Category Archives: symploce

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

I was nobody until I found the book in the attic, I was looking for my winter coat in the attic. I climbed the squeaky 80 year old ladder, got to the top, took a step and tripped over one of the cardboard boxes my great grandfather had put there in the late 1950s. The first thing I saw was a photo album. It had pictures of my great grandfather modeling 1940s-styled clothes. In one picture, he had his baggy pants pulled up nearly to his armpits, a bow tie, and a fedora—no jacket, just a white shirt. There was a woman with one hand in his pocket and the other stroking his cheek. There was another picture of him in his underpants standing alongside a horse. It was an ad for Jockey underwear. I slammed the album shut and started digging through the magazines. They were mostly for a magazine called “Argosy” that was ostensively about photography, but was packed with pictures of women posing suggestively. I kept digging. I came to crossword puzzle magazines. There were about 10 of them, but only one had been used, with only two words entered—“ort” and “whammy.” I was thinking that rummaging through the great grand father box was a total waste of time.

Then, I saw the book. It was red and singed like it had been retrieved from a fire. It was titled “Everybody Has a Nose.” It was written by Chance Bellini. I looked inside. It was published in 2028. I gasped. We hadn’t gotten there yet! Great grandfather probably had the book in the mid-1950s. The date must be a misprint or a hoax. or something weirder! The table of contents was cryptic: 1. Baloney, Baloney, Wherefore Art Thou?, 2. Make me!, 3. Cool Cats Wear Hats, 4. Where’s the Big Tickle?, 5. Shove it Crayon Breath, 6. Know The Classy Chassis, 7. Get Cranked Baby, 8, Off the Mutton Shunters, and 9. Blazes!

As soon as I saw the table of contents, I had to start reading. Each chapter ended with a saying that summarized the wisdom of the chapter’s contents. It was a perfect book! You didn’t have to read it! First though, I read the Preface. An excerpt: “We all have noses. But, our noses are all different. We all pick them and sniff air and other things through them and smell things too. We all have them. This unites us all at a fundamental level. You can’t see another nose . . .” My heart was beating fast. Maybe my nose would lead me away from my chronic sense of loneliness—from this feeling I had borne since birth when my mother had laid me on the basement floor and disappeared forever. I was raised by my father—a sick man who made me say “I am lonely” every day until I cried. No wonder I had trouble in school. Anyway, after I read the Preface, I turned to the saying at the end of Chapter 1 “Baloney, Baloney, Wherefore Art Thou?” The saying was “Life is a deli, hold the mustard.” When I read it, I stood up and my shirt tore across the chest like Clark Kent changing into Superman. It was the beginning of my new life. I ran downstairs, grabbed the mustard jar from the refrigerator and emptied its contents in the trash, rinsed the empty jar, and tossed it in recycling. I realized everything I was attached to was a condiment adulterating life’s flavor and causing me to miss the plain beauty of plain truth hidden beneath it. First, I tried to stop using adjectives and adverbs and metaphors. I wasn’t prepared. I couldn’t stop. Someday I will climb that mountain and be free of modification and metaphorical hooks to hang my thoughts on to strain the interpretive capacities of my readers and listeners—maybe making them snap and descend into infinite semiosis.

But I’m overturning all these hurdles and “We All Have Noses” is my legs. If you haven’t gotten it yet, there’s something wrong with you. I went from a tear-soaked shirt to one torn at the chest. I’m becoming free of the mustard. I’m going to start spreading the text Wednesday at the entrance to mall. The mall is named “The Ultimate Destination.” It’s in big gold letters over the main entrance—a fitting backdrop for a Proper Man and his redeeming message. I will be disappointed if fewer than 1000 people show up to receive my message.

POSTSCRIPT

Nobody showed up. The Proper Man was not deterred. He spoke to the stray dog that sat patiently hoping for a bite of the Proper Man’s plain baloney sandwich.

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.

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

There was a time when I gave a damn. There was a place that was worth a damn. There was a suit I wore that made me go “woah damn,” Everything’s in the past—a tower of memories babbling in my brain like a polluted brook outside the factory in New Jersey where they make glow-in-the-dark radioactive key rings at the dawn of the keyless epoch. And Margie used to matter, going bald from the radioactivity, with bleeding gums, and chronic diarrhea, and corns. She could barely talk and maybe that’s why I loved her. Her cognitive capacities had deteriorated to the point that she couldn’t talk back without tremendous effort that would induce an attack of diarrhea. So, Margie was docile—like one of Bo Peep’s sheep, wandering quietly through life in the pasture of the shadow of death.

We moved in together. We had four children. None with birth defects. When we moved in together, I figured she had around 6 months to live. Instead, she lived 10 years. We were not wealthy, or even middle class. We were poor. I stole a shopping cart from Hannaford’s to take her for walks. We would go to the park and I would splash water on her from the park’s fountain and take selfies together with the gazebo in the background, or a random squirrel. She loved laying on her back, rolling along, looking at the sky. I thought of her as my Tiny Tim from “A Christmas Carol.” I had planned on parking her empty shopping cart by our fireplace after she died. Then, I realized we didn’t have a fireplace and had to change my plan. Instead, I was going to park the shopping cart in the back yard, like a birdbath, as a sort of memorial.

When my dear Margie finally died, I needed to get a suit for her funeral. The children had a lot of money from their scratch-off lotto winnings. I had stolen 4 Take Fives when the Cliff’s clerk wasn’t looking. Between them, they had won $1500. On the other hand, my unemployment benefits had run out, and although my new job polishing slot machines and emptying ashtrays started the next week at the casino, I had nothing. It was so bad that we were burying Margie in a cardboard casket. The casket was closed at the funeral to save money on clothing for Margie by burying her in her favorite pajamas. At least, I wanted to look my best for the funeral. I didn’t know what to do.

When I was walking home, I saw a container that looked like a dumpster. There was a slotted opening, and above the slot it said “Clothing Here” with an arrow pointing down at the slot. I thought it would be hard to shop there because the entrance was narrow and required athletic abilities to negotiate. I climbed up anyway, and in I went.. I landed on a dead man. He was wearing a beautiful suit—just my size. It was black silk. I wrestled it off of him. I put the suit on. It, along with his shoes, were a perfect fit. I climbed out of “Clothes Here”and went home.

The funeral was beautiful. The kids looked like angels and I looked like a Mafia hit man. When I saw my reflection in a mirror, chills went down my spine and I did a little dance. My friend “Chainsaw Labatt” gave the eulogy. He is a professional wrestler and Margie was his biggest fan. He talked about tearing off death’s head and feeding it to ravens. It was beautiful.

My first day of work at the casino, I wore my suit. I was given an instant promotion. My new job is to watch for card counters at the blackjack tables. I have purchased four black silk suits. Even though I’m bitter about Margie’s death, things are slowly improving. Her shopping cart in the back yard has become home to a family of raccoons.

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.