In Orbit: By A Mutation

Fellow schizos—salve! All frustrated poets hail! . . . 'rain and moisture, fire and heat, cold and winter, dew and rain, frost and cold air, lightning and storm clouds, rime' and snow'—when Daniel wrote that canticle he might have been foreseeing the poor old Canberra tossing around in midstream. ... on with the orgy . . . what a great thing it is to have a superiority complex . . . Last Friday I went to a Bacchanalian Booze-up at King Stephen's and there I consumed 12 asparagus sandwiches. Now I like asparagus but one delicately constructed sandwich is scarcely adequate when you consider my inordinate capacity—I love mellifluous polysyllables—but give me two of Mr. Levenbach's pies any day.

For the benefit of my potential fan mail: no, I do not in any way resemble Aunt Daisy—I am more like a reincarnation of the Wife of Bath.

C.3 in not conducive to study or concentration. Let's face it. (a) The greens clash dismally. (b) Far too few lecturers use loud-speakers. (c) The desks are so intricately and delightfully carved . . .

Russia's line. Russia's perfect. Terrific economy. Minimum wastage. Brilliant utilization of talent and materials. System. But it lacks warmth. They laugh they cry they die they live—without warmth. They don't wake up and think "Now what shall I do with today . . ."—it's "What will today do with me". Russia seems so cold. And I'm not talking about climate.

I am sick of being good.

I've never deliberately smashed anything, I've never been spanked, I've never been in borstal, I've never poisoned anyone I've hated, I've never slapped anybody's face or spat at them or thrown custard at them, I've never got drunk, I don't swear, I don't do lots of things—I've missed a lot!

One day I shall go bust. Wouldn't Salient office be a good place to go berserk in—I could make a little fire of all the copy in the Editor's "In" tray—I could cut up the typewriter ribbon into little pieces and mural on the walls with nice black crayon and throw all the blocks out the window and cremate the sub-editors.

. . . and then blame Kinsey!

How would you like to get into bed and put the light out and reach out to put your glasses on the sill and it wasn't there and you reached out to put them on the table by your bed and it wasn't there and you reached out for the light and it wasn't there and you lay in the dark and screamed and made no sound and no-one ever came and you realized you were in hell?

The wonderful thing about being young is the power and urge for communication. Life is an unfolding experience which must be shared and so you talk and talk and the freshness and vigour of your enthusiasm and wonder and innocence and surprise never abates.

They tell you God is good and kind and loving and I used to think so too but now I know he is not. At least he may be—in himself but he lets such tragedy happen and such misery continue.

There is a god and he is good in himself but he's not interested in us.

God. I'm in a mess. I feel lousy.

My mind is too often vacant—vacant like a house—vacant: to let; too uncontrollably tilled by depth or triviality.

Anyway, I've got nice new black sheer nylons called anthracite.

Perhaps I'd better stop producing copy like a cow you milk every day—seems like quantity and not quality, and while I'm being so damned prolific, people I've libelled are out for my blood.

O see the Happy Moron,
He doesn't give a Damn,
I Wish i were a Moron,
My God! that's what i Am!

—Aunt Daisy.