Spontaneity

Briefly on Creation

I, like many people, have long harbored the feeling that certain tendencies set humanity apart from the rest of the animal kingdom, foremost among them being our penchant for asking “Why?” This characteristic question is most often associated with art, science, and philosophy—though these are not the only relevant disciplines. Machinists and mechanics ask why. Landscapers, businessmen, parents, politicians, flight attendants, cooks, soldiers, athletes, engineers, monks, and farmers all ask why. What I’m getting at is that the discipline is irrelevant. All that matters is that we ask the question. It is a manifestation of our creativity. Creative ideas are as unique to individuals as are their physical traits. They make us who we are. To create is to be human (and vice versa).

“I think the natural thing for humans is to want to be independent and creative…whatever it may be. You want to do something that’s significant—that’s worthwhile.” – Noam Chomsky

This isn’t to say that humanity is the only creative species. There are countless examples of artistry and craftsmanship amongst our distant evolutionary cousins. Birds and beavers turn trees into beautiful homes. The birds dance and sing. Frogs and crickets sing, too. The pufferfish dig sea floor Zen gardens. Magnificent in its naturalness, the creativity of the other animals has an inescapable intentionality that has long inspired and will continue to inspire human creativity.

Okay, I’m biased—hold your sarcastic gasps, because my definition of creativity is about to become woefully circular. I say that animal creativity has inherent intentionality, or that it has a certain spontaneity that makes it all the more intriguing. What does that even mean? What about the dances of the Birds of Paradise, meticulously crafted over years? That’s not spontaneous. The variations of whale song can be as different as classical music and jazz. I’m no authority on the intentionality of their disparate languages. Members of the other species have created works of art that will forever rival the most impressive human creations.

However, speculating on what it is that sets our creativity apart is a purely academic exercise. I could (quite happily) sit around for hours debating what we actually mean by words such as “creativity,” “intentionality,” and so on. Animals create. It’s kind of our thing, but so far, only humanity creates for the sake of creation. Okay—debatable, but only humanity creates to spite the very concept of creation. Still debatable? Sure, if you want to, @ me (I mean it, that would be fun).

Barry

It’s not that Barry looks down on the dam builders—quite the contrary. He respects the hell out of their work. He’s thinking about them today as he floats downstream from the nearest construction project, his back in the water and eyes to the sky, green flittering leaves filtering the yellow sunlight into intermittent warm green glows broken by blinding flashes. He grabs the largest leaf lazing by him in the stream to cover his eyes, relaxing back into the water. The dam builders do good work and live damn good lives. They’re all sleeping now, comfortable in their homes—all the same. Soon the sounds of tinkling water take over Barry’s atmosphere. He won’t hit another dam ‘til dusk. That’s plenty of time for a beaver nap.

Barry opens his eyes to moonlight. The leaf was at some point lost, but no matter. He wonders where the next dam must be, tries to recognize the place he’s drifted. This part of the woods he calls Twin Tree Grove. He knows it as soon as he floats underneath the intertwined old willow trees weeping over his lazy stream. No dam, no gnawing, no falling of trees. The stream narrows ahead, Barry knows. The silence in the stream remains unbroken for about half the time it would take to chew a good alder, then Barry hears tail slaps in the water, warning from downstream.

Perry

Feral. Feral. Perry heard those words repeated every day; it was sickening. The featherless beasts kept appearing beneath the trees that housed Perry and the others in the park. They said things like “feral flock” and “likely dead soon.” The other parrots in the park latched onto these charged phrases, unaware of the implications. But Perry knew. He’d been trained. He knew everything there was for a bird to know about human language. They used to ask him questions about how many shapes there were of particular colors and other inane inquiries. When the day of the lab escape came, Perry didn’t care for either leaving or staying. The opportunity was there, and Perry figured he might as well follow along.

So Perry escaped the facility with the other parrots. Now the people down below tried to frighten him with threats of death. As if he believed it. And the other parrots were too stupid to understand any of it, anyway. They were all trained for mimicry, not for reason. Perry’s compatriots fluttered around him squawking echoed threats all day. Feral. Feral. Dead soon. Hungry. Hungry.

What is all this about?

I don’t know, but that is precisely the point. I don’t know what creativity is or why it sets us apart. Our creativity as humans is plain different than that of other animals. No more or less valuable, but undeniably unique.

I don’t know exactly why I made this. Call it spontaneity if nothing else—without intention by design. I create to better understand my own creativity. I thought about making the standard “Hello World” kind of post to kick it off. In fact, that’s what I named this document before writing it. The rest just happened, for better or worse. All I knew starting off was that I wanted the first post to be about creation.

I plan to continue writing here about whatever catches my interest, tagging topics for ease of navigation. As a rough estimate, I intend for my posts to fall in the categories of fiction, philosophy, literary discussion, tabletop RPGs, programming, and AI.