myself as a problem solver in everyday life and beyond.
One day, I asked Bill what his secret was. As expected, he told me he didn’t have a secret, he “was born this way.” And I was born my way: average, normal, a pencil in the pack.
I was obsessed with becoming a genius. I read how-to books and practiced exercises like memorizing dictionary definitions, rubbing up against library books in the philosophy section, sleeping with a calculator under my pillow, drinking one gallon of coffee every day. Nothing worked. I still couldn’t understand Wittgenstein or Mark Twain. But, I did understand Frankenstein. I did understand brain transplantation. You sawed off the top of somebody’s head and pulled out their brain—in this case Bill’s brain. I would get a confederate to saw off the top of my head, pull out my brain, and plug in Bill’s brain like a big, floppy, meaty SIM card. It would be messy, yet simple. I would be a new Bill, but I would keep my nickname: Slug.
I found my confederate lounging on a piece of dirty cardboard outside Smitty’s Liquors. He told me his name was “Sham,” but I was sure his name was Sam, and it was the cheap muscatel that made him say “Sham.” I brought him home, sobered him up, and told him my plan.
He told me I was crazy. He asked me where I got the plan. I told him it was probably the coffee. He said that Bill and I would die in such a misadventure and he would end up standing there telling the police where the dead bodies came from. At that point, I realized I was terminally average (probably below average) and had no chance of being a genius. I grabbed a piece of cardboard from my garage and headed back to the liquor store with Sam. I bought us both bottles of cheap muscatel. We cracked them open and toasted the warmth of the sun. I’ve been lounging here in front of Smitty’s Liquors ever since.
Every once-in-awhile Bill walks by. He doesn’t recognize me. I just shrug my shoulders and take a swig.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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