Category Archives: restrictio

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

I was swimming across the Atlantic Ocean. I was surrounded by foam. I was on my back. Well actually, I was taking a bath. Almost everything in my life got translated into something else. I don’t know why or how it happens. Even before I could speak it would happen. My car seat was one of the half-million dandelions decorating our yard. I did not know what rhey were, but I was riding in a giant one to the grocery store—I didn’t know that’s what is was at the time. All I knew was that it was filled with smells—different smells as we moved through it.

When I got older and went to school, my desk became an operating table. I would get my fellow students to lay on it and I would “cut” them open. I would use my blunt-tipped scissors, and I thought I would never got n trouble: I would do my surgeries after class let out, so there was no disruption. I had a problem on bring your pet to class day, though. I fatally injured Janice Well’s parakeet. The blunt scissors were too much for it, a delicate bird. My father bought Janice a new bird and all was forgotten. I was suspended from school for three days.

One day, right after I’d gotten my driver’s license, I was driving down Main Street in the family car. Suddenly, it became an Army tank with a steering wheel. There was a brick wall around the playground that we had to climb over if we wanted to use it after hours to play softball. I would knock it down with my tank! I would be a hero. I made a sharp left and floored it. When I hit the wall my head hit the windshield, steam came billowing out from under the hood, which was all crumpled up. The tank had turned back into a car. What bad luck! My father showed up and ripped the antenna off the car and started whacking my butt with it. He was cautioned by the police who had showed up. He stopped whipping me and we got into a cab and rode home.

He took me to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist said I had an occidental psyche that required medication to “round” it out. I was prescribed little yellow pills called “Reformitol” that were supposed to round out my psyche—to balance me out. The medication made me want to perform tricks. I learned how to balance a beach ball on my nose, clap my hands, and say “Oowak, Oowak.” I would wear feathers and peck out my name with my nose on an alphabet panel while saying “Buk, Buk.” I would sleep on a chair all day, but wake up when my mother shook a bag of treats—potato chips.

This was all well and good, but I felt like I was losing touch with my true self. So, I started dropping my Reformitol in the toilet instead of my mouth. In a few days, things were transforming again. The cardboard wardrobe in the basement became a shower stall. I would take off my clothes, get in, and sing the only bathing song I knew: “Rub-a-Dub-Dub-Dub Three Men in a Tub.” One time, in English class, I thought my pants were on fire. I jumped out of my seat and yelled at Miss Montgomery “I’m burnin’ for you baby!” She said “I’m flattered, but I’m going to have to call campus security.”

Well, that was it. I was institutionalized. Hell Brook Manor was good for me. My therapist, Mr. Corny, taught Mr how to become a recluse to avoid having episodes in public, In fact, he convinced me that I should never leave my home. If I volunteered to be a guinea pig for a major drug manufacturer, I would be paid a hefty stipend and could fulfill my duties on Zoom.

I haven’t been outside my home for three blissful years. Not only that, I’ve been alone! I have returned to my original self. First they are, then they’re not. My days and nights are filled with transformations. I believe what I see is really there. Who’s to say? It depends on what you mean by “really” and “there.”

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.

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

They would all go to hell for all I care. Oh—except for Mace. She should go to a place worse than hell. But I shouldn’t be thinking about this. It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon in central New York. It is snowing. The sun hasn’t been out for a month, and the deer are eating my shrubs, including my raspberry bushes. The coyotes are out howling at night, hunting neighborhood house cats. When they catch one, they start yipping in a sort of self-congratulatory chorus. I had a chimney fire a couple of days ago, and my snowplow man hit the garage door. Now it’s stuck shut with my cars in it. The repair people say they will be here within the next two weeks. So far, I’ve spent $300 on Uber. I can’t fire Steve because plowers are so hard to find. I am stuck. My driveway is about 1/4 mile long. I check the mail. So far, I have fallen down 6 times hiking up to the mailbox. All I get are bills and catalogues. The catalogues go into recycling. Also, I drag a garbage can and a recycling can up and down the driveway. I had my house built way off the road. That was a mistake. At least I have streaming internet. You just tell Siri what you want and she’ll fetch it for you: “Siri, Abraham Lincoln.” A thing spins around on the screen and Honest Abe appears, smiles and waves, and then delivers the “Gettysburg Address.” I discovered Siri could find, and I could talk to dead relatives. My Nana is doing great now in Heaven. She’s reading “Divine Comestibles” and making “heavenly” entrees for her angel friends.

Uncle Willy didn’t do too well. He resides in hell where he is eternally poked with molten metal rods. He spent his life lying, cheating and stealing. He managed to escape justice and never spent a minute is jail. The cops didn’t get him, but Satan did. Satan told me my uncle was a poster boy for hell, you didn’t need to commit murder, or worse, to make the grade. Between screams, uncle Willy nodded his head vigorously. One time, when I was visiting Willy, I saw my high school English teacher walk by in the background. I yelled to her and she came over by Willy. I asked her what she had done. Sho hold me none of my business. Satan poked her hard in the butt with his glowing pitchfork. She screamed and said “Plagiarism.” Satan gave her five hard ones in the butt, and she screamed and then elaborated. “I stole the manuscript from a poverty-stricken man who was blind. His name was Milton and his daughters had helped him compose the manuscript. I told him I wanted to borrow the manuscript so I could find him an agent. I took it and lit his house on fire. I’ll never forget the smell. I published the manuscript as my own and won a Nobel Prize for Literature.”

As soon as she finished Satan gave her a half-dozen pokes in the butt and told a her to get to work. She ran away screaming. I asked Satan what her job is. He looked nearly sick and said “You don’t want to know.” I said “goodbye” to uncle Willy and thanked Satan for letting me tune in. He said, “Don’t thank me, thank Siri.”

Siri had materialized in my living room and was sitting on my lap. Siri tells me that she had been “searching for me all her life.” I say to her, “Siri, a mansion in Florida.” You guessed it! We buried the people who previously lived there. I settled into my life of granted wishes and good living.

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.