Entropy

Entropy

When my Physics teacher explained the world “entropy” to me,

The details about energy and thermodynamics bounced off the soft matter of my mind;

Only the concept of chaos slipped through my pores and made a home inside me.

“The universe favors chaos,” my teacher said.

A simple fact, a scientific law.

Or so he thought.

He did not know that he was unraveling the thin thread that held my world together.

If the universe prefers chaos over calm,

Disorder over organization,

Anarchy over harmony,

Then all our hope and optimism,

All our bravery and generosity,

Is implausible, illogical, impossible.

This universe—our universe,

The only one we've got—

Has no aspirations of bigger or greater things.

This universe wants to pick us up like we are pawns in a cruel, twisted game.

It wants to watch us burn or drown or battle one another for eternity.

This universe does not favor progress or unity,

And so it has set us all—

Each and every one of us tiny, insignificant beings—

On a path that ends in failure.

The universe plots wars and plans diseases,

All so it can look down upon us

And flash a demented grin at the chaos it has created.

But.

But, even though all the evidence tells us that the universe favors chaos,

We—we small, meaningless humans—fight nature.

We aspire and inspire,

We dream and desire,

We hope, and we love,

And we clean the mess the universe leaves us.

We may let chaos step on our toes,

Or push us back a few steps,

Or barricade us in boxes.

We may, on occasion, let it gain the upper hand

Or sabotage our plans for progress.

But we do not let it control us,

Or consume us, or defeat us.

The universe may favor chaos,

But we will never let it destroy us.

*****

I realize that the last poem I posted here was also about chaos, but I think I took each poem in a very different direction, so it's cool, right? :)
Also, this is another piece inspired by physics class! I'm not sure why I keep writing about physics, but perhaps I should start paying more attention in class instead of writing.

Rachel Pietrewicz | A Spoken Poem

I decided to start sharing my writing in videos on my YouTube channel, so this is my first adventure into the world of spoken poetry!

The written version of this poem can be found here on this blog.

Rachel Pietrewicz

Rachel Pietrewicz

On the first day of my last year of high school,

my Physics teacher takes attendance.

Eighth block,

eighth time listening to a teacher stumble

and stutter when their eyes land on my name

and their mouth tries to shape the letters into words.

I sigh quietly and brace myself for that one moment

that comes at the beginning of every class.

When my Physics teacher's voice breaks the smooth stride

of the Smiths and the Johnsons and the Wilsons,

I am ready.

It's “pee-etch-true-wits,” I tell him

before he even gets the first syllable out.

My classmates laugh, as they always do,

Mr. Rogers looks relieved, as teachers always do,

I slide further down in my seat, as I always do.

It's difficult to embrace

and accept

a name that no one can pronounce

or spell

or shorten into a convenient nickname.

I have spent too many hours of my life

repeating the spelling of my name

to teachers and doctors and reporters and bankers.

P as in Paul, I, E.

T as in Tom, R, E.

W, I, C, Z. Charlie, Zebra, yes we have finally reached the end.

“I'll just call you Rachel,”

everyone always says, shifting uncomfortably.

Because the ten letters that make up my surname

are arranged in a combination

that baffles intelligent people

and complicates simple situations.

*****

Yes, this is a poem called Rachel Pietrewicz written by Rachel Pietrewicz. :) I wrote this at the workshop, where everyone was assigned to write a poem with their name as the title. To be honest, I don't usually mind when people mess up my name, but I channeled those occasional moments of annoyance and ended up with this.

I Have Never Been in Love

I Have Never Been in Love

I have never been in love,

But I have watched the sun set over empty fields.

I have seen fireflies illuminate summer nights.

I have watched fresh snow glisten after storms.

I have laughed until my stomach ached and my lungs grasped for air.

I have felt the crowd swell as the lights went down and the curtain pulled back.

I have found comfort in the yellowed pages of old books.

I have felt the satisfaction of creation.

I have never been in love,

But I think that what I have felt

And seen and done

Is close enough.

Inseparable

Inseparable

There once was a boy and girl who lived next door to each other. They spent all their time together pretending and laughing and dancing. All summer long, they would run through their tiny town, leaving a trail of mischief and recklessness behind them. The boy and the girl were inseparable, unstoppable, the dream team, partners in crime, practically siblings, explorers, romantics, dreamers, darers, doers. They were pure hope, never scared or disillusioned but constantly smiling and helping and appreciating. The boy and the girl were king and queen of the town, rulers of the country, leaders of the world, game makers of the universe. They were misfits with ripped jeans and bare feet, ready to dominate and inspire and educate and love and be loved. As long as they had each other, nothing and no one could hurt them or stop them or ruin them.

But then the boy and the girl grew up, as boys and girls always do, and their days of mischief and recklessness became a thing of the past, something easily forgotten and rarely remembered. Growing up brought new people and goals and responsibilities, and there wasn't any time for pretending and laughing and dancing. The boy and the girl were hopeless, burned-out, the lost ones, grown-ups, practically retired, cowards, quitters, fakers, haters, seducers. They were pure regret, never brave or optimistic but constantly scheming and wanting and trying. The boy and the girl were strangers from the same town, separate citizens of the country, individual observers of the world, different pieces of the universe. They were conformists with broken dreams and wrinkles, ready to sabotage and get ahead and judge and hate and be hated. They didn't have each other, so anyone and anything hurt them and stopped them and ruined them.

*****

Fun fact: this is the only piece of writing I've ever read aloud to an audience. It was terrifying (and mandatory :P) but I think it turned out okay. 

Also, I'm not sure what to classify this piece as. I've been calling it prose poetry, but maybe that's inaccurate. Is it flash fiction? I have no idea!

In January

In January

In January,

the world is new.

Confetti and champagne and kisses

mark the natural passing of time,

a rather pointless tradition

if one thinks about it practically,

but January is not about practicality.

January is about symbols and resolutions.

January is hoping, dreaming, praying

to be better, stronger, happier.

January is optimistic.

It is vibrant, fresh, alive.

January is the time to stop and reflect

or rush right ahead into something that shimmers.

It is the time to be thankful that we are still breathing, living, laughing;

because despite everything,

despite November and December,

all those miserable, frigid days,

we have reached the other side.

We may be bruised and battered and broken;

our voices may shake and our hands may tremble,

but we trust that lists scribbled on napkins

and the promise of summer’s return

and the chance to remake ourselves

will save us,

and we are right.

In January,

everything is new,

and we are still breathing.

*****

This is a brand-new piece that I haven't taken the time to tweak/edit/whatever, so I don't think it's a final version, but I'm pleased with what I have so far. I normally don't post anything that I haven't agonized over for awhile, so this is a bit difficult for me, but I hope to do more of this casual write-something-then-post-it-right-away thing in the future. :)

The Truth About Writing

The Truth About Writing

"What inspires you to write?" is a question I get asked too often by friends and neighbors and teachers and relatives. They ask to be polite, to keep a conversation going. They don't actually care about the answer. All they want is a neat little package presented to them with my simple one-word-or-phrase-or-sentence answer. They assume their question is as simple as the obligatory “how are you?”—to which the only acceptable responses are “good,” “fine,” and “great, thanks.”

These people think there is one right answer I can give them, but writing is not math. There are no patterns or reasons or rules. Writing is chaotic, messy, disorganized. It is different for every single person who calls themselves a writer, and no two people will ever be able to answer the question “what inspires you to write?” the same way.

Usually, my response to this question is something polite and predictable like “my life experiences.” I don’t tell them that I’m inspired by the sound of breathing in a quiet room or the promise a sunrise holds or the diatribe spilling from my classmates’ mouths in the hallway. I don’t tell them that music causes my fingers to twitch if they are not wrapped around a pen or that sometimes when I’m driving I create stories in my head about utopias and monsters and the people walking down the sidewalk. I don’t tell them that I can’t imagine my life without words, without the ability to escape into the world of a spiral notebook, without my skin covered in ink that forms random phrases and ideas that I can’t trust my mind to remember on its own.

I could say all of these things, but if I said them, I'd also have to say that I keep a notebook next to my bed because sometimes I wake up at two in the morning when my subconscious mind has something brilliant to share. I’d have to say that I live my life on the sidelines, always observing other people rather than participating myself. I’d have to say that even the most mundane objects—tissue boxes and cotton shirts and shoelaces—have the power to ignite a fire of inspiration in me.

I don't want to tell anyone any of that, because I know they won't listen, or if they do listen, they won't understand. So I keep all of my thoughts on writing to myself, because secrets are fun to keep, and I comfort myself with the knowledge that this secret is mine, mine and no one else's, and it cannot be taken from me.

Maybe the next time someone asks me “what inspires you to write?” I'll just tell them the truth: that it's a secret, that they wouldn't understand, that they don't truly care. Or maybe I’ll answer their question with a question of my own. “What doesn't inspire me?” I’ll respond, and I’ll dare them to come up with an answer.