P.S. No prizes for psychoanalyzing them, as the Badbrute says, 'no subtext
One of the guilty pleasures/morbid nostalgia interest in my own twarted ambitions and failures of any trip home is reading old notebooks and finding bizarre scribbings. It's kind of like when an FBI agent is hunting down a serial killer in a movie or something. Sometimes even I don't know what the heck I was on about (writing this in the library so excuse the archiac swears, I'll beef them up later). The below examples are from a wee notebook (circa 1999) from a particularly dark and perverse time but also quite creative. I was juggling a an arts admin job that although superficially suited to I was awful at and would escape mentally and physically from it at any given opportunity. Half this period was spent in a tiny bedsit in Dublin where painted cardboard versiosn of some this sort of demented crap appeared.