Category Archives: hysterologia

Hysterologia (his-ter-o-lo’-gi-a): A form of hyperbaton or parenthesis in which one interposes a phrase between a preposition and its object. Also, a synonym for hysteron proteron.

“Under milk cartons.” I thought that was really funny—better than Dylan Thomas any day. I was writing a poem about the county landfill. I was going to title it “Under Friggin’ Garbage.” I wanted to celebrate the layers of despair that one may encounter when tossing off former prized possessions as they rot and rust, becoming inedible, or crossing into the useless zone only to be replaced by fresh fruits or vegetables or cars, or lawnmowers, or couches.

I cried as I thought of my baby carriage. Mommy strolled me around the block, to the park and the shopping mall, and church. It was a mobile island of delight. It made me trust my mother. It was a luxury stroller made by an affiliate of General Motors. I would suck on my ba-ba as I rolled along on warm summer days. When we went to the park I would throw my ba-ba at the swans and laugh diabolically.

I was only 3 years old. My mother would laugh diabolically with me. She would pick up my ba-ba and throw it back at me. It usually hit me in the head. It was made out of plastic so it didn’t hurt. Then my mother would say “It’s all over Teddy,” and push me toward the lake. We both laughed diabolically. She would stop when the wheels were submerged. I would clap my hands and yell “Poo-poo. Poo-poo.” We were a team.

When I was fifteen I took the wheels off my baby carriage—it had seen its day and it was time to repurpose it. I made the wheels into a Big Wheels skate board and was going to propel myself across the USA like Forest Gump. I had to develop a special technique to make it work. With four wheels it only went in a straight line, so I had to learn to step on the rear end so the front wheels would pop up and I could pivot and turn.

Then, one day my little sister jumped on the Big Wheels Skate Board and it and rolled down the driveway. She couldn’t stop and rolled in front of a garbage truck. She wasn’t killed, but she was seriously injured.

That’s when I learned to throw things away when their day had come. No more repurposing. No more sorrow. When I put something by the curb for the garbage truck, I feel unburdened, free of something that does not matter any more.

Now, I revel in the fresh and the new.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Hysterologia (his-ter-o-lo’-gi-a): A form of hyperbaton or parenthesis in which one interposes a phrase between a preposition and its object. Also, a synonym for hysteron proteron.

There’s only one way to San Jose. I was stubborn. I wouldn’t admit there was more than one way to San Jose. Maybe “stubborn” is too kind a word. “Adamant” was too kind too. I think, basically, I was nutso. My pathological commitment to error constantly put me in jeopardy. When things were clearly up—as clear as Poland Springs—down I’d go into the abyss of error embracing it like the holy grail, or the latest iteration of the iPad, or Taylor Swift.

I was in despair. Everybody laughed at me, yet I couldn’t change my mind. It was frozen in error. It was like my brain was a slab of granite graven with idiocy that couldn’t be revised or erased.

I went to see a psychiatrist and she gave me medication designed to soften my mind. It would become pliable and I might be able to shake off my chronic commitment to error. If I could snap my mind like a bedsheet, I might be able to flatten it and prepare it for a fresh text. The medication was called “Mollis Cerebrum” (brain softener). The way I understood it, it was like stool softener for the mind. I wanted to hurry things up, so I took five Brain Softeners instead of one every two days as written on the bottle. Almost immediately, I felt my bogus beliefs melting away. By midnight, I had no beliefs, except the belief I had no beliefs. Suddenly, I felt my brain running out my nose. My overdose had liquified my brain! I stuck a pencil in each nostril to stem the flow of my brain. Then, I went to the meat packing plant where I worked. I hid in a walk-in freezer. I believed if I kept my brain near freezing, as slush it would stop running out my nose. I had on my warmest coat and had vowed to stay in the freezer until the drug wore off, and my brain returned to normalcy. I believed my brain was the medium of my mind, like I had learned from Marshall McLuhan at the University of Toronto a few years before—“The medium is the message” was chanted by the student body at football games and was on billboards all over Canada. In fact, my psychiatrist was a graduate of the U. of Toronto. She had taken classes from McLuhan!

Anyway, I was freezing my ass off.

They found me on Monday when the plant reopened. I was curled in a fetal position. My hair was covered in frost. The pencils in my nostrils had stopped the flow of my brain out of my nose, and the freezing temperate was pretty much icing on the cake. My butt cheeks had frozen to the freezer’s floor and had to be amputated.

I am fully recovered from my overdose ordeal. My brain is like a slab of cement again. My first impressions are still etched as true and can’t be revised by any means. There’s a new brain softener discovered in Spain called “Puré de Papas” (mashed potatoes) that my psychiatrist has recommended. I think I’m going to try it. I don’t know why.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Hysterologia (his-ter-o-lo’-gi-a): A form of hyperbaton or parenthesis in which one interposes a phrase between a preposition and its object. Also, a synonym for hysteron proteron.

I flew over —my feet were cold—the snow-white tundra. What had started as a spring break dare 50 years ago had ended with my transformation into an Arctic Man Bird. Yes, as unbelievable as it sounds, that’s what I am. I have talons—they’re huge—protruding from my fingertips, making it difficult to write this account of my life’s adventures as a bird. I never recorded my experiences before because I was fearful somebody would hunt me down and blow me out of the sky. But I am old now. I will die soon anyway. I never found a mate. I never had and any progeny. My remains will be found in a block of ice, if at all. Scientists will argue, Nobel Prizes will be won.

Wait!

A soft shrieking fills the air. A winged shadow appears at my cave’s opening. It is an Arctic Woman Bird. She lands. She gleams. I love her. “You are old enough now to give me a little chick. Our age difference is necessary to assure a successful mating. After we mate, I will stay with you and help raise our chick” She said.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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