April 10, 1968

One more day to suffer through and then a free free day. No school, no work, only church and sleep. I'm going to use Friday to a very good advantage.

The race thing has been through it this past week. From hell to here, Chicago and Washington, everybody's doing it. To avenge the death of a great leader, saviour, and martyr? No. Everything has been pretty well worked over. Its all getting sickly pale and a putrid stench is rising from both sides. God's the only answer to anything, but how do you get this across to people who push God into the back row with the lights off. Christians are buying up all the cheap grace they can get their paws on.

April 11, 1968

Thursday. Last day of school 'til Wednesday. The vacation's not big, but it's welcome.

I've just been interupted. Fr. Holup, the assistant at St. Pauls, wants me to be lecter with another kid on Friday and Sat.

At first I didn't want to do it and I'm still not sure that I do, but my parents were in the living room and before I could open my mouth my dad says "Sure he will." I've been at Theobald's house for a few hours, three to be exact. Bill Theobald is the other reader. We've known each other for our whole life, he's a year younger than I am. A real nice kid.

Fr. Holup is one of the most unique people I know. He's far from the average parish priest. He's not aloof and he seems to see things that everybody else overlooks. Right while we were going over the things we have to read he breaks out with a joke about some centipede in a potato salad. It was just too much. goodnight.

April 12, 1968

Everything went fine today at church, only I didn't talk loud enough. Bill's a really good kid, goes to St. Charles Seminary. From what I know of him and what I hear, he's pretty smart.

Fr. Holup only found out about my going to the seminary last night. I think that might have had something to do with choosing me for a reader.

I get to read Genesis tommorrow. I'll probably screw it up, but that doesn't really bother. I'll have all I can do to keep my knees form shaking. I'm trying to think professional; it might work. goodnight.

April 13, 1968

Saturday. In the beginning... I read it very well. Bill read his very well. We're all through with it, but not really. I wonder what it's like to give a sermon. To enlighten the world. If its something short of enlightenment I won't mind, because I know its at least the truth.

There's a lot I could say, but I'm tired. too much is happening. I'm getting dizzy. I'm going to freak out. No. I'll do that this summer. Now, I'll just continue. goodnight.

April 14, 1968

No, I'm not going to make a crack about the Easter bunny or how good he was to me. It's a very clear day, even though it's raining. the clarity comes from a source other than the clouds. Just a feeling.

I got a bunch of forms for Marquette a few days ago. Everything looks pretty good. I don't want to sound juvenile, but this coming season may prove to be the closest thing to an adventure in my life. I've led a very unaware-type of life. I don't notice things that don't scream out at me, and that can be a problem. I think people call it naivete.

Everything is slumping off. There are too many free moments that shouldn't be. I should be studying, but what the hell. there are better things to do. I'd like to be a philosopher, just sit around and think all day.

There isn't much to say. Nothing to talk about. Everything empty. Too much to know. Too much to ignore. Too much to make me angry and happy. goodnight.

April 15, 1968

Monday. I didn't mention yesterday that we had a reception for Fr. Michels on his 40th anniversary. We gave him a car, the whole parish that is. The bishops talked, the eighth-graders "sang". It was nice. I talked with Miss Jay, nice lady; she's going to write to Hopeton and tell him the situation in America and possibly advise against his trip here this summer. Nobody knows what things will be like in July and he'd better play it safe. I really wish he'd come anyway. Maybe I'm still under the "it can't happen to us" illusion, but I don't think he'd be terribly endangering his life to visit the land of the free.

I worked tonight. switched with Tom Carter because I've got a dentist appointment tommorrow.

I've got to get into more things. I can't sit home reading all summer, or for that reason, the rest of the school year. The problem is "what"; after that the "how" will come easier. I've got to do something.

April 16, 1968

My right cheek is numb from below my eye to my chin. the dentist apparently wanted to make sure that there would be no pain. He succeeded. But when it wears off...?

One thing has been bothering me, I'm not doing anything. I might sound like a broken record, but it's bothering me. Maybe I could get into the Joliet Drama Guild, but that takes too much time and I have to keep my job. I see people going and doing, and here I am inert. I found how empty I am when while filling in a form for Marquette I see "interests and hobbies". What the hell am I interested in? "Verily" nothing. I don't play sports because I'm introverted when it comes to that. goodnight.

April 17, 1968

More school. That's all. Nothing's changed. They gave out chance books today. Every year, except freshman, I've managed to sell at least twenty-five. I hope its better this year, but I don't know. I'm against the raffle but I guess its something that has to be done.

I've just been sitting around, wondering. You know, nobody's worried about "the bomb" anymore. I can remember when I used to go to bed knowing I'd never wake up because the world would be gone. I'm happy to report it's still here.

April 18, 1968

This is one of those days that don't exist past the stroke of midnight. I mean you couldn't care less about it. I mean, what do I do? I don't ever go out drinking; I don't even go to parties or go out ever. That's bad. The social vacuum cleaner just hasn't gotten to me yet. People are being sucked up all around me; and I sit here reading "The Assorted Prose of John Updike". Spring isn't a time for books; there just isn't room. You get left out if you fight nature, and you look like a fool if you give in.

I can't follow a thought through; I just grab a logical beginning and let my pen say something mediocre. I don't have any control over what I write. It's all too bad, people say I'm smart, but I just don't believe it.

April 19, 1968

Friday. Another ending. I worked tonight. Nothing happened, not one damned thing. It's been like this for too long. I don't have anything to say. goodnight.

April 20, 1968

Saturday. I worked. Nothing happened. Big talk among the little old ladies is John Updike's new book, "Couples". They're condemning it, therefore it must be pretty good. They don't have a very good batting average; it was thumbs down on both "The Eighth Day" and "The Confessions of Nat Turner". "The Eighth Day" won best fiction in National Book Awards and I'm predicting that "Nat Turner" will win the Pulitzer Prize.

You can't really blame the folks at the library though because it's their business to feel out public tastes; they're geared to the masses. When good literature comes around they either don't read it because they've never heard of it, or nobody has asked about it; or they get bored.

April 21, 1968

I got up etc., got dressed and so forth, and went to church. Here I am. (Of course I'm here; where else would I be?) Church isn't very invigorating any more. They've got some two hundred year old cleric up their talking about the many roads to sanctifying grace and the eternal life. If I make it through the seminary, I swear right here, I'll never give a sermon like that. It was a classic, the kind you read about in cartoons and magazines.

I've got most of the forms filled out for the seminary. Now all I can do is hope that things begin to fall into place. It will be the first time in my life anything ever did.

April 22, 1968

One month from today final exams will be over, one month. I really don't believe it's possible; after three years it's all going to end. (Question: What's going to end?)

Mary Kay's giving me problems. She's got a crush on me (no brag, in fact I think it's more than a crush because its not really sudden.) She's led a kind of Cinderella life and then I came along (apologies to the sweet prince bit). I know for a fact that I'm not as star-struck over her as she is over me. She's a nice person and a good friend, but we're not going steady. The thing that's killing me is that she is serious (I'm not really.) I like her a lot but I'm not "in love". Although I know it's not true, I like to think of myself as a smart little boy who can get people to like him and doesn't have to give anything in return.

It's getting late, goodnight.

April 23, 1968

Tuesday. More school. Yes, spring is here. Stratford Court is no longer winter, it's kids and baseball and green. Green is everywhere pushing up through cracks, tinting everything in the world with chlorophyl.

Books just don't appeal anymore. I'd like to go outside and play baseball (I'm pretty good, too) but I have to keep up with my image. Besides, there's nobody around here. "What a dump." ("Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" Act I scene I so what) I'm pretty restless, no more three page entries in this thing. There are all kinds of tests and everything coming up. I don't think I can take it. This is the time of year when all students become martyrs for the cause of education, and nobody cares. goodnight.

April 24, 1968

Selling chance books, I hope I make thirty this year, but I don't think I will. No time.

I've got a lot of homework, Matrix algebra and a Religion thing on steady dating. What a boring topic it just points out that Fr. Ryan is about ten years behind the times. Nobody cares a bout steady dating anymore; either you do or you don't, it's that simple. Why make a big moral problem out of it. It started simple, let's leave it that way. (I'm on my soapbox again.)

I can't get away from Spring. It's all over the place. I don't think it's ever affected me like this before. Bouncing into an empty summer, I wonder what its all going to be like, because right now nothing is real; the sun is a paisley yo-yo and I don't care what happens. goodnight.

April 25, 1968

NOTHING HAPPENED TODAY. I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY. LITTLE THINGS ARE HAPPENING ALL OVER THE PLACE, BUT NOBODY BOTHERS TO SEE THEM; ESPECIALLY ME. SCHOOL IS BORING, WORK IS BORING, AND THIS DIARY IS BORING. GOODNIGHT.

April 26, 1968

I thought Friday would never come. Now all I have to do is get through a Saturday and then a Sunday. Sitting around is pain, pounding on the air. I'm not colorful, like Updike or Kazantzakis. I just can't swing it. goodnight.

April 27, 1968

Saturday. The library's o.k. I've spent all day shelving books and reading shelves. What a bore. All the drumpy faces just hanging from splotches of hair make the whole day split into separate and distinct seconds. I can count the human faces on one hand; there's virtually no animation. Sure, jokes are cracked, but there's no life. No one breathes, no one cares.

You know, fifty years from now no one will care about what I think. Maybe I should be writing just what happens, interesting occurances and witty observations. Sickening. I can't bring myself to do it, but I don't know what else to write. Tommorrow will undoubtedly be another crumby day. goodnight.

April 28, 1968

Sunday. Easter is two weeks past; school is almost over. It's funny, but I can't see myself doing anything other than what I'm doing now, going to school every morning and all the ridiculous accessories. My groove is going to be shaken up; I'll probably get settled again, but right now it seems impossible. I'm scared about something I don't know about. It's that old primeval fear of the darkness and the unknown that is scaring the hell out of me. In approximately four months from now I'll be doing something I've never done before. My life is all that is affected. If I blow next year I'll probably slide right down the drain. That's how settled I am in my groove. Graduation's going to blow me sky-high and I've got to land on two feet to survive. It's creepy to think about it, one huge desert to cross. Sand in my shoes and sun in my face. I don't think I'll make it, but I can't stop time. goodnight.

April 29, 1968

The week begins with silence, and will probably end the same. Nothing is going to happen, I know. It will end, and then we'll see next Monday and the one after that. School's same as always on a Monday. Work is nothing.

I don't have anything better to do so I'll list my recent reading. It may prove interesting to my fans fifty years from now.

I'm reading "Cry, the Beloved Country", The Kerner Riot Report, bits and pieces of Updike, a spy story called "The Kremlin Letter" and every copy of Time I can get my hands on. You know Time magazine is perhaps the best magazine in our country today. Not that it informs any better than U.S. News and World Report, or enlightens more than, say, The Atlantic; it is a total pleasure to sit sown and read form cover to cover. It is a magazine of pseudo-sophisticated wit and commentary; the writing is tight and immaculate whether they're talking about Rudolph Nureyev or the Beatles. Most of the time I disagree with its views but I have to admire its class. It's got style, something that U.S. News just can't get across. I'm pooped. goodnight.

April 30, 1968

The last of the month. May is the end for me. I feel like I've got a one-way ticket on a merry-go-round that just won't stop. What am I going to do? This summer, this week. I have a very low toleration point, and I'm going to pop. I'll spill myself all over the world so everybody can have a little bit of me. And then I'll say a prayer for me and all the other fools just like me. We need it. goodnight.