The eternal dilemma of the artist - Can I paint a timeless piece of chocolate and not be thought a pig? Maybe if I drip some blood on it to represent all human suffering? And some drool on the side, for come on, one has to respect the chocolate...
Trying to start writing again regularly, here are some quotes I use for self-hypnosis, most by Anne Lamott
And the eternal why - Because I want to, because I'm good at it
Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won't have to die
Regarding perfect people - I could resent the ocean if I tried
All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view. You are not going to be able to give us the plans to the submarine. Life is not a submarine. There are no plans
Dying people can teach us this most directly - The package is not who that person has really been all along. Without the package, another sort of beauty shines through, truer and more poignant
Think of those times when you've read prose or poetry that is presented in such a way that you have a fleeting sense of being startled by beauty or insight, by a glimpse into someone's soul
To be engrossed by something outside ourselves is a powerful antidote for the rational mind, the mind that so frequently has its head up its own ass - seeing things in such a narrow and darkly narcissistic way that it presents a colo-rectal theology, offering hope to no one
Writing is about hypnotizing yourself into believing in yourself, getting some work done, then unhypnotizing yourself and going over the material coldly
We're a crowd animal, a highly gregarious, communicative species, but the culture and the age, and all the fear that fills our days have put almost everyone into little boxes, each of us all alone
Adam was the only man who, when he said a good thing, knew that nobody had said it before. - Mark Twain
Being enough was going to have to be an inside job.
I secretly believe there’s a pie. I will go to my grave brandishing my fork.
We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. The writer's job is to turn the unspeakable into words - not just into any words, but if we can, into rhythm and blues.
The road to enlightenment is long and difficult, and you should try not to forget snacks and magazines.
You can either practice being right or practice being kind.
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.
The function of freedom is to free someone else - Toni Morrison
beside the shadow
of a few mountains
where light was insistent
on deaf tones
and water incited by rain
rushed in floods of bits
trickled through porous sand
wove back in earth quietly
so pebbles could have
their sky back awhile
and all things growing
were wrapped in memories
lived a few birds
everyone has one
makes you feel confident
beautiful, brilliant, witty
transformative of the higher self
mine is purple pajamas, of course
and green shirt, with unguents
and ginger scents
a half hour mirrorside
with hardly any talkback from it
a primitive ritual
without human sacrifice
to shore up steel, to mark time
to register and remember
despite many subsequent cutenesses
that a few hours in tiny toddler worldview
with a couple of near death experiences
and post traumatic tantrums thrown in
is life altering
the perfect place for a good fever is made of darkness, silence and simple things that cool - water, sweat, tears. I would like to add my gentle embellishments - a good book, ginger tea, jethro tull playing august rain, or any squeaky instrumental - flute, violin, lemon juice, occasional chore shouted in by authority figures - spouse, son, anybody, a soothing scent to foil the suspicious odors that suddenly develop, preferably incense, recently acquired from india, ooo fiire. theyre all still not enough, to induce stillness, to enjoy my comfortable numbness, to stay losing time. inside the fever I really have no way to tell, if ive been here long enough, if its the same as before, if i progress, if i accumulate, where my rainbow phase dammit. my iguana like existance is supported by a vast array of hyperlinks, people are too much in fevers, incoming bundles of cravings and bias. also kindness, where hyperlinks tend to face existential dilemmas. id like to believe this is temporary, as many of my fun fevers have been, but theres so much permanence in this one, wherever I turn, theres this sense of, um, well, itll come back in a minute