After hours of instruction from my mother, I’ve come to believe that my life is hopelessly fragmented and only partially realised – and empty.
Everything I do is rough and in minute quantities.
When I begin to write, I find a lack of opinion, vision and imagination.
I must examine how I look at life now – establish my views – know myself.
I have not discovered myself through excess. I will try through the ruthless application of my will.
I know the idea of ceremony, ritual is coming into my writings – the means we use to disguise, and implant with false importance, the things – perhaps all things - which are in reality meaningless. This human ceremony must be believed by all. Or else the very possibility of thought ignored …
Organisation. Completion of demanding and exacting tasks.
I am going to attack my goals now with commitment and zest – and with reckless bravado.
I’ve not drunken alcohol for two nights now.
I wrote the music for a song tonight.
*
Oh, the dreams and ambitions of the young. If I had followed through with the sentiments of this diary entry, I may have become king of the world. Instead, I became victim to my foibles and my immoderate appetites. Not that I didn’t make a lot of noise along the way.
The second night of Snatches went well, though I was tired and it’s hazy in my memory. I spent at least two hours chewing the cud in the dressing room with Frank. Sadly, I forgot my camera, but I did bring it to the football on Sunday afternoon, where I took this picture.
Yesterday, I spent a long hour with my solicitor, who scared me out of my wits on a number of fronts. Thankfully, Lynne was with there to take notes and calm me down.
3 comments:
good luck
yep. solicitors can be scary, and on a number of fronts, their punch-line being the scary account rendered.
It appears to be a slow sucking procedure. Slow because the virus does not want to kill the host, nor the ant the aphid.
Mind you I seem to have caught a reasonably good one as far as it goes
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