#76: Well, That's What You Think! (Opinion)

One Man Says The World Is Flat.
And Another Guy Counters That . . .
While Yet Another Claims He Sat
To Witness God's Own Minion.
Still Another's Got It Pat . . .
This Universe Was Prob'ly Shat
By Googol-Larger Garbage Gnat
In Another Space Dominion.
And As Their Breath And Sight Is Spat,
Like Any Other Tossed-In-Hat,
You Realize The Thermostat
Is Affected By Opinion.

Rows of seats in ascending tiers,
sort of theater-like,
looked down upon a barren stage . . .
save podium and mic.

Without a word, we found our way
to designated seats.
We sat down as the stage lights lit . . .
two men came out in sheets.

The first one took his place behind
the lectern, which now glowed
with runes that looked, for all the world
like arrows in the road.

It didn't catch my eye at first,
but arrows did rotate
in opposite directions, and
at some opposing rate.

Anonymous as the speaker was,
he started to expound
on ways that we could save the world,
as long as we're around.

Jo and I tried hard to hear
his each and every word,
but soon he stopped, and walked away,
and the other sheet appeared.

He started in explaining all
the problems with our air,
and how we had to change our ways
should we truly care.

And as he stopped his minute talk,
from either side the stage,
two more sheets got into line
to read from their own page.

Now, both of these were women, and
each one held out some thoughts
about the ways that men should work
and children should be taught.

Before too long, this process led,
as near as we could tell,
to maybe a hundred different folks,
all giving that mic hell.

Subjects ranged from household hints
to recipes for peace,
to how we all should grow enough
fresh food for folks to eat.

And every time a notion was
expressed with any care,
we felt a change in temperature . . .
just slightly in the air.

Then, at one point, as I recall,
there came a little pause.
I think the microphone went dead,
or it was, in part, the cause.

But anyway, right then, I turned
to Jo, crouched in his seat,
and said, "I think this place is all
just concepts we repeat.

All these folks have only said
some stuff we've heard before . . .
this State is all about the fact
that things are new no more."

"Well," my learned friend began,
"I think you've got a point,
but I believe it's a lot deeper than
a theory-spouting joint.

I've noticed, and you've caught it, too . . .
each speaker does appear
to have a slight effect upon
surrounding atmosphere.

I'm guessing that there's something here
about how concepts can
really make some difference when
expressed by any man."

"All right, boys," the Voice broke in,
"you've done your best to sniff
the message, but if 'close' gets 'warm,'
you'll wind up frozen stiff.

Yes, this State has concepts, but
there's more to hear and see . . .
the opinions that you've heard have changed
the atmosphere's degree.

The point is simple, if complex,
that even if they're wrong,
the notions held by any man
are notes within the song.

Ideas can't be fast dismissed,
just because they're dumb.
As long as one man counts on them,
they're added in the sum."

"So, nothing that we actually heard,"
Jo-Mima then surmised,
"is a message worth our effort to
here internalize . . .

but rather, we were here to find
that any notion will
affect, however modestly,
the airs of the whole world."

"You've learned some lessons harder, and,
this might have been more so,
but essentially, you've got the point,
I think you're good to go."

And Jo and I got up and walked
the rising theater aisle . . .
up to where the exit doors
were marked in usual style.

We stepped on through a lobby, lit,
with posters on the wall.
The Buggy hummed, preparing for
new ports of philo-call.