Onomonopia, Naked Toes, and Pancakes

For my online art class this summer, I've been reading a lot of different articles, books, etc. This week's reading involved an article by Carl Jung about “Psychology and Literature.” Things were going all right until I got to the section where he said, “the lives of artists are as a rule so highly unsatisfactory—not to say tragic—because of their inferiority on the human and personal side.” And so another person tries to enforce the “tortured/starving artist” mythology.

I hate this mythology for a number of reasons, besides the obvious one that there are happy artists and there are tortured/starving mechanics, accountants, waiters, etc. Misery does not belong to one subset of the population alone; it visits people without any discrimination.

This was a huge issue for me at Naropa for my writing degree because there was this unspoken, even unconscious competitive thing where the more tortured you were, that made you (somehow) that much better of a writer/artist. I thought it was bunch of crap and so my happy little poems confused all manner of workshop participants. I was accused of being repressed and not in touch with how I was really feeling (which, actually, was happy. It was a good time in my life!). I accused right back that they were oppressing my happiness and thus were the oppressors, which should jolt their picture of themselves trying to be a permanent victim of life. It was a very odd time and has provided much to laugh at over the years since I graduated.

So to read about Jung believing artistic types to have sad, little lives irked me. Having a deficiency of caffeine also leads to this same irked feeling. I shouldn't always blame Jung, but it might be fun to start doing just that. It'll sound something like, “Grump, grump, grump, RAWR! Jung always does that to me on Tuesday mornings.”

Hmm. If a psychologist were to base their whole conception of artists on my life, it would probably look like, “the lives of artists are, as a rule, so highly powered by caffeine, onomonopia, and mismatched socks—not to mention sarcasm—that one should treat them as you would a cranky spring-time bear: placate them with blueberries and honey and for gods' sake let them sleep in because of their inferiority of having a normal napping schedule.”

Moral of today's story: pancake.

An Erinku:
my naked toes
peer at me
from behind
my little laptop