Category Archives: merismus

Merismus (mer-is’-mus): The dividing of a whole into its parts.

I was going to divide a hole into its parts. It had a top,, sides and bottom and a vacant center. But is a vacant center actually a part? Maybe if we call it an empty space it would be clearer. In reality it is a void—a column of nothingness. If it’s connected to whole/hole and is integral to its being, it’s a parted. Take it away, or fill it n, there’s no hole any more—maybe just a dent in the dirt on the ground. So, what’s all this speculation about holes worth? I don’t know, and I don’t have to know.

Take a shoe for example. Knowing its parts makes you a more canny shopper. You ask questions and impress the salespersons with your shoe knowledge. He or she will realize they’re not dealing with an uninformed Custumer and be less likely t try and hit you with a she scam, like selling you Odor Eaters or shoe balm.

So, what are the parts of a shoe? I’m not sure, but I’ll give it a try.

1: The big part you put your foot in (the upper).

2. The laces.

3. The tongue.

4. The sole.

5. The heel.

6. The midsole.

Now you are equipped to look like you “know” shoes. You ask “What is the midsole made of. This question will embarrass the salesperson and make you feel superior.

The more parts you know. The more you know. Think about love. Does it have parts! What about the descent into mental illness. Say, you are normal one day and then you’re standing in your living room pointing a loaded hand gun at your TV set. What are the steps to losing your job? What were the parts of the argument with you wife that ended in divorce.

See? Knowing the parts of everything will make you wise like an owl. Only, of course, you won’t actually be an owl. That’s not possible. in fact, nobody knows what makes owls wise, or even if they are actually wise. I don’t think an owl can take an IQ test. There—we have advanced our knowledge with facts—by questioning an old worn-out saying. Clearly, owls’ natural wisdom has declined to the point of no return.

My girlfriend has a pet owl. She feeds it dead mice she buys frozen at the pet store. The owl never goes “hoo” and just sits on its perch eating mice and crapping on cage bottom. Its name is Vick. He pays no attention when my girlfriend calls him. We think he fell out of his nest and hit his head when he was a baby. It is a shame. My girlfriend is considering putting him up for adoption.

Anyway, every whole has its parts.

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.

Merismus (mer-is’-mus): The dividing of a whole into its parts.

My decision making has five possible outcomes : yes, no, maybe, I don’t know, and N/A (not applicable). this list is probably not exhaustive, but it helps me decide what to next, which is life’s greatest challenge. When I was young “Yes” and “no” were my go to outcomes—it was a yes/no, either/or world. I was a man of action. I was a Kierkegaardian Guardian—a knight in shining ethics engraved with moral maxims, like “Curiosity killed the day,” “You are what you eat.” I fought for the rights of turtles, pigs and donkeys. I drove 55 MPH, I made macrame peace sign plant hangers, I made my own wine and picket signs. I sold the signs at demonstrations.

Then, one beautiful spring day, I saw a baby buggy rolling down a hill unattended. The baby was holding a stick of dynamite with a burning fuse. I stood there, frozen. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t. I was just starting to get an idea of what to do when the baby blew up, and also took a couple of pedestrians with him. The horror was complete. It ate at my soul. It burrowed a hole in my conscience. Even after I found out the baby was a rubber replica of a real baby, I could not settle my mind.

The incident was part of a successful assassination plot. The two pedestrians who were killed were part of a royalist cabal who wanted to restore royal rule in Germany, and “Make Germany great again.” Their goal begged the question. But, they were real people who really died, and I stood there like I had a whole body cramp.

I was drowning in guilt, strangled by remorse, bludgeoned by indecision—or more accurately, no decision. In my plight, I wondered if not deciding is deciding nevertheless. I couldn’t escape the remorse eating at me—gnawing on my innards, inducing a sort of moral seasickness making me vomit and bringing on a bout of severe dehydration accompanied by explosive flatulence that had wounded my ass.

One night, in the middle of a recurring nightmare where I was a peanut being shelled over and over, I woke up. I yelled “I Don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t know, N/A, N/A.” It was a eureka moment. I realized it was unreasonable to expect humans to know what’s going on, and go solely with yes and no, and on bad days, maybe. “I don’t know” removes the shackles of accountability, calming your conscience and restoring your soul. It is as simple as that. If you accompany this with a draught of vodka or tequila, as you feel the alcohol warming your veins, the distance between you and your unfounded self-recriminations will widen even further. You may lose your job and alienate your family, but you will be free.

POSTSCRIPT

The author was found unconscious in a fetal position in a baby carriage in the basement of an abandoned building. He was taken to the hospital where he died repeating “N/A” over and over in what was characterized as “tones so sweet and low.”

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.

Merismus (mer-is’-mus): The dividing of a whole into its parts.

Mrs. Rogers, my fourth grade teacher, told us to think of a whole and then divide it into its parts. She called on me. “Johnny?” I was a wise guy, a class clown, and a pain in the ass all rolled into one. I said, “You can’t divide a hole into parts because there’s nothing there.” I gave Mrs. Rogers my wise guy smile and looked around the classroom. My joke hadn’t registered. Ms. Rogers said “Give me a straight answer or you’re going to visit Principal Lamron’s office. I was pals with the principal, so going to his office was no big deal. He was my mother’s brother—aka my uncle. I’d have my favorite grape soda, and he’d show me his latest magic tricks. Then we’d play a couple of hands of draw poker and I’d go back to class acting like I’d been admonished. I would rub my eyes making them red so it looked like I might’ve been crying.

I went back to class and dutifully made up a part-whole narrative: The car was black. It had 100s of parts. I will enumerate a few major parts, giving only their names. Here we go: hood, trunk, tires, doors, muffler, seats, speedometer, windshield, gas tank, radio, air conditioner, heater, seat warmers, tail lights, blinkers, and more.” Mrs. Rogers complimented me. I said “Cool. Maybe you can take me for a ride some night out to Lasagna Lake to look at the stars.” I did it again. I was remanded to my uncle’s office, but I kept going out the door. It was a perfect warm spring afternoon.

I headed for the playground. The sliding board was my favorite, climbing up the ladder and whooshing down the slide. I solid down and blew a slice of wind that sounded like a musical instrument—maybe a trumpet. Somebody yelled, “That was disgusting. What an oaf!” The voice sounded familiar. I turned around, and looked, and it was me! I was older, but it was me. I said to me, “What are you doing here?” I answered: “I am here to tell you to stop the bullshit. You weren’t born to be funny. It will only get you in trouble. Your destiny is to be a landscape gardener.” I said, “Now, that’s actually funny, asshole.” I/he got an angry look on his face and evaporated with a humorous squeaking sound.

I went back to class. I kept cracking jokes and hanging out with my uncle. I kept on through middle school. high school and college where I started a comedy club: “Bonkers.” In all those years I had become consistently hilarious. Eventually, I hit Las Vegas. Then, I was performing in Tahoe. I looked out at the audience, and there I was with a sign that said “Landscape Gardener.” It rattled me, but it didn’t affect my performance.

In my next show, I dressed like a landscape gardener, pushing a lawnmower out on stage. I told a few grass cutting and trimming jokes and groundhog, Japanese beetle, and rabbit jokes. Then, I did my usual routine. I got a standing ovation. Now I understood my destiny.

Definition 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.