Chicken Teriyaki Bowl #7

I get hung up on processes.  The processes exist so that the work, the flow, the creativity, whatever, can happen.  Often, though, the process become the object.

Case in point:  I’ve been working through the 30 Poems in 30 Days posts at Poe War (last year, not this year, which I didn’t realize was going on).  My goal is to start writing poetry again, something I haven’t done in more than two decades.  It was going quite well until #9 and #10.  I have trouble composing in meter.  Heck, I have trouble hearing meter.  I hemmed and hawed and didn’t write a poem for two days.

This morning I realized I was being silly (or OCD, which is the same thing).  So what?  I’m writing for myself.  Skip the damn exercises on meter.  At some point I’ll probably come back to them. 

In writing that last paragraph it just hit me; poetry exists outside of the part of me that is OCD and loves rules and lines.  That is why I had so much trouble trying to follow the rules and compose in meter!  Writing in general also seems to exist outside the OCD barrier - I cannot write on line paper.  I can’t compose on it, I can’t think with lined paper in front of me, it just frustrates me. 

This realization hit me after reading Leanne’s comment at Creativityist and visiting her site.  She linked to Ricë Freeman-Zachery’s site which opened up a whole new world for me.  I love her blog and her videos, but what really gave me a knock up side the head was how she creates her gorgeous journal entries.

I journal on blank pages, but I write in straight lines on white paper with black (or sometimes blue) ink. I don’t have to do that!

OK, stop laughing now.  This is a huge thing for me.  It has inspired my artist date for this week - I’m going to the dollar store with $20 and buying all sorts of colored pencils, crayons, glue sticks, etc for my journal.

This weeks chapter in The Artist’s Way is about recovering a sense of identity.  There are poisonous playmates and crazymakers that Cameron talks about.  I don’t really have either one.  I live a pretty isolated life.

The section on Skepticism was straight on - my Critic is my worst enemy - a crazymaker and a poisonous playmate.  The following section on Attention is also important.  I tend to daydream a lot.  “…a creative life involves great swathes of attention.  Attention is a way to connect and survive.” (pg. 52)

I don’t feel very connected to life.  I’m intangible.

Writing poetry seems to be helping.  In fact, I’m having a hard time making myself write poetry because it forces me to be connected to life.  Two hands hold my head and make me pay attention to the real and now.   Sometimes I feel like Alex DeLarge bound in the chair and unable to close my eyes.  It is uncomfortable.

I’ve done better than expected so far this week. Morning pages all but one day, more than half of the exercises and an Artist Date. I’ve also written four poems so far this week, several blog comments as well as my own blog posts and journal. Far more output than in ages.

The theme for this week was “recovering a sense of safety”. This is obviously something that won’t occur in one week, but I anticipate the process will continue and combine with the themes in upcoming weeks.

One thing I still have trouble with are writing the affirmations. I get bored doing them which I suspect is a blocking mechanism from my Critic. Boredom seems harder to overcome than outright criticism.

One tool I’ve added is a personal blog. This blog is actually hosted on my home computer, so no one has access to it except me. I’m perfectly safe posting my poetry and some journal writing there. Actually my journal writing occurs in two places - a moleskin journal and the personal blog.

I always create my poems in my journal, scratching them out and rewriting and just posting them when complete. For some reason I can’t compose poetry on the computer.

Wow - what a horrible ooze of vile comments about myself came out today on my morning pages. The Critic in full swing. The thing is, I felt really good after finishing up. Lighter. In a good mood.

All messed up today. I was informed at the last minute this morning that our carpets were being cleaned, which meant hurry, hurry to get everything cleaned up and out of the way. It also meant being out of the house (and my office) all morning.

Now I’ve got family obligations to take care, so I guess I’ll catch up on my morning pages tonight.

I miss doing the pages, though. I can tell I didn’t do them.

I finished reading the first chapter of The Artist’s Way today and worked through the affirmation exercise. Affirmations always seem silly to me, but today I wondered if it reflects on how well I accept praise. The in-depth, psychological musings I’ll leave to my personal journal, but it has stirred some interesting thoughts today. I will follow through on the affirmations and post on whether my attitude towards them changes.

What to do for my artist date this week? My husband will actually be gone this Friday - Monday on a steelhead trip, so I’m free to do whatever I want. I’m tempted to go to the zoo in Seattle; I’ve been longing to go all summer. Doing something small and silly sounds good too - like taking $5 and going to the dollar store, or maybe going to some yard sales!

When I do my morning pages I find my writing getting much more free and flowing, sprawling and nearly illegible, about halfway through when I’m really zoned into it. Anyone else experience this?

I dream in technicolor with surround sound and smell-o-vision.  These vivid dreams stick with me when I wake, polluting my brain until the coffee hits the cerebellum.

For weeks now my dreams have been filled with rage.  Not killing someone rage, but yelling at people rage or the cold rage you can’t express but just have to eat.  The rage that sits in your chest and makes it hard to breathe.

There is no identifiable target for this rage, which seems strange.  I mean, in the dream I’m obvious angry at someone or some situation, but that person or situation has no analog in the real world.

The dreams are very strange, like dreams usually are.  For example, last night I was a ghost getting ready for some big ghost ball.  Accompanied by a group of fashion-conscious ghosts we plundered the cosmetic department of some fancy department store to get ready.  I looked the height of ghost fashion in a Sweeney Todd sort of way when I realized I was wearing just one shoe.  I couldn’t find the other one. Rage ensued.

I’m fairly self-aware, I realize this dream is about loss or the inability to express something.  Is it related to my blocked creativity?  Will the rage resolve as I work through The Artist’s Way?

For almost exactly one year I have been completely blocked creatively.  I can’t write, can barely eke out a blog post here or there, can’t knit or sew, and only occasionally experiment with new recipes in the kitchen.  I know I need to unclog and participating in the Artist’s Way Collective seemed like a great opportunity.

Since the day I’ve read about Creativityist hosting an Artist’s Way study group, I’ve been apprehensive.  I want to participate, but I am fearful and intimidated.  My Inner Critic has been haranguing me like a timeshare hawker in Puerto Vallarta.

At the bookstore today where I intended to buy the book, I almost didn’t.  I almost bought yet another brain-candy murder-thriller novel that would numb me for a few hours and then spend eternity on my bookshelf.  I vacillated.  I put The Artist’s Way back on the shelf twice.

I did finally purchase the book.  Acknowledging my fear (without understanding it, mind you) didn’t make the fear go away or even decrease, but it feels like a step forward.  My next step is to send my info to Creativityist and “officially” join.  So much panic over such a small step….