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May. 17th, 2021 02:10 pm
pjthompson: quotes (quotei)
Random quote of the day:

“Without self-compassion or some kind of loving-kindness toward oneself, nothing is ever going to happen on the spiritual path. It will never get off the ground.”

—Pema Chödrön, The Lion’s Roar, October 15, 2017



Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Desus and Mero, Beyoncé, or the Marine Corps Marching Band. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

Nurture

Mar. 9th, 2021 03:06 pm
pjthompson: quotes (quotei)
Random quote of the day:

“Treat yourself as though you’re raising a child. Imagine you are a child that you are raising and that you love very dearly. You know you need to give the child a lot of love and nurturing, but the child also needs some boundaries. You’re not going to let yourself eat all the candy and run out into traffic. In your heart, you know what is going to help you grow.”

—Pema Chödrön, The Lion’s Roar, October 15, 2017



Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Desus and Mero, Beyoncé, or the Marine Corps Marching Band. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

Stories

Jan. 23rd, 2020 11:52 am
pjthompson: quotes (quotei)
Random quote of the day:

“The nurture for telling stories comes from those who have gone before. Telling or hearing stories draws its power from a towering column of humanity joined one to the other across time and space, elaborately dressed in the rags and robes or nakedness of their time, and filled to bursting with life still being lived.”

—Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves



Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Key and Peele, Celine Dion, or Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.
pjthompson: (lilith)

I’ve been trying to dig myself out of the mounds of acquired stuff that have begun to seem more a burden than preserved treasures. Part of this has been cleaning up and getting rid of old paper files and odds n’ ends in filing cabinets and boxes. Sometimes I actually throw them away; sometimes I digitize them then throw them away. Other times I run across relics of my past that aren’t really worthy of preservation—except, maybe, as personal historical documents. Signs and portents from a much younger me which now and then have messages for the present.

I came across one of those today, something written on a scrap of paper when I was about fourteen or fifteen. There was some scribbling in imitation of a novel called Jesus Christs by A. J. Langguth that made a big impression on me back then. Not great writing on my part, but I find it as hard to be disdainful of that child who was me as I would find it impossible to be disdainful of any fourteen or fifteen-year-old child trying to find their way in the creative world. I will digitize this page, even though it isn’t “worthy.”

We need to protect our young selves because they still exist inside us, still need to be nurtured and told it’s okay to come out of hiding. They are part of us, no matter how we may deny them or what sophisticated masks overlay their faces.

On the bottom of this same preserved page was another message, scrawled in a different pen and in obvious distress—not the fat, rounded characters of my “artistic” handwriting.

Why am I so cruel and impatient? He’s old and needs help. He needs someone to listen to his stories and make him feel good.

That one sent a chill through me. That young girl was speaking of her biological father, already a senior citizen when she was born. What chilled me? It made me realize that my life has been bracketed by the care and consideration of two old people. When I was young, my father—much older than my mother, and now, of course, as the wheel turns round and round…it’s my mother.

In between these brackets existed a time for me, a precious and fleeting time, but I didn’t realize that. I piffled it away, had some fun, worried too much about inconsequential things, thinking my time infinite and solely my own. I don’t believe I’m alone in this kind of behavior, this illusion, as many a human seems incapable of grasping the passage of time. I have done a lot of gazing in crystal balls in the course of my life, consulting with the tarot and the runes and the lines in the palm of my hand. I got quite good at telling fortunes. I could really sell it, you know? Weave a good story for the marks…

Like many and many a fortune, my own held good and bad, steady going and crumbling steps, the expected and unexpected—none of which, really, was picked up by the crystal or the cards or the lines or the runes. Like many and many a future, mine held a large dose of irony that oracles seem very poor at ferreting out of the aethyr.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

pjthompson: lascaux (art)
Random quote of the day:

"Fucking up, if you aspire to be an artist, may be the great creative principle: getting broken, broken wide open, and then delving into the shards. Moving on. Painting, writing—these are always, first and foremost, struggles for authenticity."

—Breyten Breytenbach, in Lawrence Weschler's "A Horrible Face, but One's Own," Calamities of Exile: Three Nonfiction Novellas

Illustrated version. )

The Delving Part

I edited the above quote so I could fit it more easily with the graphic (and because it gets posted in a public place at work, I had to fiddle the "fucking" part), but I think the full quote is worth sharing:

“Self-knowledge is not self-abasement or self-rejection. I was, I am, a flawed human being. But that’s more interesting than being an iron cast. And there’s something to be said for fucking up. In fact, fucking up, if you aspire to be an artist, may be the great creative principle: getting broken, broken wide open, and then delving among the shards. Moving on. Painting, writing—these are always, first and foremost, struggles for authenticity.”

I have to constantly remind myself of this: that doing art is not just about success, but about failure. Failure—trying stuff that doesn't work, learning from it, moving on—is how the creative process works. It's about pushing yourself and examining yourself and constant reevaluation and doubt and insecurity and fear and, every once in a while, something really splendid, something that makes you know it's all worthwhile. Being an artist is not at all a comfortable thing, though there's a lot of romantic notions about the process. Anyone who is seriously doing art knows how uncomfortable it can be to want to do something right and not quite make it. There's a fine line between a nutter and an artist. As Jung pointed out, sometimes an artist is a nutter who has learned to channel their neurosis successfully. He stated it more politely than that.

I am not saying that you have to suffer for your art, just that if you're serious about it, that's probably going to happen anyway, inside, in that place where you doubt and fear and live and die. I am not saying artists are better than anyone else on the planet, or a special class of people, or need to be worshiped as truthgivers or any of that other junk that's so often hung around their necks. I am saying that through a convoluted combination of nature and nurture artists are people who move through the world with an overwhelming need to create that goes against all common sense, all practical considerations, all naysaying. It's an integral part of who they are and without it they feel lost. They may give it up, but the hole inside never closes, and often turns sour.

Much is made about succeeding in the publishing game or the gallery game or the dance hall—wherever the money and acclaim part of the equation sits. And that's all good stuff, really good stuff. But for an artist, I think, success and failure is more than that. It's about those incremental moments of trying to do better, pushing yourself, discovering yourself, rediscovering yourself, getting sick of yourself—and starting the whole thing over again. We all quit the business sometimes when it gets to be overwhelming, but we usually start back up again once the latest crisis passes. The only true failure is giving up completely, and finally. Because it is about the art at the end of the day. It's about assembling the broken bits in new ways, of stumbling your way through the world, trying to see things from a fresh perspective, about being true to yourself. It's about a life raft on a vast, wine dark sea that nature/nurture threw you into when you were too young to have a say in things.

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