(no subject)
Not really done, but I'm calling quits on week two before it gets even more frustrating. Actually, I'm close to calling quits on the whole thing. It's such a pathetic effort.
Morning pages: check, albeit barely. I came very close to giving up at the beginning of last week because it felt completely pointless? frustrating? I'd like to go back to see what the problem was other than a general bad mood and frustration with work especially, but one isn't supposed to look, so I'll leave it at that; and for the last few days it just felt bland. At the same time some things are popping up that I didn't really expect, like how (possibly probably) my creativity is tied up in my complicated relationship with my parents. The problem is, it's mostly questions and very few solutions. The newness has worn off and whole process didn't feel special. (Should it?) I keep feeling the results should be less blah? Especially considering that most of what I write is already introspective.
Artist date: not really. There was a hiking tour last Thursday, a night walk on Monday (something I've never done, at least not when not in Vienna and under street lights), and a zoo visit today (which I've been wanting to do for a countless number of holidays, but always felt silly doing alone), but it doesn't really feel as if they qualify, and none of them were exactly planned as an artist dates.
I came away with impressions and images (alpine meadows blue with wolfsbane, or higher up where the grass is shorter, covered in patches of small, pale violet gentian, late summer lushness already slightly tinted by autumn; an eerie stretch of forest, spruce trees so close that nothing grew on the ground except an abundance of mushrooms and the occasional patch of clover; walking through a maze of trunks, the dry, bare lower branches interlocking; a peculiar impression, half magical, half uncanny, overriding the logical explanation; in the dark, on a track I'd ignored previously, half hidden behind trees, suddenly a wayside shrine with a tiny light - electric candle rather than a real one, I think -; strange noises coming out of the night a little later, snorting or heavy breathing; some animal probably, I didn't stop to find out; maize fields tall and dark against the sky, small apples crushed on the road, faint scent despite the general wetness; flamingos looking rather alien and not quite sane, preparing for a nap, burying their beak in the feathers on their back, the leg they don't stand on kicking for a while before stilling and being pulled up; a lonely chameleon staring through the glass of its terrarium) but somehow still think I missed the point?
During week two you're supposed to find your true identity, which makes it rather ironic that today's morning pages were full of the question 'Who am I'. My brain is apparently somewhat behind the schedule? Maybe the answer will come next week, since last week's question about creativity-blocks to an extent resolved itself this week...
Other stuff: not really. Still producing bad watercolours. Bought a black felt-tip pen and combined it with water colours, which works somewhat better. Moved on from amoebas to less abstract motifs. Tried to paint the night walk, badly. Generally speaking, I'm feeling increasingly frustrated producing terriblebad stuff, the playful aspect and initial enthusiasm is gone. Had the genuine impulse to look up ceramic classes last week, but it's mostly disappeared again. Not really inspired to take the camera out either, although I took a gazillion b&w pictures of napping flamingoes and napping turtles today. But maybe just keep doing it? The way out is through? Or so the books says?
You're not supposed to doubt, to ignore your inner negative voice, but I think in the end it's probably a lost cause and I should resign myself to that. It didn't necessarily have to be that way, but I think I've effectively killed the creative part of my brain and no amount of self-help books are going to revive it. She says 'it's too late' is just something we (wrongly and harmfully) tell ourselves, but it honestly feels like that to me. Too late.
Morning pages: check, albeit barely. I came very close to giving up at the beginning of last week because it felt completely pointless? frustrating? I'd like to go back to see what the problem was other than a general bad mood and frustration with work especially, but one isn't supposed to look, so I'll leave it at that; and for the last few days it just felt bland. At the same time some things are popping up that I didn't really expect, like how (possibly probably) my creativity is tied up in my complicated relationship with my parents. The problem is, it's mostly questions and very few solutions. The newness has worn off and whole process didn't feel special. (Should it?) I keep feeling the results should be less blah? Especially considering that most of what I write is already introspective.
Artist date: not really. There was a hiking tour last Thursday, a night walk on Monday (something I've never done, at least not when not in Vienna and under street lights), and a zoo visit today (which I've been wanting to do for a countless number of holidays, but always felt silly doing alone), but it doesn't really feel as if they qualify, and none of them were exactly planned as an artist dates.
I came away with impressions and images (alpine meadows blue with wolfsbane, or higher up where the grass is shorter, covered in patches of small, pale violet gentian, late summer lushness already slightly tinted by autumn; an eerie stretch of forest, spruce trees so close that nothing grew on the ground except an abundance of mushrooms and the occasional patch of clover; walking through a maze of trunks, the dry, bare lower branches interlocking; a peculiar impression, half magical, half uncanny, overriding the logical explanation; in the dark, on a track I'd ignored previously, half hidden behind trees, suddenly a wayside shrine with a tiny light - electric candle rather than a real one, I think -; strange noises coming out of the night a little later, snorting or heavy breathing; some animal probably, I didn't stop to find out; maize fields tall and dark against the sky, small apples crushed on the road, faint scent despite the general wetness; flamingos looking rather alien and not quite sane, preparing for a nap, burying their beak in the feathers on their back, the leg they don't stand on kicking for a while before stilling and being pulled up; a lonely chameleon staring through the glass of its terrarium) but somehow still think I missed the point?
During week two you're supposed to find your true identity, which makes it rather ironic that today's morning pages were full of the question 'Who am I'. My brain is apparently somewhat behind the schedule? Maybe the answer will come next week, since last week's question about creativity-blocks to an extent resolved itself this week...
Other stuff: not really. Still producing bad watercolours. Bought a black felt-tip pen and combined it with water colours, which works somewhat better. Moved on from amoebas to less abstract motifs. Tried to paint the night walk, badly. Generally speaking, I'm feeling increasingly frustrated producing terriblebad stuff, the playful aspect and initial enthusiasm is gone. Had the genuine impulse to look up ceramic classes last week, but it's mostly disappeared again. Not really inspired to take the camera out either, although I took a gazillion b&w pictures of napping flamingoes and napping turtles today. But maybe just keep doing it? The way out is through? Or so the books says?
You're not supposed to doubt, to ignore your inner negative voice, but I think in the end it's probably a lost cause and I should resign myself to that. It didn't necessarily have to be that way, but I think I've effectively killed the creative part of my brain and no amount of self-help books are going to revive it. She says 'it's too late' is just something we (wrongly and harmfully) tell ourselves, but it honestly feels like that to me. Too late.