My OperaA History of Entropy
Saturday, June 4, 2011 9:16:00 AM
Deep in the high desert of central Nevada, six thousand feet above the distant sea, tumbleweeds dance across the empty streets as dusk descends on Tonopah. Like dust in the wind, the people who once populated the land have scattered in search of greener pastures. A dwindling few of us remain, going through the daily motions trying to pump life into our dead home, refusing to give in to the inevitable end.
Years ago on an evening much like this one, I was called into a dirty office to face a small balding man who hid behind the pile of papers on his desk. I knew what was happening, I'd seen it happen to all my friends. The little man wouldn't look me in the eye, but he shoved a small pink paper across the desk and frowned. I picked it up and strode out without bothering to read it... I strode out, and kept walking all the way to downtown. I knew that if I stopped walking I would have nowhere to go and the truth would sink in.
All was deathly quiet on the empty roads and in the sad, ghostly buildings that loomed over the dusty sidewalks. I was near the corner of Mineral and Oddie when one particular building grabbed me somehow -- all the buildings were silent, but this outwardly ordinary warehouse had a pristine quality to the silence which captivated me.
From the doorway I could see very little, for the lights were gone and the windows few. A single beam of light shone down through a hole in the ceiling and illuminated a lonely metal box in the center of the vast warehouse floor.
I took a hesitant glance back at the street, then walked inside the old warehouse and up to the box to remove the latch. It opened easily, almost eagerly.
The box was empty, yet it felt full of history. Soft, indistinct voices slipped out and into the room and wrapped themselves around me like a warm blanket. A couple of the voices sharpened and rose above the rest, and I could smell dirt and sweat behind them. The image of two men in a small room in an old wooden building settled in my mind.
"It's silver," said the younger man. "I know it is."
"Worthless," replied the older man, dismissively. "Mostly iron. Sorry Mr. Butler, there's nothing of value in Tonopah Springs. Move along."
Jim Butler said nothing more and turned to go, not with resignation but with patient confidence.
A fog came over the scene, and when it cleared there was a bright new town rising -- first the mining encampments, then the Nye county courthouse, the Mizpah Hotel, the public library and all the banks and businesses and schools and homes. I watched them grow out of the desert, stand busy and gleaming for a short moment of history, then slowly crumble until the desert swallowed the last brick and everything was as peaceful as if the human race had never been born.
It was the past and future I had seen, the rise and fall of one of humanity's smaller and less significant termite mounds. Some might have found the vision sad or discouraging. For me it was a beautiful thing, and it filled me with a new determination to stay and give my life to the town.
All things are transitory. We are all of us as individuals doomed to death. Our greatest civilizations die in the blink of a geological eye. The transitory nature doesn't render our accomplishments pointless, it makes them all the more impressive for having held back and reversed the eternal forces of entropy for a few moments. It would be a great honor to do my part in the battle against entropy, to contribute in my own small way to extending a moment and monument of history. The more people leave, the more determined I am to stay -- for the fewer of us there are, the more important I am to the effort.
It doesn't matter if the task we set for ourselves is impossible. It's not about winning. All we can do is challenge ourselves to discover what we're capable of, building our castles in the sand before the tide comes in.
Years ago on an evening much like this one, I was called into a dirty office to face a small balding man who hid behind the pile of papers on his desk. I knew what was happening, I'd seen it happen to all my friends. The little man wouldn't look me in the eye, but he shoved a small pink paper across the desk and frowned. I picked it up and strode out without bothering to read it... I strode out, and kept walking all the way to downtown. I knew that if I stopped walking I would have nowhere to go and the truth would sink in.
All was deathly quiet on the empty roads and in the sad, ghostly buildings that loomed over the dusty sidewalks. I was near the corner of Mineral and Oddie when one particular building grabbed me somehow -- all the buildings were silent, but this outwardly ordinary warehouse had a pristine quality to the silence which captivated me.
From the doorway I could see very little, for the lights were gone and the windows few. A single beam of light shone down through a hole in the ceiling and illuminated a lonely metal box in the center of the vast warehouse floor.
I took a hesitant glance back at the street, then walked inside the old warehouse and up to the box to remove the latch. It opened easily, almost eagerly.
The box was empty, yet it felt full of history. Soft, indistinct voices slipped out and into the room and wrapped themselves around me like a warm blanket. A couple of the voices sharpened and rose above the rest, and I could smell dirt and sweat behind them. The image of two men in a small room in an old wooden building settled in my mind.
"It's silver," said the younger man. "I know it is."
"Worthless," replied the older man, dismissively. "Mostly iron. Sorry Mr. Butler, there's nothing of value in Tonopah Springs. Move along."
Jim Butler said nothing more and turned to go, not with resignation but with patient confidence.
A fog came over the scene, and when it cleared there was a bright new town rising -- first the mining encampments, then the Nye county courthouse, the Mizpah Hotel, the public library and all the banks and businesses and schools and homes. I watched them grow out of the desert, stand busy and gleaming for a short moment of history, then slowly crumble until the desert swallowed the last brick and everything was as peaceful as if the human race had never been born.
It was the past and future I had seen, the rise and fall of one of humanity's smaller and less significant termite mounds. Some might have found the vision sad or discouraging. For me it was a beautiful thing, and it filled me with a new determination to stay and give my life to the town.
All things are transitory. We are all of us as individuals doomed to death. Our greatest civilizations die in the blink of a geological eye. The transitory nature doesn't render our accomplishments pointless, it makes them all the more impressive for having held back and reversed the eternal forces of entropy for a few moments. It would be a great honor to do my part in the battle against entropy, to contribute in my own small way to extending a moment and monument of history. The more people leave, the more determined I am to stay -- for the fewer of us there are, the more important I am to the effort.
It doesn't matter if the task we set for ourselves is impossible. It's not about winning. All we can do is challenge ourselves to discover what we're capable of, building our castles in the sand before the tide comes in.
