February 1, 1968

My mom is in charge (self-appointed) of gathering money and things for the Edwards'. She probably knew them better than anyone else. I never knew Mr. Edwards very well. He's been in and out of the hospital for 10 months. From what I did know, he was a real nice guy. It doesn't seem like eight years. I hope Mrs. Edwards comes through all right. She's in a pretty bad way, so I hear.

I went to the dentist. He fixed my tooth, found a cavity, took some x-rays, found something else wrong, and gave me an appointment for the end of March.

To paraphrase Mark Twain in a very crude manner: Some say, "Oh what a pity to have to die"; a very strange remark coming from those who have had to live.

I think that's got a true ring to it, especially the way I am now.

No progress has yet been made. I'm going to see Fr. Gerry in a few days. Maybe he'll stimulate me into doing something decisive. He's good at that.

The time and days float, pass, fly, race by. I'm left holding a very empty bag and wonder when I'll get the nerve to do something about it all. People scare me. It's an instinctive fear, so I know I can beat it. I just hope I can do it in time. I sometimes think hell would be a very nice place to live.

February 2, 1968

It's eleven o'clock and I should be sleeping, but I don't feel like it.

This day has been as agonizing as all the other, no more, no less. I dragged through school and work. And that's the truth.

I'm watching T.V., "Johnny Carson". It's pretty good tonight, but nothing special.

These sparse little paragraphs only point up the fact that I don't have anything to say. Goodnight.

February 3, 1968

Saturday. Work in the book place makes my life a ridiculous round and round.

Saw nothing, Did nothing. Am speaking cryptically because am tired of first person singular pronoun.

"riverun past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay..." Joyce has got the goods. Am hooked. He is fresh air in a very stuffy room. The workings of pen-people-mind in a bright manner. Finegan, the Blooms, and Stephen Dedalus: magnificent. The Wake so far is uncipherable, the others live.

Isn't it great to sit behind and watch it all happen. With disgust some people can say and do anything. But they don't matter because they don't count.

This cryptic kick has got to go. The End.

February 4, 1968

I (what a starter) was going to see Fr. Gerry today if I could fit him in between homework, but couldn't. Tommorrow, I'm planning and allowing room for him.

As has been already stated, homework has filled the day without variance.

There's a nice quote from McLuhan (ism): "A word's meaning is infinite and a dictionary is merely a farce. Poets rub words together to hear what happens; they don't care about meaning." Kind of O.K.

Yes, McLuhan is cool; so is Joyce. They're a lot alike. It would be interesting to do something, using both of them. Perhaps McLuhan is hot; Joyce is cool. Either way it doesn't matter.

I'm not really smart. I've just been reading a book called "McLuhan: Hot & Cool". It's what is called a "critical symposium". Interesting.

Kind of tired. Goodnight.

February 5, 1968

Another day of put-off hopes and mangled expectations. Every day I wake up there is hope in the morning. Things can happen yet because the day hasn't. Which all means, In the morning things look better than in the afternoon.

But every morning I know how it will all end. The chances passed up and the pointlessness of everything. Try to understand things from a point of view, any point of view. That's what I tell myself. In a way I've got a point of view; I'm looking down on everything from my third floor basement apartment, If you know what I mean. There are no windows in that apartment so my sight is somewhat restricted.

I've been being very vague recently. And I can't blame me. Yes I can. If I could, I'd damn myself and get the whole process over with; instead of wasting an entire lifetime. That's all it will lead to I'm sure.

What the hell is doing this to me. The seminary. Yes. I want to go there. But how? Small things, so many small things are doing it to me. The universe knows, but not the people who can do anything. And if they do know it doesn't matter because I have to tell them myself. What a damn coward I am. Why don't I simply say it to him? I'm bothered with impressions, what a way to waste a life-time.

Every night I decide to do it. The following day I slither into myself like a snail with jaundice. If I could just say something to someone. But its hard, very hard. I'm as insecure as ---- (fill them in at your leisure). Yeah, I've got me all worked out. But what a pain it all is. Things just don't work out. It "wont be handed to me on a silver platter", only my head.

Disunited thoughts pain me. The situation pains me more than anything else. If anyone, besides someone who can do something, mentions the seminary I start sweating and very clumsily attempt to evade and change the subject. I mumble something and get tied up inside. I want to go, but, hell, its driving me crazy.

On Mondays I make a resolution to say something sometime during the week, but its this way every week. Weeks add up to eternity, and thats just what I don't have. I've only got my life to face, and a very dreary future.

There's nothing more I'd like to be doing a year from this moment than sitting in Niagra Falls studying. That seems as distant as paradise. Funny, my own personal "Paradise Lost".

It's building. It's all building. The furnace, pressure cooker and freezer are all mounting and are soon to overrun one very ignorant person. Something, something. That's it.

February 6, 1968

Streisand is singing. Sure, she's great. She could shake the Colossus of Rhodes, that is, if it was still standing. Such notes! How anyone could call her shrill is beyond me.

I feel like breaking with the day. It is always so average, but the things on my mind aren't. At least I don't think they are. the day works against me and suppresses me. It's the greatest upstaging artist I know of.

Listen. She pulls the notes as if they were as flexible as chewing gum. the right inflection at just the right moment. Yeah, she's pretty good.

I've been thinking of sending some more of my poetry to a magazine or two. I'll get the "thumbs down", but I don't really mind.

I've also been thinking about what this diary is going to be ten years from now. I'll undoubtably be dead by then. I can see some curious hands smashing through a box of old junk and pulling up this notebook. The eyes would be widened with excitement as the old yellow pages were flipped through. Several comments would be made about the former owner and they might even remember my name; and be able to match it with a face. The deep dark secrets would unravel before their eager eyes and they would say, "Oh, that's why he killed himself." Don't worry, I'm afraid (?) that statement wont be made about me. I'm too much of a coward. Goodnight.

February 7, 1968

Got a new pen. It's strange how this can affect me. I can't wait until there's something for me to write, just to use this pen. The black is a dramatic change from pale blue. Unfortunately, it makes no change in my life. Buying a pen or saying a prayer just doesn't work anymore.

It's decision that moves things. Call me J. Alfred. "Too many sad times, too many bad times. Nobody knows what you mean." Judy Collins. She's o.k. for moods, but I don't think that's what I have. If it is, it's the longest running mood in my history. It must now be two or three months, no, at least four. Yes, it was October. that seminary changed me; I'm sure. It didn't happen outside, no one noticed. Inside, yes, I didn't get any divine revelation. It was just the first thing that made any sense to me.

It's now February, ages from October, and the business end must be held up. Only I don't know what to do. application; the word that makes me quiver. Maybe I'm making too much of all this; but I don't think so. "Daddy, you're just on my mind." Judy Collins again.

It's funny writing this knowing someone is reading. Unapproachable passages in crowded hallways. Silence, what a hell of a way to spend a life.

February 8, 1968

I'm a ferocious name-dropper. I'm also an atrocious person. Why can't I talk? It must be psychological; it sure isn't physical. At home my tongue becomes so loose I never know what's next to roll off it. If it happens to be slightly vulgar thunder descends from the heavens, via my dad, and rumbles throughout my being. He's one of these moral-rearmament guys; I think they're called old-fashioned or conservative. Well, if he had his way he'd shut down every theater and every bar within fifty miles of his presence.

Sometimes I'm amazed at the things I say. They couldn't be coming from this timid little fellow. No, they come from what is known in the "searcher"s" as "the real me". I'm a cool stud at heart; my psyche simply wont let me project in public. At home. or with very close friends, of which there are few, I can loosen up and be a pretty civil person. but throw me into a crowded school and competitive halls and "cool studs", I feel like a new sweater during its first washing, shrinking and shrinking.

You know, I kind of wish everybody in the world could read all this. It's make my job much simpler. I spend all my life trying to get people to understand me. When they're walking from the grave they still ask "I wonder why?" By now I hope that it's apparent, I've stopped writing this for the grade alone. How I ever brought myself to say some things, knowing they will be read, I don't know. But I mean every word of everything I have said. At this point I don't give a damn about the grade, just that someone knows a little about me. But here again I meet the silence, awkward passings in the corridors.

Right now I could talk all night, you know, really say something. "Mutual communication" is the phrase, but it's too technical. There's no one around here to listen. I don't want to hold myself at an arm's length anymore. I want to get personal, to care about something other than this plastic world I've surrounded myself with.

Write on, Write on, McCarthy. Fill the pages with swirls of ink and the scent of blood. (To interpret: I could write all night/I could talk all night/but brain is tired/and dad is right.) Poor. Very poor. Poor mind, poor pocket, poor body, poor me, poor me. What a way to end two sides, on the bottom of the second. [1" arrow pointing down]

The bottom. Goodnight, McCarthy.

February 9, 1968

Friday. worked tonight. Did nothing , but wonder. Wondered what will happen, what other people think, what has happened to me. They're topics of supreme interest, to me anyhow. Something's got to give. This is a state of suspended animation, within a vacuum.

Daily happenings? Well, I haven't yet seen Fr. Gerry; I hear he's getting out tommorrow. I've got to talk to him.

Homework is piling up, but I can't really say that I care. I'm at the point where I don't give a damn about a thing other than where I'm going.

Isn't much to say tonight.

February 10, 1968

"Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields. Strawberry Fields forever." Yeah. What is it about them? If people would listen sometimes they might find out. But we are still under the heavy effect of the Guttenburg Galaxy; our eyes see images, but they don't really; our ears don't even function.

It's so easy to apply McLuhan to things. I think I'll take it up. It's all around us. Everything. Television, records, people, light bulbs.

I don't think that ten years from now anyone will be able to understand this. The person who reads this ten years from now will have to know me very well in order to understand it. That's the way things go. Right now, I will say that I will not be a breathing, mortal person. In other words, I'll be croaked. I need no crystal ball, its just a feeling, thats all. But its a real feeling, not just something I'm dreaming up.

A psychologist might analyze this and label me with an extreme death wish. Not true. I've just got a feeling. Kind of weird.

Catholic High lost tonight. Its even heartbreaking to me. And that means something. Goodnight.

P.S. This is all very dull.

February 11, 1968

Sunday. Yes, there is a God. I met him on the way to church this morning. He's looking kind of down-in-the-mouth, though. You can tell the old days were much easier. Those were the days of thunder and lightning. If someone displeased Him He could strike them from the face of the earth, or at least turn them into a pillar of Morton's. Yeah, those must have been the good times. Nowadays everything has to be done in a very subtle manner. And thats just the problem; even God has got to work through an agent.

What brought this on? I couldn't say. My mind is not functioning properly tonight (or any other, for that matter). Sunday is an off day for me. That's all there is to it.

I don't have a thing to look forward to in my life. I'm mentally an old man at the age of 17. I've got no real fun in my world. I never go out with the boys, never go on dates, have got a job in the groove, come and go but never get anywhere. You've got to have a purpose and that's just what I haven't. I've let myself slip so far, complacency. Gliding along in my silver painted groove, I've got the world always before me. But I cannot get into the world. It's just something I read about in books and the papers, and something I turn on from 6:30 to 10:00.

Have you ever wanted to go up to a complete stranger and start a conversation? I mean, just go up to him and start talking? That is the way to spend a life. "There is so little time" we might as well spend it getting to know each other. What else are we here for? We sure weren't meant to live off in our caves, reading books and watching television.

If there is no heaven, then what is the purpose? Is it just one immense game of survival? Questions. They all end the same, with a sigh, a breeze, a whimper. Not with a bang. No, we wont get our answers. Maybe thats just as well, but I can't help thinking there's something missing. Just a feeling, maybe a fact.

I'm very verbose, but I hope I get the point across. Everything needs a point, or it can't exist. Is this existentialism? I couldn't really care. I just know how things are. Thats all I need.

Well, I've been talking so much I've ignored the chronological facts. So here some are.

I never got to see Fr. Gerry.

Dave Jerzycki got fired from the library. He's a nice kid, but kind of lazy.

I'm in a pinch with the Mar. 2nd SAT. I might make it, but I don't know.

I've begun a speed-reading course. It looks O.K., but very promotional, if you know what I mean.

It's getting pretty late. There isn't much more to say. I just want to know things, but I guess I can't. Things are too big. "Bigger than both of us." Isn't that the line? It must be, but who is the us? Who. The singular pronoun fits my situation much better. Walking alone in a crowded passageway, watching other friends. Goodnight.

[end of the brown notebook]