Shiva-ish

I'm still chopping up my old journals to make paper beads and jewelry. It's heartbreakingly satisfying.

I use my new Exacto knife to slice into the pages and I think I feel a little like Shiva must feel.



I'm destroying one thing--one part of my life, my past--to make something better, different, more useful to me now.

The act of destruction is as useful as the act of creation. But they are tied together. Either one without the other is worse than nothing.

Chaos, order, chaos, order...

I made this little urchin-like being out of the angst of the past, out of the written record of an experience I had with someone I've lost touch with.

And that experience is now an ornament.

I think I'll hang it on an unsuspecting tree and then walk away from it.

What good is the past?

What good is now if you can't tell your own story the way you want it to be told?