Chaos Is a Flower

This is chaos.

The shape of this flower is chaotic, asymmetric, seems to follow no rules. But I, and maybe you, think it's beautiful, in contrast to what we fear in chaotic situations: Energy unbound and unpredictable.  

There's a particular thing to notice about nature:  Entropy, the tendency of things to become randomly disordered. Add a single droplet of red food color to a glass of water. You can easily distinguish the swirling shape of the red color as it gently and slowly twists and twirls in the water, but then it disperses and becomes less and less distinguishable in the water. Finally, the liquid is uniformly pink.  

Random movements of the molecules of red liquid disperse it throughout the water molecules into which they were dropped. Molecules are, in effect, jiggling all the time, and as they jiggle they bump into other molecules, ricocheting off of them and toward others in their proximity. They jostle and bump until they all establish a random state of order. Which is chaos, utterly disordered.

Pink liquid doesn't look very disorderly and chaotic, but it is technically that. The molecules are jostling and have not formed a recognizable shape or visible order. They go everywhere inside the glass and would go further if the glass were not holding them in check.

The flower's petals are curved this way and that, some catching the light and some shading their neighbors. Every petal is a different shape and size, but we recognize the shape as a flower just as the liquid is a glass of pink water and coloring. So?

Chaos feels frightening on a human scale. Disorder and randomness represent threat and insecurity, sometimes death. But also, possibility and potential. What about that? It's a law of nature; it happens all the time, everywhere.

Think of the red droplet beginning its dispersal in the water. There's no real stopping it once it starts. It goes to its natural conclusion, which is perfect randomness, ultimately pink and fully chaotic.

But can we see war that way?

I Sit Awake When June Stops

June just ended, and now it's July.  I am awake. It's dark outside, very quiet. Inside, the house is making its contented sounds:  A ticking clock, whirring refrigerator, a fly randomly crashing into the window pane with a quiet "tock." Fingertips on the keyboard are soft pats and clicks, contact of skin on plastic. My foot brushes the floor as I shift my weight on my chair. July is hushed so far, sidling in, awaiting its cue.

It seems the stage is set now that I'm aware of all these little things, but what's going to happen? My mind begins to wander...

Wouldn't it be strange if everything just collapsed like a soap bubble and disappeared? Only a little splash left behind? Or if a superhero flew through the window, smashing the glass, rolling onto the floor and then springing to his feet ready to save my life? The glass would turn to water drops and then diamonds everywhere. Conveniently. Glass shards are too much. Some other meander could accommodate them, not this one.

I wander further...

It might be possible that everything becomes edible: the walls caramel and the curtains crispy. Or that the lamps have voices and tell great stories while the chairs chuckle at the punchlines. The sofa sighs and stretches, reaching for its glass of brandy. I like the squeak of leather, so I'd add that in. It's clubby and rich with detail. Then, the doorknob turns and all is quiet again. Anticipation of something, but what? Let's see...

This is where stories start, you know. In the middle of the night when the town is quiet as one month stops and another starts. Between the lines of ordinary life.