This is such a jarring title for an entry. I think it’s interesting because it implies anger, rage, discontent, but I feel very much the opposite about the ripping process. It’s like when I was a kid and my mom left magazines out and I spent an afternoon ripping out all the pages. Or when I found her checkbook and spent an afternoon ripping up all the checks. That one didn’t go over too well, but I was 5.
It’s weird thinking about my childhood. In my memories with my mom I always seem like a dissonant, intrusive, chaotic energy. I remember pouring water off the sides of my Kitchener, Ontario apartment balcony and onto the sidewalk below. The landlord ended up paying us a visit, asking me to stop. My memories with my grandmother are sweeter. My favorite one is watching her pick cilantro from the garden while the sun was setting. It seems so simple and benign, but the sky pulsated with an alien beauty that night.
I have a bigger writing project that I’m working on. Most of it is stuck in my head, but I have some poster boards covered with ideas in my spare bedroom. It seems to be evolving though, acquiring more depth to work with. The funny thing about writing is that it imperceptibly evolves, even during dead time when it’s left on the backburner. Stepping away from the task, completely forgetting about it, living life, and then returning, creates fresh energy and a new perspective to infuse into things.
Today’s writing seems flat, almost a bit dull, but I’m okay with that. I’m just glad I have something hammered out, even if it doesn’t really have any pyrotechnics to it. I found a Carl Jung line that I really like: “A creative person has little power over his own life. He is not free. He is captive and driven by his daimon.” I love this idea. I think the reason why I’m forever forsaking rules and eschewing the crowd is because my daimon, my inner hellraiser, has no space to roam in the tightly bound confines of people’s minds.
a soft death 