After a long silence on the subject, Nat was finally coaxed into speaking about his death wish. He wouldn’t mind dying, but he does not actively seek oblivion. It is impossible to tell how great an impact Greg’s disease has made on Nat. I gave Nat a lift home. He put his seat belt on, something he only started to do after it was made illegal not to wear one. It seems Nat is prepared for death but not for arrest.
SUN FEB 13
I find it alarming that Nat’s taste for the macabre shows no sign of waning, despite the plight of his friend Greg. He wants their album to have the word “death” in the title. He would also, it seems, be quite prepared to talk of the things he has seen on the cancer ward for hours, as if even I were someone totally unfamiliar with such material. He does, however, have a compelling way of conveying his reactions: after all, this is his first actual contact with death. He spoke at length about one young man in the ward, who was older than Greg but much younger than most of the other patients, and who “coughed something up which melted the floor”. The staff permitted him to eat whatever he desired. Consequently his diet consisted almost entirely of “coconut creams”.
Nat was shocked that this young man was left to die.
“Perhaps he wanted to die”, I intervened, interrupting Nat’s train of thought. He was clearly stumped. Nat had previously overlooked the possibility of another person’s death wish. “Yes, it takes many forms”,
I added. Nat then went off on a tangent. Try as I might I could not curb his vociferousness.
I fear that the boy is relapsing once more. He seldom goes out save for visiting Greg, which he does less and less, and for the occasional band practice. Even signing on is done on a monthly basis now, due to the swelling of the ranks of the unemployed. Mark has avoided direct communication with Nat and Greg. I assured Nat that disease often scares people away, but he takes such affronts so very personally. His correspondence is blossoming to many letters a day, but what use are “paper dreams”? Still, I am here if he needs me.
MON FEB 21
I dreamt I could hear heavy breathing emanating from within my skull. The phrase “whirlpool of tears” entered my head. One is forcibly reminded of the alcohol-induced reveries of Poe. Henceforth I shall not bother to record or even recollect my nocturnal visions. Dreams are unimportant.