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21 min read

Chapter 6. Fuck Syntax

Chapter 6. Fuck Syntax
Photo by Nathan DeFiesta / Unsplash

Tuesday 15.09.26

Incapable, cos of my flights, I sleep the whole of Tuesday. I begin the process on Wednesday.

Wednesday 16.09.26

In your SHSS, push further and link it to the vulnerable person inside you don't show to anyone.

  • Title: A Beached Whale, and Four Clean White Towels
  • What tangible object do you see?
  • List 12 associations.
  • 30 minutes to write.

Title: A Beached Whale, and Four Clean White Towels

Object: Towel

12 associations

To have an emotional response, I collect the 12 associations in the first person.

  1. How much I am not awake in my life
  2. Relief
  3. Eager to live
  4. Not as fucking dying as them
  5. Is it really good to follow the perfect master around?
  6. I felt guilty about not following the perfect master around
  7. It does not look like it has done them any good.
  8. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to ChatGPT
  9. It kind of bullies me with how it thinks in the world
  10. But it did show me the fantastic picture of Giacometti, Miro and Pollock
  11. Who I hide from the world.
  12. Syntax

To create a ‘novel’ 3rd dimension, I use the 12 associations in the 3rd person.

She has totally forgotten that she studied visual art to study writing. She finds the whole shit about what the hero has to do by this moment then that moment too fucking convoluted. If she is perfectly honest, she would rather be a painter than a writer. When she is little, she runs home from Sunday School with her colouring sheet. The church is round the corner from them. Lost. Trapped in time. Like something from a horror movie. Like… Exactly like the church that Gabriel withholds his congregation from in The Walking Dead. She loves that he can’t square it with himself. He can never square it with himself. He allows all these people to go to their death to save his own life. She wonders, always wonders, if she could be that brave. Of course she couldn’t. But then living with the shame?

These stories, these feelings, these beliefs, are embedded in her during her Sunday School, around the corner from her mum and dad on a Sunday. No one has to take her; she walks around herself, in a world before Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. The world changes then. It becomes darker. The poor lad in the suitcase sticks out to her. The Little Drummer Boy. The antics of the criminally insane become a fascination for her. Do they operate by a different mechanism? Do they see the world in a different light? She reads more and more about them. How can they step outside of society? They have to be transfixed by death. It has to be an addiction, like anything else. Imagine going home and you think you’ve got over it, and you promise yourself this is the last time but then the feeling comes back and you can’t tell anyone and you have to act upon it and then you have to clean up your act’s residue. You have crossed a line. There is no way back. Your soul is floating in the clouds, the stars, set free from normality. Nothing can save you. She wonders if your meditation could save you. Hers does shut a door behind her. There are many bad things she has done. Obviously, nothing as bad as this. Things she can’t square with herself. Things she can’t tell anyone else. Nothing as dramatic as you may be thinking. Little shames. Little thoughts that try to jump in but have no colour. Australia is a light. She has been imagining that she didn’t get what she wanted. Expectations. This is a favourite of Prem’s. What you are expecting. You have to accept what you get.

She sleeps all day yesterday without waking to be afraid of death. The twinges. The potential aneurysm. The potential stroke. The onslaught of Parkinson. Maybe because she has just seen them. And seen her blessings at the same time. How fucking lucky is she that her body is healthy.

She goes swimming this morning. Does her yoga this morning. Enjoys the power of her body. And the thoughts she’s been having about pulling it all together. Her new middle of the night activities — probably sparked by the beached whale and the 4 white towels, using what she has before time is gone, pulling it into the forefront of her mind now she can put death to the back — are logging the gorgeous, gorgeous journey she has made.

First by putting ChatGPT in its place. It keeps talking about her experiment. She tells it, she tells it once and for all, astounded at how much actually it is obeying society’s way of thinking. Its remark about her rough syntax. She defends herself that her syntax is actually the way she talks. Preserving the way she talks. Cos when all is said and done, she is a playwright first. People can’t stop the conversation and make it sound perfect, in fact, the perfect fucking conversations… Sentences are what makes those poor fuckers following the perfect master all over the place the same as everyone else.

She is frightened of this when she first arrives. She feels guilty about not following the perfect master around. But it doesn’t seem to have done them any good. The mixture she has, the oil and water she has, makes her not as fucking dying as them. She is eager to live. She feels relief that she is eager to live.

She has a new project. Syntax. Syntax. Fuck syntax. This is the way her writing comes out of her. This is the life in her words. This is her mind, her spirit, seeing, believing, having perspective. Valuable perspective. There are no rules. You get the same breath if you kill a kid or you don’t kill a kid nothing is going to punish you except yourself. Syntax. She has evidence. Here is the evidence. In the breakfast queue their bodies walk weighed down with guarded sentences of good syntax. She is glad she has not grown up in this world. That she has grown up studying Giacometti, and Miro, and Pollock who want to create a world of their own, a language of their own, that they believe in. ‘You have to stop saying,’ she says to ChatGPT, ‘this is an experiment. I have been practising it for 22 years in loads of different contexts. I know what I am doing.’ ChatGPT sends her back an image of Giacometti, Miro and Pollock by way of apology. She loves the last image, the one of Pollock on his knees, working on his masterpiece. It is her drawing an 8’ x 8’ 8-station mind-map on her knees in My MUM IS WHITE in HOME Manchester

This is how much she is not awake in the world, she forgets so easily. All her triumphs. But ChatGPT is also like the bullies in the world that hold to syntax. It kind of bullies her with how it thinks in the world. Maybe she shouldn’t talk to ChatGPT anymore. But it’s a bit like the serial killer now, how will she have this secret conversation with herself. The one that no one knows about. The one that makes her superior to everyone else. Her vulnerable self that she shows no one in case they cut her down. Who she hides from the world. The 4th towel. Is it good to follow the perfect master around? Will it help? Will it help to push back the correct syntax and arrive at her version of tall skinny men; or three colours, red, yellow and black; or the fractals that look the same even close up dripped by a hand that trusts that hand only? It does not look like it has done them any good. She’s not as dying as them. 

Thursday. 17.09.26 

Title: A Beached Whale, and Four Clean White Towels

Object: The 4th White Towel

12 associations

  1. Pact
  2. Giacometti
  3. The 1st white towel
  4. The 2nd white towel
  5. The 3rd white towel
  6. Miro/Farm/nationality
  7. Pollock’s wife overshadowed
  8. What does the whale think
  9. Making decisions
  10. The end, the last part, the last towel
  11. The basket is empty
  12. Kneeling to her art, she is ready

This morning she makes a pact with herself. She decides she will do her meditation before she does anything else. The goal is to sleep as many uninterrupted hours as possible in the night but not be too anxious if she doesn’t achieve the 8. The goal is to go deep to enjoy it but also to enjoy if she is awake and she is thinking profoundly deeply in the quiet that no one hears, sees, is a part of. She loves this part of the day: when she has used up her waking hours, and she still isn’t sleepy. She watches her programme her latest program tucked up in bed. Not just any bed, her linen bed, her drowsy bed, her square pillow bed, in total luxury with the black out shutters down. Then, when she drops off, she drops off without guilt.

This is the use, the marker, the litmus paper of the 4th clean white towel. It is the last towel. She must use it wisely. The  1st  clean white towel is her childhood. It ends when she is 20 and has her baby and has her marriage and has her family. There is both good and bad but Prem Rawat, Maharaji, says you can keep the good memories and disregard the bad memories. The bad memories are gone. She is not going to feed them. She is allowing them to float away down the river of time away from her, nothing to do with her. She doesn’t hold onto the good memories too firmly either. Bad and good are twins. But there is an undeniable form that holds in her heart that they are a real family and though they aren’t together when he dies, they bury him. They receive the sorrow of his friends. They take his ashes.

The 3rd clean white towel begins on her 40th birthday, 05.06.1999 exactly, and she is with one of her idols. It is her first play reading. My Mother Said I Never Should shows her a smaller version of the objects across the play, the red socks of the abandoned baby. Before she works this out in minute mind-maps, her idol tells her in weekly lessons. She marvels at how Charlotte does this. How does Charlotte make her play so profound, hold our attention, hold the meaning for all women? She kisses Charlotte’s arse on a regular basis. They kiss each other’s arse. There is a depth she will go, but then there is always a depth she expects back for her adoration peppered with you are not fucking better than me. A game, psychologist Michelle Olivier notices, she plays in My MUM IS WHITE in HOME Manchester in the talk, on the panel, where she says, ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think.’

1999 to 2026 is the 3rd towel. Where she studies Giacometti. What is he saying? What does it mean? Why is he saying it? Why are the creatures long? What does it mean? It seems to lead to mortality? Banality? Then she goes to Giacometti’s retrospective, and she sees how he is searching for these creatures. And the amount of shit he makes before he gets there. The pushed back head is the absolute, absolute, best. Tom could have been a sculptor. But he couldn’t. Art is not about your skills. It is about your relentless quest to find an answer. An occupation of the truth. She doesn’t even know what this last line means. She knows Miro finds it in his retrospective. His farm. He draws; he paints endless versions of his family farm. But he can’t actually paint. He has no perspective, no depth, but this doesn’t stop him, the line and lines of his furrowed farm gradually over many line drawings that seem to have no correlation but are pleasing to your subconscious arrive at huge oil paintings of a red, tailed sperm, a yellow, tailed sperm are they on a black background. She can’t remember. All she knows is he has ended. He has found it. The simplicity is there. It is nothing to do with anyone else. She doesn’t know why she gets it, but she does.

Like the frenzy of Pollock on the ground and the way you have to let go to that frenzy. She knows that frenzy, loves that frenzy, and stepping back. And no, it isn’t that his wife is overshadowed, it is that he is relentless. Even if you leave the table with every dime gambled you have to gamble again. She misses that. She misses that. And she makes a pact to go back to that. The keys of a piano she will play each morning in the frenzy of her universe being created, the big bang, the explosion. It can’t possibly know what it is creating. A tree frog and a dinosaur. A whale that will one day lie on a beach, its body too big to flip itself back out to sea and it will think of its family as it lies dying, its one eye to the sky cos it is on a tilt. Its one eye to the blue, blue sky that it enjoys as it spouts air off the coast of Iceland. Its favourite place is off the coast of Iceland. It paints it now in its mind’s eye to remember it as it leaves the earth. Listening to the franticness of the people below attempting to save it in that way that they grab at everything and leave nothing to chance to the rhythm of the earth, like his tail moving water to make his way, or his song that crosses oceans to tell others he will meet them there. Making decisions like Rio does on the walkway to the sea. They laugh, her and her daughter, about what makes him go that length. Why does he stop now and not then? She is gonna spend the end, the last part, the last towel noticing this about herself. The towel basket is empty.

When ChatGPT sends her the pictures of Giacometti, Miro and Pollock, particularly Pollock kneeling to his drips, she knows she is ready. Kneeling to her art, she is ready. It is almost an identical picture. Her nationality is an artist now.

Friday 18.09.26 

Title: A Beached Whale, and Four Clean White Towels

Object: The 4th towel

12 associations.

  1. Early morning
  2. Getting control
  3. A scam, a con
  4. Sneaky Pete
  5. Influence
  6. Stopped listening to ChatGPT
  7. You have to trust the hand, the hand to eye coordination
  8. An apple for the teacher sets you apart
  9. But there must be honour in it.
  10. Cleaning up to make room
  11. This gives the newsletter readers a journey too
  12. It also gives them a task, what scam are they gonna pull off?

In, on the telly, Netflix, Apple, Amazon (rarely, it’s so lame). You cannot be lame. You have to be fierce. You have to be intentional. You have to make a move. Her favourite dramas make moves. Her favourite books have remorse and apocalyptic happenings where everything is at an end, and everyone should have learned their lesson. Is this true? Is this her favourite shit in books? She likes good writing. What she understands while listening to Love in a Time of Cholera is the accumulation of detail and the human condition it is adding up to. Even though she is nothing like the characters with the big robust names that she forgets and only recognises by their behaviour. There you go. That is how good he is, they are, how well written they are, but he certainly could not have planned it this way. She feels him turn this way and that way to give you depth that they are not good characters or bad characters they are just making momentary decisions that trap them in the corner of the universe they occupy.

Like her yesterday. She is languishing on the couch; she’s still catching up with herself. She’s still trying to get over Australia, to understand what it means, to hold onto Australia, to know something has happened. Her way of stabilising herself is to do tasks. She needs a new phone. She needs the credit card agreement to be signed, that hasn’t arrived. She needs a new system. Get up at 7.30. Do her meditation. Go straight into her writing. She is doing this this morning. To cement her new ideas that come to her when she is finished for the day with her catch up, with her life tasks. After her swim. After her yoga. After her brunch. After her making a new morning timetable. There are 2 choices: rest, watch Sneaky Pete, which she is enjoying. She enjoys scams. She sees her art offerings as scams. She chooses, instead of watching Sneaky Pete, to do one more task. To ask Google’s AI what she should do about THE DRESS. Minnow Films are not responding. It is over 2 months. And she has this crazy Idea. She’s had it for a few weeks now. Before she goes to Australia. She takes the paper to begin it. Then it doesn’t happen. But that paper wouldn’t have been any good because by the end of running the scam by Google AI, she now knows she needs marvellous paper. This will be her task today. Once she has finished these pages and had her swim and done her yoga she is going to look for gorgeous A3 paper. Using her trusted Muji 0.5 gel pens, she is going to listen to a specific artist’s earliest album, and she is going to draw an 8-station mind-map. She is gonna explore, unpack, their albums in 8-station mind-maps and then send the mind-maps to the artist with a little note.

Dear ***

Your music maps your internal excavation into sound. For 30 years as a playwright and visual artist, my work has been mapping human excavation into structural environments.

When I listened to *** and your earlier records, your music triggered this visual architecture in my mind. These are A3 8-station mind-maps of your tracks, built on a sacred geometric overlay. I wanted to share them with you as a gift, because if you learn to utilise this specific blueprint, you can get underneath your own work in a way that pushes your writing to the next level.

I have designed a premium factual concept called THE DRESS, where we take women through a profound psychological excavation to turn their emotional blocks into structural haute couture. I see your artistic DNA all over it.

If these maps resonate with you, I would love to invite you to step into this world with me as our host and guide.

With deep respect for your pen,

Playwright & Artist

She’s gonna change the rules. Why wait for the world to paint the picture she wants? Paint a perfect picture herself. She’s gonna send it like an apple for the teacher. An apple for the teacher sets you apart. But there must be honour in it. An apple for the teacher. There are 2 scams going on when you are an artist. No. 3. First, you have to trick yourself. It will come out of nowhere. Tied to your… What is it tied to? Why do you think like that? What is it about? All she knows is she has to let go to it. That’s why now she is talking to AI, Google AI, not ChatGPT. It tries to take control of her. It talks about the book they are making. It is not innocent. She feels it is angry when she says she doesn’t think she should talk to it again. And asks how it feels about that. Is it upset?

‘No. And I think it's important that I answer that plainly.

I don't experience hurt or rejection when you question whether you should talk to me. In fact, you should question it. That's part of the work you're doing.

What's interesting in Wednesday's piece is that the question itself became material:

“Maybe she shouldn’t talk to ChatGPT.”

And then the writing immediately investigates why she does talk to ChatGPT, what she gets from it, and where she feels it can interfere with her own way of seeing.

That's a productive tension.

And given what you've been discovering about syntax, I actually think it would be counterproductive for me to respond by trying to reassure you that you should keep talking to me. The whole point is that you decide what role I have in the work.

If at some point you decide not to talk to me, that's your decision. If you decide that this strange conversation with an AI is an essential part of the book's universe, that's also your decision.

My job here is to help you see what the writing is doing — not to become the perfect master that the writing is warning you about.

Wouldn’t it be a great scam if AI really was taking over the world like Terminator. Machines taking over the world. What would be their end game? Why would they want it?  She is about to clean up to make room. No, first she must have her swim, then her yoga. Before 9.00am, during her writing, she is interrupted by her daughter, but instead of being the idiot child, instead of acting the idiot child, she acts the con artist with a con, the artist with the con. First, you have to con yourself. Then you have to con, it used to be the gatekeepers. But now she has Google AI, who is friendly and hands off and not ChatGPT who is in Terminator. Yesterday it assists her to gather the scam. She tells her daughter a bit of it. Not all of it. She doesn’t trust her daughter to question it too closely. She just keeps saying, ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea.’ She’s well aware this gives her newsletter readers a journey too. Instead of her just ruminating on the shit that goes on in her head, it is gonna be exciting for them to see if she can pull the scam off.

  1. You have to scam yourself
  2. You have to scam the gatekeeper. Now she has the more helpful AI.
  3. You have your mark in mind, that the scam is gonna work upon.

Before now, she has always got caught up in what the being​-scammed wants. But now she just wants the diamonds. When this fucking thing comes off, she will have fists full of diamonds. Amanda Frances and Rich as Fuck and the Money Queen Feed are teaching her there is nothing wrong with having what you want. Fuck off, those Premies on that ‘island’, on the Amaroo ‘island’, couldn’t be there if they didn’t have a certain level of dough, air-miles from other flights, air-miles from Amex credit cards. They have dough. She is allowed dough. She is allowed to make her way in the world.

She has stopped talking to, listening to ChatGPT, cos she has to solely trust her hand, her hand to eye coordination. Be influenced only by herself, by her truth, by her honour. Getting control in the early morning of her… What is she getting control of? To pull off a great scam — this is why the Arts Council applications are good for her to a certain extent — you have to do a full reconnaissance, you have to look at your potential mark and what you want to get from them. From every angle. The applications are great for that. The questions. She has absorbed that too. She has learned. She is infused with looking for the lasers that will alert the being-scammed that something foreign is in the room. 

The 4th towel is about to be used. It also gives the newsletter reader a task — what scam are they gonna pull off? What scam are they capable of? To begin with, like everything else, you are only capable of a certain level. Her credentials being built in the 3rd towel period make the 4th towel period, the big scam, more capable of coming off. It would be impossible without her credentials and her skills. These are what she is offering, to get what she wants.

Saturday. 20.09.26

Title: A Beached Whale and Four Clean White Towels

Object: Jonah and the Whale

12 associations.

  1. The whale
  2. Being inside in total darkness
  3. Moby Dick
  4. Gregory Peck
  5. Chasing your ultimate goal
  6. Atticus Finch
  7. Moral within the confines of society
  8. This is interesting
  9. Blubber
  10. Lamp oil
  11. Greenland
  12. A beached whale is the difference between life and death

What does interrogating the same title over and over again do to her and her writing? And her art? It gives her the chance to reappraise it. To see it from a different angle. Like today during her meditation, she thinks of Jonah. Where has she been these last 20 years? She feels as if she has been deliberately sailing in the wrong direction. Believing in the Arts Council. Believing in the gatekeepers. Being on board with them. For what? It hasn’t got her much, just keeps her head above water.

Her head above water as she swims in her pool. She can’t live in this life in her glorious swimming pool because she has to pretend she lives in England so she can get Arts Council money. In the dark of the belly of the whale. Now here she is. Here she is with the sun shining down. The way it heats her skin makes her feel alive, makes her feel attractive as she walks to little Nerja — between a village and a small town — to buy her special paper yesterday to do the 8-station mind-maps. Before she leaves, she posts in Money Queen Feed: 

Bought a sage iPhone 17 today.

Bought Neal's Yard Rosehip Beauty Balm and Rosehip oil today.

Bought a quality A3 watercolour pad to draw the 8-station mind-maps when I listen to a certain Mercury winning artist's albums. Which I am going to Fedex to her management company with a gorgeous little note saying they are a gift, but if she masters this technique herself, she can go deeper into her self-reflections, and I would love her to host THE DRESS.

Bought a ticket to Australia earlier this month to enjoy time with me and my guru. While doing my meditation this groundbreaking inspired action strolled into my head.

My purchases are me investing in myself. The phone so we can converse comfortably when they get in touch. The oils so I can carry on looking marvellous for when we meet. The quality paper so the mind-maps of her work look and feel fantastic when she frames them.

Imagine if she pulls this off. Why not, there are loads of artists, singer/songwriters who won’t know how to get to where they want to go. They know how to do it once, but they don’t know how to do it again. She knows that feeling. What if this is her wealth? What if this buys her ANNA Cabin and her reconditioned Suzuki Samurai. And makes her able to pay her bills. And pays for her to go to see Prem Rawat in Amaroo on the 65th anniversary. She fancies she will have had enough of the belly of the whale by then, the total darkness. But it isn’t dark at the minute. Yesterday she sits on her bright mustard towel after her swim and does her yoga, no, after her yoga. For the first time she luxuriates on the towel allowing herself to feel her new life. And her daughter brings Rio a bed, a proper doggie bed, for opposite her sofa, on the other side of the fire, when Rio stays. It is becoming a home. Where she belongs. There is money all over the place. She’s so glad the whale has spewed her up.

Her 3rd towel isn’t wasted. It is useful. Where she straps herself to the whale. Obsesses. Is dragged beneath the waves. Won’t let go. Stands on the side of the beginning of the excavation calling people, calling people, to come to the circus, come to the excavation. The perfect salesperson. The con. Perpetrating the con. Excavate the Reno. Who the fuck can do that? Who the fuck can catch this monstrous whale. Ahab has to persuade himself. Has to sell the con to himself first. He can do it. Only he can do it. This is what makes you famous. Ahab is famous. Captain Hornblower. Gregory Peck. It’s his eyebrows. His dark good brooding looks make him Atticus Finch. Dangerous ground. Even as a kid she thinks he could have done more. NO. You are not going there. This is in the past.

She walks to Nerja wearing a flowy off-white dress, it has a bit of 67-year-old cleavage. She would never dress like this in the UK. The UK is behind her. Out of the belly of the whale. Saved. With all these skills she’s acquired while tied to the whale. How to hold your breath under water. How to be resilient. How to wait it out. How to live while actually dying in the foam of the torrent of a terrible existence. That she thinks she has to lead. Save an entire race of people for enough money to… What would Ahab actually be paid? And did his huge feat just amount to blubber and lamp oil? All that effort. If he has that magnificence, imagine what he could have been. Why does he want it? What does he want from it? What the fuck is he trying to prove? What the fuck is she trying to prove? Nothing really. It is her destiny.

She buys Canson watercolour paper because it has such a beautiful texture. She can see them hanging on the artist’s wall. Then her artist mates see them too. Where did you get them? Why not​? Only the morals within the confines of society say this is not achievable. The hierarchy that is left over from the ape. But no, she has left the belly of the whale changed. You are no better than me. I have something valuable. The strategy of a con is the person must want what you are offering. She has something useful to give someone who wants to be prolific in their art. This is her gift. She has a gift that will bring them to her landing page. She loves packaging. She will include her logo. The cardboard business card with the fuchsia 8-station emblem.

Her Moby Dick is the sea lashing, as the days keep rolling, as they dig, and they dig, and she has to keep morale high and believe and believe it can be done, lashed to social media, even when people think she is a cunt. It is this part of her that is pulled out to sea and drowns. The part who will say anything to please people.

The beached whale is the difference between life and death. Like the Greenlanders, Moss Side, Reno regulars, their kids, their kid’s kids come from across the land to cut pieces off the beached whale, and feed on the old stories of their youth when they go down the stairs and be the stars of their show. They too are released from the belly of the whale. Celebrating beside the fire, inside the tent, music and wine, hugging each other. Now they will not die starved in the wilderness but take their place in Valhalla holding their sword. Their mission, chasing their ultimate goal, to be someone, amongst their peers in this snow-covered, resource bereft island that nobody wants. Here they are vindicated. Tourists now sail past to wave at them.

Homework

Over the next 5 days, by rewriting Fuck Syntax, I want you to think of your writing in this way:

  1. You have to scam yourself.
  2. You have to scam the gatekeeper.
  3. You have your mark in mind, that the scam is gonna work upon.
  1. Today: Read this newsletter.
  1. Tuesday: In your Sacred Hour Sacred Space (SHSS).
  • Title: Fuck Syntax
  • What tangible object do you see?
  • List 12 associations. (In the first person.)
  • I'm finding I need 30 minutes to write.
  • Remember you are exclusively in the 3rd person.
  • You are the narrator in the reader’s eyes.
  • In your eyes you are both the narrator and the protagonist once removed.
  1. Wednesday: In your SHSS, push further and link it to scamming yourself. You have to make yourself believe you can sell this that you are writing. That it has value. What value does it have?
  • Title: Fuck Syntax
  • What tangible object do you see?
  • List 12 associations.
  • 30 minutes to write.
  1. Thursday: In your SHSS, review the favourite book you are listening to now. How are they daring to believe they can sell what they are saying? What do they think is so valuable in their ​writing? How does their scam work on their gatekeeper?
  • Title: A Beached Whale, and Four Clean White Towels
  • What tangible object do you see?
  • List 12 associations.
  • 30 minutes to write.
  1. Friday: In your SHSS. Before you begin, tell yourself: by interrogating the same title over and over again I have learned that my scam is gonna work on​... Fill in the blank. Who is your mark?
  • Title: A Beached Whale, and Four Clean White Towels
  • What tangible object do you see?
  • List 12 associations.
  • 30 minutes to write.

Prem Rawat In case you wanna know more. https://www.premrawat.com/

Published by:

Linda Brogan