Bookish

This morning PC Essex, the arresting officer from the Great October LSD Caper called at Maynard Gardens to tell Lee that all charges against him had been dropped and that Stu and I’s files were on the Superintendent’s desk; he’s now deciding what to do with us.

So I called at the police station on Michael Street and saw PC Essex who told me that, in his opinion, I’ll be lucky to get off with a caution and will probably go to court on the charge of possession. He thinks the charge of supply will be dropped because “you’re obviously not a pusher.” He never mentioned Stu, so perhaps he’ll escape punishment.

I haven’t worried much about the pending charges, and it’s only over the last week that I’ve been assailed by bad dreams, and as I stood listening with nodding head and a fixed expression of gloom I was told not to let it ruin the rest of my term. I got the impression that PC Essex had every sympathy with me—as he should if my story were true.

It is difficult to pick up the pieces of shattered continuity. There’s always the “I’ll do it tomorrow, I’ll do it tomorrow” and never the actual process of sitting still and writing. It’ll be difficult to attain past levels.

I’ve noticed an element of self-consciousness and fear creeping into my thoughts when I direct them towards these pages, as if I’m unsure of how to write, or scared of speaking ‘unnaturally’ or ‘falsely’.

I’ve led myself into the trap of allowing bookish pretensions to dominate the content of what is written.