Tuesday, May 3, 1983

Sumer is icumen in

Rowan and Katie cracked up again tonight, sending Shelley fleeing in tears from their room. The bottle smashing, the screams and swearing, the curses, the tearing of paper and general dark lunacy went on until four-thirty or five in the morning. The curses were aimed at the whole of the corridor but Barry especially, probably because he'd thrown a book on witchcraft in Rowan’s direction earlier, saying “read this” as he did so.

The acid Rowan’d taken seemed merely to be a catalyst for much deeper and more destructive urges. We listened at the door or hung about at a loss in my room or in Stu’s: Shelley looked grave and worried. There was much jocular but anxious talk. What I heard at the door made me really wonder about what it was that had actually happened to Rowan to so fuck her up. She kept cursing someone and calling him a “fucking wanker,” and as she did so I heard paper and cardboard being ripped up.

I wondered what it all meant, and Shelley told me that Rowan was involved in some sort of cult when she was 8 and that this has screwed up her whole life and (it goes without saying) warped her conception of everything.

Penny came into my room nearly crying because she didn’t know what to do. I feel very sorry now for all the hasty things I’ve said about Rowan and for all the ribaldries and tall tales I’ve joined in with and encouraged. She needs help, not criticism.

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