Tuesday, February 22, 1983


Yet again, last night’s darkness saw me crumple in on myself. I went to bed in the afternoon after staying up all night, got up at 9 p.m. and half heartedly worked until I was dragged into Marco’s room by Penny and Shelley.

Marco was in typical drunken and explosive form. He’d already covered the kitchen in bleach, created havoc down the corridor, and now sat in his room with his friends, surrounded by bottles of whisky and cider. Everyone was drunk and we ended up at a party in Rousseau Hall with Gareth, Barry, Lindsey and Marco & co. I just couldn’t bear the crowded cramped din of people and had to leave, so I climbed up on the roof, stood about at a loss, and came back down. Back in my room I smashed glasses against the walls, and made a big dent. Shelley came and laid on my bed and joined in too, the Fall playing at full volume. . . .

Daylight helps put everything back in it’s proper perspective. Morning comes and everything from before looks so pointless . . . . I think back with shame on what I’ve done, that I could be so weak.

Doris, the Wollstonecraft porter, throws bread down on the grass in the central courtyard outside my window and soon, a flock of seagulls wheel down out of a clear sky, great white flapping things, twisting in the sun, soaring and circling between the dingy redbrick walls.

I went to my American Studies lecture on Dickinson and Thoreau and on the way back stopped at the Tuesday market and bought Elvin Jones Live at the Lighthouse and an LP by Monk.

No comments:

Google Analytics Alternative