|20:15 Monday 8th July 2002
I got back from the festival about seven days and nine hours ago. The last few days have been difficult for me. I have looked carefully at the notes, revised them, made plans and drafted opening lines. I have thought about what happened and dreamt about the festival again.
There have been some reasons to procrastinate. I was half expecting to either switch PCs, load a new (bootlegged) operating system and/or switch to ADSL. The toner in my printer is nearly gone and I have been hitting the Lagavulin every night without fail. But every time I have thought about writing up the notes - even in longhand - I have hit a brick wall.
I still haven't got a clue what it all meant. Whether it was a success or a failure, whether I was right or wrong to go, to do what I did, to say what I said, to feel what I felt. I had no idea how to begin the story and I wasn't sure why I should bother. You see, my plans to drift around high all the time - and be high when I wrote this - turned to shit.
I could write 10,000 words right now qualifying my grand strategy to get high, which in essence is to qualify my life, just to excuse all the effort, anticipation, jealously and frustration I experienced over the six days. What a fucking waste that would be. It would be a truth I may find impossible to escape - but it is only one truth.
It is also true that I am coming together again as I write this. I have my room, my bed, my finger glass of special edition, my Golden Virginia and the Bladerunner score in the background. All this is a help. All this is making me feel better at the moment - because some people have nothing and because at the same time, in the same moment, you are here with me - whoever you are.
But then maybe you've given up already? Or maybe you were never there? That's fine. I've wasted a great deal of my life. Another twenty or thirty hours on this won't make any odds. And what a gloriously pointless thing to do - if you are not there! What an idiot I would be then!