Quote:
Originally Posted by Joely  I'm glad it's working for you. I'm trying the same thing with my self-talk. I think it's a matter of not identifying with it. Therein lies the key. |
How do you go about not identifying with it? I've tried lots of different methods, but thus far, Tolle's method of being intensely present seems to be the most effective: as soon as I become aware of an unhappy feeling or thought, I immediately started feeling the "aliveness" of my hands, then my feet, my legs, arms, then whole body.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Joely I hope artists can be well-adjusted and happy. It's interesting, because people often say "Oh, I wish I could be passionate and volatile and scream into the void like you!" I've got the impassioned wild artist image too (as well as the starving artist image) and I wonder whether it's actually all that great to be a wild thing.
But an artist, of course, has the right to paint herself (or write herself) any way she chooses.
I guess we have to play with the gifts the gods give us. |
You know, I feel like I cling to the artist image because it makes me feel special, like I was ordained by god to be different from the plebians.
But does this image actually help my art? NO! How can I possibly write when I'm laying in bed, with all the curtains drawn? Or when I'm abusing prescription codeine? Or when when unstable romantic life obsesses my mind so thoroughly that I can't think of anything else?
Actually, I am most productive when my life is "bland." When I am well-rested, not drugged, and focused in a business-like way to my craft. But something about that both repels and scares me. I mean, it doesn't seem very glamorous, for one. Artists are supposed to be butterflies, not ants! The world is supposed to admire us, be jealous of us, covet our life.
But I don't think anyone would covet my life, quite honestly. I think people love to hear about my drama. But then, I'm like the monkey performing for them. There is no real respect there, is there?
But most of all - what if I'm only an artist because of my temperament? What if, under all the delicious misery and ooey-gooey tragedy...is nothing? Is all my wild artist antics my way of telling the world, "I swear, I am a great artist. Even though I haven't really accomplished much."