Cataphasis (kat-af’-a-sis): A kind of paralipsis in which one explicitly affirms the negative qualities that one then passes over.
My push mower was a piece of shit—it was rusty, left dandelions standing, and gave me a workout I didn’t need. But, I had inherited it from my grandfather ten years ago. My father just died last week and didn’t leave me jack shit, unless you count three five-foot high stacks of National Geographic magazine. I looked at the stacks and thought they would make great fire starters. Now, for once, I was looking forward to winter. Burn, baby burn! Ha ha!
I bumped into one of the piles, it fell, and the magazines scattered on the floor. What looked like a scratch-off lotto ticket fell out of one of the magazines. I thought, “At least my fuc*ing father had a sense of humor.” The lotto ticket was titled “Happy Trails.” Which made me think it was some kind of marketing gimmick and not my father’s doing. I scratched the first spot and it said “Bali.” The second spot was “Bali” too. The third spot was “London.” The fourth spot was “Womb.” It made no sense, but I kept going. The fifth spot was “Womb” too. Number six was “Moon.” Number seven was “New Jersey.” Number eight was “Womb.” I had three “Wombs”—a winner. I had no idea what I had won, but I took off for Cliff’s to find out. I handed the ticket to the clerk. She looked at it and said “What the hell is this?” as she shoved it into the ticket reader.
I started sweating.
I woke up in my mother’s womb. It was warm and the most comfortable place I had ever been. It had a calming effect like a Jacuzzi. Suddenly, I was being hit with waves of contractions pushing me headfirst toward a destination. There was yelling and crying with pain. It made me sad and I tried to help with my exit. I saw bright light and came squishing out all the way. It was cold and I said “damn” and I cried like a baby. Why? Because I was a baby! “I” passed out, but not my baby me—he kept on crying. I awoke at home in my media room wrapped in a warm little blanket watching “The Pitt.” Except for the blanket, it was like nothing had happened.
When I tell people about my experience, many of them point to their temple and twirl their finger, or they wave me off and get me a drink. Still others, recommend psychological counseling. I show them the blanket and they laugh and tell me to cut the bullshit and get a life.
Eventually, I asked my mother if there was anything unusual about my birth. She said: “I never told anybody before for fear they’d think I was crazy, but I think I heard you say ‘damn’ right after you were born.”
She wasn’t crazy, and neither was I. It was the lotto ticket that did it, that defied time and place and took me to the “Mystical Scratch-Off Zone” where winning can be losing and the prize is a blessing and a curse.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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