How many I’s is that?
An odd little assignment
By Chris Hibbard
(Author’s note: In one of many assigned ‘tasks’ to engage in at the University of Lethbridge, we were asked to choose a letter and use one or more words that began with that letter at least seven times in one piece of writing. I altered this task, allowing myself to use as many words that started with the letter “I” as possible, rather than using the same “I” word numerous times.)
How Many I’s Is That?
Initially, I was inspired to write something that utilized “I” words infinitely and indefinitely. I thought about writing a poem using iambic pentameter. I thought that could be my impetus. I could be like an ibex and shed my inhibitions to be more interesting. If I chose, I could be at Ibiza right now, incoherent and impotent, invisible to all the informants and infidels who might relay information to important irritants.
Like Icarus, I might fly too high. Like the Titanic, I might hit an iceberg. If a second Ice Age was to roll around, leaving me icebound without an icebreaker, icepick or and ice-axe, I could check my I-Ching and consult with my integral intelligence, interpet my indica, and intercept any irresponsibility. My impressive impresario in his ivory tower might prescribe icing-covered icicles, or an itemized visit to an island I.C.U., complete with Iroquois Indians but free from the conflicts in Iraq and Israel.
At the hospital I’d be pressured to show my I.D., proving that I was from Idaho and not Illinois, like I have already intimated.
Not one to be intimidated by imitations however, my internal interruption system would protect me from any inhospitable inference.
I am not an idiot, not an imbecile, nor any other inhabitant of the planet Ignoramus.
If idle hands lead to the idolatry of ideology, then all those ideal places, those idyllic images make sense. We might as well make igloos like the Inuit and live their indigenous ways. I hope that doesn’t sound ignorant. Like the Iliad and all those painted iguanas that are ill-advised to do any illegal activities, we illegitimate, ill-humoured and ill mannered images are merely imitating intricate illusions.
We are not immortal, or impatient, impaired or immovable. We are merely intermingled with importance, insensitive to immigrants, and immune to the impact of Imperial implants. Call me inappropriate or imprecise, but don’t let me import or implicate my injustices upon you. I am imperfect. I am ready to implode. I am impenetrable and it would be impossible to intake all of my impure imaginations.
I am not inbred, nor am I Incan. I am not out of Iceland or Ireland, and I am not an inhabitant of any interesting inland isle.
I am the incarnation of an idol, the incandescent irradiation which you interpret according to your improvisation.
I wish I was incoming, like an incumbent incendiary device going off at an inconvenient time, leaving me indebted to your inconsistent yet impressive indifference.