The distance to the moon is around 250,000 miles, and took the Apollo astronauts around 4 days (I think) to make it one way. Their travel to that world cost around $1 million per minute they were there. I traveled to another world last Friday. It wasn’t more than a miles away, and it only took me about 10-15 minutes to walk there. It cost nothing, and the inhabitants were glad I could make it. I entered into a world of the non-technics, a world of feeling, and a world of minds. I entered the world of poetry.
I volunteered to help out in the College Unions Invitational national Poetry Slam. There were 10 schools in attendance, including Case. The first person I saw had the most intricate and numerous piercings I have ever seen with my own eyes. Other people wandered in, all strange in incredibly interesting ways.
I was an imposter, hiding in a sea of poets! What was this engineer doing with these people? I hid along the corners, pretending I belonged in their world. They would stand and spout such creative poetry that touched me and made me rise up out of my chair to float through the room from the emotion they were exerting on the audience. They shouted and cried and wailed and sang and said such things that I would dream of saying, and still I stayed.
I had not written a poem, I had not given a performance, and I certainly didn’t help them in any great way, but these poets talked to me. Normally random people talking to me doesn’t affect me much, they are just people. But these were poets! I had poets thanking me! I had poets following me around, looking for directions on how to get somewhere! I was leading a pack of poets!
I was on a backpack once with one of my dads old work buddies. He was a really smart guy, and at the end of our 4 day pack he walked next to me. He told me he had figured me out. I was the Pragmatist. Nothing could faze me, I would just keep walking. If something was wrong, I would deal with it, and that I didn’t ever seem to mind. My other brother Ed was on this trip too. My dad’s friend also told Ed that he had him figured out. Ed was the poet. He noticed when things weren’t the way they were supposed to be, and didn’t like it. He did things for the sake of doing them, and said things for the sake of saying them.
I agree with what my dad’s friend said. I am happy to be the pragmatist. But my taste of the other side tickled my tongue, and every once in a while I wish I was a poet.
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