Steal this book

I’ve hardly been out in the evening since the term began other than maybe two or three occasions; I was called a “miserable old cunt” by John tonight for not partaking of the drugs in the other room. I’ve abstained totally over the last fortnight.

I thought I had £42 in the bank after I’d paid off my £250 overdraft with grant and money from home, but when I came to close my Midland account (reasoning that the bank manager there might not view future requests for overdrafts kindly after my £250 unauthorised one), I was shocked to be told I had just £1.99. It threw me off completely. So I went into town and bought a copy of the Golden Bough for £7.50 & tried (in vain) to steal this journal book.

I hung about for ¾ of an hour and was just slipping it into my coat when a shop assistant saw me. I pulled it out quickly and, as our eyes met, I saw in hers the clear recognition of what I was doing. I stumbled to the cash desk, paid for it, and left the shop hot faced and angry. £3.10 for paper and compressed cardboard!

For a long time over the last two weeks I’ve festered in a morose state of apathy and prickly misunderstanding. Part of it has been deliberate. What I suppose I should be trying for is a steeliness towards these weaknesses in myself. It’s not important. My current lack of effort towards anything constructive is far more worrying; I’m in danger of forgetting the real reasons behind my attempted change of outlook, which is to strip away the clatter & fruitless drudgery of existence and to turn these into moments of meaning. I must keep in mind that to deny some things in a blindly consistent way, is to deny those aspects of Living these ‘things’ (activities, rituals, qualities) affirm and represent.

What bothers me is my lack of creativity.

One of the main incentives behind this journal is this need in my life for pattern and purpose, however poorly defined. I may leave these pages for weeks or even months, but I’ll always come back to them and write at least once about the things I’ve seen and done. I write a lot of crap here, but I also feel that I’ve spoken truthfully and with power at times. It’s the only lasting achievement of my life so far. But I haven’t even begun to tell of all the things I want to.

This evening I helped Lee paint the walls of his room slate grey.