be the tornado
Dear Ludic Liberators,
I feel like writing to you today. There’s no official reason for my message. I am just using you as an audience. If this feels like unwelcome harassment, I encourage you to unsubscribe. We should all use our muting powers more aggressively. I won’t be offended. In fact, I’m cheering for you. Reclaim your attention. It’s basically the only thing you have.
I want to share something from my almost-daily meditation in which I imagine myself dying in various ways and then ask this dying self for advice (she is very wise). Today, my cause of death was tornado. I was sucked into a massive windy whirlpool and swirled around with intense and blinding force. It felt (in my imaginarium) like being tossed about by a choppy ocean, but more dusty. Because it was a fantasy, I wasn’t afraid. I asked my tornado self for advice on my present life situation. “Be the tornado” it said. By that, it meant (when asked to elaborate), “Be powerful. Don’t be afraid to be misunderstood. But also don’t try to be understood, to be seen as nice and good.”
I hedge. I search for “benefits of tornadoes,” expecting lists like those enumerating benefits of exfoliating old skin off the soles of my feet. I’m surprised by the lack of positive takes. The internet claims tornadoes are “natural disasters” that cause environmental contamination, economic damage, injuries, pollution, forest fires. But ascribing such malice to a short, concentrated, funnel-shaped storm feels like a logical error. A tornado uproots and throws around a bunch of toxic, human-made stuff that we’d prefer to stay in its appropriately propertied place. It might even productively cross-pollinate some vegetation in the process. Plus, it’s a reminder that everything can unpredictably change at any second, a reason to deflate our hubris.
“Be the tornado” feels like advice fit for the goals of Ludic Liberation. Permission to play intensely, consuming all. “But how can I, when I’m so concerned with being understood, and liked?” I plead weakly, bargaining with my internal tornado’s uneasy wisdom. “Observe the impulses that keep you small and restrained,” my tornado teacher replies. “Observe and destroy.”
Imagine a tornado trying to fit in. You probably know people like that. Those that direct their immense awesomeness inside, suffocating, internally exploding beneath a smile. So I watch my impulses. My drives to contain, edit, order, preserve. My secret rules. I sing along with Iggy Pop: I’m the world’s forgotten boy, the one who searches & destroys.
I’m not telling you to be a tornado. Don’t try this at home. It’s not safe. I’m just sharing it, in a tornado-esque, spontaneous way, in case you need a reminder.
x
n.