December 1, 1967

Things had better start to happen before I begin to fade away. My groove is running on a straight curve; there are no obstacles. Hold it. I just thought of an obstacle. The SAT is being given tommorrow and I'm not going to be able to take it. I didn't know a thing about it until today. It had better be given again because I'm dead if it isn't. I've got to see Fr. Finian on Monday about it. Everybody's going crazy around here trying to figure out Christmas ideas. My mom especially. I don't know what I want and she's getting an ulcer over it. I'll think of something. There's not much happening, or going to happen. I've just got a lot of English to read over the weekend, but it won't bother me too much. I can't think of anything else to say, so here we end for tonight.

December 2, 1967

I'm writing this on the day after today, Dec. 3. I stayed up last night and watched "Psycho". It was alright but I didn't think it was as good as it's claimed to be. Of course they announced that it had been "specially edited", so that probably had something to do with it. I had heard a lot about how great the "murder in the shower" scene was supposed to be, but I could see that the film had been cut and that took a lot of the suspense out of it. The only other comment I have about it is that Anthony Perkins was the only decent actor (maybe Martin Balsam) in the whole movie. If it wasn't for the music and camera work I don't think Hitchcock could have pulled it off. I don't think anything happened to me on the day before today, Dec. 3, so I'll now switch over to today.

December 3, 1967

A chronology of today runs as follows: 11:15 A.M. Woke up 12:15 P.M. After hanging around the house for an hour I went to 12:30 Mass. Ever since they switched the 12:00 Mass to 12:30 nobody ever goes then. I like it because it seems like I'm the only person in church, even though there might be 50 other people. Fr. Michels dropped a host. If you want to call that excitement it's the biggest thing that happened all day. 1:15 P.M. From here until about 6:00 I did homework. I read "The Celestial Omnibus" by E.M. Forster, for English. At the beginning I didn't like it because it looked like a very long short story, but after a while it got pretty interesting and I think I understood it. I'll find out tommorrow. 6:00 P.M. Television 'til 10:00. I saw John Steinbeck's "America and Americans" on T.V. with H. Fonda. It started out pretty soppy but got better. 11:04 P.M. I am now writing in this diary, thinking about absolutely nothing. Here you have it. Big deal. Goodnight.

December 4, 1967

Monday. It seems like more than one day has passed. Fragments of yesterday entangled with the setting of today and the wisps of tommorrow. How touching. I'm fighting the urge to say that nothing happened today, although I can't think of anything that did. I must admit that I first read "The Other Side of the Hedge" only today. Unbelievable. I've read it five times already. I think I've got it figured out; I don't see how I couldn't because he hits you right in the face with it. Talk about symbols. 1) The path bordered by hedges is our own maze of life. 2) The hedge is the"no man's land" between life and death. 3) The park on the other side of the hedge is peace after death, or possibly heaven. It is a place that leads nowhere; a land where progress doesn't exist, because the competitive spirit doesn't exist. 4) When a person tires of walking the path he rests on the roadside and presumably ventures into and through the hedge; life and death. I could go on and on forever. I don't write this to brag. I'd just like to read back over this when I'm an old man and maybe I could remember how brilliant I once was. I'm pretty sure I'd like to go to Mt. Carmel next year. I've been thinking and thinking. I was kind of surprised to find that Mark Jones has already been accepted at NIU. I didn't think they gave out that information this early. He deserves it though. "I got culture, but also a very weak backbone." That's me. I'm the type of kid who ends up drafted and dead in a mudhole somewhere. That may not make much sense to you, but it sure does to me. I'm now at the bottom of the page and I'd like to start tommorrow at the top of a new one. Goodnight.

December 5, 1967

I should be able to think up some real original and classy beginning for this entry, but I can't. That's how inspired I am today. I went to the Carreers Room during lunch to check about the SAT. Fr. Finian didn't have any registration forms, but he told me I could go down to J.T. Central and get one for myself and about ten for him. At Central they told me that they had no extra forms to spare, and that was that. I guess I'm going to have to send away for one for myself, because it doesn't look like Fr. Finian has any intentions of ordering some more from the College Board. Tom Musich was supposed to check out St. Francis and I hope he fared better than I did. I'm fighting a battle trying to keep my "B" average. For this quarter I'm pretty sure I'll get a C in Trig, that is, if I get a B on the next test. I'm planning on an A in Religion and I'm sweating one in English. I'm also killing myself to keep a B average in History. I don't know about Sociology, I think I've got a C average right now but I'm planning on bringing it up to a B. Anything can happen between now and the semester. I got a letter from Ed Ward at Mt. Carmel today. He sent me some pictures of the fire from one of the newspapers up there. it looks real bad. He says he might be home for Christmas for one or two weeks. That would be great. I can see it now: my brother, Ed, and three or four other kids all in Joliet at one time. Our house is going to explode, because for some reason everybody wants to congregate here. We're going to have a blast. I'll probably be working over most of the holidays, but Ill take a few days off. If the bosses get bothered about it they can fire me. I don't really care. They wouldn't really fire me because I know that they know that I'm a great asset to that place. No brag, just fact. I mean it. It might sound egoistical but it's the truth. That's all.

December 6. 1967

I've just returned from the library's Christmas party at Al's. It was O.K. All we did was sit around and talk all night. I was sitting near the other pages so we spent most of the time making remarks about each other. I felt like crawling under the table when Karen Greene introduced to her mother as "The poet". The evening was uneventful. I took a test on "The Other Side of the Hedge" today. I think I did pretty good, but not an A, maybe a B.

December 7, 1967

The biggest thing today was the news that there was cheating on the English tests yesterday. At first I didn't believe it, but when I saw some of the grades that other kids got it was kind of hard to doubt. There was a rumor going around that a test paper had been acquired but I don't know of anybody who has seen it. If there was cheating it really must have been thought out. I don't know anything about it except that had several grades been lower I might have had an A. A lot of good it does now though. History is starting to have a bad effect on me. It's making me sick. That simple. I don't know where I stand with either the teacher or the subject, but I know it can't be very good. It looks like I'll have to search for an A from some other subject because I sure won't get one from that course. I'm slowly getting the impression that Fr. William is disrupted with me. I've been butchering that class something terrible. I haven't been able to tell him that I want to go to Mt. Carmel because a decent opportunity has never come up. This might sound like a persecution complex, but I think he hates me. I don't know any other way to put it. He despises my character. I think he's a nice guy, but apparently he doesn't hold the same opinion of me. What to do...what to do. I'm beginning to feel like a contradiction of myself. My face isn't my personality. People can look at me standing somewhere, and think that I'm very mature; but the second I make a motion or open my mouth ; poof!

No school tommorrow, thank God.

December 8, 1967

I went to nine o'clock mass this morning. Went to work at noon & worked 'til nine. That's all I did. I don't even remember thinking today. I'm just very tired and I've got homework to do. Au revoir.

December 9, 1967

Today has been a thouroughly typical Saturday. I don't know what else to say. I think I've got something to say but I don't know what it is. I know. The library is a gathering point for two levels of Jolietan society: the low and the middle. The higher portion of society see that the library has very little to offer in the way of cultural advancement and thus avoids the place. The middle level is the one which most frequently abounds in the library, searching for termpaper themes and just light reading. They're pretty vacant people. The most commendable group of library patrons is the lower class, referred to as bums, weirdos, lunatics, and what-have-you. These "savage innocents" see the library as a warm place, a building from which they won't have to depart until the bell rings at 8:45, and more important, the library has a john. The warm shelter and washrooms provide all the invitation that's needed. The "dregs of society" are the most insanely wonderful people in the city. Every day "The Philosopher" comes in and sits in the back of the building staring over books of unknown subjects. His head is barely covered by strands of black hair, although he's no older than forty. His face, which matches his body, is pudgy and it wears an eternal frown as though he knows the world is on top of him, and the rest of society. We've got a lot more and every one of them is an individual, which you can't say for too many other people. There's Miss Clobucher, a grey-haired lady who specializes in baiting the librarian with loaded questions. I could make a list: 1) "The lumberjack", 2) "The goldfish" 3) "Mr. Shorthand", 4) Paul Revere, 5) his raiders, and 6) Harry. It would take a book to describe them all. They're just about the only thing that makes the library livable. And talk about poetic. They are really great. This discussion seems to be leading nowhere so I'll drop it. I bought Mary Kay a pair of earrings today. I hope she likes them. I know she will because they're pierced & look very Greek. There's nothing more to say. Goodnight.

December 10, 1967

I went to church in the rain this morning. It was a nice experience, but very uncomfortable. I'll probably have pneumonia by the end of the week. The only way I can express my feelings about today is to quote a poem by Sydney King Russell in today's Tribune": Sunday is longer than a week of Fridays and longer than the beard of St. Alonzo who listens to the sermon and is silent. Sunday is longer than the drawn-out stories my uncle tells upon a windy night and longer than the promises of one who cannot keep his word. Sunday is almost longer than the road so strange and still that leads to heaven just across the hill. That's it. That's all.

December 11, 1967

Here we are again. We've got to jump out and into the week-full of days, waiting for us on the floor beneath the bed. Monday morning is suicide. There should be a law against it. There's not much I can say. I don't want to mention school because I don't want nightmares tonight. I guess the only decent thing that happened was: I went Christmas shopping, bought a lot of stuff, am broke, and still have much more shopping to do. That might not sound decent but it really is. It has rained all evening and sounds like it will be raining when I wake up tommorrow, if I wake up. My pneumonia is beginning I think. If it keeps raining I'm sure to catch it by at least Wednesday. Talk about hypochondria. The old clock in the hall is tolling the hour and sleep beckons. (There isn't really a clock in the hall; it just sounds good in writing) Goodnight.

December 12, 1967

Tuesday is undoubtably the most abstract day of the week. It falls between the beginning and the middle, but is not really anywhere. It is more of a state of mind than even Monday. Monday is pain; Tuesday is a sterile wasteland. One of my biggest problems is trust. I have a simple mind, and this being the state of things, it reduces me to a complete lack of suspicion towards anyone. My totally non-analytical brain cannot accept the idea that people are evil. My senses tell me that they are, but my mind rejects it; and I become the "push-over". I can't help it; I'm a fool and I know it, but I can't help it. While I'm on this binge of personal defects I might as well ask myself. "Why can't I say something?" Can't, won't, wouldn't, or mightn't, I can't really tell. Walking down the hall at school I come across someone I know and wait for him to say something, if he doesn't we pass in awkward silence, wondering what we are. Why don't I say much in any of my classes? there is a silent communication between teacher and student, in my case and I'm sure many others. Just one strained look or one twitching reflex can destroy a student's day and that class until another look or reflex reassures him. this might sound psycho but it's true. What do you do when you don't say anything? What do you do when you can't say anything. I need someone to make me "stand on my own two feet", to shape me into (or at least begin the process) something. Language on paper is so simple. A minute movement of the hand and a thought is on paper. Face to face, the larnyx fails and I feel sick.

December 13, 1967

These next few entries are going to be short because I'm extremely rushed for time. I have an English question to do on Lord of the Flies, and an abstract on a history book due tommorrow. I'd beter start now.

December 14, 1967

I've gotten a one day reprieve for the history abstract and I turned in the English, only to receive another question. I could have done much better on the English if I had more time, time to gather thoughts and put them in decent language. I'm under some strain (no excuse). Things are getting to me and the seminary is driving me out of my head. I am immature.