Maybe Stephen Pressfield got it wrong. Maybe what we view as Resistance isn't always that. Maybe, sometimes, it's not the time to write/create/do, especially when we tell ourselves it is.
On the other hand, I haven't read The War of Art in a long time. Maybe I'm getting some stuff mixed up.
That said, my experiment is going swimmingly — if the goal of making my computer unavailable for anything other than writing until noon every weekday is to make me... happier? I mean, my mind would like me to use every minute of those allotted two-hundred-forty to write and write and write down every. single. thought. that has ever occurred to me. It doesn't work that way though, regrettably.
But here's a thought that occurred to me, about thoughts that occur — on my way back from my walk an hour ago, my mind was thinking something along the lines of "damn I am a good catch, Kiryll made a good choice," and immediately flagged it as out of the ordinary, realizing, huh, I am extremely ovulatory right now—
So I was watching myself looking at myself from the inside going DAMN, and then watched myself put two and two together— OH, and when I'm luteal and my body does not currently have the energy nor the need to attract a male (the opposite, even, because the baby box will be shedding its lining momentarily), my confidence goes down like the Titanic explicitly so that I will curl up in a ball and be alone and properly rest so my body can do the shedding of the baby box lining properly??
Trains of thought such as these make me think thoughts do not belong in the realm of "things I should identify as originating from me, myself, or whatever I am" (I just listened to a good chunk of Why Buddhism Is True; it's ding-ding-dinging non-stop lately in my brain, especially the significant overlap of principles and terminology between Buddhism and Human Design.)
One of manifold reasons I love my Claude Code publishing pipeline1 choosing pieces to publish in my stead (instead of me making myself hone in on one piece to make it ready for publishing and forgetting all my joy of anything in the process and then leaving it to rot in the end after all because everything is cringe and none of my effort deserve to be seen even by a bot) is that I get to feel like I'm writing letters to "the outside" from a romantically forsaken and plant-kingdom-reclaimed abandoned bunker warehouse, and the words I'm typing into my shiny wonderful MacBook Air, are, like, relics of a forgotten time.
Yes, maybe the fact that I pulled out a bunch of ingredients earlier to make into something edible and also tasty so that my dad won't feel like his weekly grocery hauls are in vain, in fact, points to my Resisting towards writing — maybe it also means that functionally disabling my computer till noon every weekday frees me up to actually register stuff that would otherwise get neglected because getting sucked into the internet early in the day is very bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad for my soul.
Funnily enough though, here I am, writing, yes? Beats me how any of this works. No, actually I really would like to explain it to myself in terms of the Rave I'Ching etc but I sadly do not have the time. I need to go make an herby baked cheesecake omelette type situation with olives, grated tomatoes and Vichy carrots. Goodbye now.
Edited; when I wrote this back in February, it was "kiryll publishing pieces in my stead," which did not happen, but the principle remains ↩︎