In the full eventuality of everything, so goes the notion of ergodicity, all possible things must be.
The most popular metaphor used to describe this ergoditic necessity of the universe to, over time, fulfill all the possibilities it has laid out for itself is the notion that, if one put 1000 monkeys in front of typewriters, probability dictates that eventually they must produce a flawless copy, in chronological order of original penning, of the complete works of William Shakespeare.
Now, please, consider:
So, should I see a plan in randomness or a Deist plot in the propagation of this thinking? Should I tremble and declaim that I have seen the hand of the demiurge at work and that I have seen that work playing out (O Mystery!) when I catch a glimpse of the divine, as I did Friday morning, in such an unlikely, such an unworthy, quotidian mise-en-scène as the Bedford L stop on my stumbly way to work? Should I wear hair shirts, wigs of razors, beat myself with cats ‘o nine tails until I am worthy to soil such hallowed observations with the words I form in this mouth, those words spat bathed in my lowly sinner’s saliva?
Suppose this condition of certain sets of behavior in the universe IS the result of the hand of a higher power. If this is Destiny, then 1000 monkeys laboring at metallurgy in the shop class of history for these 2007 years brought to mine eyes Friday morning a vision that is so much more, so much better and more unmistakeable than those recent manifestations of Him on toast, or Him in a sliced-in-half avocado, or Him on grilled cheese. Because He willed it, I saw Him punched in stencil out of a thin sheet of brassy alloy, hanging from the ears of a deluded daughter of Williamsburg , beatific and haloed. His bearded visage smiled at me reassuringly between blingy glintings, as if to mumble such pillow talk to the immortal souls of passers-by thus:
I’M ON UR EARZ, DYIN’ 4 UR SINZ
4 EVAH & EVAH
Like Xanadu, however, this vision’s glow faded, became misted. The way back to it was lost. I roused from these musings as a train rolled into the station and back out again with too many people crowded on for me to board. The only words I could remember then echoed back to me…
“1000 monkeys… 1000 monkeys… something… Man that girl had some fucked-up earrings.”
Certainly, in the eventuality of everything, there will be some variety of circumstances that will stun us into wonder.
And, just as certainly, there will be some variety of circumstances we can safely attribute to more prosaic forces than divine intervention, ones which will provoke an affect dissimilar to wonder. This, friends, is what happened Friday morning.
Thanks to this girl, we are helped to see that, no, ergodicity is not destiny. Although 1,000 monkeys can, conceivably, pound out the social and moral musings of each of Lev Tolstoy’s extensive novel meditations on the right conduct in life in descending order by page length, it seems they could just as easily run enchanted through a room of shiny iconic images, affixing them to their persons.
Ergodicity is not destiny, and this probably also isn’t the year for someone to take it on themselves to see that Galilee-Stylee Crunk breaks out to get its fart in the pews of fashion.
It might be time, however, if it please the universe, to get a grilled cheese and avocado sandwich for lunch.
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