“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

You expect yourself to be a great artist, lost in the intricacies of what you think of as an artistic emotional reality, innocent of any interfering intellectuality. You berate yourself on the one hand for an intellect that it seems to you separates you from immediate emotional contact with painting and with others. At the same time, of course, you would certainly berate a Van Gogh for his overly emotional behavior.

Your intellect operates beautifully in the notes and appendixes of “Unknown,” but instead of rejoicing in it, you wonder if your notes lack the very kind of emotionalism that would make that particular kind of clear intellectual objectivity most difficult. When you are writing you are pleased, finally at least, with the working of your mind—but angry that you are not painting. When you are painting you feel guilty not only because the painting does not bring in money—by now not that much of a concern, only a nagging accusation—but there also you haggle at your intellect. You wish for the intensified emotional preoccupation that would close your mind to all else but painting.

Physical exercise becomes the area between, taking you from both your painting and writing, and furthermore is a reminder, an angry one, that the physical working area—the chores—are largely yours to do.

My last session was largely ignored by both of you, and yet in it there were important clues. Your own painting is growing despite your own ideas of what you think it should be. “Unknown” is a creative triumph despite your joint ideas of what that book should be.

Your feelings of hopelessness are your enemy. They must be encountered, not shoved under the rug. Often one could help the other, but when the feelings are not voiced they go underground. Ruburt should give himself so much time a day—an hour and a half, say—for free creative thought, writing or whatever that turns into poetry, painting? All right.