Two letters came this morning; one from Pete, the other a photograph sent by Graeme. It was of Barry and I lying in a stupour in the corridor. I never did reply to Shelley. These reminded me of how imminent my return to that world is. As I read Pete’s letter and the bits and pieces he'd included, this diary and its contents seemed like another world.
I've spent the day in typical fashion; books arrayed but unopened . . . I finished the last few pages of Demian but the ending seems contrived. It’s too easy a solution for Sinclair’s predicament for him to find Frau Eva and up until that point his development proceeded in a believable way. The climax of the novel is lame.
Grant rang and cried off from tonight’s planned trip to see a film at the Film Theatre because he’s broke. He told me the name of his band—MCI, which stands for Music Centre Irritant—and said they've a gig booked at the Phases club on June 29th. “I’m trying to get them out of the habit of tuning their guitars,”says Grant.
As the day draws to its sunny close I find once again I’ve fallen victim to frustration and irritability, a knot of stifled dissatisfaction deep within me. My moods change so quickly.
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