frustration...
This is one of those frustrating days when I have ideas---even a lot of ideas---but can't seem to get them down on paper. In part, because they are mostly images which I cannot really describe on paper, or ill-fomed ideas that do not coalesce into logical sentences, just a bunch of fragments that do not seem related. That is ok, really, because I have always been fascinated with collage---in fact, I would say it is my "favorite" art form---and, in those times when I allowed myself to trust my own "creative process" (believe me when I say I know how art school confidential that sounds, but just work with me here, people) those collages of images and words almost always developed into something good.
I was thinking earlier that I really understand why so many creative people (artists, writers, etc.) of the 20th century embraced a variety of ideas and methods for "removing the ego" from the process of creation---I am thinking here of the Surrealists (and others) who advocated "automatic writing" as well as Burroughs' use of the "cut-up method," and a number of other means by which chance is encouraged to play as large a role as the author's intent. I have never been a big advocate for the idea of using drugs and alcohol as fuel for creation---mostly because it simply does not work for me, or, at least, does not work often---but others are welcome to do as they wish. What I am getting at, I suppose, is that I am tired of tripping over myself, so to speak, as I try to create something new and vibrant. I am ready for my mind to be quiet and get out of the way.
Truly, there is something to be said for a certain kind, or degree, of ignorance (in the sense of innocence and the absence of self-consciousness, not in the sense of utter, blithering stupidity) when it comes to creativity. I know that many of the ideas (especially in regard to music) that I have right now have their origin in a time (the early to mid '90s) in which I was open to creative influences in a way that I am not now. I am smarter (in a number of ways) than I was then, but that "smartness" has come at the cost of that innocent embrace of music the exoticness of which has now worn off---or, more precisely, the exoticness now makes me uncomfortable rather than inspiring me. When I started listening to "jazz" (ill-defined, without the numerous subcategorizations so omni-present today), Hank Williams, old country music, Turkish Sufi music, ragtime, Moroccan music, Tom Waits, etc., I imagined it all combining into something dark and beautiful, a music for a dream world that does not really exist. It is difficult, now, to embrace that kind of idea again, precisely because it seems so fanciful---and, to be quite honest, the thought of embracing something fanciful is embarassing.