Entropy
‘Pure entropy, like,’ he says, dropping words like coins into my ear. He slides back into the seat alongside, the better to keep his face and form in full view of the audience. They’re still cheering and clapping, a few members inching around to the table upon which sits an artful arrangement of his latest chapbook. All those words for a mere five pounds, signed to your specification, if you so wish. I’ve my eyes trained on the half-circle window over the front door of the bar, still flooding a couple meters of linoleum with mandarin light. Summer is coming. It seems important to focus on simple pleasures.
‘Well done,’ I say, even though I don’t have to. In spite of the prevailing image of the downtrodden and damned, in spite of what they’d have you believe, the last thing poets need is encouragement.
‘Don’t you get it?’ he asks. I shake my head. ‘Entropy?’
‘It’s like the latest oldest newest thing,’ he says. ‘It’s been around for years and years, but it’s having a revival.’
I talk to the window, to the hidden messages coiled in the smog issuing from the smokers gathered around buckets of sand outside.
‘I don’t pay attention, Julian, you know that. I just turn up for the readings. I can’t keep track of the…rest of it.’
Not smart enough, is the implication. He likes it when I give him the opportunity to educate and inform, as well as entertain. He’d have a heart attack if he knew how tangled his ideologies were with a certain Mr Reith of the BBC. I do know things, notice things. Sometimes it’s just easier playing it dumb; these evenings move along a lot quicker if you don’t slog headlong into a quagmire of debate guys like Julian just won’t let you win.
‘Oh, Carol,’ he sighs, webbing his hands around the back of his neck, sticking his chest out. He’s still pretending to hold himself aloft from the gazes swirled around about his feet. ‘You’re missing out. Didn’t you read those books I recommended?’
‘Course I did.’
‘Then you’ll have seen what I’m talking about!’
‘I’m sorry, Julian, was I supposed to be looking for something? Here’s me thinking I’d a book in hand, not an instruction manual.’
‘You know better than that. It’s not about the words, it’s about the messages, the recurring tropes. Entropy’s just one of a few mega super important ideas bounced around the literature of the time, but it’s returned to again and again, and it’s never been more important than now.’
He’s dying to explain. Not that I’m about to admit it, but I’ve read the books, been online, took my fingers for a wander between encyclopaedia pages. I know that, outside its original use in thermodynamic terms, he’s looking at entropy as synonymous with randomness. I.e – abbreviation from the Latin id est, which means, simply enough, ‘that is to say’ – he’s got it all wrong, unless I’ve miscalculated the sweep of his ego. He knew fine well, from a multitude of previous readings, that the only random factor permitted on these occasions are the numbers of chapbooks sold, and whether or not he gets laid after the show. Still, I’m curious. That dirty cringe, like when you hear someone in authority mispronounce a word they’ve read without ever having spoken aloud.
‘Go on then,’ I say, trying to match my tone to his grin. However tiring, the vibes are always marginally better when you pander to the artist. The slightest hint of disbelief, and you’ll be challenged, arguments you didn’t know you were making wrestled up, beaten down.
‘Like, look at them! My words, their reaction…beautiful, just beautiful, everything coming together, all that heat and noise…’
‘That’s not entropy, Julian. Unless one of those factors was beyond prediction – entropy as a measure of uncertainty associated with a random variable. Entropy in terms of heat means the movement of any system toward stability. It’s a measure of how much energy’s available, and how much is made manifest. Audience reaction is either too predictable, or too random, to fit either definition perfectly. Nothing’s worth tracking, unless it’s the frequency of each hand clapping the other, or cheer volume, or either of these graphed alongside how much each audience member had had to drink, or all of these tracked per poem you read. I think you’re thinking more along the lines of euphoria, or epiphany, or ecstasy, for you or them, depending on whether you or they enjoyed the process most.’
I probably got very little of that as correctly as I should; the whole thing made my head hurt, that time I curled up with the information at the books’ promptings. I just know he’s got it wrong – he’s riding solely on the noise, the grinning faces, the heat built up in the room, the glory, none of which are news to him (or me, mores’ the pity). He’d just had that word at the forefront of his mind for a while, been dying to chuck it into random conversation. Anything to prove he’s more than a tailor of pretty syllables.
‘Carol, you have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he says, as I knew he would.
‘Fine. Explain it, then. More than noise? More than heat? You’ve got to be able to build an equation from what you’re on about, Julian. Information theory or thermodynamics, entropy’s still a matter of algebra.’
‘Yeah, but –‘ He breaks off, pretending something’s caught his eye on the other side of the room. ‘Carol, let’s have a proper chat about all of this another time, yeah? It’s really, really interesting, and I’m so glad you took so much from those books I recommended, but now’s really not the time or place for giving it the utmost attention, eh?’
He’s got his public to deal with. Never mind. I might have thrown up a touch of surprise at just how much I did know about the whole thing – can bullshit with the best of them, having learned from the master – but this would go on and on all night if I didn’t just go with it, let him think he was still a million pages ahead of me in the knowledge acquisition game.
‘Sure. Fine. Let’s change the subject,’ I say. Permitting a smile in recognition of having chucked in that universal random factor. Julian’s otherwise occupied anyway, arranging the cuffs and buttons of his blazer to just the right three-quarter length, showing off his latest delicately poetic tattoo, a line from Larkin I’m pretty certain isn’t quite verbatim. He’s checking his hair in the back of a coffee spoon, making quite the production of not being seen to do so. Any normal human being would just go to the bathroom for a full set of ablutions, but that’d be an allowance to the random he just can’t allow. Were the laws of entropy to be invoked over the course of the unwinding evening, he’s not about to let himself be the quantity of energy made unavailable for the necessary work – he has to be here, at this table, in full view of the audience he’s just astounded, the better to soak up their adulation, sign and sell his chapbooks, make sure his face is the one they’ll all remember. The evening’s compere spares me a headache, stepping up to the rusty old microphone, swabbing sweat from his forehead. Poetry will do that to a man, sometimes.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says, ‘Can I have your attention?’
Julian pouts at the thought of eyes swung elsewhere.
‘Well! What an evening, so far, eh? Quite the line-up, as promised, as ever. Now, we’re going to have a short break, fifteen minutes or so, for drinks and toilet breaks and cigarettes and so forth. Back in a few, don’t go away!’
‘That’s my cue,’ I say, trying for an ironic drawl and failing to hit the target. Julian’s got his head tilted up to the ceiling, shifting ever so slightly back and forth so as to envelop himself in an amber halo. I’ve seen him do this so many times before, this display of raw rank egotism is no longer so depressing. It’s no coincidence that I took up smoking not long after I started trailing him to spoken word events.
Outside, there’s a hit of long-awaited air, a smack of exhaust and cigarette smoke all the more refreshing for its honesty. Three old-time long-hairs of indeterminate gender lean against the wall, palms cupped around the dying birds of smokes herbal and otherwise.
‘Alright, darlin’,’ says the one to my left. ‘They finished up in there, or what?’
‘Short break,’ I reply. ‘Back on in ten.’
‘For the love of – ‘ the one to my right mutters, clapping his free hand to his forehead.
‘Not a poetry fan, then?’
‘It’s no’ that we’re no’ fans, pershay,’ says the third, ‘It’s just…small doses, aye? Too much of the stuff, and your arse doesn’t half start to kill you…’
‘I know the feeling,’ I say, smiling. There’s another theory, right there – the Emperor’s New Clothes. For all the folks gathered around the ramshackle stage in there, I could probably count on one hand the die-hard fans, those who understood the mechanics of the medium as it exists beyond the beatnik glamour (itself something of a paradox, when you think about it).
‘If they didn’t insist on taking over the whole bloody pub,’ says Long-Hair Number One. ‘Some of us just want a wee quiet drink, bit of chat, and the next thing you know, somebody’s handing you a fucking maraca and trying to make you chant…’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ says Number Two, ‘One time I was in there, right, and this wummin…big wummin, no’ that I’ve anything against that kind of thing, but she was…you know, mair than an armful….’
All three stopped for a chuckle, looking over shoulders for any witnesses. I joined in, having finally found the platform I’ve been looking for all evening.
‘…go on.’
‘Well, she was reading these poems, right, as ye do…heavy goin’, so it was, if ye’ll pardon the pun. Aw this stuff about aw the men who’ve ever left her or let her down or broken her heart or whatnot. Then poems about her bloody cats. Then one about her…time of month, like. That was aw bad enough, but when she finished…she started tae greet. I’m talkin’ pure howlin’, likes, folk in the front row gettin’ soaked. Me and Mick and Jimmy here are standin’ at the bar, tryin’ no’ tae watch, likes, and then she says….what wis it, Jai?’
Number Three executes a full-body shudder, peeling tobacco flecks from the corners of his mouth, chewing over something unpleasant.
‘She says, now we’ve got a window on her soul in words, like, we’ve all tae get up close and personal wi’ her physicality. Since she’s a performance poet, and aw that.’
‘Aye,’ says Number One. ‘So she goes roon’ the whole ay the place huggin’ folk, I mean every single person, even the bar staff. Hugs ah can handle, like, but the further she goes doon’ the line, she starts fuckin’… kissin’ aw ay the men in the place. Like pure lungin’ fir us. Says we aw owe her a wee bit ay oor ain souls, in exchange fir whit she’s shared wi’ us fae the stage. And we try tae bolt, run fir it, course, but she moves pretty fuckin’ fast fir a fat bird. Stops us at the door, says we’re no’ leavin’ till we’ve hud a soul connection.’
‘Long story short, it wisnae anythin’ we’d be happy tellin’ the wife,’ says Number Two. ‘Plenty mair than her fuckin’ soul up for grabs, looked like. That’s why we’re no’ goin’ in till they’re done wi’ aw that jazz and poetry shite.’
‘Fair play,’ I say, barely containing a scream of laughter. It sounded like a terrible story for Julian to get wind of – he’d see something like that as the perfect commingling of artwork and audience, something he owed them, perhaps, a gorgeous little sliver of the poet himself, straight from the mouth, as it were.
‘So whit ye dain’ here yerself, hen?’ asks Number Two – Mick, I guess. ‘You’re no’ wan ay they…I mean, it’s all well and good so long’s yer no’…’ He clatters to a stop, suddenly afraid of having spoken out of turn, realising I may well be a beatnik jazz mistress myself. You can’t beat a Glasgow rant – sure, sometimes it hits the wrong mark, but you’re guaranteed an unrivalled honesty, purely by virtue of unstoppable tracks.
‘Nah, not me,’ I say, shrugging. The clothes don’t help, I guess, still dressing like a student, all sackcloth and button badges, long after I should have grown up and got a proper job. ‘Just here to see a friend. Julian Marchant.’ I tap his name on the poster tacked to the inside of the window, raising a brow, inviting further jokes at his expense.
‘So…what’s he do, then?’ asks Jimmy, Number Three. ‘Music, words or…eh, audience participation?’
‘He’s a poet,’ I mutter. ‘Not a very good one, either, but don’t tell him I said that.’
‘Aw, he cannae be that bad,’ says Mick, ‘If ye’ve come aw the way oot here tae see him.’
No real point in explaining that my life wouldn’t be worth living if I skipped out. Theory number three – deal in known quantities of discomfort and inconvenience, for the sake of dodging curveballs from elsewhere.
‘Hmmm. He’ll tell you he’s a work in constant progress,’ I say. ‘That’s his response to criticism. If you don’t get it at that exact moment in time, you’re either a philistine, or hearing him a year too early or too late to construct an adequately informed opinion.’
‘Aw, let us guess,’ says James, ‘If ye dinnae like it, ye jist dinnae understand his vision. Sound about right?’
‘Yep, that’s about the size of it.’
I peer in the window, watching the audience members reclaim their seats as the show begins again. I should really get back inside. I can’t see Julian; around about his seat, my seat, a horde of dewy worshippers convene, holding out their fresh chapbooks for his consecration.
‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you guys…and this really shouldn’t go on for much longer, if you’re still after a pint.’
‘Nae worries, hen. Just stand well back fae that stage, aye?’
We part on a four-way handshake, each of us biting back laughter before I open the door and step back inside. I slip around the back of the gathered masses around Julian’s seat, slide into the bench without rippling the crowd. Julian doesn’t look at me, at them, at the stage or at anything else. It’s starting to get dark outside. He’s fading out, tiring, diving down into the words he can’t rely upon beyond their presence on the page. Still the smile coasts the outward reaches of his face, even as he slurs with each response. Maybe it’s the heat in here, the noise. Shame he never got around to explaining entropy. System unavailable for energies required.
Kirsty Neary is twenty-three and lives in Hamilton, near Glasgow. Whilst pursuing her studies of English Literature and Film & Television Studies at the University of Glasgow, Kirsty is also a novelist, artist, photographer and spoken-word performer. Her first novel, The Stately Pantheon, was published in August 2009 by Wild Wolf Publishing, and she is a frequent stage presence at such Glasgow-based events as Initial Itch, DiSCoMBoBuLaTe and Monosyllabic. Kirsty posts short fiction, paintings and photographs on her site at MySpace or on Facebook. More information on her novel can be found on her publisher’s website, at Wild Wolf Publishing, and it can also be purchased online via Waterstones and Amazon.
