
I’ve long been fascinated by the concept of entropy, the idea that chaos and disorder tend to increase in a closed system. I’m not talking about the scientific explanations – the second law of thermodynamics and all the inscrutable equations that remind me of why science courses terrified me in college. Rather, I’m using the term the way sociologists do, as a measure of what Merriam-Webster describes as “chaos, disorganization, randomness.”
As a description of my life, sometimes those words seem all too apt. Another definition I like describes entropy as “a measure of the unavailability of energy in a closed system” – not a bad description of clinical depression, when life closes in claustrophobically and it’s hard even to get out of bed. I’ve only recently emerged from over a year of living in this sorry state, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
A year ago, in the depths of my doldrums, I summoned the energy to write a poem in which entropy takes on the guise of a goddess. Here it is:
Entropeia
I’m Entropeia, Goddess of Disorder
Shape shifter, seductress
Enticing as your cat Lunesta
Purring and writhing on your desk
Unsheathed claws swatting the mouse
Knocking your pens and papers to the floor
Where they remain untouched for days on end
Over the years I’ve worn away
The letters at the center of your keyboard
A dozen keys, blank as an erased blackboard
Your fingers blindly grope for vanished symbols
You used to know by heart
Words become maddeningly elusive
Refuse to reveal themselves
Hide in the plaques and tangles
Of your aging brain
I wield Time’s Arrow
Wound you with panicked fear
Of irreversible dementia
I lure you with endless hours
Of Spider solitaire
Clawed hand cramping the mouse
You bargain with time for one more game
And throw away another day
Blundering on with stinging eyes
Till darkness falls
Nature tends from order to disorder
In isolated systems
That’s the entropic law that guides my every move
Your every lonely act or lazy lack of action
Under my ruthless reign
You fall apart

I’m delighted to report I no longer feel I’m falling apart, and I’ve managed to transcend my writer’s block and fear of dementia. But the other manifestations of disorder and chaos remain major issues. Lunesta still writhes around on my desk and tries to swat the mouse to the floor, and yes, she’s named for the sleeping pill I still take every night.
And I’m still using the same keyboard with the rubbed-away letters. The year of nonproductivity impacted on my touch typing ability, and I make more typos than I used to. Still, on the whole, life is good.
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