The 3 Reasons Why You Can’t Draw, (And What to Do About It)

 

“What if I told you, you talk too much

Talking and drawing don’t mix.

The main problems associated with drawing is when you talk you engage your logical, language dominated left side of the brain. This side of your brain is keen on knowing an objects name, labelling it, and organising it.

Often when learning to draw, you need to temporarily hold off judgment and try not to second guess what you think the object should look like, rather than what the object actually looks like.

When you are trying to learn to draw something realistically, you have to engage your right-hand side of the brain, which is keener on images and spatial perception.

It’s very hard to do both at the same time.

Why?

Because it causes mind freeze.

Have you ever been in a creative zone of absorption, a state where time travels quickly and you are in what psychology professor Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls ‘flow’.

How Does It Feel to Be in Flow?

1. Completely involved in what we are doing – focused, concentrated.
2. A sense of ecstasy – of being outside everyday reality.
3. Great inner clarity – knowing what needs to be done, and how well we are doing.
4. Knowing that the activity is doable – that skills are adequate to the task.
5. A sense of serenity – no worries about oneself, and a feeling of growing beyond the boundaries of the ego.
6. Timelessness – thoroughly focused on the present, our sin to pass by in minutes.
7. Intrinsic motivation – whatever produces flow becomes its own reward.

Flow is the mental state when you are fully immersed in an activity, a feeling of full involvement and energy.

You can get to this stage of involvement whilst drawing… until you get interrupted.

The combination of left and right battling against each other makes trying to draw tricky”

Everybody’s not  the same as you
Some like Mozart some like Whipsnade Zoo
Stone the crows ,I’m feeling very blue

I like eggs stuffed with  Ceylon tea.
What the Dickens can a writer do?
Everybody’s not  the same as me.

Everybody’s unique and it is true
Many cannot solve a crossword clue.
Stone the crows as they are feeling blue

I like avacados’ mystery
I  stole mother’s lovely superglue
Everybody’s not the same as me

When I answer, don’t say. who are you?
I’m your friend and my cat cannot mew.
Love the crows for they are black not blue

If the world ends,baby, I love you
And I love your toolset, is that new?
Everybody’s not  the same dark hue.
Stone the crows ,I’m feeling cobalt blue

 

 

Five years, 9,000 posts.Fine images by Mike Flemming
I can’t believe it is so long.Thank you,every reader and viewer

 

The nights are stretched like canvases on walls
Black and matt  without the least starlight
They evoke our disillusion with the real

From summer’s light , unwilling, England falls
We feel the tension  and the  flick of night
Dreams are hung; Picasso’s echo wails

The unconscious can so swiftly  be revealed
It  steals away  our own nspoken thoughts
Evoking  the illusion  we are real

Before the Judge speaks,do not  lies conceal
What we’ve sold and what we might have bought
Dreams are hung  like criminals unhealed

Gossip’s  sickly like bought ready meal
We omit the details  history taught:
Needed disillusion with the “real”

 

After war,  the trail of losses ought
To  signify no future fiction’s taught
The  Jewish nights, nails scratching wailing walls
With their  burning , G-d himself  has failed

 

Bio

“Beginning with the psychological objectification, how often do we find ourselves listening to the other only to feed our own assessment of that person and what we believe categorises them? Our internal thought process conducts commentaries, when in conversation, in-between ‘listening’ to the other: ‘Ah, well, Rebecca would say that because she never lets go of her feminist position.’ Or ‘Charlie is such a passive aggressive, look he’s doing it again’ etc. The end result, of such ‘superior’ psychological insight though is the same as the unsophisticated stance, which we have all done and have had done to us: not listening. Whilst conducting our assessment of the other, as they converse with us, we are in fact guilty of the same sin as those ignorant minded folk who appear at every opportunity not to listen to what is being said to them. Both methodologies, from the ‘superior’ to the more base and unsophisticated, are snapshots of the same spectrum which exists to keep the temperature of our inner selves at a cool low, hovering around the freezing point, which also signifies a life lost to pointless self-certainty and social alienation.”

Please press the link above  the extract to find a very interesting blog

 

via About

Why I Don’t Go To Church Anymore: Living in the Relational Church – Part 6

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2007/sep/05/bukowski

 

“In the rush to file away Bukowski as a booze-addled fluke, his ability to lay down a truly beautiful line has often been overlooked. Take these lines describing the genesis of Los Angeles:

this land punched-in cuffed-out divided held like a crucifix in a deathhand

Or take his poem Tragedy of the Leaves which ends with the heartbreaking lines:

and I walked into a dark hall where the landlady stood execrating and final, sending me to hell, waving her fat, sweaty arms and screaming screaming for rent because the world has failed us both.

Reading his extensive back catalogue you will stumble upon a hundred, a thousand moments of brilliance like these.

Bukowski embodies the idea of the “punk poet” even better than the poets who came from the punk scene. Jim Carroll and Patti Smith were too in thrall to the romanticism of Rimbaud to truly “speak it plain”. It is Bukowski’s machine gun delivery that creates poetry that actually relates to the back-to-basics ethos of punk rock.

Unlike most poets, Bukowski was also a master prose writer. My favourite work of Bukowski’s has to be the short story collection Hot Water Music. This 1983 anthology is Bukowski at his prime, and contains some of the best writing the man ever produced: The Death of the Father (parts 1 and 2) is a heartbreaking – yet ghoulishly funny – dissection of the days following his father’s death. Some Hangover opens with the shocking premise that our narrator has just awoken with a hangover and no recollection of the night before, and is accused of molesting his neighbour’s daughters while in an alcoholic blackout. Not Quite Bernadette features the attention-grabbing opener: “I wrapped the towel around my bloody cock and called the doctor’s office.” What all of these stories share is a writing style that has been totally pared back, and a view of humanity that is cynical, deadpan, and almost entirely without judgment.”