Sunday, June 17, 1984


I didn’t wake up until two o’clock this afternoon.

Went to a party last night at, 44A, our old place. Stu, Gareth, Penny, Lindsey, Susie and Ade came along too. Stu and I left soon after arriving to try buy some more acid from Kevin Yettram but no one was in. Back at the party, Gareth drunkenly chatted up Anita, one of Susie’s friends, crushing himself close. Jason, Barry and Stu and I went back to Ade’s: we chased a couple of dragons (man) and I got back to the Grey House for three a.m.

I’m closeted in my bathroom hunched over this script. The house is quiet. Instead of spending the time writing about what I’ve done, I should write about what I’ve thought or wondered. I must apply myself to a couple of hours writing each day to become practiced at the art. My essay on Burroughs remains unstarted. I have to hand it in next Wednesday.

I haven’t been too well the last three or four days and I’ve got a bad cold, catarrh, pains in the head. It’s so hard to apply myself to anything constructive living like this. I spoke to Dad on the ‘phone, wished him a happy Father’s Day, and things fell into a sort of order as the breath of stability blew through me.

I’m strangely unaffected by the news about Lindsey and Jason, and instead I'm curiously but pleasingly free of all mental tremors and reverberations.

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