Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).
He couldn’t get a handle. There was always a gap between what he thought things were and what they were. He thought his mother’s iron was a frying pan. He thought his face was a mask. He thought his hands were those clamp things in the glass boxes, used to pick up teddy bears, at rest stops on the NYS Thruway. He thought people were dolls and he had gotten in trouble several times for molesting them. He thought fried eggs were all-seeing eyes. He thought books were animal traps—you open them and bait them.
So, he was as as crazy as a loon—he was no brain and he was so far out of touch, we called him Socrates, living in a cloud-cuckoo land of ideas, not manifest in the material world. In fact he thought he was a balloon and lived in fear of being punctured. His father, Milton Rub, was a famous and wealthy chiropractor who kept people in tune for miles around. He was able to influence local psychiatrists in their judgments of Socrates’ sanity and keep hm out of the nearby state hospital.
When Socrates turned 16, his father decided it was time to start shaving. Socrates protested that he was a balloon and shaving would be dangerous, especially with the straight razor his father wanted to use. I held Socrates’ arms behind his back while he struggled. Dr. Rub put the razor to Socrates’ throat and a farting-squealing sound came out. Socrates was losing air!
He was slowly deflating. “I need duct tape!” Dr. Rub yelled as he dropped the razor and ran to the garage. He came back in seconds with a roll of duct and tore off a piece. Socrates was nearly flat, but he could still speak. He said “I feel cold. I feel empty. I am running out of air.” “Don’t worry son, we’ll get you inflated again,” said Dr. Rub as he stuck the duct tape over the slash on Socrates’ throat. “That’s a little better Dad.” Said Socrates.
Dr. Rub had brought a bicycle pump in from the garage along with the duct tape. He told me to pull down Socrates pants. There it was! A valve stem just like on a bicycle tire! It was sticking out of Socrates’ butt. I hooked up the bicycle pump and pumped like crazy. Socrates started to inflate—his legs and arms stiffened. He stood up and pulled up his pants. “Phew” was all he could say. Dr. Rub and I looked at each other in horror. This puncturing episode was bound to happen over and over until there was nobody there to patch and pump Socrates up. Besides, Socrates was not a human being—the rules did not apply to him. Accordingly, we decided to stick a pin in him—to euthanize him slowly and painlessly. We decided to stick him in the middle of his back so he couldn’t reach the wound and patch it. At the last minute, we decided to decapitate him and keep his living head in a bell jar. We fitted the bell jar with a Bluetooth microphone and ear buds so we could communicated with hm.
The day came. We took off his head with a hot knife, sealing it at the neck at the same time so its air wouldn’t leak out. We got a nice oak plant stand to display Socrates’ head. Its craftsman look fits nicely with the living room’s decor and induces meaningful conversations. Last night we discussed the question: Is it worse to be punished for wrongdoing, or to escape punishment?” As usual Socrates dominated the discussion. Not having a body is a real advantage in these kinds of discussions.
Anyway, it is like we’re living a dream and a nightmare. We have kept Socrates a secret. If we told anybody the truth, their world would be turned upside down: the world would turned upside down. We don’t need that with all the other crap going on. At some point Socrates will start to leak due to old age. We will not patch him. We will let him “go gently into the night.”
POSTSCRIPT
I’m burying this to leave a record that will eventually be found.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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