This is not just about Mumsey. This is not just about The Father. This is not even about me. It is about everything I can think of which consists of the world that I live in, and my life as I know it. This is my rambling on, my psychological experiment for myself to write a modern art sort of autobiography. It will not be in order, it will not be in neat chapters. It might be provoked by something I think of one day, or by a feeling I have, and then bits and pieces might come forth out of my subconscious memories. Those things I have forgotten might reappear so I can think about them and try to make sense of some of it. This might happen. Of course, the other side of what might happen is that this experiment dies, or I get tired of it, or I realize it is pointless. But for now this might be my aim.
