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Oct. 2nd, 2018 01:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kingtycoon Fine, I suppose I'll have this type of day.
Up on the shoulders & controlling the mind like a gremlin reaching through the skull & commanding: DOUBT. FEAR.
So even though I'm left alone today as my childish boss is away and not on hand to be a nuisance. And even though I'm free and able & have all my options open & could... I find that I'm all smashed up and dubious. Bad thoughts lead to inaction.
These are the bad thoughts placed in my head by the wicked gremlin:
None of the things I do or make or think are very good and even when they are any of those things there's a lot that's better that's already been done by better people with better minds. I am derivative & Inept.
I've missed all my chances by not working hard enough or often enough & I'll probably be alone & eventually I'll not want to be alone & won't know how not to be and I'll have missed my chances. I am wasting my time pointlessly.
These are shitty things to have to work through.
So now I think, reasoning back & looking back at young teen Agatha who is, as I type, in art school learning art. I wonder if this is a thing that's taught about in the schools of craft. If you're trained to work through the cramping doubt or the anxious hesitation. Can you raise yourself over these through the effort itself? Get lost in the effort & lose the thread of it's purpose? I think they teach perspective drawing & still life painting actually - but It'd be something - wouldn't it - if they offered up pep-talks & guiding wisdom to clarify purpose.
I suppose.... It used to be that I'd make some effort each & every day - I'd write - here in fact- about what has occurred & how I felt about it - and from there I'd be warmed up - have the knuckles all ready to really dance on the keys. Put some words down, work & thought the stream from mind to hand to screen all fluid and telepathic - all a kind of magic.
Components of this spell are twenty minutes of daily journaling, a reasonable quantity of spare/free time. A quiet place & a solid quantity of coffee.
As well I think that there's the unsaid & the understated. The things you think but do not say. I think that my diary has suffered on the strength of my verbose relationship with my nearly grown kid. When she was small I'd compose all these entries - drawn into the spiral of feelings- unuttered forming like pearls into ideas, into dramas & scenes.
Nowdays the itch never becomes a scratch to bleed & scab over - it's just a conversation now, never brooding, never clawing together a thesis - it's always fodder for the next conversation & the next. No rumination you see - or little enough of it - but it's because whatever I'd care to say I have someone to say it to & be heard & understood. Who knew that an abiding affection was death to creation.
And now you wonder if you typed it all because you're crushed under the heavy weight of being perpetually misunderstood or if it was just a habit you formed in the long minutes of boredom that you'd been conditioned to endure. Now you wonder if it's not just a pacing motion, a frustrated tic that's become a crippling addiction.
In the end? I think that above all there's nothing as ruinous to the spirit as having to edit your own overlong, incoherent books. It's a punitive cruelty done me by my own mean prior self.
Up on the shoulders & controlling the mind like a gremlin reaching through the skull & commanding: DOUBT. FEAR.
So even though I'm left alone today as my childish boss is away and not on hand to be a nuisance. And even though I'm free and able & have all my options open & could... I find that I'm all smashed up and dubious. Bad thoughts lead to inaction.
These are the bad thoughts placed in my head by the wicked gremlin:
None of the things I do or make or think are very good and even when they are any of those things there's a lot that's better that's already been done by better people with better minds. I am derivative & Inept.
I've missed all my chances by not working hard enough or often enough & I'll probably be alone & eventually I'll not want to be alone & won't know how not to be and I'll have missed my chances. I am wasting my time pointlessly.
These are shitty things to have to work through.
So now I think, reasoning back & looking back at young teen Agatha who is, as I type, in art school learning art. I wonder if this is a thing that's taught about in the schools of craft. If you're trained to work through the cramping doubt or the anxious hesitation. Can you raise yourself over these through the effort itself? Get lost in the effort & lose the thread of it's purpose? I think they teach perspective drawing & still life painting actually - but It'd be something - wouldn't it - if they offered up pep-talks & guiding wisdom to clarify purpose.
I suppose.... It used to be that I'd make some effort each & every day - I'd write - here in fact- about what has occurred & how I felt about it - and from there I'd be warmed up - have the knuckles all ready to really dance on the keys. Put some words down, work & thought the stream from mind to hand to screen all fluid and telepathic - all a kind of magic.
Components of this spell are twenty minutes of daily journaling, a reasonable quantity of spare/free time. A quiet place & a solid quantity of coffee.
As well I think that there's the unsaid & the understated. The things you think but do not say. I think that my diary has suffered on the strength of my verbose relationship with my nearly grown kid. When she was small I'd compose all these entries - drawn into the spiral of feelings- unuttered forming like pearls into ideas, into dramas & scenes.
Nowdays the itch never becomes a scratch to bleed & scab over - it's just a conversation now, never brooding, never clawing together a thesis - it's always fodder for the next conversation & the next. No rumination you see - or little enough of it - but it's because whatever I'd care to say I have someone to say it to & be heard & understood. Who knew that an abiding affection was death to creation.
And now you wonder if you typed it all because you're crushed under the heavy weight of being perpetually misunderstood or if it was just a habit you formed in the long minutes of boredom that you'd been conditioned to endure. Now you wonder if it's not just a pacing motion, a frustrated tic that's become a crippling addiction.
In the end? I think that above all there's nothing as ruinous to the spirit as having to edit your own overlong, incoherent books. It's a punitive cruelty done me by my own mean prior self.
