DIY History | Transcribe | Iowa Women’s Lives: Letters and Diaries | Eve Drewelowe's journals, volumes II-III, 1950s

Transcribe
Translate

Eve Drewelowe's journals, volumes II-III, 1950s

Page 182

other into the hundreds - it is this sort of thing that drives human beings to distraction and help to fill the psychopathic hospitals. It was truly that sort of thing that increased the momentum of my stomach disturbance. For if one is mentally sound to begin with, then repetition of being the same thing over and over [concultesely?] is apt to be now pernicious than just monotonous. For now, this kind of thing is deadly and my whole body and soul revolts against it.
Why? - reserved the individual that is In why should I be persecuted upon and bored driven to madness by having to spend valuable time and my limited supply of energy doing the stupid things that are busy work for nerve patients? Why should I be compelled to adapt myself to the outrageous pressure and do the things anyone can do and that many in fact might enjoy trying their hands with? Why should I be bothered with this politeness when I venture to say in all modesty, that I can do that which no one else can do? For really, no one can do my painting for me. It springs from the individual fountain. No one can do my designing and my endeavoring. For behind in his multiple impressions of experience of world wide domain. Perhaps these arts to which I adhere are not so unique but their conception with me is original. Perhaps they may fall for short- and they escape the urge. To have these interfered with meets with frustration and utmost dissatisfaction.
Time wherein to create is always at a premium. For there is only this one life for me; only the one lifetime in which to complete the several lifetimes of painting which has been laid out for me to do. Why then should retardation by irrational requests of others hamper the need which has motivated my whole being from berth on? The one thing that craves expression so desperately driven as it is by the urge so strong within. This may not seem important to anyone else in the universe, but it so transpires that it always has been and ever will be of primary import to me. Try to destroy the germ of the creative - if you will - and it becomes all the more persistently angriest. It is indefatigable and indestructible.

Saving...

other into the hundreds - it is this sort of thing that drives human beings to distraction and help to fill the psychopathic hospitals. It was truly that sort of thing that increased the momentum of my stomach disturbance. For if one is mentally sound to begin with, then repetition of being the same thing over and over [concultesely?] is apt to be now pernicious than just monotonous. For now, this kind of thing is deadly and my whole body and soul revolts against it. Why? - reserved the individual that is In why should I be persecuted upon and bored driven to madness by having to spend valuable time and my limited supply of energy doing the stupid things that are busy work for nerve patients? Why should I be compelled to adapt myself to the outrageous pressure and do the things anyone can do and that many in fact might enjoy trying their hands with? Why should I be bothered with this politeness when I venture to say in all modesty, that I can do that which no one else can do? For really, no one can do my painting for me. It springs from the individual fountain. No one can do my designing and my endeavoring. For behind in his multiple impressions of experience of world wide domain. Perhaps these arts to which I adhere are not so unique but their conception with me is original. Perhaps they may fall for short- and they escape the urge. To have these interfered with meets with frustration and utmost dissatisfaction. Time wherein to create is always at a premium. For there is only this one life for me; only the one lifetime in which to complete the several lifetimes of painting which has been laid out for me to do. Why then should retardation by irrational requests of others hamper the need which has motivated my whole being from berth on? The one thing that craves expression so desperately driven as it is by the urge so strong within. This may not seem important to anyone else in the universe, but it so transpires that it always has been and ever will be of primary import to me. Try to destroy the germ of the creative - if you will - and it becomes all the more persistently angriest. It is indefatigable and indestructible.