My many books full of regular journal-writing, three pages every morning, are mouldering and won't be read again. They are filled with angst and anxiety, idealism and ideas. Most are at least ten years old. I don't need them any more - their work was done in the writing of them.
Because the first aim of such writing is to clear the mind of its griefs, I have treated the pages with salt water that is meant to run down like tears, but often doesn't cooperate -
Then a pointy brush loaded with waterproof ink travels along each written line, obliterating it more or less -
Music is playing - I record what the pieces are. At the moment Radio 3 is taking 12 days to play every note Mozart wrote.
I've been spending half an hour in the morning, re-writing these pages. It's a good way to start the day, better than turning on the computer immediately! The treated pages, buckled by the water, are opening up the book -
You can't help reading a word or a phrase here and there. Often they are the same concerns, over and over again - back and forth on the same mental train-tracks. 
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