Dispassion

Stu and I were up early this morning. Maggie had left us bacon, eggs and bread and this I cooked while Stu dozed. We left a note thanking Maggie for her hospitality and, after fumbling with the front door for 10 minutes, managed to get out and on our way.

Edgware Road was bathed in early morning sunshine, the air fresh and untarnished. A group of Manchester United fans stood outside a nearby police station, perhaps waiting for one of their number to be released. Stu and I parted company and he heading home, while I set off back to Waterloo which I reached after a cock-up on the underground that sent me to Willesden Junction and wasted an hour. I rolled into Watermouth at eleven after a good journey down in fine weather.

My ears still rang from last night’s assault, and fragments of tunes and rhythms kept swimming into my head. No one was up except Susie. . . .

Gareth came back in the afternoon with two Bowie tickets for Paris on June 9th (one for him and one for Stu). I smoked a few joints with him and Barry. Gareth nearly blacked out in Graeme’s room, and he said his vision was swallowed up by a growing blot of grey nothingness and he all but fell over when he came back into my room. He looked totally colourless and white and went to lie down.

The day has rushed by since then. I talked with Katie—I find her interesting— and she says the fact I've left my room undecorated this term (except for a black plastic shrunken Jivaro head and a couple of pictures, one of Emsley Cemetery and the other a poster advertising Gustav Metzger), “shows your ability to look at things dispassionately.” Rowan’s room by contrast is stuffed full of things and couldn’t be anyone but hers: It’s a world all its own. And I’m sure this says as much about her and her need to do this as my bare-walled retreat says about me. After this I went out for a quick drink.

I'm writing this in the small hours of Monday morning and I’m going to stay up all night because a few of us are going to take the train to Brighton at about six a.m. to queue for Cup Final Replay tickets. Guy rolled back about midnight with suitcase and smile, saying the weekend has been one of the best he can ever remember.

I can hear Barry eagerly banging at his typewriter. He’s just written a short review of an Irish Freedom Movement video for Union Views and he’s very enthusiastic about it. Lindsey is away still and it seems as if I haven’t seen or spoken to her for a long time. She’s almost completely disappeared from my life now, even though I still get a vague sense of dissatisfaction when I see Roy around Wollstonecraft, although it’s nothing compared to how badly I felt a few weeks ago. I’m not too sure how my money situation stands exactly – I can’t have much left at all.

I’ve started reading the first half-dozen pages of McTeague. McTeague’s lethargic bulk and slightly degenerate life-style reminds me of Verloc. I can also hear Rowan and Katie having a loud personal conversation in R’s room (. . .“when you’re in bed having sex . . .”). I can see what Shelley and Penny have against living with those two, especially after the fateful acid-experience; “I’d end up having a nervous breakdown” says S. with a grin. Our own hassles over Russ have eased for the moment: he’s gone home and, before he did, told Guy he doesn’t want to live with Barry and I because we’re “lazy bastards.” Good one, Russ! Erik Satie now drifts gently from Barry’s room. . . .