HEARING VOICES
A mysterious thing occurred periodically when I painted in the studio at the university. About the time I became truly immersed in my work I would hear crying. I would stop and examine the faces of other artists or passersby and see no face expressing heart-felt loss. I pay attention to signals from my deeper consciousness but received no clarification. Did that sobbing mean I had veered off my soul-track? Odd, since Walter Hook found something interesting in my work and encouraged me, although I was not in any of his classes.
Had someone died?
Had hope been crushed?
Were the Angels of Light leaving the proving grounds, eyes cast down. The Earth herself lamenting?
Had I died and failed to recognize it?
I could paint alone, but I most enjoy working in the presence of others. Like dancing. I never achieved much on the basketball court, but on the dance floor my imagination and abilities reinforced one another. My unconscious joined the music. I could hear voices from those sitting this one out saying, "Great move," "Look at what he does with his hands," "He's pantomiming," or "Man, he can dance." I never unraveled whether my outer or inner ear caught out the words, but it did not matter. When I heard the voices, the dance seized me and I could fly.
Once I did an illustration for the birthing division of the Missoula Partnership Health Center; a very nice drawing of a seed sprouting --a fresh image in 1975. I gathered the drawing, set it in a folder, and started to walk from the Atlantic Art Colloquium to the health center. There were people on the street and I overheard someone say, "Uh-oh, he's going there today," and someone else reply, "Oh no! Not a good day. Not a good day at all."
I should have spun on my heel and returned to the Atlantic, but I had just finished the drawing and was excited with it. And I needed the money.
My drawing was turned down. The woman dealing with me showed it to several of her associates and some had said it reminded them of an inverted uterus; a bad thing in the pregnancy department. They bought a more conventional drawing later, but I feel to this day that they would have bought the fresher image if I had heeded the message from my unconscious and had waited a day or two to show them my work.
I loved to write in the UC dining room. My mind would be absorbed in my work. Like gentle rain, from the babble of intelligent, educated, and nearly entirely avid conversations around me, ideas and the mot juste would fall on my ear. I believe this is a side-effect of the act of ignoring. It is impossible to seal out every interruption, so the mind busies itself sorting. Some material must pass through, so the material relative my thought would couple up with my train. An atmosphere created by bright minds provided a very rich field from which to harvest.
During a psychiatric evaluation, my friend, Robbie, was asked if he heard voices. He replied, "No more than normal."
I believe it is, or could be, normal to hear voices.
The media is replete with reports of crazies hearing voices. The Son of Sam. The Devil made me do it.
Beyond the crazies, a mature mind attempting to explore further than the hidebound brain must devise means of capturing and translating signals from the Field of Mind that surrounds us. Telepathy. Visions. The perception of subtle clues. Secrets that rise like lights from the deep waters we sail can be netted and brought into the boat. This activity can be so frightening that many folks quit fishing. The catch can also be so nutritious that new energy can suffuse our lives and thought.
If a mind is healthy, strong, honest and courageous, the voices are invaluable and perhaps if we are uncommonly blessed, we may even converse with our archetypes person to person.
Westwind
13.09.08
Had someone died?
Had hope been crushed?
Were the Angels of Light leaving the proving grounds, eyes cast down. The Earth herself lamenting?
Had I died and failed to recognize it?
I could paint alone, but I most enjoy working in the presence of others. Like dancing. I never achieved much on the basketball court, but on the dance floor my imagination and abilities reinforced one another. My unconscious joined the music. I could hear voices from those sitting this one out saying, "Great move," "Look at what he does with his hands," "He's pantomiming," or "Man, he can dance." I never unraveled whether my outer or inner ear caught out the words, but it did not matter. When I heard the voices, the dance seized me and I could fly.
Once I did an illustration for the birthing division of the Missoula Partnership Health Center; a very nice drawing of a seed sprouting --a fresh image in 1975. I gathered the drawing, set it in a folder, and started to walk from the Atlantic Art Colloquium to the health center. There were people on the street and I overheard someone say, "Uh-oh, he's going there today," and someone else reply, "Oh no! Not a good day. Not a good day at all."
I should have spun on my heel and returned to the Atlantic, but I had just finished the drawing and was excited with it. And I needed the money.
My drawing was turned down. The woman dealing with me showed it to several of her associates and some had said it reminded them of an inverted uterus; a bad thing in the pregnancy department. They bought a more conventional drawing later, but I feel to this day that they would have bought the fresher image if I had heeded the message from my unconscious and had waited a day or two to show them my work.
I loved to write in the UC dining room. My mind would be absorbed in my work. Like gentle rain, from the babble of intelligent, educated, and nearly entirely avid conversations around me, ideas and the mot juste would fall on my ear. I believe this is a side-effect of the act of ignoring. It is impossible to seal out every interruption, so the mind busies itself sorting. Some material must pass through, so the material relative my thought would couple up with my train. An atmosphere created by bright minds provided a very rich field from which to harvest.
During a psychiatric evaluation, my friend, Robbie, was asked if he heard voices. He replied, "No more than normal."
I believe it is, or could be, normal to hear voices.
The media is replete with reports of crazies hearing voices. The Son of Sam. The Devil made me do it.
Beyond the crazies, a mature mind attempting to explore further than the hidebound brain must devise means of capturing and translating signals from the Field of Mind that surrounds us. Telepathy. Visions. The perception of subtle clues. Secrets that rise like lights from the deep waters we sail can be netted and brought into the boat. This activity can be so frightening that many folks quit fishing. The catch can also be so nutritious that new energy can suffuse our lives and thought.
If a mind is healthy, strong, honest and courageous, the voices are invaluable and perhaps if we are uncommonly blessed, we may even converse with our archetypes person to person.
Westwind
13.09.08
posted by Thunderpen | 11:32 PM
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