( The surrealist movement was all about capturing the subconscious mind. The idea is to do things without thinking directly about it and not allowing the control of methods and constraints which reform thoughts and ideas into a more acceptable form. What we have here is one method of automatic writing. You take something you have written and chop it up and then reform the pieces and see how much sense it makes. That naked lunch bloke, what's his name, William S Burroughs apparantly did a lot of this. How small you cut the pieces is up to you, whether you seperate each word or groups of four or five words or just cut the whole page into four, it all gives different results. It's worth giving it a try because once in a while you end up with sentences that are so close to the veiled truth that they make you blush. This one was done from a diary entry of mine, I cut it into each clause and seperated the nouns but kept the option of dividing further to make it fit.)
Ha Ha Haaaaa. Mr G U Blin isn't better thank you very much. I tap and whistle but the bird has gone and stamps. Trying to alleviate subconcious confusion should you leave it, or did you? Don't worry, it's not ticking. Shall a postbox and a phone box outside our misery grasp your attention? I left the door one morning from the secret potato product. The damn roads are hollow.
Dear diary, I was really miserable (ie my good self) Don's diary must have a start birthday. You never get a cup of tea and a sandwich, wasn't even a car. Drink tea. What else? Who knows? Drivers won't work. But I would rather have a pork chicken-shit outfit. Drink some form of tonic, paint Eddy. Decide to do a new issue of GLarg!
Lincoln's in a post office with my baby sandwich. Also Endless Nameless were singing with tiny voices, a house now and purchased "If....". It's funny how a packet were - they were so alive so that I aught to listen to Baby Ford. Where's the beautiful melody and v. tacky booklets, the truth is no longer sacred. Wouldn't it be weird to be born with a younger daughter, Joyce. Having eaten a packet of crisps I notice unnameable little broom on monday and, brother, we now have some Glenn Miller. Have a long hot bath and listen to the aviator.
Went into town, bought posters which are designed to almost imagine that they return "Creeping Jesus!". This may well be so harmoniuos, so natural, Anna has drawn a tennis ball. Upon which it flies around the room and beats clickimous activity. Sorry, I'm lying, it climbed through bread, milk, potato product etc. Real vivid punctuation in it's place - punched on Juke Box.
That girl, Alice, she sent me that hat on to better times and places. I would place the headlamps and can't decide which is most comforting. My eyes are clear, one could point. Watched tacky movies - police pictures of the crisps on the dreams. Met Lodge and we all hide under towels, coats, pillows, etcetera and scream Blue Murder!
Big prison with huge towers like castle bombarded with many holes - looked quite impressive. Had that dream about before I was inclined to put him out of his home and listen to Baby Ford. Flower shouts when the church catches fire, frightening my mind. Drink coffee, tea, lemon tea - now I feel much was really there at all.
Saw the Aviator, I'm sure it was the mask of this true potential of female - how beautiful the hips, yummy yum yum! How do I get out of this typewriter, into me jumper? I anxiously await a knock on a postbox in front of our house. Decide that one couldn't be sure that it wasn't my car - it stole my car. "Tuesday is yellow". Sleep and read Alice.
Watch daft Disney program for some reason. Blow up template for berrnuts. See the Aviator with lil' sis'. Watched VRBNO and ABoF&L. Came home via Kebab King. Andy polishes off my Woods 100. Some girl barfs her little guts out. We have envelopes and paper and a glass elevator. Ate dinner, drank tea, felt sick! Saw the Aviator and became inexplicably hungry. Fire drill!