Not in ten thousand years

Parties are a waste of time, and last night’s shambles re-emphasised that.

Today has been unproductive and mindless enough. I took the bus into University at teatime to read up about American poet Muriel Rukeyser, but I’ll miss tomorrow’s tutorial anyway. Ian left a message on Lee’s desk saying he’d found a big old derelict mansion, so I will go and investigate that with ‘Crowley’ and co. instead.

I read poetry in the library and missed Yorkshire. Today, Lee said that he thinks I’ll end up settling back in Easterby after University. I love that part of the world in a way I can’t muster over anything else.

I feel that the only thing holding me at University is Mum and Dad’s innocent crushable 1930s-bred faith in me as their son. They work and strive and want me to go to college and better myself and get a job and have money and a wife and all the trappings of success and ‘contentment.’ But I want none of it . . . I used to have a burning conviction and passion to awaken to the world and all of life but it’s been quenched since ’81, ’82, when a drunken trip to London was a Great Adventure, worthy of page after page of fervently scribbled prose effort. Events have marched over me since and I’ve lost that feeling. Is it ‘part of growing up,’ gone forever?

The other day I told Andrew in a letter that I wished I’d gone to Art College instead of here and felt guilty as I penned the offending sentiment. I’ve even toyed with the idea of going to see my Personal Tutor, but what’d be the point? I’ve got to go through with the remaining four-and-a-half-terms of my course, and anyway, I’m not overtly unhappy.