I'm not sure what's happening today, blog wise. I've found by rereading my diary that I've started dropping into a very prescriptive form for my daily entries. The weather first, followed by how busy I am at work, followed by my route home and ending up with what's on the telly. There's no scope for empty-headed scat scribbling within this highly-structured form. I need, therefore, to break its face with a forearm smash of art terrorism.
When I was younger (i.e. at any time prior to now) I used to be so tired and hungover when filling in brer diary that my musings would meander wherever they saw fit. This was useful because rereading it was like reading the thoughts of a dissolute stranger, who just so happened to be inhabiting my body at the time as I was using it. This is as exhilarating as its sounds. But as I've aged, I've become more and more bound by bourgeois routine. And the old BR absolutely hates improv.
This is age creeping up on one of course. However, I'm a great believer that age-appropriate behaviour is conditioned - nurture rather than nature. Given this, it is possible to override it. I shall do this using positive affirmation and hyperventilation.
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