The weather has a nakedness that resembles ours. It spits, it blows croons blusters and mourns. It is impetuous and adolescent, taking pleasure in small revolts and impunities. It also brings happiness, but this is not the norm.
We’re tempted to say weather is chaotic, as are we. Better, it plays a neat game of deception, a trickster game, hiding its patterns under a slew of information. Like us, it thrashes between order and chaos, liking both and finding it hard, if unnecessary to choose. It doesn’t like to be boxed in. It finds “contradiction” a weak term.
Yet it finds repetition and pattern deeply comforting. Look at the way it delights in swaying its head to a musical pattern or dancing to a rhythm track. Evolved weather people say the same: chaos evolves spontaneously into a lockstep pattern, showing distinct predictability. Here physics and poetics agree: This is our world. Live it, in the mess.