the Wakefield Doctrine

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

sshh I’m considering writing this week’s Finish the Sentence Friday post. Its Stream of Consciousness week and you know how tricky that can be!

lol…what a difference an un-inspired night’s sleep can make! That, and stumbling upon the perfect photo.¹

See what I mean?! I take Kristi and Kenya’s weekly invite quite seriously. (Since I’m pre-living an imaginary childolescence anyway, I do remember that friends are valuable and should be afforded one’s full attention.) Lets do our thing with the cut n paste machine and get this party started.

We’re on with FTSF this week with a 5-minute stream of consciousness and the prompt, “When it comes to this body…”

The linkup will be open tonight (Feb. 15, 2016) at 10pm eastern and remain open through late Sunday night.

Write your 5-minute post, slap in a photo (or not) and join us at either:

https://www.kenyagjohnson.com/

or

http://www.findingninee.com

So hope to see you there! xoxo

So the only thing I have to ask myself is, do we go with 5-minutes at 10:19 pm or 5-minutes at 7:18 am²

“When it comes to this body…”

 ”                                                            …Gotta go with the morning SOC.”

You know how when there was an exam in school or a presentation at work or a parent-teacher conference that evening sometimes you’d stay up right to the last-minute pre-worrying? That’s kinda what my night writing tends to be… there’s something about writing, (for me), that does not co-exist well with the ‘real’ world. Sure, I can write in the evening, after a day in my real person disguise. But my mind is…not just tired, it’s burdened from a day spent standing up straight, maintaining eye contact, proving my worth and value to those around me. Ain’t no place for the clark what likes to write about Doctrines and perspectives and a world-that-should-be. (Of course, I assume that the writer I am, when away from the world of mature adults, is the preferred ‘voice’. Fortunately for me, the Wakefield Doctrine has helped me learn to accept that my decision is mine to make and whatever I decide is valid.)

Hey! five minutes are way up…. incoherency trumps rules and standards in writing prompts as much as it does in the rest of life.

Thanks for coming by!

1) and, and! as many of us here, in the ‘sphere, know all too well, the ‘perfect picture’ is not so much the one we succeeded in taking as part of an effort to provide photographic documentation in support of a thesis, theme, idea or mood. It’s the photo that jumps out of the pile and yells in your face, “Hey! You wanna express the coexistence of strong and decrepit? Did ya hope to for a portrayal of the multiple layers and levels of being a human? Hows about that business of reflection versus conscious self-appreciation?? Huh? Do ya?  Don’t go no further! This photo has it all!!” So you pick a photo that you haven’t looked at since you took it, too many years ago to remember and it whispers to you, “Sure, they’ll get it. How could they not? Give your readers some credit. …I’ll just sit on this page and not say a thing. good luck.  …err seeing how it’s on a post… maybe a hint about the car rear view mirror? and the decaying concrete? no, you’re fine the way it is…just sayin…Mr. Artsy. What? no, I didn’t say anything! Go on, hit ‘Publish’.

2) We went with the five minutes at 7:18 am. Despite what Footnote 1 seemed to insinuate, I do have a respect for the reader. So, surely there is a reader out there peering over the half-moon horizon of their morning coffee, thinking, “Wait a minute. You made a choice. How could you have made a choice if your didnt’ write at night. If you wrote at night doesn’t that count towards your five minutes?”
you go me on that. and I did write last night… and I let it sleep that magical sleep of the ‘written-but-un-published-post’…. what the hell with the childhood fairy tales that we were secretly indoctrinated with, i.e. did the post somehow get better while I slept? What the hell kind of thinking is that?!! And speaking of ‘what the hell?!?!’ I thought what I’d written was excellent when I stopped last night. who snuck into my house/computer and turned my sincerely insightful post into this, …this whatever it is!?!?  Thanks, Brothers Grimm, Thanks a bunch, Mr Walt the Intolerant, (and no, I don’t almost believe thats Abe Lincoln! I can see the fricken cables running out of his foot)…thanks a lot for messing with my mind.

Here’s an excerpt of last night’s post. Submitted to validate my choice of a 7:18 am Post:

“it’s tricky. How is it I can say, ‘this body of mine, it’s old and breaking down all the time’ all impersonal pronoun and such. If I said, “My body, he’s really got some miles on it. I better go easy on him.” it sounds weird. So maybe I can talk about how the body is the ‘us’ that most of us never quite accept. It’s a form of me that is more than necessary and less than ideal but is the source of all that’s good and bad, pleasurable and painful. Surely that’s the same among bloggers and bloggerinae?

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

Early start. It’s Tuesday evening. The prompt word is ‘SMOKE’. The rules say, story of any style as long as it only requires Six (6) Sentences to tell. zoe is our host and this is the Six Sentence Story!

(from a WIP, ‘Home and Heart’ a Sister Margaret Ryan novel)

SMOKE

Alone in the front pew stood four women; three wore the habits of their Order, individual identity concentrated in a white-framed oval of flesh; the fourth bore the mark of age and loss, unassailable credentials for her place among the devout.

Sister Bernadine, Mother Superior of St. Dominique’s, stood at the aisle, her massive frame, softened by her black habit robes seemed a quiet protection, until one reached her eyes which, never-resting, removed all temptation to dismiss her as an overweight, middle-aged black woman; her right hand rested, immovable, on the pew rail, a stanchion should it be needed by the young woman to her right.

Standing between Sister Bernadine and her mother, Sister Margaret Ryan, novitiate at St. Dominique’s, stood as straight as any young willow tree, the shapelessness of her veil and habit hiding the swaying of her body as winds of rage and grief tore at her, only her eyes, blazing above tear-softened cheeks gave hint to the battle within. To Margaret Ryan’s right, her mother stood like the statue in some medieval religious festival, allowing others to move her from place to place, trusting that she was of use and value to the ceremony, standing as still as eighty-year-old bones permitted.

At the other end of the front pew was Sister Cletus who, if time is the measure of all, was now a ruler worn smooth of markers and measures, the form itself, still straight and true offering aid un-adorned of complication or apology.

Margaret Ryan watched as the Archbishop of Philadelphia stood between the casket holding Father Mathew Ryan, (brother and priest) and the altar, held the silver thurible over his head and let it swing; the pungent smoke rose, rivulets into tendrils, ever upwards, like a fairy tale creature, its wings and it’s magic torn by the morning sun fighting to escape the grip of the cold and rational earth.

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

We have an interesting item/challenge embedded in this week’s TToT!

First things first, a wave of gratuity* to Josie Two Shoes for having the place all lit up and warm and inviting on this February weekend.

New Readers? Hey! You’ve come to an interesting place. This is one of the best of all bloghops. Founded by a certain, Miss L Lewis. Miss Lewis lived a quiet life as a part-time charwoman at the ancestral estate of the Clan Lewis. Our founderess served the clan faithfully, asking nothing but a some winter coal for the iron stove that heated the garret (in the south tower), meals and a ‘damn proper internet connection’. And so she lived, until one day she decided that, despite the cursory nods of appreciation from the upstairs folk she would cultivate her capacity to experience and express gratitude. Which she began to do. In the way of both the naturally-wise and (the) ‘eventually-after-getting-kicked-to-the-ground-countless-times’ wise people do, she started a blog. And that blog became her record, a diary if you would, of her efforts. Soon, however, word spread through the ‘sphere, about this english chick who wrote these weird and fascinating and inspiring posts on gratitude. And so, here we are today, another installment of the Ten Things of Thankful.

Speaking of weird…

We all know that the Wakefield Doctrine has a certain affinity for the ‘path less travelled’, yes? I have a list this week. It includes the fundamentals. Una and the Doctrine, the Book of Secret Rules (aka the Secret Book of Rules), the free Grat Posting space (Number 8) for anyone who would like a push off the high board (of writing a grat post).

One of the frequent grat items for me is ‘writing’. The opportunity to hangout with those what write real good, provides me with a constructive challenge to improve my craft.

In any event, that is the challenge I am most grateful for this week. And, just to ‘put my money where my mouth is’ (as my mother used to say), I will attempt to write a grat item that will make understandable to the random Reader, the following: Phyllis, ironing (my) shirts, an iron she acquired from her mother (who passed away a number of years ago) and my gift to her of a new iron.

1)  Lets start with the new iron. Below is a youtube video. Our story totally begins with the music in the video and extends to the unabridged version which I have not been able to link directly, but if you have the interest and the time (a discrete link here), once at amazon look to the lower left and you’ll see a video line and that takes you to the full length video).

Man, listen to the music

(Who thought of the movie ‘Thor’)

2) For those who did not have the chance to view the extended video, it shows two steam irons at the top of two ironing boards, (both tilted at a 35 degree angle), poised to race. The video shows the race twice, providing irrefutable evidence of: a) the superiority of the New! Sunbeam AERO Ceramic Iron and 2) the power of (their) iron to make anything possible.

3) Phyllis reads more book about religion and history and the like than I ever will; she immediately identified that statement: ‘Anything is Possible’ as being totally biblical in origin. We were both in awe.

4) About that ironing of my shirts. It is my predilection to seek metaphor and simile for that part of my experience of reality that I am unable to express. This is consistent with my being a clark (with a significant secondary scottian aspect). Phyllis is a roger (with a significant secondary clarklike aspect). It will come as a surprise to no one that her choice of metaphors (and similes) are far and away less abstruse.

Phyllis’ ways of understanding the practice of a good life are of a more direct character, in keeping with her predominant rogerian worldview. Far more conventional. (lol… no, wait! my heart goes out to rogers!) Just kidding. And ‘vamping’**

The prospect of one person correctly and accurately describing another person’s subjective reference points is, I think we can all agree, nearly totally un-realistic. Fortunately I have the Wakefield Doctrine. Anyway. Hey! lets try to find an explanation of the meaning of ironing to Phyllis by asking a question: What about the old iron? Is that a clue? Yeah, sorta. But the thing that helps with that insight requires one to understand that, for Phyllis, the possessions of cherished people are imbued with certain quality that enhances her (Phyllis’) memory, love and remembrance of the person. What I believe is happening is that when an item valued and used for good, in the plain and ordinary living of life, of a departed loved one comes into one’s possession, it’s continued use allows them to enhance their own appreciation of the good and positive things available in life. To those willing to work for it. That said, I do not assert that this is true about Phyllis, but it, (my understanding), is true about me. And that concludes this episode of ‘Oh yeah?! You think that Doctrine of yours is all that!? Lemme see you…‘

5) the Wakefield Doctrine (the previous 4 items)

6) Una  well, duh!

‘Una demonstrates how to properly let a person know that you’re glad they’re home.’

7) shhh… still hiding from Item 4 (lol)

8) [Reserved for someone who has not yet posted a TToT entry, but would enjoy seeing what it feels like to have an Item up for all to read.]

9) Sunday Supplement! (check back tomorrow)  Hey! Thanks go out to Val for her comment which lead to the following Sunday Supplement photo!

A ’round’ television from the 1970s’ It is mostly orange, except for the front which is black.
Since tvs were not round (then or now) what the manufacturer did was create a round plastic shape (the size of a basketball) and where the picture tube is tinted, transparent plastic. Think ‘space suit helmet’. If you look closely, you can just make out the lighter gray rectangle of the actual picture tube….. who said ‘Yeah, sure. Like to see it actually be a tv’
Hold on….

That, in the background of the photo of Phyllis (ironing a shirt) is a television. I bought it from Sil’s Loans for my dorm room in 1971 (or so).

Did I mention that Phyllis is a roger? I got as far as the aluminum foil when she said, ‘Remember, they discontinued TV signals through the airways, you’ll need a special box to get an actual picture.’ rats!

The ’round’ tv returning to life, like a square Jupiter, it shows bands of energy and interference.
I’m surely not the only one to think, “Wouldn’t it be cool, if not only did I get a station but there’d be a show on from back then… like ‘Ironside’ or ‘The Flip Wilson Show’ lol

10) Secret Rule 1.3

*  “Absolutely! Who said that? You’re absolutely correct, that was a rogerian expression.” Well, the best I could come up with, me being a clark and all. Therein lies a hint of the power of the Wakefield Doctrine. It cannot turn us into a clark or a scott or a roger (when they are not our predominant worldview), it does however, offer a very useful and valuable perspective. It allows us a glimpse into the other reality(s) and an opportunity to practice the strategies and skills appropriate to living in those personal realities.¹

1) reminder: the Wakefield Doctrine is a not a list of characteristics that determine a category that forces you to conform to the average of all those who score similarly. The Doctrine’s three personality types are a label for the style of interacting with the world, as an Outsider, a Predator or a Herd Member. We all act as we do because, from before we can remember, we’ve been interacting with the world and doing our best to figure out what behavior, traits, quirks and styles are most effective for our continued existance.

** the definition is not nearly as amusing as I’d thought but here is the link

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This week the prompt is PITCH.

The challenge, of course, is noun or verb?

zoe is the host and this is (the) Six Sentence Story. One word to start, six sentence limit to the finished story.

PITCH

A steady howling and an insistent clanking noise, one striving to hide its power in constancy, the other reduced to a muted-metallic shout conspired to pull the man from the deepest part of sleep, that secret moment after the last dream, but before the first tugs of a dry throat or insistent nudges from a full bladder.

The trawler moved through the storm, the building seas turning it into a stationary car on a fluid roller coaster, sudden dips and hairpin turns of tracks that moved on their own instead of waiting to be passed over and left behind.

The young man lay, one leg bent perpendicular to the other, foot and knee wedged against the up-curving hull on one side and the raised side of the bunk on the other in the time-perfected posture that allowed rest without constant vigilance. The low ceiling of the crew quarters spared an observer the view of six crewmen, each posed in perfect replica of ‘the hung man’ found on Tarot cards, worn quilts and rumpled underwear serving as motley clothing of sleeping jesters.

“Time to set in,” the first mate announced, pulling on the twine to the bare bulb hung between the ceiling beams of the fo’c’sle, lighting the bunks that curved up and forward to the bow, like store shelves over-flowing with un-tidy dry goods. The waking men rolled from their berths, unconsciously synchronized to the pitch, yaw and roll of the vessel, curses and invective filled the air, harsh morning prayers of desperate bravado, a working man’s substitute for virtue offered to the gods that waited in the vastness surrounding the boat.