Chiasmus

Perhaps you will believe that I have lost my pirate mind. But I must tell you anyway. I had an epiphany today. It's very simple, really. But despite what anyone tells you to the contrary, despite what you read in any self-help book, despite the advice of your family and friends, realize that what I say is true.

It IS all about me.

The evidence is everywhere. It is so absolutely clear.

Wherever I walk, the air surrounds me like a perfectly fitting glove, embracing my every pore, matching my changing contour instantaneously, without a hitch, without a glitch. Like a lover undaunted by changing mood or tempo or texture, the entire atmospheric surround opens to admit me with embrace beyond all telling. Unfailing presence is my continuous experience.

As if that were not enough evidence to support the revelation of the beingabout me of it all, consider what happens when I plunge into water. There is similarly ecstatic surrounding, every molecule moaning in joy at the interface with me. I feel the utter anticipation of my every movement, the complete attention to every one of my subtle positional changes.

And all the solids I encounter support me, unfailingly, meeting my every footstep or the seating of my grateful derriere, or my prone or supine lay out. And the ethereal winds dance around me, teasing, tickling, caressing.

All creatures, be they human or animal, see me when they see me or don't see me when they don't. Even the plants are generous, for those near me respond to my touch, aware or inadvertent. And those far from me do not respond, knowing I am not near.

The outer reaches of space and time embrace me as well, continuously rippling concentric entwinings that nestle me and nuzzle me and fondle me.

In fact, all of history has conspired to create this very space-time moment, a perfect place etched out to receive my existential thrownness, bouncing me playfully into attributions beyond count and delineations made by myself and others numerous as the stars in the sky.

The moon follows me, and enticing rainbows come and go just beyond my reach.

Who could ask for anything? More….

There is the continuously breaking through of the world of the dream time that visits me waking and sleeping, populating, copulating, advising, spicing, enfolding me in ever emerging adventure.

Even my own body insides create home for me, embosoming my consciousness with the empty drum of my innards' space.

It is all about me.

To agree or disagree is merely irrelevant. The only plausible commentary must be formulated as chiasmus.

Chiasmus is a wonderful verbal pattern which consists of a rhetorical inversion of the second of two parallel structures. Its name comes from the Greek letter chi which becomes the Cyrillic alphabet letter X. The very shape of the letter X inspires the seeing of exchange of opposites: above with below; right with left. This is the essence of this literary figure.

So if there must be commentary, here is my own chiasmus creation:

"It's all about me when I'm all about It."

I have always been in love with the word "It." First of all, at the very beginning, it was my larval nickname. Saying too much more about that might compromise my anonymity, so suffice It to say that it refers to a subject without reference to an agent. When there is a raining, or a snowing or a shining or a blowing, It is always the doing. The doing It is, but not a doer. It is the pinnacle of gerundive complicity.

Yet in a suitable X rated fashion, It can also be the player in a game who is performing the principle action. (You're It.)

Clearly, It is the stuff of chiasmus: It is reference to the quintessentially non-substantive as well as meaning the principle agent of game play. It lives on all sides of the X.

What does It have to do with what it is all about?

Me, my Xness, my Itness, is the allabout ness. It is the embrace that embraces me into the all about. It is the only living and dying. It is the bliss, the musing of the spheres and dodecahedrons and points of all lines on all planes. It catapults me into ecstasy, a delectable rapture that must be X rated.

It's all good.

And It's all about me.

N.B. Praise be to the most lovely Lady Jill, through whose inspiration chiasmus and more come to us all.

— Rx is the FloridaWeekly muse who hopes t o inspir e pr ofound mu tiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx may be wearing a pir ate cloak of in visibility, but emanating from within this shadow is hope that readers will feel free to respond.

Who knows: You may even inspire the muse. Make contact if you dare.