Oblivion express

I spent a lazy morning in front of the fire listening to records and reading the reports on Athletic’s match.

At three-thirty, me, Robert and Carol set off for Alverhouse to pick up Carol’s sister Lynne, and six-year old niece Melissa. I felt queasy and was almost sick on the way there and still felt ill as we hung restlessly around deserted grey Alverhouse streets or in the bus station.

Then, there was the coach pulling in, a fleeting glimpse of a small white face and a blonde pony-tail greetings, me feeling like an outsider almost. The journey back was better; no illness and laughter and silliness from the back seat of the car. I like Lynne; she has a nice giggle.

Back in Saxton, I got embroiled in a long intense and interesting fire side ‘philosophize’ with Lynne and Robert about things which are impossible to provide definitive answers for: art as communication and/or personal ‘self-expression’ and the need or not for painting and writing to have some definite “level of excellence.” How can an external level of excellence be imposed on art which should be personal anyway? Maybe if this was founded on some basis of skill, or an ability to figuratively represent something well say, or accurate grammar, etc. Then experimentation could begin. . . .

I seemed to argue myself in circles, not knowing what to believe, changing my opinions constantly because I really haven’t a clue what position to take. I can’t even claim my writing attempts to be worth a shit: I blandly pen the words out, and they're founded on no experience whatsoever.

I enjoyed the to and fro arguments but found myself convinced that perhaps Robert is right when he says that we are all isolated, alone and trapped amidst our own thoughts and minds. . . . It’s all so difficult.

At ten, Lynne, Rob and Carol went to the pub’, leaving me to ‘babysit’ Melissa who was asleep in bed. They came back within an hour and brought eight cans of cider. We sat playing dominoes, drinking and laughing and listened to Brian Augur’s Oblivion Express or Curtis Mayfield.

Came to bed at one feeling drunk.