Friday, February 10, 1984

Do androids dream?


I slept with the fumes of the still-drying paint in my unventilated room and perhaps this contributed to the succession of vivid and coherent dreams I had. I was in bed for 11.30 pm yet still slept twelve hours.

Today has been another of those days that seem a complete waste of time. I live through the hours and minutes like a robot, hardly feeling or experiencing anything. I went onto campus with Barry and Ade and walked to the library, leaving them setting up their equipment for a jam in Taylor Hall. I withdrew books of poetry by Wallace Stevens and W.C. Williams and hitched back to the NatWest bank on Wickbourne Road to try and sort out a new account. “It will be ready in a day or two” I was told, and so I’ll scrounge and go without for another weekend at least.

Lee has bought two wooden candlesticks and he’s placed them at the head of his bed, adding a further sepulchral tone to his already gloomy room. The main light fitting conveniently fell apart this morning. With this accumulation of religious icons and symbolic items it’s hard to avoid the cornier aspects of ‘Troppism’—the building of altars for the worship of nothing more than other peoples’ conceptions of the “mystical” and the “weird.”

No comments:

Google Analytics Alternative