creativity as an antidote to collapse

experiments in thermodynamics & a new [rough draft] poem

I stumbled on a wonderfully iterated idea from the mind of

Jack Butcher

:

The second law of thermodynamics states that the entropy of an isolated system always increases over time. We can apply this concept to the human mind as a system.

In information theory, entropy represents unpredictability or randomness. Consumption, especially passive intake of information, tends to increase mental entropy. For example, scrolling through social media feeds often exposes us to a chaotic mix of information, potentially increasing disorder in our mental state.

In contrast, creation can be seen as a negentropy process - the opposite of entropy, introducing order into the system. When we create, we organize thoughts, information, and materials into a structured form. This process reduces mental entropy.

I have been writing more lately. turning the engine over. warming up the legs and stretching. trying to write regardless of inspiration levels.

a strange thing about practicing writing is that brilliant ideas don’t usually come out fully formed and unimpeded. it’s not a known quantity, or a trip down a well-worn road to the grocery store. it’s going hunting/exploring in a part of the woods you’ve never been in before. and there’s always the chance that what you’re hunting/looking for won’t be there at all.

rather, the enchanting prospect of the whole writing endeavor is participating in creativity itself.

at a basic level, there is often an inward revelation. and because of the way the universe is shaped, inward revelations are often outward revelations—revelations about the nature of things.

but at a deeper level, this is God territory.

creation is participating in God stuff.

I have never filled the seas with fish and whales and swarming creatures, nor the lands with beasts of field and forest, nor creeping things, but I wonder if our imaginations are the living container for our process of “and God said […], and it was…”

our imaginations are our God-given imaging organs for turning things dreamed of into things that are.

and when we apply that to the arts, crafts, engineering, cooking, maths, sciences, etc, we participate in the gift of being image-bearers, or being “imagers” like God. and it is a means of knowing him.

all of this may feel very cosmic compared to writing a poem. but it is the substrate out of which our work and our craftsmanship grow—whether it’s poetry, or it involves more actual grease.

a wood engraving by an unknown artist that appeared in Flammarion’s book L'atmosphère : météorologie populaire with a quote: A missionary of the Middle Ages tells that he had found the point where the sky and the Earth touch...

there is a subtle thread running between Jack’s quote above and the poem I wanted to share (below).

after I’d finished writing it, I was thinking about ways the act of writing has changed my mind. how I think about something. I don’t set out to do it—it just happens.

when I notice a messy nest in some darker corner of my thoughts, I sometimes let myself write towards that direction. where my peace-time thoughts fear to tread. and occasionally, I realize I am building a good little container/wall for an idea that I’ve never fully thought before.

or it’s as if, in the course of writing towards the unknown, a wayfaring idea knocks at my door. I do my best to welcome him in. we start to get acquainted, I make him a meal, and then get out my most poetic lines/carpentry tools to try and build the stranger a new room. it’ll need more work over time—after all, that blasted second law of thermodynamics.

a poem may house the poet’s best thoughts, but he’s unlikely to live there year round (the poet or the idea).

but in our participation with creating we builds rooms where ideas can live, and where we can go and meet with them.¹

caveat lector: this is transcribed directly from my writing notebook (i.e., an unedited rough draft)…

10/4/24
I have been the older brother
believing the universe to be withholding
blind, or worse, dismissive to my needs
and yet, even leaning over the pig trough
belly rumbling, the younger brother was fed
and the woman of Lebanon knew enough
to know even the scraps that fell
from your table could bring wholeness
to her broken daughter — so then, 
lift your eyes, my soul,
see not only the scraps that fall
from the table are more than enough
for your yearning eyes
but that the hand scooting such morsels
off the edge, also beckons you
to come up to the banqueting table
and eat beside the Lord of the feast


—ZW

thanks for being here. I write weekly sharing poetry, songs, musings, thoughts on creative life, and hopefully some encouragement… my first collection of poetry, Snowmelt to Roots, is available in my shop, (or on Amazon). my music is available here.

peace,

Z

1. if this idea feels strange, maybe consider a book or film that struck you or presented you with an idea for the first time. something you’d never thought of before. and then imagine you’d never read/seen it.