Dad drove me on to the library, our moods bright like the sun. I took out Ronald Hayman ‘s Theatre and Anti-Theatre, Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward Angel, Naked Lunch by Burroughs and a couple of books on art. I spent £2.50-plus on brushes and boards at Bailey’s.
This question of when and why and how I write this journal is getting stupidly out-of-hand. What should be a spontaneous process gets bogged down in unimportant detail; whatever I do I'm beset by doubts when really none of it matters! I'd promised myself to be less zealously regular about writing every day but now I think more about it I should write every day because mundane detail is the Truth and it's what makes this interesting for me to look back at. Once lapsed, a daily record has lost its aim and purpose.
Maybe I'm trying to make this something it’s not and I'm being just too ambitious? Shut up and get on with it.
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