Still, the image of Nat releasing anger in this way is far more acceptable than mutilating his body. He does seem to have a lot of pent-up anger that comes out during his writing and playing of “songs”. Indeed, the very idiom he uses indicates this. Punk, after all, is a music of hatred and destruction, but it is still music, i.e. a statement of hope not pessimism. Nat does not see it as an adequate catharsis. Indeed, he does not believe in catharsis. He does believe in some things: evocation of certain moods—predominantly bizarre—in his lyrics and drawings. He spoke at great length about his humble ambitions for the band, putting me quite behind schedule with my other appointments, but it was worth it.

THU JUL 15

I have just had what is likely to be the last primal therapy session with Nat. It was almost a facsimile of the previous two and, as per usual, was held in my study. Only a single incident differed: at one point he stood up and, with great aplomb, picked out the only book of about two thousand that doesn’t belong to me! A dilapidated tome, a questionable study of anatomy lent to me in my student days—it was ancient even then. The rest of the session, almost two hours, Nat spent simply lying on the floor. There were occasional movements of his hands which he still insists is a type of writing.

WED JUL 16

I asked Nat: “Where do we go from here?” He seemed devastated at the prospect of no longer seeing me. As far as I can tell there is little more I can do for him. The primal therapy has helped him understand his feelings and recently he has become a lot less isolated. I had to admit that I do like seeing him and I have agreed to continue with our meetings, though I think this may be a mistake.

SAT JUL 19

I dreamt of a giant bird’s nest—something from childhood fairy tales. A roc perhaps? It was filled with butchered babies. Some were skeletons; these ones were moving and screaming. Unbearable. Then I was assailed by equally repulsive imagery: the large door of a massive oven-incinerator-cauldron swung open and pieces of human beings were spewed out, mainly huge tracts of bluish-tinged gut, but then cancerous brains and all manner of human garbage. All this material then assembled, or rather reassembled itself into a sizeable army of zombies. Not since dissection days have I suffered such nightmares. Probably they were induced by Nat’s discovery of that borrowed book.

The dream, or nightmare, seemed just like reality. I was not even aware of it being a dream. I saw a programme on television just a few days ago which covered all the latest developments in lucid dreaming. I was suddenly struck by just how primitive even the most advanced research is. I fear that lucid dreaming may be a form of censorship. One must face horrors in dreams.