THU AUG 28

Nat and his band survived their baptism into the world of subcultural “show-business”. After familiarising him with my own experience of “live work” I asked him if he felt nervous before or after the concert. He said both, and I let him know my verdict: I believe him to be an anxiety addict. However, it was Greg who shook the most, adding an unintentional vibrato to his playing, doubtless inaudible beneath the combined barrage of drums, guitar and vox.

The audience was comprised, chiefly, of brothers and sisters of the artists, but none of Nat’s family attended. Several younger adolescents were a little disturbed by Nat’s histrionics: one was even sick. (Perhaps Nat should have worn a mask after all. I presented this jokey notion to him; he groaned.) Nat was greatly saddened that he wasn’t able to recreate the monstrous screams that were such an outstanding feature of our primal therapy work. I advised that he should not persist in this misguided quest. Regression in public, however fantastic or spectacular a piece of magical showmanship it might be, could be immensely hazardous. He pondered the question. It had obviously only been a whim, and he proceeded to succinctly outline the disastrous consequences such ill-considered behaviour would entail.

Nat was quite delighted that the local constabulary had shown a good deal of interest in the concert. He felt that the arrest of a youth during a minor fracas for dislodging a policeman’s helmet had set the seal of approval, or rather disapproval on the band’s first outing, in spite of the fact that the youth was later released uncharged. He only heard of this incident a little while after the gig, through Jim. His life still seems predominantly vicarious.

FRI SEP 5

Nat is very unhappy with the music his band is making. “Why not change it then?” I asked.

He says he can’t. The reality seems not to match the ideal.

I insisted that we all have to cope with this problem. I was so moved by his plight that I told him of mine: whether or not to give up medicine and enter the back-stabbing world of the professional violinist. He seemed most concerned. I said that I could still see him, but his concern went deeper than that. He seemed quite stunned to find me in such a quandary, as if he were the only one subject to human foibles and the rest of us were aliens. Nat hoped he wasn’t a contributory factor to my present dilemma. I assured him that he was not.

WED SEP 10

I had a particularly foul dream. I was aware that it was a dream, and I could influence its direction but chose not to. A tall thin youth (an ignis fatuus, it turned out) was walking down a rickety road. His limbs suddenly went completely out of control, like wild crazy concertinas, or mad elastic. He then continued on his way unabated. That was all. The most singular aspect of the dream was its mood, for it was accompanied by a most wonderful sense of well-being. Indeed, not until long after it was over did this feeling diminish and the horrific implications of the repulsive imagery fully strike home.