Nat is undoubtedly the controller of the band and its artistic mainspring, but he is also its greatest hindrance.
WED DEC 3
I have noticed that more people are dressed entirely in black. I remarked to Nat that he is in danger of becoming fashionable. Nat does not seem to have a very large wardrobe. Almost everything I have seen him wearing has been black.
SUN DEC 21
Nat does not seem at all worried by the prospect of Christmas, although he does point out that it is “repulsive to celebrate the birth of a peacemaker by devouring the shattered corpse of a festering bird”. He also uttered something cryptic about new religions embodying those of ancient times.
SUN JAN 4
Nat spent the festive season in his bedroom doing artwork for his recording project, his family having invited some guests around after last year’s more boring celebrations. I asked him about death thoughts, but he said he was okay. I asked him to thank his parents for the big box of biscuits they had sent me—I wasn’t so keen on them this time around.
THU JAN 8
I saw Nat’s mother in the village. She thought it a good idea that I was gradually “weaning him off”. I commented that my pattern of visitations and appointments was not intentional.
SUN JAN 11
I had a dream in which Nat was committed for insanity and his pictures used as toilet paper.
The recurring dream continues. (See sex diary.)
SUN JAN 18
Nat seems quite stable now. When I probe him on his death wish he says “I just don’t want to dig into myself”. Maybe he has suffered enough, but the prognosis is not good: he might succumb to the first crisis which assails him or, perhaps even worse, avoid anything which he might find stressful (which includes most exciting things) for the rest of his life. He argues, quite logically, that he has achieved a lot within his band. I had to acknowledge this but I also pointed out that the band were making slow and painful progress.
SUN FEB 1
Nat seems quite serious about making a record. He has even obtained copious batches of brochures on the subject. The pressing plants sting the individual or one-off customer quite mercilessly: to get a thousand records with labels in bags, without covers, is going to cost nearly four hundred pounds. Nat will have to borrow this from his slightly begrudging parents. Apparently he is confident that the money can be retrieved by reselling the records, and informed me of a “thriving, if sick, alternative network which specialises in the bizarre and weird”. This sounds not unlike the ghettoised world of “classical” records to me.