Analyze me.
Let's be clear on something. None of us are even remotely qualified to analyze the results of a TAT, let alone, claim that our interpretations are meaningful. Nevertheless, it seems fun, so in the name of Science...
For this week's blog posting, I offer myself up to be psychologized by you 'oh young psychologists in the making'. Here's how:
Similar to what you did in class, I administered myself a Thematic Apperception Test, (consider that I am using the word 'administered' pretty loosely - I looked at one of the pictures while drinking hot chocolate and listening to music). Anyway, below, in orange, you'll see the story I came up with. Being that it's written, unfortunately, you won't be able to analyze me based on my behaviors during the test, but again, I was pretty relaxed, and I like creative writing, so there might not have been too much there anyway. Instead, please focus on either the CONTENT of my story or the FEELING/TONE of my story. Of course you're free to offer up your analysis of both, but I only ask you to do one.
If you choose to analyze the content, remember that real psychologists who actually know what they are doing believe it would tell you about my ATTITUDES, FANTASIES, WISHES, INNER CONFLICTS and VIEWS OF THE OUTSIDE WORLD.
If you choose to analyze the feeling/tone of my story, it might reveal my FEELINGS, ASSUMPTIONS ABOUT THE WORLD and an indication whether I am a PESSIMIST or OPTIMIST.
Be as specific as you want in your analysis; for example, you may feel that something in my story symbolizes grief, and then speculate over what I may be grieving about. On my end, I'll try (no promises,) not to be offended, and you can try to stay within reasonable boundaries of appropriateness considering this is school and all. Ok, enough, my story is below - based on the picture, which is right under this.
For this week's blog posting, I offer myself up to be psychologized by you 'oh young psychologists in the making'. Here's how:
Similar to what you did in class, I administered myself a Thematic Apperception Test, (consider that I am using the word 'administered' pretty loosely - I looked at one of the pictures while drinking hot chocolate and listening to music). Anyway, below, in orange, you'll see the story I came up with. Being that it's written, unfortunately, you won't be able to analyze me based on my behaviors during the test, but again, I was pretty relaxed, and I like creative writing, so there might not have been too much there anyway. Instead, please focus on either the CONTENT of my story or the FEELING/TONE of my story. Of course you're free to offer up your analysis of both, but I only ask you to do one.
If you choose to analyze the content, remember that real psychologists who actually know what they are doing believe it would tell you about my ATTITUDES, FANTASIES, WISHES, INNER CONFLICTS and VIEWS OF THE OUTSIDE WORLD.
If you choose to analyze the feeling/tone of my story, it might reveal my FEELINGS, ASSUMPTIONS ABOUT THE WORLD and an indication whether I am a PESSIMIST or OPTIMIST.
Be as specific as you want in your analysis; for example, you may feel that something in my story symbolizes grief, and then speculate over what I may be grieving about. On my end, I'll try (no promises,) not to be offended, and you can try to stay within reasonable boundaries of appropriateness considering this is school and all. Ok, enough, my story is below - based on the picture, which is right under this.
It was a relatively ordinary June day, except maybe warmer. Actually, hot, really hot, which is one of the reasons Milo decided to cut 4th period Science and head down for an afternoon dip in Hermann's Creek. It wasn't particularly strange for him to duck out of school early anyway. Science...well, school in general, wasn't really his "thing" and ever since his Mama had passed away from fever last spring, his father had been working long hours at the mill, and didn't pay much mind to Milo's comings and goings.
He hoped to have the creek all to himself being as school wasn't out for the afternoon. What had a few years ago been his "secret spot" wasn't much of a secret anymore, and he rarely found himself alone in this current heatwave. There was something nice about Hermann's Creek. Maybe the way the willow branches hung heavy and low, the tips of the branches dipping right into the water, maybe the way the sunlight fought it's way through the canopy to dance across the surface of the water, or maybe the gentle gurgle as the water bubbled and whirled over the smooth rocks before disappearing around the bend. Whatever it was, the creek was a great place to sit and think with pant legs rolled up and feet dangling in the cool water. More than once Milo has fallen asleep on the creek bank and woken up chilled as evening rolled in, and more than once his thoughts had drifted to Mama, and what life used to be like.
Milo picked up his pace, scampering haphazardly across the potato fields toward the dark line that marked the edge of the forest, just beyond which promised a relaxing escape from the sun at the edge of Hermann's Creek. Several miles to the East, he could hear the sounds of the mill, the mechanical grinding of machines and grunts and yells of hardworking men enmeshed to an extent that it was impossible to differentiate one type of sound from the other. His thoughts briefly went to his father, and the hours he toiled at that mill 7 days a week to keep a roof over their heads and bread on the table. He loved his father, respected him, appreciated him, but it didn't change the fact that their relationship has ceased to exist after mama's death.
He resumed his pace over a rise as the treeline loomed closer, but then he stopped short.
In front of him, lying only a few feet away were three men. To say they were lying close together wouldn't have been completely accurate. Actually, they were lying in a tight clump with one man's head resting on the back of another. Their positioning immediately reminded Milo of a nest of garter snakes he'd once discovered when exploring down by the creek. None of them moved despite the noise that had surely alerted them to his presence, and it was only then that he realized they were sleeping. All three men, although they appeared to be of working age, and surely employees of the mill, were dressed casually - more suited to church than working. Milo couldn't conceive of any reason that would bring three men of working age to the middle of a potato field on a Thursday afternoon, let alone to have a nap in such close quarters.
Two of the men had their hats pulled low over their eyes, but he could see enough to know they were strangers to him, a fact made more peculiar given that Milo knew all of the locals in the small town. The third man lay on his stomach, his hat still on, and his face completely obscured. At that moment, as Milo gaped at the three, the man in the back snorted and rolled over, and something, instinct perhaps, told Milo to get out of sight. In two or three bounds, he had loped back over the ridge and was lying flat on his stomach in the dirt, his body crushing an unfortunate potato plant. He swallowed nervously, his mouth dry, his palms sweating and sore pushing into the sun-baked soil. Peering through a potato plant, he chanced a glance down at the men in the ditch. One of the men was still down, his back to Milo, but the other two were standing. One was brushing dirt from his clothing while glancing furtively over the fields and waving his arms in emphatic gestures. The other was peering intently towards the treeline. Neither spoke. Then Milo could hear the sitting man say something to the others. The words were muffled, but the voice was low, and familiar, and something told him the tone was distinctly unpleasant. The two immediately turned and walked in opposite directions across the fields, one west towards the treeline, one east towards the mill. The third man calmly rose to his feet. He brushed some dirt from the brim of his hat, arched his shoulders and turned towards town, and towards Milo.
The voice had an unusual, sinister quality. "Why don't you stand up outta them potatoes, boy," said Milo's father.
He hoped to have the creek all to himself being as school wasn't out for the afternoon. What had a few years ago been his "secret spot" wasn't much of a secret anymore, and he rarely found himself alone in this current heatwave. There was something nice about Hermann's Creek. Maybe the way the willow branches hung heavy and low, the tips of the branches dipping right into the water, maybe the way the sunlight fought it's way through the canopy to dance across the surface of the water, or maybe the gentle gurgle as the water bubbled and whirled over the smooth rocks before disappearing around the bend. Whatever it was, the creek was a great place to sit and think with pant legs rolled up and feet dangling in the cool water. More than once Milo has fallen asleep on the creek bank and woken up chilled as evening rolled in, and more than once his thoughts had drifted to Mama, and what life used to be like.
Milo picked up his pace, scampering haphazardly across the potato fields toward the dark line that marked the edge of the forest, just beyond which promised a relaxing escape from the sun at the edge of Hermann's Creek. Several miles to the East, he could hear the sounds of the mill, the mechanical grinding of machines and grunts and yells of hardworking men enmeshed to an extent that it was impossible to differentiate one type of sound from the other. His thoughts briefly went to his father, and the hours he toiled at that mill 7 days a week to keep a roof over their heads and bread on the table. He loved his father, respected him, appreciated him, but it didn't change the fact that their relationship has ceased to exist after mama's death.
He resumed his pace over a rise as the treeline loomed closer, but then he stopped short.
In front of him, lying only a few feet away were three men. To say they were lying close together wouldn't have been completely accurate. Actually, they were lying in a tight clump with one man's head resting on the back of another. Their positioning immediately reminded Milo of a nest of garter snakes he'd once discovered when exploring down by the creek. None of them moved despite the noise that had surely alerted them to his presence, and it was only then that he realized they were sleeping. All three men, although they appeared to be of working age, and surely employees of the mill, were dressed casually - more suited to church than working. Milo couldn't conceive of any reason that would bring three men of working age to the middle of a potato field on a Thursday afternoon, let alone to have a nap in such close quarters.
Two of the men had their hats pulled low over their eyes, but he could see enough to know they were strangers to him, a fact made more peculiar given that Milo knew all of the locals in the small town. The third man lay on his stomach, his hat still on, and his face completely obscured. At that moment, as Milo gaped at the three, the man in the back snorted and rolled over, and something, instinct perhaps, told Milo to get out of sight. In two or three bounds, he had loped back over the ridge and was lying flat on his stomach in the dirt, his body crushing an unfortunate potato plant. He swallowed nervously, his mouth dry, his palms sweating and sore pushing into the sun-baked soil. Peering through a potato plant, he chanced a glance down at the men in the ditch. One of the men was still down, his back to Milo, but the other two were standing. One was brushing dirt from his clothing while glancing furtively over the fields and waving his arms in emphatic gestures. The other was peering intently towards the treeline. Neither spoke. Then Milo could hear the sitting man say something to the others. The words were muffled, but the voice was low, and familiar, and something told him the tone was distinctly unpleasant. The two immediately turned and walked in opposite directions across the fields, one west towards the treeline, one east towards the mill. The third man calmly rose to his feet. He brushed some dirt from the brim of his hat, arched his shoulders and turned towards town, and towards Milo.
The voice had an unusual, sinister quality. "Why don't you stand up outta them potatoes, boy," said Milo's father.