A conversation with Paddy

Jacob Stewart, Columnist

You know you’re in a bad state of mind when you’re having conversations with a bottle of Irish whiskey. Staring into the glass, waiting for it to give you all the answers. That’s where I’m at, readers.

I’ve got Three Dog Night’s “Momma Told Me” blaring through my head phones, and I’m yelling at this poor bottle as if it was at fault for all the problems of the world. If you are thinking that I’ve lost it, you must have missed my last few articles.

The one thing that does bring some sanity back into my life is the fact that we’re heading back into the Slam Season. The first of March is fast approaching, and we’ll once again see the poets of Wayne emerge from the darkness of the Max’s back room, providing the kind of truth that I’ve been trying to get out of Paddy.

Sure, it’ll be different this time around – going not as a judge, clothed in immense power with a never-ending tab paid for by Wayne State College, but as a mere spectator – yet that can’t take away from the passion of the night.

If the energy of one poetry slam could find its way across the world, we might not be seeing the civil war in Syria, with all the bombs, bullets and noncombatants dead in ruined streets.

One might be able to escape from the ugliness of our own national problem, and while the last thing I want to do is think about the pain of those involved in our most recent examples of gun violence, it seems unavoidable.

The NRA seems to have become our nation’s newest religion, and people have abandoned the idea of Jesus, replacing him with an AR-15 upon the crucifix.

As I said in a past article, poets should be the ones in charge. Sure, it’d be anarchy, but we’d see a much more beautiful world than the one constructed by our lackluster democracy, a republic that sees the rights surrounding a weapon as valid when arguing over the death of high school students.

It makes as much sense as me sitting here, conversing with a bottle of Irish whiskey, thinking that by the end, I will know all the secrets of the world.

Now that we’ve gone down the road that is sure to bring ridicule, let’s take a U-turn and get back to the point. The poetry slam is almost here, readers, and it is one of those rare days when a person gets up and reveals their soul. It might take a few rounds to get them to offer it without too much nervous resistance, but it is there for the audience to see.

The hours spent there can make a person forget the troubles that wait for them outside the bar, and in the world that we live in, you need that every now and then.