Adynaton (a-dyn’-a-ton): A declaration of impossibility, usually in terms of an exaggerated comparison. Sometimes, the expression of the impossibility of expression.
“I can’t tell you how much I love you. It’s like trying to write a book with a hot dog. It’s like trying to climb a ladder with no hands. It’s like buying a house with no money,” I told her for the trillionth time.
“One trillion” is a lot of times to do anything. When we hit one-trillionth I took her out to dinner for pizza and a large glass of water. I told her that pizza is round like the circle of life. That the ham and pineapple are like the poignant moments we encounter on our never-ending journey around and around, beyond life into the immortal void of many splendored nothing.
While I was talking—sharing all I knew—she fell asleep with her face in the pizza. I woke her up and wiped the pizza off her face with a handful of napkins. “I dreamed I was riding in a yacht. Suddenly, we were blown up and I turned into little me’s glowing in the dark like a swarm of battery powered bees. All but one me was caught in a net by a man in a bathing suit. That’s when I woke up,” she said.
I said, “I woke you up.“
I let her know how indignant I was that she had such an amazing dream while I was trying to enlighten her about pizza’s symbolic significance—the mystery of the circle—like the wheels on the bus that go around and around—that must go around and around to propel the bus toward it’s mystic destination, often a citadel of learning replete with lessons in arithmetic, personal hygiene, woodshop, and gymnastics. As they say, “The circle will not be broken.” It would cause a flat tire on the road of life, inducing a bothersome delay, or even a complete cancellation. A tragedy.
She laughed at me, and told me my crazy monologues were what she liked the most about me. She also told me she liked how I dressed. I wore blue ski pants, anteater cowboy boots, and a sweatshirt that said “Hell” on the front. Sometimes, I wore a balaclava and a Superman cape when we made love on the kitchen floor. Our relationship was so nuanced!
So, even though I dressed cool, I remained a mystery to her. My love was like a dark room where she was blinded by the shade. We were like two winged milkweed seeds floating on a breeze, held together by nothing, liable to be separated by the same breeze we were floating on.
She looked at me and had tears in her eyes. She hit me on the head with a rock and ran away. I see her at the grocery store every once-in-awhile. She ignores me.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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