December 15, 1967

I stayed up 'til 2 A.M. doing history & English (hearts should bleed). The day is Friday, but I'm writing this on Saturday. Reason: some of the kids from the library (myself included) went Christmas carolling and then came back to my house. It was O.K. One interesting thing = We were going to the Patterson Rd. area to carole for a library employee, a nice lady. Some of the kids in our car got nervous and decided that this was no place for Christmas caroles at 10:30 at night. the driver, Dave, throws a crowbar into my lap and says, "You ride shotgun. I've got a tire chain and baseball bat in the trunk." He said this in completely serious tones and it really shook up the girls. I started laughing, but the girls became near hysteria so we split with the other car, which travelled into "the heart of darkness" and was determined to sing for the nice lady. They did, we didn't. Headlines flashing across obituary pages can be a great deterent at times. That was Friday. Goodnight.

December 16, 1967

On the 14th, I think, I mentioned something about the seminary. That needs explaining, if I can. After three years of Catholic High I find that I know no one, neither teachers nor students. I've wasted three years. I now make a decision that involves the priests and I don't know who to see. I should see Fr. William but I never get a chance even though I have him 6th period. He comes in, teaches, and leaves. The only way I could talk to him is to blurt out before or after class, "Father I want to go to the seminary!" All the other kids I know who have gone to Mt. Carmel have known the priests well and have been able to talk, but I live in a closed world, very little comes in and nothing goes out. Its got to change. This sounds just about as weak-kneed as a person can get, but it's me. I want to be involved with people and things, but right now I don't have the guts.

December 17, 1967

Sunday. It has rained all day and is very cold. I've done nothing. This diary is becoming more than just an assignment. I'm starting to really put ME into it, at least I'm putting down what I think is ME. If I knew that no one would ever read this, except when I die maybe, I would never bother with it. Knowing that someone is reading it makes things seem a lot better. Its like delayed action talking. All I can do is hope that the reader understands and that shouldn't be hard considering I'm a very simple person. I hope it doesn't sound like I have a depressive-complex, or something. I just put it down as it comes to my head, and it comes in pretty strange ways sometimes. I've got something to say but it will wait until tommorrow. Maybe I'll forget it, but I'm very tired right now.

December 18, 1967

I said that I've got something to say, and now I'm curious to know what I was thinking about last night. I forgot. I don't think it was important anyway. "I didn't do anything today." What else is new? Christmas is coming and it looks like the sky has every intention of raining on that most joyous day. Christmas doesn't really matter to me that much anyhow. What I'm worrying about is New Year's Eve. Everybody's going someplace, but me. When I mention it they say "Latch on to a girl." They seem to think that all I have to do is point and the girls will come running. The way I figure is that if the girl had never known me beore, she might come running, but once I opened my mouth she'd slowly slide away. My social life is the biggest joke of the century. We've got books at the library on how to develop your personality: "How Bob learned to comb his hair and how his problems were ended." If all you need is a comb and a pleasant smile, I've got it made. On second thought, I'd have to buy a new comb. Bon soir, mon amis.

December 19, 1967

With Antonio Carlos Jobim playing in the background all we need now is "quiet lights and quiet stars". the restrained bosa nova sound is really something. but I find it hard to think with music, so off it goes. At least that's the way it's supposed to go, but the music is too great; so I guess I'll have to meander along in my turned off world of sound and print. I can't think very definite thoughts tonight because the gears need oil, or something. Nothing has happened anyway. What's wrong with abstractions? If people want to take up total abstract communications, why shouldn't they? If people want to become the hairy, degraded, guttersnipes on the street of humanity why not? I personally like abstractions. I don't think this makes any sense, but then should it? This is my diary and if I want to say that "thirteen pages of garbage can be found floating over your head." I will. It might or might not mean anything to me, but it isn't proper literary form is it? Questions. That's all anything is composed of. The chair I'm sitting on becomes a question the moment I see it, but when I sit down on it the question is partially answered. Only the quest for personal being is yet to be satisfied. I warned you my thoughts weren't too clear, or are they? I can't tell. The record's off now and if I re-read what I've just written it won't make any sense anyhow. Goodnight.

12-20 A+

December 22, 1967

Friday. We had short schedules today and got out at 1:30. I finished my Christmas shopping and worked the rest of the night at the library. Nothing very extraordinary happened. Christmas is the dominant thought on everybodies'minds. We're having the annual family Christmas sit-in at our house this year. the famimly gets together and gabs a little and they they leave 'tl next year. I shouldn't really say that because they all live within two blocks of our house; but the only time we gather is at Christmas or a funeral. That's all for today.

December 23, 1967

I didn't have to work today so I spent most of my time loafing around the house. It's been a pretty nothing day. We put our Christmas tree up two or three days ago. it's a phony green tree. It looks real but smells like dust because we keep it in the basement all year. To me it isn't Christmas unless the tree smells like a tree instead of some moth-eaten chunk of plastic and nylon. It's weird. I might sound like a liar, but nothing happened today; and that's the truth from the mouths of the gods. I've just got a lot of gripes about Christmas and the way things are run. It's apparently just a phase I'm going through. I've been having a lot of them lately.

December 24, 1967

Christmas Eve. Whoopee. Santa comes tonight. Oh boy. I'm waiting to go to midnight mass so I might as well write this now. My Aunt Marg is here and is going to stay with our family for tomorrow. She is my favorite relative, next to my grandfather. She knows what she talks about, or she doesn't open her mouth. That's her greatest attribute. She's great. I went to 10:00 Mass this morning. It was packed. they even opened the balcony, which they hate to do. Nothing special happened. I've done the same thing today as I did yesterday, and undoubtably will do all week. I loafed around the house and read a little. I should be reading more but I can't concentrate. I've got too much to think about. Time to go. We probably won't be back until 1 or 2 o'clock.

December 25, 1967

It began to snow today. I got up this morning and unwrapped my presents. I didn't get anything great, but it doesn't matter. It's been just like any other day. We had the family party at our house this year. It was really bad. All the aunts and uncles and weird cousins. I can't stand this family. Maybe it's just people, but something is on me. Everything is very strange this year. I can't figure out what it is. Maybe I'm growing up a little, but it's hard to tell. Everything is so different from what it was two or three years ago. All this isn't much like Christmas, but I don't know what else there is to say. things are strange, but there's snow on the ground so I'm happy. My brother bought me "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band", the latest record by the Beatles. It's very good. The music isn't just noise, it's music, Most pop music stinks, but this is good. Christmas trees and holly bells: Goodnight.

December 26, 1967

I'm cramping my brain trying to think of something to write, but there's very little. I went to work at noon and found that the pages are going to have a party at my house tomorrow. It should prove to be interesting. I have to keep reminding myself that this is Tuesday; the holidays have ruined my mental calendar. It seems more like a Monday today. My daily life is filled with many trinkets which range between boredom and apathy, so I can't say nothing happens to m e. I have the usual amount of run-ins with fate everyday. One of them is: I exchanged a Frank Sinatra record for a Judy Collins record. It's little things like this that fill my day like a bloated balloon.

December 27, 1967

The day after the day after Christmas. A few things happened today. Ed Ward came into the library today. He's just arrived from Niagra Falls. He said Al Jacovec drove a few of them to Joliet in the bus. He told me that Father Gerald was in an accident. That kind of shocked me, especially when he said he was in intensive care in the hospital. Fr. Gerry is a nice guy, probably one of my best teachers. I wish I knew how long he was going to be out of school. I also wonder who will substitute for him. I really like him. I think everyone does. The page party was held today. It was O.K. I think I had it pretty well organized, but fewer people than expected showed up. We spent most of the night playing ridiculous games. it broke up about midnight. I just finished picking up the mess and I'm tired.

December 28, 1967

I never thought I'd see the day. We had a nun come for dinner tonight. Her name is Sister Jeremy, she works at OLA. She's only about thirty, but she taught my older brother in first grade. I've decided she's the only nun I like, the rest are a bunch of freeloaders and con-artists. I've got a terrible cold. I'm not going to work tomorrow. I hope they really need me. I'd like to see them sweat a little. Goodnight.

December 29, 1967

I sat around the house all day. I didn't even read a book. My cold isn't so bad that I can't go to work, but I think I deserve a day off. I need it. It's very difficult for me to think of things to say because I'm not thinking very well these days. My perception has been dulled by long, empty days. I find myself disliking this diary. Maybe things will be better tomorrow.

December 30, 1967

Today is over and there is one more day of 1967. I can't help wondering where I'll be a year from today. My position will be greatly changed. I wish that I could immediately switch myself into the future and thus bypass the agony of the immediate future. To quote an ancient scribe, "The times are hard." I've got a lot to do and very little guts to do it with. I'm finding things very difficult to adjust to. I'm like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle, but it doesn't fit; or better yet, the rest of the puzzle doesn't fit me. My pen just broke. Goodnight.

December 31, 1967

This is the end, the beginning, the crossroads. I suppose it may well be expected of me to get sentimental today. Sentimental or serious; I find it very hard to make the distinction. No resolutions on paper could possibly make an impression on my predestined course. I've worked myself into something like the groove on a record; I'm too weak-willed to jump off; I'll ride on to my destruction. This has been a bad year. It was balanced only by my decision to go to Mt. Carmel, but even that has produced problems that might drive a lesser person (if there is one) to take drastic actions. I have gone through - what could you call it? - a period of discovery. That is, I've grown up in many ways. My biggest project of '67 has been to work on my personality; to stretch it, to sharpen it. I've been very self-conscious in my attempts to be "cool", to be "rugged", to be interested, to be interesting. "Self" does not count; that's one thing I've discovered this past year. Two soppy, but very realistic, guidelines are "Care", and "Be sincere." They sound like something out of Bishop Sheen, very moist and extremely "nunny"; but they've got to be the right way. I've tried everything else. I can't tell by reading this whether or not I'm going crazy or bragging. It sounds terrible but I can't bear to rip it out. I'm extremely vain.