Friday, February 25, 1983

Mechanical man

Yet more tales from a ‘tortured’ mind. But tortured about what? I suppose these constant complaints of boredom and claustrophobia (“I know just what I’ll be doing tomorrow evening,” etc.) are self-indulgent, because really I've nothing to fret about. But at times life can be very unfulfilling, even though, as Rowan says, the world-weary philosophizing and moaning at my ‘tender’ age is "ridiculous." I’m the only one who has the power to alter any of this, and so it’s no good blaming my surroundings.

I began my essay teatimeish and by 9.15 I had three-and-a-half sides done. To celebrate, Penny and I met Lindsey and Shelley in Westway Loop Bar. I came back in typical alcoholic despondency to lonely frustrations in my room while a happy gaggle talked flippantly and noisily in the corridor.

Guy and I smashed bottles on the bridge by the kitchen, and then sat in his room for an hour or so talking about Charles Manson, Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski. I felt better after this, and I felt bolstered too by Guy’s ‘man apart’ cynicism and hard-nosed self-sufficiency.

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