I am a ludicrous tender entity in training.
I am learning how to look down at the earth. How to heal and make things grow, how to touch and be touched, how to tie useful knots. Love is a muscle and I want more exercise. I make objects and situations that speak the language of bodies: wet and dry, cool and hot, slippery and rough, fragile and strong. Repetitive rhythmic motions soothe my hyperactive dorsolateral prefrontal cortex (the place where it’s all about “me”). Can I accept with open arms the ‘strange stranger’, the interconnectedness, the vulnerability that is everywhere, permeating everything?
This blip of time we’re in…anthropocene, capitalocene, any kind of scene: it’s a dark, sticky slough. I don’t want to sleep through it, I don’t want to sink into despair, and I don’t want to venture out alone. It’s hard to imagine another way it could be. The word ludic was used by psychologists to describe what children do — not just playing, something more. That which is ludicrous is something absurd, silly, even laughable. But what exactly makes it so?
I create experiences that are ludicrous because I believe that rituals and role-play can be powerful tools for healing and transformation in the face of uncertainty. They allow us to become through doing; changing the motion changes the script. I make ludic things to help me with my training, to keep me company, and to invite others to come play with me.