Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
Tough one. At least it’s striking me so, here at 12:30 am Thursday the 27th, as I sit at my computer, typing, near-automatically with similar ambition, (to the automatic writers of old), hoping against hope that the very motion of the pen (or keyboard), will be mother (or father) to art. Maybe they were on to something.
‘The Project that was projected was to project as much of the project to as many of the people comprising the Project.
To Project, speaking from a faux psychoanalytic perspective, is, in part, to attribute (project) onto to people, places and things in ones’ world, the attributes and characteristic that one attributes to oneself but would really rather not accept.’
Luckily this is only this week’s Six Sentence Challenge and all I have to do is finish and submit and then go one with life, which has enough difficulties in it without having to contend with zoe’s latest deviously simply word prompt.
Man! this is a tough one…
Awake, thank god that night is over!
Tossed and turned all night, chased by worry and hobbled by loss of confidence, surely, (so spoke the voices of the night), there is no way to get through this next set of challenges.
Coffee to stimulate the mind, producing the illusion (maybe even the allusion) of being capable of efficient and effective action.
The caffeine, (a delightfully psycho-active part of a complete breakfast, ‘the Best to me each morning’), surely the Lord Chamberlain of morning, has me convinced that my worries of the past night were simply that… worries, not real at all; the reality of this morning in front of the computer with a cup of coffee on the desk is what is real and all of the tossing and turning of the night were merely projections and everyone knows, they are but shadow shows, the illusion of action and character and can’t be the actual world, otherwise I might find myself caught in them, like last night’s seemingly endless struggle, and that would be….
…Tough one.
At least it’s striking me so, here at 12:30 am Thursday the 27th, as I sit at my computer, typing, near-automatically with similar ambition (to the automatic writers of old), hoping against hope that motion of the pen (or keyboard) will be mother (or father) to art. Maybe they were on to something…