Today I tested as ENFJ, preferring to be ENTJ and attracted to ENTJ's.
Hmmmmm - I wonder if it is a good thing to be attracted to the preferred version of yourself?
Seems like it might be a healthy thing.
Structured writing wasn't quite getting it. The Artist's Way is great and I'm likely to get back to it at a later date, but I'm no longer gung-ho to respond to it each morning or evening.
Today I read a note from a past teacher praising my work - anote I don't remember ever having read before. But I have to have read it . . . it was printed out and saved in a file. Onbviously . . . I've seen it before. I've seen it and probably glowed over it and felt really special and excited by the compliments within it.
But I have absolutely no recollection of it.
Why? Where have I been?
The project in question (my demo of Ozzy Osbourne tunes gone 'torch') never left the ground. I sent it around, but no one was interested and the quality of the music and the recording were pretty cheesy. But . . . someone I respect immensely praised the work, while pointing out a few of the failings. (Just the kind of criticism one looks for.) Just the kind of criticism I remembered . . . .
When am I going to start remembering/hearing the good things as well?
"Many times, success comes through unseen doorways. When conventional routes have been exhausted, success steps forward wearing an eccentric cloak."
Can’t you just see the carnie stepping from around a corner, affecting his best PT Barnum bellow, daring you to step forward for the opportunity of a lifetime. Never before seen on this continent! Beautiful and bewildering! Fantastic and ferocious! Gargantuan and garrulous! Just through this door, follow me!!!!
This is usually the point when the fearful skeptic in me shouts – ‘Which way to the Egress?’
“…whatever we are is not what we wish ourselves to be. Comedians yearn for drama; darmatic actors crave comedy. <snip> Not that we can’t do more than one thing, but one of the things we should let ourselves do is what comes naturally and easily.”
Really? Is that allowed? Can I just write short stories and be successful? Or even just daily posts like these?
Hmmm – in a world with a lot less attention span, maybe that’s exactly what I should be doing. Which brings my mind back to the whole blogging thing. “TO DO” – research blogs. Who is writing on topics that you’d like to write on every day? Is there a niche to be filled?
She wondered if the world was slowly going deaf. The assault of noise seems to bother no one around her. Gas blowers; cell phone conversationalists; luncheon philosophers; bathroom music; base on the stereo overhead; base on the stereo in the TV; the MOVIES. She wished she had a volumn dial for the whole world.
They have personal cooling devices now – maybe she could create a remote that adjusted personal sound. It would be genius – but no one would care. (OK, maybe 5% of the population would care.)
"When our lives become too frantic, our art retreats. It does not thrive on a life lived pell-mell."
Besides absolutely loving the word 'pell-mell' this quote seems to echo the overriding message of the past year. My life needs structure. What I have been hoping for the past 41 years is that something else would wander in and enforce that structure. School, work, relationship, work, church, work . . . etc.
Well, I've had all of the above and here I sit, pretty much back at square one when it comes to how my time is spent. I'm coming to the realization that until I impose discipline and structure on myself, I'm gonna stay stuck.
It was another one of those difficult days. She was pushing herself to get up, get out and make the day productive when she got another shot of 'you suck' from an unexpected corner. Well, not unexpected so much as unwarranted and incredibly ill-timed.
There was no overcoming it this time – she'd succumb to lethargy and wait for the new start that would be the next day.
Fortunately, the next day offered just the smack in the rear she needed and a new thought. What would live in a world of her creation?
Dih-the-ly and dye-the-ly, I wriggled unresidedly
And jonckled to and for-the-ly betwixt the crumpled rose-lily.
Hipping, hopping, hogestrobnobbing with
The elitest 'hibilee' who'd ever want to meet with me.
“Rather than Paint, write, dance, audition and see where it takes us, we pick up a block. Blocked, we know who and what we are: unhappy people.”
Today’s entry brings up an interesting look at what a block is and who experiences them. Generally we hear the term ‘Writer’s Block’ and that’s the area to which I have always relegated the term ‘blocked’.
It never occurred to me that I am a ‘blocked’ actor or singer. But I am. And why am I blocked? Perfectly good reasons – I can’t afford headshots; can’t pay a service or an agent; it’s been too long since I attempted to sight-sing so I doubt I’d pass a choral audition; I can’t rehearse because I live in an apartment building and would disturb my neighbors, etc . . . . these are blocks. Blocks that others can easily tear down for me, which is why I hate discussing them with others.
In what other ways am I blocked? The thought seems staggering in a way. How many of my own rational thoughts stand in the way of my success, (not only in art, but in life) every day?
Why had she been handed such strange parameters? She had a beautiful voice and was more than a little uncanny in her ability to melt in and out of character. But she was 5’9 with a large frame and classic features. These features were WAY too big to play the ingénue and too ‘pretty’ to be the funny best friend. ‘But we can cast you as the prostitute with the heart of gold, if you lose about 10 pounds’, they liked to say.
Soon the words were so much a part of her that her auditions were dead. She could no longer transform in a small space with a few judges – all she could do was hear the rampage of reasons not to cast her cycling through her brain. . . .
“I’m sorry, I’ve never lost that line before. Could I . . . ?”
‘That’s ok, we’ve seen enough. Thank you for coming out.’
So she stopped trying.
"Creative energy is energy. When we are worrying about creating instead of actually creating, we are wasting our creative energy."
This one resonates as well. For one thing, I'm a worrier in general. It seems I get uncomfortable when I have nothing to worry about. I've been trying to watch the whole energy thing. Spending energy as if it were money has informed several recent decisions about howand where I spend my time. One day I'll have to give up complete control of this aspect of my life - but while I am unemployed I am going to learn everything I can about how much energy certain places, people and endeavors take and how much energy certain endeavors, people and places give back.
It has been a surprising journey so far.
The woman exhausted her. She had no idea what it was about her, but she was exhausting. Perhaps it was the sheer effort it took to extract a simple answer. Or perhaps it was the minor panic that struck prior to having to ask something of her.
"I'm not going again" she lied as she reached the safe haven of her car. "Why do I put myself through it?" ('...me and mrs Jones, Mrs jones, mrs jones - we got a thing goin' on.' Buble's comforting tones filled the air.)She knew that there was a strange hamster wheel design to their relationship and she hadn't the energy to jump off, much less change the direction. So it would continue until one or the other of them stopped providing the energy expected.
(Don't wonder where yesterday's went - I read the book entry four times and found it uninspiring;>)
“Very often a creative block manifests itself as an addiction to fantasy. Rather than working or living in the now, we spin our wheels and indulge in daydreams.)
Wow! This one hits home. More so in past years than currently, but I sure do recognize it.
It was so sweet to slip into the screenplay in her head. The subtle hues of a life barely similar to her own – or, better yet, one entirely different – was such a comfort to her. In her mind the confrontations she avoided in life were handled effortlessly. They would go her way only after a powerful debate. A debate she constructed and, sadly, sometimes lost.
Did anyone else understand how incapacitating it could be to have these dialogues in one’s heads that never play out in ‘real’ life? She was wearing herself out before she even got to work most days what with all of the conversations in her head.
Was it a product of being afraid that she'll be humiliated by expressing her thoughts?
Was it part of her profound need to be liked? Was it her belief that everyone needed her to support them at all costs? What was it that pulled her into such an active fantasy life?
“If I ever do write a blog, my name will have to be Walter Mitty”, she though, rolling her eyes at the obscurity of the inane reference. “Seriously, how old am I?”
With that, she turned the car ignition and Dino filled the car with ‘I wanna getcha on a slow boat the china.’ Hopeless – she was a hopeless case.
"Allowing art to move through us without impediment means resigning as its author."
Ain't it the truth? It is my pattern as a writer to procrastinate probably because I am creating the looming piece from the moment it is assigned. (By me or by others.) But I never give myself credit for that work because when the moment arrives and the deadline can no longer be ignored something else takes over and out it pours.
Perhaps this is why every arts program should include meditation of the sort that stills the mind. Getting out of one's own way is possibly the most important tool any creator can possess.
The bichon that lived at the turning point of her walk was a joy. For some reason they seem to be on the same time pattern and, though still a bit skittish for not knowing her, the coal black eyes dance with happiness that she's come again to visit. Bichons have only three states – frenzied, happy and stressed. There's no depression or sadness as many breeds convey – only either pure excitement, true contentment or vast concern for what is happening.
"Maybe I'm a bichon" she thought. It was true that she had lost the capacity to recognize certain emotions in herself. First of these was anger. That one isn't allowed in a home filled with another person's anger. The very hint of it in her would set him off. So, being the inherently happy person she was, she'd relegate the anger to stress - to concern for him. No wonder she hadn't a clue what she wanted.
"As artists we are great listeners, and as the volume is pitched too high, our inner ear and our inner work suffers."
This is an interesting statement because I don't know that all artists are inherent listeners.
I do believe that artists easily fall prey to distraction, but I don't know that they all listen. It seems the very best artists have incredible knacks for blocking out the world.
Maybe it's just that they know how to makie all energetic intrusions cease long enough to create. So how do we accomplish that without deprivation tanks or mumification?
As a child I had this ability - absolute tunnel vision. I could walk away from the world for the time I wanted and then return unscathed without regret for having gone or returned. Maybe it's time to revisit the places of my childhood imagings, if I can remember them.
In the instant of waking, before the media input begins, she feels more herself than at any time of day. Slowly allowing the sounds of the world to trickle in, she can smile at the simplicity of it all from the safety of the bed. Slowly the day's task list and calendar begin to turn in her head as she reminds herself of whatever morning mantra or visual work she's promised to do. WAIT! She shouts, avoiding the self-chiding that comes with catching oneself slipping into a destructive habit. Just breathe . . . and realize the incredible length of a minute spent in conscious meditation.
This is a well she consistently forgets to dip into as the day grows hectic and filled with triumphs, failures, fears and joys. WAIT! She hears herself yell. Just breathe . . . and take one minute to chill out.
(It's likely to work better than the Power Balance bracelet on her arm that is supposed to cure her incessant falling and bumping into things, including walls.)
WAIT! Stop the madness with a minute of 'Just breathe...'