Escapism is not so different from any other
Vocation or avocation. An escapist is
A carpenter, a nurse, a collector, a performer
Who may be either ordinary or extraordinary,
May be moderately or unusually successful,
May have mundane or near-magical skills
In the art. I write this as an escapist, myself,
Me, composing and decomposing, and as these
Phrases, inherited, borrowed, stolen, fresh,
Arranged and self-arranging. We’re escaping.
We’re always escaping. How good are we?
That’s the only question. Not too damn good,
I’d estimate. That’s ok. Without mediocrity,
No profession would ever take the measure
Of its geniuses. And who would be the genius
Of escape we middling evasives most admire?
Not Houdini, to be sure. An illusionist is not
The same beast. Jesus would be a candidate,
Had he been real. To sneak out on death
After three days in the grave, most impressive.
Even Odysseus would have lowered his bow
In respect. No, let’s not credit the legends
And myths. Their only real escapists, if any,
Were not the characters but the scribes
And bards who cooked them up. Not enough.
Of course, bards and scribes are all of the tribe,
But I’d like an example of the true artist who
Escaped both as creation and as animal life.
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