Time travel: my inner artistic child
I'm starting the second week of my Artist's Way journey. I've decided that setting exact dates isn't the best formula for me. I usually take a day or two longer than the seven prescribed days to get through all the stuff inside me and do all the exercises. I'm not pushing myself to stick to the timeline. I think as long as I'm doing something to further my journey every day, then who cares how long it takes?
This week is all about time travel. Back to the basics of my inner child. the next several posts will be a mini-series: the time travel blogs.
Today starts with a really basic overview from lists of questions she has in the book. This gets you thinking in the mode of a child, reminiscing about the makings of that inner child that is responsible for creating all the art in you.
I wasn't your average ordinary kid. I'm not really your average ordinary anything, if you want to be technical about it. :-d I spent all my time in my imagination--playing dressup, playing creature hiding under the covers on the bottom bunk of my best friend's bunkbed... any excuse for a story with magic in it was a good game to me and my best friend, Julia.
1. My favorite childhood toy was . . .
barbies, polly-pockets, Russian nesting dolls, anything I could use to represent a character in the story I was currently immersed in. My best friend and I were forever pretending with our polly-pockets. WE set them up along the edge of her wooden framed bed in huge long rows, just like a little village. We played so many different games with those things: boarding school (like the one we attended), town--there were hundreds of little polly-pocket people, and each one felt slightly different. Each one had her own name and biographical information for us. We were writers even then.
2. My favorite childhood game was ...
Imagination! My best friend and I lived in a world of our own. We pretended to be DJs on the radio, famous singers (or wives of famous singers), characters in our favorite books... my mind was always far away in some make believe kingdom.
If I sat down to play a game, my favorite was Kerplunk. A tall cylinder had sticks poked through the middle in a web formation. Then you poured a bag of marbles on top of the sticks. You turned the mouth of the cylinder to face you, selected a stick, and pulled it out very carefully. The object of the game was to keep the marbles from kerplunking into your tray as you pulled the stick out from under them. I like living on the edge... doing things just to push the limits of my abilities and see if I can do it is my fun in life.
3. The best movie I ever saw as a kid was . . .
Milo and Otis. Such a simple movie, such a wonderful story, and such awesome characters! Plus I love animals.
4. I don't do it much but I enjoy . . .
Buying something really nice for myself, going someplace fun alone, or being in the middle of the ocean on a sailboat, just me, the wind and the waves.
5. If I could lighten up a little, I'd let myself...
Go dancing and not care if I don't know all the sexy moves.
6. If it weren't too late, I'd . . .
Go back to school and finish my music degree.
7. My favorite musical instrument is . . .
Harp
8. The amount of money I spend on treating myself to entertainment each month is ...
um right now? pretty much only what I spend on the internet service and my cell phone. Yeah, I need to make time to get out more.
9. If I weren't so stingy with my artist, I'd buy him/ her ...
A gorgeous concert dress, a new full concert harp, weekly vocal coachings, and an SSL recording console and nice studio suite.
More practically? the vocal coaching and an Ipod.
10. Taking time out for myself is ...
common enough, but I'm usually too tired by then to do anything artistically useful with it.
11. I am afraid that if I start dreaming ...
I won't have what it takes--the means, the resources, the abilities--to accomplish it.
12. I secretly enjoy reading ...
urban fantasy--witches and demons, elves and fairies, anything with magic and legend in it, goth stuff
13. If I had had a perfect childhood I'd have grown up to be ...
loved and respected for following my dreams and my callings of God to create art.
14. If it didn't sound so crazy, I'd write or make a . . .
film about my life, it's a miraculous story, with lots of amazing people in it.
15. My parents think artists are ...
Dreamers, not responsible, unable to make a living long-term, (in the eyes of one parent); facing a hard road, need to keep working on it, dreamers (to the other.)
16. My God thinks artists are ...
blessed with unique and wonderful gifts. we are called to use them to spread His message of love, hope and light.
17. What makes me feel weird about this recovery is ...
wondering if it will be something that lasts.
18. Learning to trust myself is probably . . .
one of the hardest things in the world for me to do.
19. My most cheer-me-up music is ...
anything that I can groove to. Something I don't work with professionally, hiphop or alternative. Currently it's the song Super Massive Blackhole by the Muise.
20. My favorite way to dress is ...
Like an artsy urban hippy gypsy
buried dreams
1. List five hobbies that sound fun.
Dancing, painting, sewing renaissance clothing, creating perfumes and oils, gourmet cooking
2. List five classes that sound fun.
french, ancient Egyptian history, business management, Yoga, dance
3. List five things you personally would never do that sound fun.
Karate, mountain-climbing, scuba diving, fencing, flying an airplane
4. List five skills that would be fun to have.
impersonations, graphic design, designing clothing, wind-surfing, architecture
5. List five things you used to enjoy doing.
ceramics, horseback riding, rock-climbing, goalball, archery
6. List five silly things you would like to try once.
Pole-vaulting, mushing with sled-dogs, skiing in the alps, time travel, sex on the beach (not the drink, the real thing)
*** Note: Questions come from Julia Cameron's Artist's Way and are not to be circulated around the web like those quiz survey thingies. I.E. please don't do the classic copy and paste to your myspace or facebook account. Use them for personal knowledge; that's what this blog is, and I'm giving her credit. Please respect her if you use these questions, and give her copyright info when or if you use these questions in a public setting. We're all artists, let's respect each other's work. Thanks.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Battle of the Blurt Monster
I'm back to blogging after a weekend in San Diego spent with family. The occasion (a funeral for a relative) was sad, but it gave me the chance to spend time with family I haven't seen in years. My family is very spread out, and we try to reunite every couple of years for a big reunion in Cape Cod, Ma or Big Bear, Ca.
Anyway, I'm back home in Burbank, and was asleep, but an early-morning phone call got me out of my bed, and now i'm up tackling more work... and blogging. :-d For these twelve weeks, I consider blogging part of work, payment to be made to self. I've decided that nurturing my inner artist (ah the hippie/inner therapist in me rejoyces at those words) is a good investment.
Week one of the Artist's Way tackles several issues, and the first big one aside from morning pages and the artist date is... (maestro, fanfare please): ladies and Gents, may I present... the Blurt Monster! *horrid stench fills the room, and everyone present cringes in horror as an ape-like, grasping, slavering thing from your worst nightmares shuffles onto the stage, glaring malevolently about him from squinty watery eyes.* His modus operandi? Blurt, squish, roar. (Thanks, Seth for devising the mating call of the Blurt Monster... care to put eh Latin translation up? Like veni vidi vicci for the blurts?) :-d
(stage whisper): Blurt Monster is your subconscious if you're into psychobabble.
Blurts are negative things you say to yourself, especially during the process of creative expression.
Examples of blurts:
I just do this for fun, I'm not a professional
I'm not that good
I'm going to hurt people around me if I give all my time to art--it's selfish
I must have an ego problem if I think I can make something the world wants to see or hear
I'm too old/young to do this
So-and-so said I couldn't or shouldn't do this, so why do I still waste time with it?
Etc, Etc.
You get the idea. Remember that mental neighborhood I took you on a tour of in my first blog post? Blurts live there. They lurk in murky corners, waiting to see a pretty new virgin idea waltzing merrily down the street, alone and unguarded. They just love to pray upon unsuspecting young ideas, dragging them into the shadows and beating them until they're helpless, quivering lumps of fear and misery, with no life left in them. Blurts are ruthless, hungry, cunning brutes that feed upon destruction, and are hell-bent on keeping the streets they haunt dark and deserted, empty and unfriendly.
What do they get out of all this? Absolutely nothing--just another victim. They're not payed to destroy, nor are they after power, food, thievery or pleasure. They're just there to capture and torture good ideas.
Enter: The affirmation task force. These are mostly average little, ordinary-looking guys, over-worked, under-payed, a bit hard up and seldom responsible for the spectacular take-downs you see on the news. But they pride themselves on being a formidable force all the same. They valliantly face off against rampaging blurts, fighting with only there presence. They don't chase down the bad guys, go out in a blaze of glory, or carry ten zillion gadgets and gizmos on their belts to do their dirty work, they just rely on their constancy, and their existence.
Think back to chemistry or physics class. Yes, I know, we're all artists here. for some of us, saying we remember physics or chemistry is a big stretch. Some of us sat slouched in our chairs, daydreaming or doodling. And you were probably oggling that cheerleader in the front row with the dark hair, wishing you could--um--paint her portrait? Yeah, that's what they call it! A few of you were busy sizing up the nerd in the corner, wondering how much you'd have to shell out of your allowance to get him to do your history report, leaving you free to use your fake ID to slip into that bar downtown to jam with the new band and show them a few of your tunes...
"Hey, earth to artist!"
Oops. let's pay attention to the teacher for five minutes, shall we?
Ions are positively or negatively charged. A negative ion cancels out a positive ion. When the two come together, they unite, creating a whole of two particles--they bond. They can and do also repel each other. Where one exists, the other cannot be present. It has to leave. Just like our attention span...
It's like that with the blurts and the affirmations, except it's not a law of physics, it's something you have to work at. You are the employer of the affirmation force, but you are also the parent of the blurts. You don't punish the blurts, and their bad behavior and reckless habits prove that you have been more than lax in their discipline.
Yes, blurts are like teenagers. The longer they go unsupervised, the more trouble they find, but when you step in and set them straight by means of the blurt force and proper punishment for rule-breaking, they slowly begin to straighten up and fly right. Any good parent makes an effort to find out what goes on in a child's world... so let's take a look at the average evening in the life of a blurt.
The blurt monster is the ring-leader. One little blurt gets out on the street and reports back to the leader that a great victim approaches. Monster Blurt and his cronies all gather round, drooling and scratching themselves, sloshing their feet in the gutter puddles and spitting at the nearby boarded up shop windows.
and then they see her. Beautiful, vulnerable, alone, innocent. A fresh new idea, racing for the edge of the slum, eager to escape and make her way in the world...
The gang moves. They surround her. They appear out of the dark night like phantoms, just following at a distance, making chills race up Idea's backbone, making her brush hair out of her eyes and glance uncertainly over her shoulder. She trips on the uneven cobblestones and loses her footing for a moment.
That's the sign. they move in, closing ranks until she is encircled. She wrinkles her nose at the ripe odor of her attackers, and looks for a way to pass. They begin to tease and taunt her, calling her names, putting her down, all the while, tightening the circle. Then they begin their assault, kicking, punching, pinching, pulling hair... worse, much worse... if they are not stopped.
A patrol of affirmations turns the corner and sees the altercation ahead by the dim glow of captain Affirmation's flashlight. His stride becomes purposeful, and his partners fall into step behind him.
Captain A. jogs up the street, but in the commotion, none of the blurts notice the newcomer. Our good captain puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles shrilly, causing several heads to turn, and a few pairs of piggy little eyes to widen in surprise and consternation.
"back off," Captain A. plants his feet, and stares down the nearest blurt. "What's your name, boy?" he asks the filthy street urchin.
"Name's Not-Enough-Money. What's it to you?" the boy scuffs his warn old shoe back and forth against a loose rock in the street in agitation, but his mutinous eyes lift to glare with defiance at the cop before him.
A slim young man dressed in worn jeans and a faded cap steps from behind Captain A, and holds up a badge. "Read it and weep, boys," he says slowly, pointing to the silver lettering on the badge. "My name's Sergeant Start-Small."
Not-Enough-Money's eyes widen in fear, and his blotchy face goes bloodless. He shudders violently, and raises a fist. behind him, a few blurts turn and shamble off up the street. Captain A. lets them go. He just doesn't have enough officers at the moment to catch all of them tonight. He'll settle for a few big ones. he wishes, not for the first time, that his force was bigger and that the budget allowed him to hire on more cops, and pay his officers more. Life on the good side is never a picnic.
Serg. Start-Small pulls out cuffs. He and Captain A. come forward and arrest the trembling perp. He begins to scream obscenities, but Serg. SS tapes his mouth shut and leads him away.
Captain A turns to the next scoundrel. "And your name?"
"Wher'm-I-gonna-find-the-time, you sodding piece of--"
Detective Make-Time flashes badge, pulls cuffs, and wrestles his opponent to the ground. Other officers find their targets and move in for the take-down.
The Affirmations finish their work and return to the station. Here's where things get dicey for our Captain and his men. They can't make many assault charges stick to these kids. You, as their indulgent parent will come down in the middle of the night to the jail and bail them out. They'll be back out on the prowl tomorrow, ready to make more trouble, unless you let what you've seen tonight motivate you. Now you know what really goes on; you're dillusions have been punctured. Take a good long look at the grim reality of the situation, and for the sake of the community, properly parent your children!
Meanwhile, the timid idea lies helpless where they left her, bloody and broken. Who will save her, or will she become an empty husk, a lifeless corpse left to rot there? Tune in tomorrow to find out.
Your assignment for today:
Your mission, should you choose to accept it: catch a blurt. Do a ride-along with Captain A and his team, and go out in your own mental neighborhood looking for your local blurt gang. See if you can apprehend them in the act of killing an idea. Take the blurt down with it's positive counterpart: I can'ts with I cans, I don'ts with I dos, I'm nots with I ams.
Don't forget to do the paperwork on your arrest when you get back to Affirmation HQ. File your report as a comment to me on the blog, or write it down wherever you keep your private thoughts, a journal, or your own Artist's Way notebook. Now that you caught your blurt (your thought) getting out of line, find some way to keep it from happening again. There might be a slip up or two, but go online, or talk to friends, and help your blurt with his homework. It keeps him off the street. Read an article about an 84-year-old grandmother publishing her first book, or a paralyzed college kid playing in the marching band. Listen to your friends' words of encouragement, and don't be afraid to let the blurt sit and stew in jail. It's called living with the consequences of your actions, and it's a mighty good lesson for a blurt to learn. Negativity only begets negativity, so make that wayward blurt-kid of yours mend his ways!
Good luck on your mission!
Anyway, I'm back home in Burbank, and was asleep, but an early-morning phone call got me out of my bed, and now i'm up tackling more work... and blogging. :-d For these twelve weeks, I consider blogging part of work, payment to be made to self. I've decided that nurturing my inner artist (ah the hippie/inner therapist in me rejoyces at those words) is a good investment.
Week one of the Artist's Way tackles several issues, and the first big one aside from morning pages and the artist date is... (maestro, fanfare please): ladies and Gents, may I present... the Blurt Monster! *horrid stench fills the room, and everyone present cringes in horror as an ape-like, grasping, slavering thing from your worst nightmares shuffles onto the stage, glaring malevolently about him from squinty watery eyes.* His modus operandi? Blurt, squish, roar. (Thanks, Seth for devising the mating call of the Blurt Monster... care to put eh Latin translation up? Like veni vidi vicci for the blurts?) :-d
(stage whisper): Blurt Monster is your subconscious if you're into psychobabble.
Blurts are negative things you say to yourself, especially during the process of creative expression.
Examples of blurts:
I just do this for fun, I'm not a professional
I'm not that good
I'm going to hurt people around me if I give all my time to art--it's selfish
I must have an ego problem if I think I can make something the world wants to see or hear
I'm too old/young to do this
So-and-so said I couldn't or shouldn't do this, so why do I still waste time with it?
Etc, Etc.
You get the idea. Remember that mental neighborhood I took you on a tour of in my first blog post? Blurts live there. They lurk in murky corners, waiting to see a pretty new virgin idea waltzing merrily down the street, alone and unguarded. They just love to pray upon unsuspecting young ideas, dragging them into the shadows and beating them until they're helpless, quivering lumps of fear and misery, with no life left in them. Blurts are ruthless, hungry, cunning brutes that feed upon destruction, and are hell-bent on keeping the streets they haunt dark and deserted, empty and unfriendly.
What do they get out of all this? Absolutely nothing--just another victim. They're not payed to destroy, nor are they after power, food, thievery or pleasure. They're just there to capture and torture good ideas.
Enter: The affirmation task force. These are mostly average little, ordinary-looking guys, over-worked, under-payed, a bit hard up and seldom responsible for the spectacular take-downs you see on the news. But they pride themselves on being a formidable force all the same. They valliantly face off against rampaging blurts, fighting with only there presence. They don't chase down the bad guys, go out in a blaze of glory, or carry ten zillion gadgets and gizmos on their belts to do their dirty work, they just rely on their constancy, and their existence.
Think back to chemistry or physics class. Yes, I know, we're all artists here. for some of us, saying we remember physics or chemistry is a big stretch. Some of us sat slouched in our chairs, daydreaming or doodling. And you were probably oggling that cheerleader in the front row with the dark hair, wishing you could--um--paint her portrait? Yeah, that's what they call it! A few of you were busy sizing up the nerd in the corner, wondering how much you'd have to shell out of your allowance to get him to do your history report, leaving you free to use your fake ID to slip into that bar downtown to jam with the new band and show them a few of your tunes...
"Hey, earth to artist!"
Oops. let's pay attention to the teacher for five minutes, shall we?
Ions are positively or negatively charged. A negative ion cancels out a positive ion. When the two come together, they unite, creating a whole of two particles--they bond. They can and do also repel each other. Where one exists, the other cannot be present. It has to leave. Just like our attention span...
It's like that with the blurts and the affirmations, except it's not a law of physics, it's something you have to work at. You are the employer of the affirmation force, but you are also the parent of the blurts. You don't punish the blurts, and their bad behavior and reckless habits prove that you have been more than lax in their discipline.
Yes, blurts are like teenagers. The longer they go unsupervised, the more trouble they find, but when you step in and set them straight by means of the blurt force and proper punishment for rule-breaking, they slowly begin to straighten up and fly right. Any good parent makes an effort to find out what goes on in a child's world... so let's take a look at the average evening in the life of a blurt.
The blurt monster is the ring-leader. One little blurt gets out on the street and reports back to the leader that a great victim approaches. Monster Blurt and his cronies all gather round, drooling and scratching themselves, sloshing their feet in the gutter puddles and spitting at the nearby boarded up shop windows.
and then they see her. Beautiful, vulnerable, alone, innocent. A fresh new idea, racing for the edge of the slum, eager to escape and make her way in the world...
The gang moves. They surround her. They appear out of the dark night like phantoms, just following at a distance, making chills race up Idea's backbone, making her brush hair out of her eyes and glance uncertainly over her shoulder. She trips on the uneven cobblestones and loses her footing for a moment.
That's the sign. they move in, closing ranks until she is encircled. She wrinkles her nose at the ripe odor of her attackers, and looks for a way to pass. They begin to tease and taunt her, calling her names, putting her down, all the while, tightening the circle. Then they begin their assault, kicking, punching, pinching, pulling hair... worse, much worse... if they are not stopped.
A patrol of affirmations turns the corner and sees the altercation ahead by the dim glow of captain Affirmation's flashlight. His stride becomes purposeful, and his partners fall into step behind him.
Captain A. jogs up the street, but in the commotion, none of the blurts notice the newcomer. Our good captain puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles shrilly, causing several heads to turn, and a few pairs of piggy little eyes to widen in surprise and consternation.
"back off," Captain A. plants his feet, and stares down the nearest blurt. "What's your name, boy?" he asks the filthy street urchin.
"Name's Not-Enough-Money. What's it to you?" the boy scuffs his warn old shoe back and forth against a loose rock in the street in agitation, but his mutinous eyes lift to glare with defiance at the cop before him.
A slim young man dressed in worn jeans and a faded cap steps from behind Captain A, and holds up a badge. "Read it and weep, boys," he says slowly, pointing to the silver lettering on the badge. "My name's Sergeant Start-Small."
Not-Enough-Money's eyes widen in fear, and his blotchy face goes bloodless. He shudders violently, and raises a fist. behind him, a few blurts turn and shamble off up the street. Captain A. lets them go. He just doesn't have enough officers at the moment to catch all of them tonight. He'll settle for a few big ones. he wishes, not for the first time, that his force was bigger and that the budget allowed him to hire on more cops, and pay his officers more. Life on the good side is never a picnic.
Serg. Start-Small pulls out cuffs. He and Captain A. come forward and arrest the trembling perp. He begins to scream obscenities, but Serg. SS tapes his mouth shut and leads him away.
Captain A turns to the next scoundrel. "And your name?"
"Wher'm-I-gonna-find-the-time, you sodding piece of--"
Detective Make-Time flashes badge, pulls cuffs, and wrestles his opponent to the ground. Other officers find their targets and move in for the take-down.
The Affirmations finish their work and return to the station. Here's where things get dicey for our Captain and his men. They can't make many assault charges stick to these kids. You, as their indulgent parent will come down in the middle of the night to the jail and bail them out. They'll be back out on the prowl tomorrow, ready to make more trouble, unless you let what you've seen tonight motivate you. Now you know what really goes on; you're dillusions have been punctured. Take a good long look at the grim reality of the situation, and for the sake of the community, properly parent your children!
Meanwhile, the timid idea lies helpless where they left her, bloody and broken. Who will save her, or will she become an empty husk, a lifeless corpse left to rot there? Tune in tomorrow to find out.
Your assignment for today:
Your mission, should you choose to accept it: catch a blurt. Do a ride-along with Captain A and his team, and go out in your own mental neighborhood looking for your local blurt gang. See if you can apprehend them in the act of killing an idea. Take the blurt down with it's positive counterpart: I can'ts with I cans, I don'ts with I dos, I'm nots with I ams.
Don't forget to do the paperwork on your arrest when you get back to Affirmation HQ. File your report as a comment to me on the blog, or write it down wherever you keep your private thoughts, a journal, or your own Artist's Way notebook. Now that you caught your blurt (your thought) getting out of line, find some way to keep it from happening again. There might be a slip up or two, but go online, or talk to friends, and help your blurt with his homework. It keeps him off the street. Read an article about an 84-year-old grandmother publishing her first book, or a paralyzed college kid playing in the marching band. Listen to your friends' words of encouragement, and don't be afraid to let the blurt sit and stew in jail. It's called living with the consequences of your actions, and it's a mighty good lesson for a blurt to learn. Negativity only begets negativity, so make that wayward blurt-kid of yours mend his ways!
Good luck on your mission!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The age-old pizza question: What exactly is this elusive "art" you speak of?
So what is art, and why have I given my life to her slavery and keeping? And what on earth is a pizza question?
Hmm, good questions. They require an expedition into my memories and into my soul to answer. Please put on your spacesuit plus any protective gear you deem necessary, and welcome to the deepest recesses of my mind and heart. *flicks on cave light on helmet and gazes around with a twinge of trepidation*
Bottom line, art equals work to me. How productive I am in my art is directly proportionate to how much food winds up on my dinner table, or how sweet my digs will be. I speak of it light-heartedly, but when your fate hangs in the hands of this internal kid who runs around making things and singing all day, it can be nail-bitingly worrisome. I had a recording professor in college say that some months you'll be rolling in green. Then, just when you think things are peachy keen, you'll be sucking up that legendary top Rawman, and scrounging in the couch for loose change. Yes, it can be that bad, or worse, if you don't put out the art.
I've held on to my financial sanity with white knuckles more than a few times, and I've sacrificed many things to make music, but I am not a martyr either. i've worked a desk job that had nothing to do with my dream, but I put it to use. For a few years I worked for an airline, helping passengers, learning the ins and outs of the air travel industry. It gave me free flight benefits, and I used them to network. I performed around the country, wherever I could land a gig. my goal was just to get my voice in their heads, just to get my sound out there, as we say in the industry.
I have friends who make music full-time, and now that my chance has come, I'm putting my artistic talent to work on myself and my own life. Life, to me, is a blank canvace, I am the paintbrush, art is the paint, and God is the artist. I am not, nor would I ever wish to be the source of my art. I have a gift, and a calling to use that gift, and if I stand idle and do not allow God to steer me across the canvace of life, then what good is life?
It's that simple. That is why I am devoting these twelve weeks to molding myself into a really good paintbrush for God to grab and guide.
Okay, now on to that scarey looking question lurking in the corner, the mysterious gentleman everyone is attracted to, but no fair maid wants to court...
What is art?
There, I asked it!
For many of us art is a passion, a hobby, a job, a lifestyle...
why can't it be all of those and more? *Yes, I am a proponent of the socratic method, thanks for asking.) *grin*
to me, the best way I can describe my art is as my calling. Five years ago, I was singing a solo in Handel's Messiah, when an incredible feeling stole over me. I felt like I was hovering in the back of my own head, hearing and feeling myself singing, but I was no more in control than a leaf in a hurricane. Time froze around me; the only thing I could hear was the music, and the only thing I could feel was the ebb and flow of my breath. I was nothing more than a witness to the music I was performing. God had me in the palm of His mighty hand, and the music just moved through me. It was an incredible feeling, the right feeling. I knew I was in the right place, doing what I was put on Earth to do, and the sensation was so all-consuming that it left no room for doubt or fear.
It still feels that way today. Yes, I've had doubts and frustrations. I've thought I'm not good enough, I've been rejected and frustrated, but I've kept at it. I'd rather live my dream and live as an artist following her heart than turn from the calling God gave me and give up. Okay, there are nights I think I must be crazy to do this job, but it's really not even a choice for me. I have to be an artist; I can't do anything else. Like I have to eat, sleep, drink water, I
have to create, and I have to do it to live--to make my living doing it, to live off of it as I live off the blood in my own flesh.
Try explaining this to people who haven't been bitten by the bug... I've never had success with that one. It's a sure-fire way to get yourself labeled "loser," "troubled emotional dreamer," and/or "nuts." Life is choices, but some you can't change, even if you wanted to, which i don't. In as much as He created me, God made me a musician, an artist. Hard as people have tried to pull me away with persuasion and reason, I can't separate myself from that which I am formed of. Believe me, I've tried a time or two, and suffered for it. Just because a lot of musicians/artists turn to drugs for inspiration, we now have a stigma that proclaims us all hangers-on to the edges of society. We cling to the fringe, and worst of all, we then turn this vision in on ourselves. Sure, we do tend to be a little more flamboyant, and yes, some drink and do drugs or sex, or whatever earthly fun attracts that kid inside that is responsible for spouting out the art... but in the end, leave the labels at the door. You are an artist, and if you work at it hard enough and know you must create, then the social pitfalls attached to your profession choice are things you learn to live with and just disregard after a while. Okay, so it's harder to do that when you're being pin-holed by well-meaning family at the Thanksgiving dinner table, or when you note the shrewd gaze of the spit-'n-polish business snoot averting his eyes from your harp case as you board the train. But trust me, like art, ignoring the criticism just gets easier with practice. (Yeah, tell yourself that one when you're lugging that harp onto the stage at a wedding for the surgeon and the attorney...) But that's for another blog post. :-d
Here's an exerpt of the journal entry I wrote about that night singing
the Messiah years ago:
I belong here, in this moment, in this music. The questing fingers of petty cares and monumental woes cannot touch me here in the center of my freedom.
I stand still and quiet, my breathing slow, strong and steady. The calm of knowing the stage is my work and my life washes over me like a tide, and soothes every nerve, every thought, every heartbeat. Some hitherto dormant part of my soul awakens in the space inside me, and steps majestically forward to claim her righteous place in my being. That part of my soul comes to life only when I set foot on the stage, but each time I meet her is more memorable than the last. She is a part of me that slumbers through the laughter and strife of every other part of my life, and in her lies my true solace, the one outlet to perfection in this world for me. I love that part of me that stays so well-hidden that even I don't know her secrets or her desire until the moment she arises. Each time I feel her close her hungry, loving hands around the rest of my pensive heart, I know I am safe and ready to perform, and all the fear or worry of the days leading up to a big performance melts away like ice, revealing a spring ready to be beheld in all its glory.
Here there is no ego, no self-doubt, and no room for wishful thinking. I am what I am, no more and no less, and I cannot deceive myself into believing I am anything else. Every night on stage is different, and every moment is a new evaluation of self, song and
audience reaction. Tonight, I feel beautiful, strong, and at peace, and in everything I do, I reflect those feelings into the hearts of my audience. They become everything I am, and in turn, I take upon me the reign of the kingdom of their emotions, playing upon their hearts like fiddles, feeding them like my subjects, and serving them like a slave.
The heat of the stage lights warms my skin, and the organ thunders around me, mellow, deep, like the purr of some mighty lion at play. The musicians behind me stand as still as statues, poised, ready to sing when I step back. The conductor's tuxedo jacket rustles when he raises his baton, and time flickers to a stop as I wait for the next downbeat.
The baton moves, the organ echoing around the church falls silent, and I open my mouth. Breathe into the phrase, and notes fall from my lips rich as gold and strong as diamonds. The music courses through my body thicker than blood and life itself. I belong to the music, a willing captive of the song pouring from my lungs. Somehow, I am singing, and there is nothing I'd rather do.
I am transformed by the act of singing. I am a fertile field planted with seeds of desires, misgivings, hopes, and expectations. The seeds stir in me, quiver in the air I draw through my body, and blossom on my lips to be given back to the audience from whence they came. God gives them roses, and lilies, and the boundless beautiful vivid things of life that only music can grow. They receive their roses graciously; they drink thirstily from the waters of the song; they bathe themselves in my voice and the cry of the organ, letting the music wash them clean of mundane and painful things. They are nourished by the food of the field, they rejoyce with me in the harvest. They grow. They in turn feed me--I surrender myself to them and to the music, and vanish into the song, eveanescing into the whole of the meaning of my life. I am music.
End of exerpt
Well, in retrospect (reading it five years later unedited), that's poetic, but true. Usually I don't think of it that way. Usually it's a show or a paycheck or a recording session. It's work to me, just like anyone with a desk job, a nurse, or a teacher. Usually I'm wrapped up in the moment and in the music too much to reflect on it like that and delve into that mystical exchange between the audience and myself. But occasionally, like that night, I know the power of what I do, and I am awed by it.
I was called to spend my life making music. I don't just sing or play, I produce, I help others create. More than anything, I love seeing the vision sitting tied up in someone's soul, and giving them the tools to set it free. Is this all too poetic for you? Come in the studio with me sometime when someone brings a song they've written to the table. Yes, I still have to consider the market and the charts and profit... but to me, that's part of art.
Everything I am, everything I do is creative. I sing, I play and compose, I write, I live Yoga, I cook, I model, I sculpt, I live.
Living is art. I guess that's where this whole thing starts. Life is composed of events, notes of a symphony, strokes of a brush, prisms, colors expanding and contracting around you. Some of them are yours to conduct in this symphony, to coordinate and guide. Others are yours to play, your solos, your harmonies, they feel alive in your hands, are at your command. Others move around you, and you are their witness, the audience to their performance. Some pass you by and you don't even know they were there. Some are so brilliantly exquisite that we are brought to our knees with sheer admiration and respect. Looking up at those moments in awe, we can honestly reflect on how beautiful or painfully miraculous life is. Others hurt, burn, ache, destroy, transform. Still others uplift, blossom into joyous strains we carry inside us for ever. Others just lead to the big moments, but that makes them no less special. Art is the appreciation and the expression of these, from one human being to another. Or at least, that's kind of my definition of art, from my vantage point at this moment. Things may change. but for now...
Whether you're reading this for fun, for motivation or for inspiration, or whatever, I hope you find what you need here. No, scratch that. I hope you find what you need within yourself, and that you then take that knowledge and apply it. Use it, become what you've been waiting to be. No one will live your dreams for you. No one has for me, and I'd feel cheated if they had done so. Some of my dreams crash-landed, and I would have saved myself a lot of injury if I hadn't been riding them, but I wouldn't have missed them for the world.
That's the artist's way: living life for the blues and the reds, the fortissimos and the pianissimos, the catharsis and the fall-asleep-out-of-bordom pages. Today, I'm starting the artist's Way by just living, that's creation, that's art, and it's enough.
Oh yeah *catching breath from the last torrent of words* To answer your burning question: what is a pizza question? It is a term devised by one of my favorite teachers--an honors english teacher I studied with in my senior year. Simply, a pizza question is a question that, when asked, requires the immediate consumption of the largest pizza available. Eat the entire pizza while debating/answering the question, and if there is still more to discuss, then you, my friend, have met the infamous pizza question.
So? What's your pizza question concerning art? Try discussing it with those around you (preferably over a really good pizza). Are you the main character of your life, or does someone else rule you with an iron fist against your will? What role does art take in your life? How do you perceive art? and who directs your life? You? God? Something or someone else? What are you waiting for? Go eat!!! That's where I am going after writing all of this!
Hmm, good questions. They require an expedition into my memories and into my soul to answer. Please put on your spacesuit plus any protective gear you deem necessary, and welcome to the deepest recesses of my mind and heart. *flicks on cave light on helmet and gazes around with a twinge of trepidation*
Bottom line, art equals work to me. How productive I am in my art is directly proportionate to how much food winds up on my dinner table, or how sweet my digs will be. I speak of it light-heartedly, but when your fate hangs in the hands of this internal kid who runs around making things and singing all day, it can be nail-bitingly worrisome. I had a recording professor in college say that some months you'll be rolling in green. Then, just when you think things are peachy keen, you'll be sucking up that legendary top Rawman, and scrounging in the couch for loose change. Yes, it can be that bad, or worse, if you don't put out the art.
I've held on to my financial sanity with white knuckles more than a few times, and I've sacrificed many things to make music, but I am not a martyr either. i've worked a desk job that had nothing to do with my dream, but I put it to use. For a few years I worked for an airline, helping passengers, learning the ins and outs of the air travel industry. It gave me free flight benefits, and I used them to network. I performed around the country, wherever I could land a gig. my goal was just to get my voice in their heads, just to get my sound out there, as we say in the industry.
I have friends who make music full-time, and now that my chance has come, I'm putting my artistic talent to work on myself and my own life. Life, to me, is a blank canvace, I am the paintbrush, art is the paint, and God is the artist. I am not, nor would I ever wish to be the source of my art. I have a gift, and a calling to use that gift, and if I stand idle and do not allow God to steer me across the canvace of life, then what good is life?
It's that simple. That is why I am devoting these twelve weeks to molding myself into a really good paintbrush for God to grab and guide.
Okay, now on to that scarey looking question lurking in the corner, the mysterious gentleman everyone is attracted to, but no fair maid wants to court...
What is art?
There, I asked it!
For many of us art is a passion, a hobby, a job, a lifestyle...
why can't it be all of those and more? *Yes, I am a proponent of the socratic method, thanks for asking.) *grin*
to me, the best way I can describe my art is as my calling. Five years ago, I was singing a solo in Handel's Messiah, when an incredible feeling stole over me. I felt like I was hovering in the back of my own head, hearing and feeling myself singing, but I was no more in control than a leaf in a hurricane. Time froze around me; the only thing I could hear was the music, and the only thing I could feel was the ebb and flow of my breath. I was nothing more than a witness to the music I was performing. God had me in the palm of His mighty hand, and the music just moved through me. It was an incredible feeling, the right feeling. I knew I was in the right place, doing what I was put on Earth to do, and the sensation was so all-consuming that it left no room for doubt or fear.
It still feels that way today. Yes, I've had doubts and frustrations. I've thought I'm not good enough, I've been rejected and frustrated, but I've kept at it. I'd rather live my dream and live as an artist following her heart than turn from the calling God gave me and give up. Okay, there are nights I think I must be crazy to do this job, but it's really not even a choice for me. I have to be an artist; I can't do anything else. Like I have to eat, sleep, drink water, I
have to create, and I have to do it to live--to make my living doing it, to live off of it as I live off the blood in my own flesh.
Try explaining this to people who haven't been bitten by the bug... I've never had success with that one. It's a sure-fire way to get yourself labeled "loser," "troubled emotional dreamer," and/or "nuts." Life is choices, but some you can't change, even if you wanted to, which i don't. In as much as He created me, God made me a musician, an artist. Hard as people have tried to pull me away with persuasion and reason, I can't separate myself from that which I am formed of. Believe me, I've tried a time or two, and suffered for it. Just because a lot of musicians/artists turn to drugs for inspiration, we now have a stigma that proclaims us all hangers-on to the edges of society. We cling to the fringe, and worst of all, we then turn this vision in on ourselves. Sure, we do tend to be a little more flamboyant, and yes, some drink and do drugs or sex, or whatever earthly fun attracts that kid inside that is responsible for spouting out the art... but in the end, leave the labels at the door. You are an artist, and if you work at it hard enough and know you must create, then the social pitfalls attached to your profession choice are things you learn to live with and just disregard after a while. Okay, so it's harder to do that when you're being pin-holed by well-meaning family at the Thanksgiving dinner table, or when you note the shrewd gaze of the spit-'n-polish business snoot averting his eyes from your harp case as you board the train. But trust me, like art, ignoring the criticism just gets easier with practice. (Yeah, tell yourself that one when you're lugging that harp onto the stage at a wedding for the surgeon and the attorney...) But that's for another blog post. :-d
Here's an exerpt of the journal entry I wrote about that night singing
the Messiah years ago:
I belong here, in this moment, in this music. The questing fingers of petty cares and monumental woes cannot touch me here in the center of my freedom.
I stand still and quiet, my breathing slow, strong and steady. The calm of knowing the stage is my work and my life washes over me like a tide, and soothes every nerve, every thought, every heartbeat. Some hitherto dormant part of my soul awakens in the space inside me, and steps majestically forward to claim her righteous place in my being. That part of my soul comes to life only when I set foot on the stage, but each time I meet her is more memorable than the last. She is a part of me that slumbers through the laughter and strife of every other part of my life, and in her lies my true solace, the one outlet to perfection in this world for me. I love that part of me that stays so well-hidden that even I don't know her secrets or her desire until the moment she arises. Each time I feel her close her hungry, loving hands around the rest of my pensive heart, I know I am safe and ready to perform, and all the fear or worry of the days leading up to a big performance melts away like ice, revealing a spring ready to be beheld in all its glory.
Here there is no ego, no self-doubt, and no room for wishful thinking. I am what I am, no more and no less, and I cannot deceive myself into believing I am anything else. Every night on stage is different, and every moment is a new evaluation of self, song and
audience reaction. Tonight, I feel beautiful, strong, and at peace, and in everything I do, I reflect those feelings into the hearts of my audience. They become everything I am, and in turn, I take upon me the reign of the kingdom of their emotions, playing upon their hearts like fiddles, feeding them like my subjects, and serving them like a slave.
The heat of the stage lights warms my skin, and the organ thunders around me, mellow, deep, like the purr of some mighty lion at play. The musicians behind me stand as still as statues, poised, ready to sing when I step back. The conductor's tuxedo jacket rustles when he raises his baton, and time flickers to a stop as I wait for the next downbeat.
The baton moves, the organ echoing around the church falls silent, and I open my mouth. Breathe into the phrase, and notes fall from my lips rich as gold and strong as diamonds. The music courses through my body thicker than blood and life itself. I belong to the music, a willing captive of the song pouring from my lungs. Somehow, I am singing, and there is nothing I'd rather do.
I am transformed by the act of singing. I am a fertile field planted with seeds of desires, misgivings, hopes, and expectations. The seeds stir in me, quiver in the air I draw through my body, and blossom on my lips to be given back to the audience from whence they came. God gives them roses, and lilies, and the boundless beautiful vivid things of life that only music can grow. They receive their roses graciously; they drink thirstily from the waters of the song; they bathe themselves in my voice and the cry of the organ, letting the music wash them clean of mundane and painful things. They are nourished by the food of the field, they rejoyce with me in the harvest. They grow. They in turn feed me--I surrender myself to them and to the music, and vanish into the song, eveanescing into the whole of the meaning of my life. I am music.
End of exerpt
Well, in retrospect (reading it five years later unedited), that's poetic, but true. Usually I don't think of it that way. Usually it's a show or a paycheck or a recording session. It's work to me, just like anyone with a desk job, a nurse, or a teacher. Usually I'm wrapped up in the moment and in the music too much to reflect on it like that and delve into that mystical exchange between the audience and myself. But occasionally, like that night, I know the power of what I do, and I am awed by it.
I was called to spend my life making music. I don't just sing or play, I produce, I help others create. More than anything, I love seeing the vision sitting tied up in someone's soul, and giving them the tools to set it free. Is this all too poetic for you? Come in the studio with me sometime when someone brings a song they've written to the table. Yes, I still have to consider the market and the charts and profit... but to me, that's part of art.
Everything I am, everything I do is creative. I sing, I play and compose, I write, I live Yoga, I cook, I model, I sculpt, I live.
Living is art. I guess that's where this whole thing starts. Life is composed of events, notes of a symphony, strokes of a brush, prisms, colors expanding and contracting around you. Some of them are yours to conduct in this symphony, to coordinate and guide. Others are yours to play, your solos, your harmonies, they feel alive in your hands, are at your command. Others move around you, and you are their witness, the audience to their performance. Some pass you by and you don't even know they were there. Some are so brilliantly exquisite that we are brought to our knees with sheer admiration and respect. Looking up at those moments in awe, we can honestly reflect on how beautiful or painfully miraculous life is. Others hurt, burn, ache, destroy, transform. Still others uplift, blossom into joyous strains we carry inside us for ever. Others just lead to the big moments, but that makes them no less special. Art is the appreciation and the expression of these, from one human being to another. Or at least, that's kind of my definition of art, from my vantage point at this moment. Things may change. but for now...
Whether you're reading this for fun, for motivation or for inspiration, or whatever, I hope you find what you need here. No, scratch that. I hope you find what you need within yourself, and that you then take that knowledge and apply it. Use it, become what you've been waiting to be. No one will live your dreams for you. No one has for me, and I'd feel cheated if they had done so. Some of my dreams crash-landed, and I would have saved myself a lot of injury if I hadn't been riding them, but I wouldn't have missed them for the world.
That's the artist's way: living life for the blues and the reds, the fortissimos and the pianissimos, the catharsis and the fall-asleep-out-of-bordom pages. Today, I'm starting the artist's Way by just living, that's creation, that's art, and it's enough.
Oh yeah *catching breath from the last torrent of words* To answer your burning question: what is a pizza question? It is a term devised by one of my favorite teachers--an honors english teacher I studied with in my senior year. Simply, a pizza question is a question that, when asked, requires the immediate consumption of the largest pizza available. Eat the entire pizza while debating/answering the question, and if there is still more to discuss, then you, my friend, have met the infamous pizza question.
So? What's your pizza question concerning art? Try discussing it with those around you (preferably over a really good pizza). Are you the main character of your life, or does someone else rule you with an iron fist against your will? What role does art take in your life? How do you perceive art? and who directs your life? You? God? Something or someone else? What are you waiting for? Go eat!!! That's where I am going after writing all of this!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Welcome to the neighborhood!
I recently started reading the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. Do I
believe there is a magical or spiritual cure for writer's block, or
flat notes, or squeaky bowing, or butterfingers on the piano keys? No.
What about those few minutes during every musician's practice time when things are not going right? Nope, no quick fix for that, either. You can't make your music be perfect, or your writing be stellar without putting in tons of hard
work... but I do believe there are things we can each do to further our artistic endeavors that have nothing to do with the time we spend at the instrument, or at the potter's wheel, or in the dance studio. I think a lot of what we bring to our art starts in our heads. That's where art goes from being a spark of inspiration to being a masterpiece, right? So if you aren't in the right frame of mind, how can your creation take wing? The Artist's Way is supposed to help re-build your creativity, teach you tricks to replenish your inspiration well, and open your eyes to the state of the relationship between you and your art.
I'm covering a lot of ground in this first post, but it sets the stage for the rest of the play. Hang on tight, and here we go!
Side note: I haven't figured out the formatting on blogger yet, so just pretend the posts look pretty and cleaned up until I get smart. Thanks.
***********************
Mental neighborhood
Sometimes my head can be a bad neighborhood, full of criticism, back-talk, bullies, and what-ifs. Those what-ifs are good guys if you befriend them, but if they sneak up on you in a bad alley... look out. They will shoot first and ask questions later, take you down without a moment's hesitation if they can. Perception can be art, or nightmare, depending on who pulls the trigger and how you react. Interpretation can be your lover, or your mortal foe, depending on how you employ him. Inspiration runs like hell when the Censor emerges cracking his hairy knuckles and flicking a switch-blade out of his jacket pocket. Motivation is a ragged vagabond beggar, beaten down and raped by necessity and reality one too many times to get up anymore. Necessity rules with an iron fist, and his mobsters don't let anyone get away with anything without his nod. Yeah, it's that bad in my head, some days.
And yet, through the bleak grime coating the upper-stories of tumble-down dream buildings, you can catch a glimpse of sunlight glinting off of ocean waves. Seabirds wheel in a tangy fresh breeze, and once in a while, a desperate idea makes a break for freedom from the poverty-stricken streets, and winds up dancing in the halls of success!
So, I think I'm going to try to rennovate this ghetto neighborhood, and turn it into a haven for all things creative and beautiful. I think I'll put in a park with winding streams, copses of oak, rowan, ashe and apple dotting the center lush green lawns. I need a rose garden set up like a Japanese garden, wild, with bridges over fish ponds, and some waterfalls cascading over boulders, sending rainbows of light and sound dancing through the morning sunshine. oh, and I cannot forget the quiet haven to read books and drink tea with the moon casting long shadow-fingers across the pages and a fireplace alight with merry flames warming my feet. There would be a classy elegant downtown to walk through with little one-of-a-kind stores and cafes, churchbells singing in the mid-morning. children squeal and laugh as they dip their toes in the river across the street. The river has weeping willows along one bank, and boats skim across the surface in a brisk breeze. You can smell savory scents wafting from the bakery and the cafes, or warm musk from the opening door of the nearby fragrance shop. Music plays all the time, all kinds, all styles. There are instruments everywhere for you to touch and play. They welcome you like lovers, drink you in, wrap themselves around your soul, and give it back to you in song, changed, whole, redeemed. Welcome to my world.
I have a lot of work to do to turn my current mental "neighborhood" into that paradise. But at least I can envision what I want the final result to look like, both metaphorically, and realistically. Time to get started!
Your journey is your own, but this is my story as it unfolds. I haven't finished the book; I have no idea what's ahead, but I'm going to do the exercises she has listed in there, and blog about it here so you can follow and watch as I unfold my wings.
I intend this blog to be self-standing, meaning that you don't have to have read the book to uhnderstand my rambling, but it might help you as I refer to her terminologies such as "Censor," or "morning pages."
I encourage you to explore yourself and your art, too. I'll try to give one exercise (of my own design since I don't think it's right to steal hers, you can read her book and pay the copyright for that), every time I blog here. There are tons of artist way blogs online, tons of ideas and outlets for creativity. This is strictly my experience with the journey. I have not read any of these other blogs, for the express reason that I want to know my own journey, not live someone else's, or let it influence mine right now. If one of the exercises here looks like something you've done before, it might be very similar, but it's up to you to make it your own, and no, I won't steal from other blog or book suggestions without showing you where I got it, or telling you how I learned it.
Do some soul-searching before you answer. You can share the answers with me by commenting on this blog if you wish, or you can keep them under lock and key. But I'd love to hear your thoughts and ideas.
Today's exercise: Journey from your head to your heart
What is the state of your mental "neighborhood right now?" Whether you're a writer, a painter, a potter, a musician, a dancer, make the neighborhood of your head come to life for you in the hands of your art. Explore at your leisure. If it's dangerous, go armed with a few necessary weapons to save yourself should you come to harm. Chocolate, an open window with a breeze, a pot of hot ginger herbal tea, and good music in the background ground me to reality no matter how far into the dark backstreets I venture. give yourself something pleasant to come home to when your journey is over. Once you've finished, consider what, if anything, you can and should change in that neighborhood. Express that, too, in your art of choice. Paint or draw it, dance it, play it, throw it on the wheel, describe it like I did here. Share it with people if you want to, or keep it hidden in a bottom drawer somewhere, but keep the two visions in your head, and see if you can't start constructing the changes.
believe there is a magical or spiritual cure for writer's block, or
flat notes, or squeaky bowing, or butterfingers on the piano keys? No.
What about those few minutes during every musician's practice time when things are not going right? Nope, no quick fix for that, either. You can't make your music be perfect, or your writing be stellar without putting in tons of hard
work... but I do believe there are things we can each do to further our artistic endeavors that have nothing to do with the time we spend at the instrument, or at the potter's wheel, or in the dance studio. I think a lot of what we bring to our art starts in our heads. That's where art goes from being a spark of inspiration to being a masterpiece, right? So if you aren't in the right frame of mind, how can your creation take wing? The Artist's Way is supposed to help re-build your creativity, teach you tricks to replenish your inspiration well, and open your eyes to the state of the relationship between you and your art.
I'm covering a lot of ground in this first post, but it sets the stage for the rest of the play. Hang on tight, and here we go!
Side note: I haven't figured out the formatting on blogger yet, so just pretend the posts look pretty and cleaned up until I get smart. Thanks.
***********************
Mental neighborhood
Sometimes my head can be a bad neighborhood, full of criticism, back-talk, bullies, and what-ifs. Those what-ifs are good guys if you befriend them, but if they sneak up on you in a bad alley... look out. They will shoot first and ask questions later, take you down without a moment's hesitation if they can. Perception can be art, or nightmare, depending on who pulls the trigger and how you react. Interpretation can be your lover, or your mortal foe, depending on how you employ him. Inspiration runs like hell when the Censor emerges cracking his hairy knuckles and flicking a switch-blade out of his jacket pocket. Motivation is a ragged vagabond beggar, beaten down and raped by necessity and reality one too many times to get up anymore. Necessity rules with an iron fist, and his mobsters don't let anyone get away with anything without his nod. Yeah, it's that bad in my head, some days.
And yet, through the bleak grime coating the upper-stories of tumble-down dream buildings, you can catch a glimpse of sunlight glinting off of ocean waves. Seabirds wheel in a tangy fresh breeze, and once in a while, a desperate idea makes a break for freedom from the poverty-stricken streets, and winds up dancing in the halls of success!
So, I think I'm going to try to rennovate this ghetto neighborhood, and turn it into a haven for all things creative and beautiful. I think I'll put in a park with winding streams, copses of oak, rowan, ashe and apple dotting the center lush green lawns. I need a rose garden set up like a Japanese garden, wild, with bridges over fish ponds, and some waterfalls cascading over boulders, sending rainbows of light and sound dancing through the morning sunshine. oh, and I cannot forget the quiet haven to read books and drink tea with the moon casting long shadow-fingers across the pages and a fireplace alight with merry flames warming my feet. There would be a classy elegant downtown to walk through with little one-of-a-kind stores and cafes, churchbells singing in the mid-morning. children squeal and laugh as they dip their toes in the river across the street. The river has weeping willows along one bank, and boats skim across the surface in a brisk breeze. You can smell savory scents wafting from the bakery and the cafes, or warm musk from the opening door of the nearby fragrance shop. Music plays all the time, all kinds, all styles. There are instruments everywhere for you to touch and play. They welcome you like lovers, drink you in, wrap themselves around your soul, and give it back to you in song, changed, whole, redeemed. Welcome to my world.
I have a lot of work to do to turn my current mental "neighborhood" into that paradise. But at least I can envision what I want the final result to look like, both metaphorically, and realistically. Time to get started!
Your journey is your own, but this is my story as it unfolds. I haven't finished the book; I have no idea what's ahead, but I'm going to do the exercises she has listed in there, and blog about it here so you can follow and watch as I unfold my wings.
I intend this blog to be self-standing, meaning that you don't have to have read the book to uhnderstand my rambling, but it might help you as I refer to her terminologies such as "Censor," or "morning pages."
I encourage you to explore yourself and your art, too. I'll try to give one exercise (of my own design since I don't think it's right to steal hers, you can read her book and pay the copyright for that), every time I blog here. There are tons of artist way blogs online, tons of ideas and outlets for creativity. This is strictly my experience with the journey. I have not read any of these other blogs, for the express reason that I want to know my own journey, not live someone else's, or let it influence mine right now. If one of the exercises here looks like something you've done before, it might be very similar, but it's up to you to make it your own, and no, I won't steal from other blog or book suggestions without showing you where I got it, or telling you how I learned it.
Do some soul-searching before you answer. You can share the answers with me by commenting on this blog if you wish, or you can keep them under lock and key. But I'd love to hear your thoughts and ideas.
Today's exercise: Journey from your head to your heart
What is the state of your mental "neighborhood right now?" Whether you're a writer, a painter, a potter, a musician, a dancer, make the neighborhood of your head come to life for you in the hands of your art. Explore at your leisure. If it's dangerous, go armed with a few necessary weapons to save yourself should you come to harm. Chocolate, an open window with a breeze, a pot of hot ginger herbal tea, and good music in the background ground me to reality no matter how far into the dark backstreets I venture. give yourself something pleasant to come home to when your journey is over. Once you've finished, consider what, if anything, you can and should change in that neighborhood. Express that, too, in your art of choice. Paint or draw it, dance it, play it, throw it on the wheel, describe it like I did here. Share it with people if you want to, or keep it hidden in a bottom drawer somewhere, but keep the two visions in your head, and see if you can't start constructing the changes.
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