At EPCOT in Walt Disney World, there is a ride called Mission Space that simulates the speed and G-forces of a rocket's launch and reentry. The more intense version of the ride uses a centrifuge to spin and tilt passengers. I'm not sure if Mission Space accurately depicts the experience of cosmic travel, but the attraction usually has huge wait times.
I have ridden on Mission Space once. Yes, I allowed myself to be strapped into a seat, and I felt the centrifuge start to spin. Of course, I was locked in the enclosed "cockpit," I couldn't see the actual circular motion. I just felt its effects--nausea and headache and cold sweats.
Billy Collins has an experience with a centrifuge . . .
The Centrifuge
by: Billy Collins
It is difficult to describe what we felt
after we paid the admission,
entered the aluminum dome,
and stood there with our mouths open
before the machine itself,
what we had only read about in papers.
Huge and glistening it was
but bolted down and giving nothing away.
What did it mean?
we all openly wondered,
and did another machine exist somewhere else--
an even mightier one--
that was designed to be its exact opposite?
These were not new questions,
but we asked them earnestly and repeatedly.
Later, when we were home again--
a family of six having tea--
we raised these questions once more,
knowing that it made us part
of a great historical discussion
that included science
as well as literature and the weather
not to mention the lodger downstairs,
who, someone said,
had been seen earlier leaving the house
with a suitcase and a tightly furled umbrella.
I met with one of my best poet friends this morning to do a little writing. We sat in her garden with journals and pens, scribbling away as the morning blossomed around us. For some reason, I had difficulty falling into a poetic state of mind. There was a lot of clutter in my head.
Centrifuges have been used in medical laboratories for a long time to separate blood components. That's what they are mostly known for--breaking down heterogenous mixtures into their individual elements. Writing poetry is a centrifugal act. It forces me to examine a particular experience, separating out and meditating on its individual parts.
That's what I did this morning with my poet friend. I allowed the writing to spin and isolate the chatter in my mind, reducing my thoughts into something concentrated: a poem containing the essence of grief or joy or wonder or whatever. Take your pick.
I think that's why poems affect me physically. Some leave me breathless. Others make me dizzy. I've even had them induce nausea. Reading a poem is like strapping yourself into a rocket and being launched into the face of eternity. Time can bend. Emotions can leapfrog. And all you can do is hold on and hope you don't vomit or piss yourself.
Saint Marty did neither this morning, but he did have a chipmunk crawl over his feet.
