My theory is that human beings are evolution’s meaning generators. It is up to us to create meaning out of the chaos all around. The place to find meaning is inside ourselves. Our task is to continually conduct an inward search for it, then let it out and give it form. To do that we must listen to our thoughts, factor in experience, honor our hearts, and be willing to wrestle with the words until they are right. Is this creativity? I think so.
To test this theory, I often write what I call “ouiji poetry.” I begin by closing my eyes, then randomly letting my fingers dance over the keyboard as fast as I can with no thought as to what is coming out. I try to hit the space bar once in a while and the “enter” key too, just for variety.
Now I have lines of meaningless letters and numbers on the page. I look for suggestions of words in the chaos and give myself complete permission to translate the garbled lines into words. It’s still a mess, but I am slowly beginning to create order out of chaos. I revise again, and again. A bit of sense emerges along with many surprises.
Here is an example, showing the initial chaos, two early translations, and then the final ouiji poem called, “Aging.”
Jdwe oe39 mc fjddksl;a wmnxpos fjems jkdo.s wjeor sj
Jdvowxl fjkm wwroi gckcowpa;xl fjnenc d
Djoc dhlos winr xcmcjfi kdrehw
D jreis dhdtos wek e e tekcoxpei as.t dt
Jayd we oee thirty nine, fiddlesticks weapons nex pas? From judo to
S queers de jour, si?
Judo vowx the film wren gecko cow pain excel final end
Dijon Jock deal loss winner Z come sci fi, Kendra ran
De jeune reiz tontos week ee technoscope XP as it dot
Jayed, we all were 39, fiddlesticks our weapons, understand?
From judo to esquires of the day, yes?
Jackdaws found you no vow the film wren gecko cow
Pain excels the final end.
Mustard jack cheese deals a loss winner.
He comes to sci fi, Kendra ran the morning sun plateau
The weak easy techno scope program as a dot.
Yesterday, we all were 39, fiddling around
Sticks and stones were not our weapons, understand?
Crows and crones we would become, but we vowed to hide
As wrens, as geckos, as cows.
We rearranged the mustard, the jack cheese, the cards, losing and winning.
One of us—Kendra—ran in the morning,
claiming the sun would help her plateau.
The rest of us, weak and easy, tried techno cure programs
To fight off death.
Is this great poetry? No, but it is a fascinating process. Now it’s your turn to try one. See what happens when, little by little, you let sense overcome chaos.