January 8, 1998 No job. It's snowing. The sound of the bells on Jamie's door as she goes back in to watch Days of Our Lives just pisses me off. It's good to be alive and that's no joke as I get ready for my second funeral of the week and my third trip to Cape in two weeks. I say "My cousin killed himself in prison." She say, "What was he in prison for?" I say, "Well, murder. He—" "Then it was his own fault," she say. Snotty little nasty cunt bitch. You really think you know everything there is to know, or you just don't give a shit about anyone else long enough to stop and think? Ratty little pisscunt foulmouthed dollop of shit. Did anyone ever tell you your mouth looks like some kind of gaping diseased fungus when you get drunk? January 9, 1998 Know what I’ve learned so far today? That you might find $40 in Milwaukee, but sooner or later someone’s going to steal at least $30 of it back. It was my last $30, too, unless you count the pitiful amounts left on my credit cards, which is how I had to pay for that rancid omelette at the Brady Street drug store diner. And the streets are laden with slush. This is the year of finding things out for myself. I went through a crisis period where I worried about my penis size, and through meticulous (ha) research and a few measurements in the privacy of my own home have determined that I am probably a strong average, and I have come to accept that. What I would have done if I had found out I was less than average-sized, I don’t know. So not all luck is bad. But the quantum difference between this little episode in crisis/acceptance and most of them in the past is that I did the whole thing myself. There was no woman, be she idolizing or scornful, to do it for me. So far, that seems to be one of the main points of this present chapter. I was thinking about names for books again. This time it’s Six, as in six out of ten, a six (and a quarter, actually—six and a half when really engorged) inch dick, six of one, etc, that sort of thing. Automatically the question arises, what about four? Or three? Or one? Or seven? But those are someone else’s stories, and shall be told by someone else. I find myself lately faced with such questions as, what do I do now that I know I am not a perfect wordist, what do I do now that the metronome shows I’m not immune to rushing or slowing down in my rhythms? I am finding the answer to be, keep on working, not because it is your birthright to be a genius, but because you’ll be all right despite being average. See, this is all sort of heresy, blasphemy, coming from where I come from—the mother cave, the gifted program, where I am perfect and everything revolves around me. There is a certain taboo thrill in looking at parts of myself, seeing the average, and not only continuing to live but actually asserting a good time doing so! And so I go back to the drum set, and practice along at a good cruising clip of 108 bpm, and sometimes the ’nome shows me I’ve sped up or slowed down, and I adjust, and hopefully some part of my body makes a note of it to add to the cumulative memory that body parts seem to have, and sometimes I just fall right in there, and I start to limber up a little, and forget, for a moment, to be pissed off about the $30, the missed plane to Kenny’s funeral visitation, the fact that so many of my friends and even more people whom I’ve never met have accomplished so much more than I—and of course, many have accomplished less—that’s the beauty of the average. Welcome to life, Matthew D. Schulte. January 13, 1998 A little insanity goes a long way. Ppounded the picture of Pam into Smithereens because I am still pissed about the Drug Test Culture. Fucking Quad would have hired me. I convinced myself that it would actually be really cool, actually be fun to work there. And then I realized that I didn't know if I would pass the Drug Test. I can’t say anything else about it or I’m going to start repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. Repeating myself. January 20, 1998 Went to write a letter to Anne, even opened up a new document, but at the thought of typing "Hey . . . " on the first line of the glowing blank screen, I got almost queasy and shut it down. Working in an office is weird. I'll stick out the week's project but after that—either something else comes up or I talk to Laurie about going back to HPB temporarily. The hell with my dramatic little pride. One fucking thing at a time. March 18, 1998 Come to think of it, why DID that girl at the customer service rep job interview at Mandel ask me how I felt about my writing? "Do you think you would be happy without much of a creative element in your work?" And I told her, with only the faintest of faint tinges of selfbetrayal in my heart, "Well, I expect I'll always write, but I'm not counting on making any money at it." Why not? What did Heinlein have that you don't? Or Leiber? Or Morisson? Or any of their characters? The characters especially! THEY weren't all genius writers or musicians! They had skills, yes, and they worked hard and didn't give up. That's basically it. If you're going to be your own boss, you're going to have to start following your own orders. I mean, the cat's out of the bag, the call is out of the bugle, I'm more than a little pregnant—how can I ever pretend that I didn't realize what I realized tonight? March 30, 1998 I'm not going to school just to be a printer. Just so you know. I have (still, somewhere, even if blackened and shrivelled like my little heart) greater, or at least other goals than sitting around doing blank work for someone else. I'd rather do meaningful work for myself and lots of other people. Even just Some other people. But work they can use to live with, breathe with, have a good time with. Not just to perpetuate the whole chain of stressed-out motherfuckers with nothing to do but spend 40, 50, 60 hours a week meeting a corporate deadline. And blah blah blah. Well, anyway, at least I'm still not totally apathetic, even if I'm still not exactly sure what I'm talking about. Is there a simple answer that I just don't want to face? Like, try it and find out? and if you fail, make the decision all over again to try it and find out or else do something else. Well shit, I do that all the time. The problem is, I always just do the something else. Usually. And then I say That's not what I was really deep down meant to do anyway. Because I wasn't really deep down meant to do a god damn dog farting thing, that's what I'm beginning to suspect. April 15, 1998 How could I afford $425 rent? - Invent ways to work out besides paying for a gym (ask claire & hozeska) - Go to chiro 1c a month not 2c (ask hoz. if it's worth it) - learn drums by playing and looking in books and talking to people instead of lessons - avoid eating out (buy smart groceries, cook smart meals) - don't have a phone - do work for trade press, and/or work a couple of shifts at a coffee house or something - drive less - drink cheap beer or none at all - buy clothes 2ndhand - publish writing - be so in control that when pbb checks come you can spend them on credit card debts - sell all but a few key cd's, tape some first, listen to the radio November 11, 1998 Okay. New glass of whiskey, new pretty room with two desks and a row of tiny observation windows overlooking the black&white world of katy’s rox & stix. Space on the carpet on the floor. Two drums and a bench and a drum set and Art Blakely insinuating in from the other room. Who am I? What is my great adventure? Why do I keep asking these same questions over and over again? Will I ever either answer them so I can get on to something more important or else just let them ride so I can get on to other things more important? Yes, sometimes. So here it comes, in all its pathetic glory: A new journal. I feel kind of dumb lately, a little creaky, a little bleary, still basically hopeful. Just saying I’m basically hopeful has a kind of desperate reek to it, though. So we’ll see. Time to go smoke. I’m skipping the dread Photoshop class tonight, and I’m going thru my books trying to find some example of a character who could be that irresponsible and still be an all right guy. It’s not turning up much, this search. Hmm. It’s just that I hate that fucking class. I’m not good at it, I don’t really understand it, I don’t want to do it for a living, and—god what a whiner. What’s my deal? Why, when I have got all A’s up til now, am I almost certainly voluntarily breaking that record now, this late in the game? Demanding answers to these questions sounds like demanding a rationalization. Proof that I am all right after all. Well am I? And for whose sake am I asking? Katy’s? Ay, my little house gleams tighter as winter clinches down in around us. I feel wan, wayward. I must walk the dog. That, at least, I can do. November 14, 1998 Why I’ll be all right: • because a blown-out match and a blown-out candle still smell the way they did when I was twelve • because I am in my house with the windows shut and the lamp glowing and I am flouncing around at my own speed in a flimsy black miniskirt, and when I sit down to type this my bare ass kisses the cool dark wood of the chair • because I’ve got the Meters on the stereo; listen carefully son you might learn something • because I am going to stretch and twist and push and pull and squat and crunch until I sweat The only chance the relationship with Katy (or with anyone) has is if I be myself unapologetically. Yes, you risk her not liking it. Can’t you see that’s a good thing? • because my underarms smell horsey like a man and my forearms are graced with black lace • because I can move slowly at first, and feel the ground through my feet November 17, 1998 I open up a tin of smoked oysters and pour a glass of milk. Katy is upstairs. The room is warm with soft pink light. Am I getting dumber? Stiffer? Slower? Does that really change anything if true? I am looking through my old journals though I don’t know why. I just feel compelled to. Spaceship hovers on through milk-dust clouds, nebulae, forests of night night night. Winter is coming. And so I kept on going, and I came to my Seattle journals. And I can’t even read them all the way through like I can with some of the Milwaukee ones. You know? They’re fragmented, choked, depressed, but most of all they have this huge, gaping, MISSINGNESS to them. I can’t explain it, it’s just like, I wasn’t really there. That is so scary to me. Where the hell was I? What happened to all my love? It’s like I couldn’t love, me or anyone else! It has given me a chill! I mean I’ve gotten depressed since then, but shit I think I’ve never been that empty. And I swear I hope I never am again. Don’t hardly see how I could be; I mean, shit. I love myself now. They have weird bits of words and words-not scattered through them, riddling them like shrapnel. ICK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What an awful time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I mean I guess it was necessary, but it still isn’t clear to me how. I think one thing I know better now than then is that love is in the little things. Cleaning your house, cooking, going to the trouble to back Katy’s photographs of rocks with black posterboard, and pinning them up on the wall in a neat row. Just caring a little, giving a shit. It’s not something you can fake. It is something you can choose to respond to or not, though. There is a little spark of risk involved in admitting you care. Oh jesus, I’m a go to bed now. That seattle stuff just weirded me out. Talk about extended discomfort!!!! And what will I do tomorrow to be happy about? God, anything. And I’ll talk to Katy. See what she has to say. Yes. November 18, 1998 I still have a fairly thick slug of wine left. And though I am feeling slightly queasy and am not likely to tonight recapture that easy breezy confidence of the Summer of ’94, I still have soft pink light and a Macintosh grown pleasantly obsolete and a dog and Katy is upstairs even though I still don’t always know how to be strong around her and I am still going to drink some more of the wine even though I feel a little empty and and . . . sigh . . . November 19, 1998 This really is an incredibly alive time, after all. It is the Hanged Man. It is the Blank Card. It is me not knowing what to do with all this Stuff that wells up inside me, and so I hang suspended from one foot, waiting And Katy & I went to see Waking Ted Nevine, and it was beautiful, and it tells us of family and community in ways that resonate so strong within us, but which seem almost foreign, strange to us Americans in this citified country, and afterwards she & I have a good talk because we’re sorting out something we got in a fight about, and then I go walk with Dexter and it feels like a spark made by a mercury switch to be walking and glowing and all the while set against this unsettling backdrop of car alarms and sodium (?) lights and billowing grocery bags rolling down the street in the wind, modern day tumble weeds. And it’s me in this weird blank space between being ruled by my adolescent ego and . . . something else. The self? It’s reading about Tarot and Jung, and the archetypes resonating, making dream pictures in my waking head. The hanging man’s bemused face. It’s reading Sturgeon and realizing that maybe I’m not writing because I want to be doing other things right now. It’s oh my god I may really be in love with Katy for the long haul and that’s somehow less titillating but more powerful than before. It’s we’ll be here and we will see how it develops. It’s the long haul, after all. It’s a little town in Ireland where she & I are going to live. And play (music) with our friends. And you don’t get to be a frisky old couple in perfect peace just by looking at your elders and thinking wow that’s great, you get to be them by going through all the stuff you have to go through first; by taking it as it comes you earn it. And you get flashes of it, moments of it, sometimes nice long slow moments of it even as you’re going; it’s not like BAM suddenly you’re there. (I think.) It’s no matter how long I sit here at the journal screen, I may never exactly explain to you what it is, because I am living it right now thank you. Let me just say, it is incredibly alive right now. And I played with Dexter in the park tonight for the first time in a long time. And when I move out of here, I might actually plaster in the pinholes and nail holes I made, wouldn’t that be something. And treating her right has nothing to do with acting impressive. And what’s the point of worrying about whether I have enough power in the relationship; the real kind of power that is constructive and full of love is not something you can fake, it is something that comes out of you naturally as you are being yourself. I mean the yourself that respects itself and cares about someone else, not the yourself that is designed to drive someone away and make it look like it was their fault. Well I guess I’m going to go on to bed without having explained this perfectly. That’s just part of it, I guess. clumsy wheat toast She said to me (or near me anyway, loud enough for me to hear and then she didn’t deny it) “I still think you’re a writer.” So what did I want to do? Write a bunch of stuff to prove it to her. So I started scheming and thinking of ways to make myself broody and artsy and tortured and all, such that when I wrote something it would live up. This is of course a bunch of bullshit. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with bullshit, but there is a blank page in between it and expanding into someone who speaks because he has something to say to someone else, a prayer, a cup for his brother to drink from. So if I’m not writing anything big right now, that doesn’t prove her wrong after all. It just means I trust myself. You gotta love the blank page, too. And I do. To use someone as an object of worship, you have to make them your willing slave. They have to say what you have to hear. This is the nature of sex without love. It is the ultimate in narcissism. Waking Ted Nevine is a movie I would actually buy on tape. And I don’t even own a fucking VCR. I’m not as scared of growing up any more. If I went to the space station that was the stepping-off place for entering the Starmind, I would probably have stayed there a lot longer than I had thought I would have had to. I might have even gone back to Earth once or twice before really committing. It would have turned my world upside down a bit, realizing I wasn’t exactly the polished little God I thought I was. That would have lasted at least as long as it took me to stop being ashamed of it. November 20, 1998 well i’ve gone from wishing I weren’t worried about where katy is to just being worried about where katy is. I mean it’s not like we have a specific protocol firmly established for checking in, “we’re not married” to use her words, but she did allow as how she’d see me later tonight after that movie, and it’s after eleven. When battling with the jealousy and wondering how I should feel gives way, I’m left a little concerned. Her cel phone’s busy. Ah. She called. She doesn’t know why her cel was busy. She’s coming home soon. Marco Vassi: “to the extent a man pushes a scene, he is insecure in it.” me, July 1997: “yes and I AM insecure and that’s why I’m pushing it and that’s FINE.”