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Sunday -the Wakefield Doctrine-

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

New ‘hop: Song Lyric Sunday.

This Sunday’s theme: ‘The Psychic Apparatus

 

This week, our Host, Jim dishes on the Father of Psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud. Specifically we are asked to relate how (Freud’s) construct, the Id, might be manifest in song and lyrics. Putatively the source of all human drives of a wet or crunchy nature, the Id accounts for the inspiration for a remarkably broad catalogue of music. For those of us growing up in the ’60s, this concept of the landscape of the Unconscious is, like, the ultimate Hall Pass, endless source of closing lines to deploy Thursday evenings in college dorms and well, it also provided us with something we could relate to our parents about…sorta.

Jim, take it away:

Sigmund Freud developed the concept of the id (“das Es” or “the it”) as the primal, unconscious component of the personality present from birth.  He introduced this in his 1923 work The Ego and the Id, when it arose from his research into the unconscious, driving urges like hunger and sex via the pleasure principle, which demands immediate gratification.  The id operates on the immediate gratification of desires, such as hunger, thirst, and sexual impulses to avoid pain or discomfort.  The id is not organized and acts on instinctual impulses that may coexist without canceling each other out.  The id can be representative of the devil being on a person’s shoulder, where he pressures an individual to seek their deepest, unfiltered, most selfish of desires to satisfy their primal urges and act on illogical impulses.  Music that is raw, aggressive, rhythmic, highly passionate, or exciting with an emotional kick can be interpreted as speaking directly to the id.  Music can act as a safe outlet for your forbidden, chaotic, or intense emotions, allowing listeners to experience them vicariously through artists.  Oddly, Sigmund Freud was notoriously unmusical, and he claimed to dislike most music.  He was known to cover his ears or leave if a band started playing.  Some analysts speculate he feared the emotional power of music (the “liberating axe” of emotion) because it threatened to overpower his own ego, allowing the unconscious (id) to run wild.

(Further), We’re all invited to:

“…find a song related to Sigmund Freud’s id exhibiting instinctual drives that seek immediate pleasure or gratification without regard for reality.   Tell everyone why you like the song, whether it was a hit, or what you think the song is about.  Show the lyrics, let’s all listen to our favorite songs and explore some new music.  Try to find a song that fits the theme, then write your post and create a pingback, or you can just place your link in the comments section.”

Our choice, (selecting and culling the candidates, by no means and easy process, their number being Legion), is Avenged Sevenfold’s Nightmare.

While arguably endemic to those who are inclined to create a blog, in general, and participate in bloghops, in particular, the song we’ve selected has it all. Sin, Punishment, Torment and Regret.

Hey! Kinda like Sigmund’s schema: Id, Superego, Id and Superego and finally …Ego.

Nightmare
Avenged Sevenfold (2010)

Nightmare
Now your nightmare comes to life
Dragged you down below, down to the devil’s showTo be his guest forever (peace of mind is less than never)Hate to twist your mind, but God ain’t on your sideAn old acquaintance severed (burn the world your last endeavor)Flesh is burning, you can smell it in the air‘Cause men like you have such an easy soul to steal (steal)So stand in line while they ink numbers in your headYou’re now a slave until the end of time hereNothing stops the madness turningHaunting, yearning, pull the trigger
You should’ve known the price of evilAnd it hurts to know that you belong here, yeahOoh, it’s your fuckin’ nightmareWhile your nightmare comes to life
Can’t wake up in sweat, ’cause it ain’t over yetStill dancin’ with your demons (victim of your own creation)Beyond the will to fight, where all that’s wrong is rightWhere hate don’t need a reason (loathing self-assassination)You’ve been lied to just to rape you of your sightAnd now they have the nerve to tell you how to feel (feel)So sedated as they medicate your brainAnd while you slowly go insane they tell youGiven with the best intentionsHelp you with your complications
You should’ve known the price of evilAnd it hurts to know that you belong here, yeahNo one to call, everybody to fearYour tragic fate is lookin’ so clear, yeahOoh, it’s your fuckin’ nightmareHa, ha, ha, ha
Fight (fight), not to fail (fail), not to fall (fall)Or you’ll end up like the othersDie (die), die again (die), drenched in sin (sin)With no respect for anotherOhDown (down), feel the fire (fire), feel the hate (hate)Your pain is what we desireLost (lost), hit the wall (wall), watch you crawl (crawl)Such a replaceable liar
And I know you hear their voices (calling from above)And I know they may seem real (these signals of love)But our life’s made up of choices (some without appeal)They took for granted your soulAnd it’s ours now to stealAs your nightmare comes to life
You should’ve known the price of evilAnd it hurts to know that you belong here, yeahNo one to call, everybody to fearYour tragic fate is looking so clear, yeahOoh, it’s your fuckin’ nightmare
Source: LyricFind
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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- [an Order of Lilith Six]

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

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

BRAND

“Welcome to the 414 Hotel, that’ll be sixty-nine eighty plus tax…cash.”

Sister Aclima nodded and placed a random assortment of bills on the coffee-and-sweat-stained counter of the front desk, her nose wrinkling in a purely atavistic defense against the smell of cigars, despair and too much mouthwash; pulling the money to his side, the clerk counted out the amount in a slow, overly-deliberate pace.

“Sorry, sista, check-in ain’t until four,” rudimentary social signaling managed to move his eyes and lips, the former tracing her contours like greasy cue balls, the latter tried to fight their way past a sneer…and failed.

“Would you mind if I left my bag behind the counter,” her lips, sensing the exposure inherent in a smile, retreated into a characteristic flattening, though to her credit, a touch of incisors remained evident.

“I get off at two, but I’ll leave Refael, a note, shouldn’t be no problem,” gender imperative took control of the man’s nonverbal speech centers and his eyebrows raised, “a course, if ya need company for dinner;” his effort to slide a corporate branded card to her was undone by something sticky on the countertop, resulting in a smudge as his index and middle fingers slid over the glossy surface.

Sister Aclima, not being in an Order that dealt in divine intercession, nevertheless heard a voice, which she suspected of being her former self, Kayla Sheperd, “We passed a thrift store one block up, time to go native.”

 

 

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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- [an Ian Devereaux Six]

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

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

FOLD

“Lemme tell ya about business people, Devereaux, something you’re not gonna learn in any Ivory League business school. I don’t care if you go to Warburtons, Sloan Kettering or Carnegie Melons, all it takes to succeed is to want it more than the next guy; the fuckin essence of capitalism is the punchline to a joke about bears and running shoes.”

Lou Caesare was back in his domain; his executive suite cum boardroom was the last booth in a row running down the street-side wall in the Lounge half of his establishment, the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge. The subject of numerous FBI Organized Crime Task Force reports, taught in graduate-level Criminology courses, used as credentials by both deep-undercover operatives and apprentice mobsters, not to mention the subtext in movies and countless tv series, one man, through force of Will combined with a genius for discerning opportunity, managed an underworld empire.

‘So, regarding your niece, I can keep up the surveillance for a while, if that’s what you want,”

I feel genuinely proud of my capacity to convey a lack of personal interest in things that, for one reason or another, I needed to avoid; with Lou Caesare, while I valued being in the fold, my detective business is never going to be a subsidiary of his operation.

“Nah, Rosetta can take care of herself, but I wanna know if that Anya broad does anything that might affect me and mine, capisce?”

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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- [a Café Six] Part 1

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

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

TRIM

“So, gotta say, Ro, your years in private schools in Europe, paid for by your uncle Lou, seem a bit lacking, were you intending to introduce your friend anytime soon?”

Rue DeNite, having pushed a button on the front console that through a miracle of German engineering combined with a touch of Olympic gymnast flexibility caused her seat to rotate forty-five degrees, rare wood trim squeaking slightly on the leather; allowing her to face the three other people in the car.
“Sorry, Rue, you’re absolutely right,” leaning against the door to her right, Rosetta smiled at the Sophomore, “May I introduce our driver Rocco, and Emily Post there next to him is Rue DeNite, she works for my uncle Lou Caesare at his club. I appreciate your thoughtful reminder to thank him, seeing how his cut of the fives and twenties stuffed in your ‘costume’ funded my academic time-served at Le Rosey.”

While not likely to be used as part of a commercial advertising the quiet ride of the Mercedes, the silence filled the interior of the sedan, until…

“Rocco, dude, nice ride.”

The driver ricocheted a smile off his visor’s mirror, “Tried to get spinners, but Lou didn’t want to run the risk of your neighborhood street urchins getting injured…” a gender-specific pause ended with both men doing a perfect Rodney Dangerfield joke duet,”On my street, the kids take hubcaps – from moving cars.

 

 

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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine [a Café Six] …

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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, there is one rule: Six (no more, no less) Sentenceses to the story.

Previously, in our serial story…

Prompt word:

FLAKE

“Hello….?”

The interior of the Six Sentence Cafe & Bistro is of a design quite simple, a decor elegantly plain and possessed of a functionality that has been studied and debated, argued and analyzed by sociologists and event planners across the globe since the Proprietors opened its door.

At the present moment, the semi-dark Café manifested the eternal bartender’s admonition that “… but you can’t stay here.”

“Oh jeez louise, the party is over and you’re closed,” the voice, issuing from a point between the ruby-neon shore of light on the end of the bar nearest the door, was a rich blend of wistful sorrow, habitual calm and yet, beneath it lurked a contralto suited to threats and promises without restraint.

Like the flakiest of croissants or some other pastry that makes one ignore a contrived simile, the voices in the near-dawn dark offered a cocktail of counsel and consolation, “Sorry ma cheri, but hold you on that invitation, we always looking for an excuse to have interesting guest”; “Word,” this last from the Bartender leaning against the shelves of liquor, sparks of light bouncing among the colored bottles, “You got a name?”

“Violet. Simply, Violet…”

To the surprise of no one, Mimi smiled and Chris laughed and Nick blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling and Denise leaned on the long, polished bar.

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