Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.
My prospects were shrinking. Shrinking to the size of an ant; the head of a pin; a grain of salt; a hummingbird’s squeaking butt, There was almost nothing left that I could do. I was kicking myself in the ass for majoring in music in college. My instrument was the bassoon, and I couldn’t play it very well. Luckily, my college graduated everybody who showed up and paid their tuition. So, at least I had a degree that I could put on my resume.
The problem was that the degree did me no good. Prospective employers would ask me, for example, “How will playing the bassoon help you work efficiently on the spice rack assembly line? Too bad you didn’t major in wood shop.” I would try to explain that my background with the bassoon would make my fingers nimble. But, I would be told “Don’t get funny with me young man. Musical instruments are not spice racks!”
There were no bassoon-player jobs anywhere in America. I tried becoming a street musician. I played The Mamas and Papas “Dancing Bear” over and over every day. It was ok, but there wasn’t much to it. Then, one day, a person dressed as a bear showed up and started dancing and singing to my bassoon. We didn’t talk. The bear-person just sang and danced. That went on for three months, and then, the bear disappeared. It destroyed my cash flow and put me back in employment panic mode.
I finally found a job, but it wasn’t playing the bassoon. “The Matthew Wilkie Memorial Museum” was opening in New York City. Wilke was one of the best bassoonists who ever lived. He could make you feel like the sun was rising in your shirt. My job was to sit on a stool holding a bassoon, dressed like Wilke, and answer customers’ questions. I wasn’t permitted to play my bassoon and that made me angry. However, it was a job.
Then one morning, I got to work early. Wilke walked in out of nowhere! He asked me to play for him. He cringed and said, “Jesus Christ! You play like shit.” I got really angry and tried to break the bassoon over my knee. I threw it on the floor and ran out of the museum.
Wilke felt bad about what he did. He got me a better job! I leave for Switzerland tomorrow. I will be playing the alphorn in the Swiss Alps. I will be stationed in Geneva, where I am provided with a free Ricola ration, and rental lederhosen to wear to mountain gigs. I am burning my bassoon tonight. I’m putting its ashes in a little brass urn. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to scatter the ashes in the gutter outside my apartment, toss the urn in the dumpster in the alley, and head for JFK.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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