Wednesday Night, 3 January 1996

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I don't know what is wrong with me—I feel so terrible. Depressed and doomed. I feel suicidal, even, but too lame and tired to really be. It's just what I imagine depression being, if one were to describe it.

Partly it's that I have a temp job tomorrow and so I know I won't be able to do anything for myself from the time I get up until six p.m. or so. But it's a job at a law firm, which are usually the best jobs I get, plus it's supposed to last through next week, so that's really helpful, job-wise. I guess I feel bad because I can't focus on anything, or get anything done—like answering mail or writing. And this job won't help—not at all. The only positive thing about it is if you're already feeling miserable, you may as well be at work.

2 January 1996

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We—Heather, Kathryn, and I—came back to Portland today after visiting Heather's grandmother Louise yesterday. We went to the hot spring at Cougar Reservoir this morning, one of my favorite places in Oregon so far. Tomorrow kind of marks the two year point of Heather and I living in the Northwest—though I guess we got out here a little before Christmas 1993. We moved to Seattle in January 1994, and then to Portland in July '94. I've spent the years of 1994 and 1995 doing office temp work. I feel like I've worked a lot, worked very hard, had some of the worst jobs I've ever had, and had way too little time to work on my own stuff. But money-wise we're worse off than ever, even though we don't spend money extravagantly. But still we have to put most expenses on the credit cards—groceries and car repairs mostly, and now I'm about $14,000 in debt. It's really depressing, all in all, like a real downward spiral. And that's really kind of confusing, as everything else is more or less improving. It's something I just can't figure out, but I don't blame myself, totally. I don't set the wages, and I don't set the prices of things. But then I guess I could be doing something differently, couldn't I?

At any rate, tomorrow I get up and call the temp agencies. I have five now. Then they maybe or maybe not call me back with a job. Where, doing what, I don't know. In the meantime, do I get started working on anything? Do I go out running—something which I'd really like to start doing again? It's hard—I kind of have to stick around for the phone to ring, and it's always to my benefit to have taken a shower, gotten dressed, and eaten breakfast before they call with a job. It's really a horrible way of living, but if I could figure out something else, I would. I feel like the thing that would benefit me the most is to have a schedule I have some control over, or at least somewhat of a set schedule. I look for a regular job from time to time, but I've barely been able to find anything to apply to, let alone get hired. I guess getting up earlier to accomplish a few of these things I've resolved to do for the new year—like exercise, and read, and write—would help—the temp agencies don't call until eight—but I'm too tired in the morning anymore. And then once I do get a job, forget it. It's just the worst—but now I'm really tired, and going to sleep.

New Year's Day 1996

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Like I was saying before I was interrupted, if there really was a God, wouldn't s/he tell us exactly what art is rather than leaving us to flounder around like a trout? This being, as it were, a way of saying, excuse me, I was just cleaning up after dinner—you know, pulling the bones from between my teeth. I'd like to ease into this, welcome myself back, and let myself off the hook by never saying, "What took you so long?" For someone who can't keep up with the world, I sure harbor a secret belief that I'm running so far ahead. I already have showered and am relaxing by the fire. But really, if I'm going to be silly, I'd like to stick to food issues, since my many agendas seem to be central to the kitchen, which I'll get to later, but just to remind myself ahead of time: things like my solidarity with fish, the international wheat conspiracy, and the religion of alcohol.

Okay. I don't believe in introductions, but to the extent that one may be necessary here, here it goes, as quickly as possible. This is the beginning of the new project; and the continuation of an old one, the old one being called  "The Mauve Decade" which I started in 1990—or 1989, actually—the idea being to write one page a day, and by the end of the century I'd have a 3000 page novel that says, more or less, everything about the state of human existence up to this point. Or maybe it would be just a mildly intriguing diary of a mundane but interesting life. Anyway, it was a journal—and while a page a day turned out to be ambitious, I did have some fairly prolific periods, and hopefully some developing insights—an ongoing learning process, etc. etc. —and a lot of typed pages.

Well, somewhere along the line, I got sidetracked, or disinterested, or just tired, and I stopped writing. Sure I wrote some other stuff—but short stories mostly—for the last several years. Something occurred to me toward the end of 1995—told me I should start this up again. But as I was going along before, I was considering it a work of fiction—changing names  and some of the places as I went along—now, I figured—why bother? I'll just consider it a straight diary—and use real names, and the hell with it. It's more for me than for anyone else anyway.

And as for the time in between? Well, I'm not sure if I'll get around to typing or even locating the first part (it's mostly scribbled on scraps of paper). If I do, and I type it—well, by that time maybe I'll have enough distance on the years between the time I stopped writing and the time I resumed, to write an account of that time. Maybe, maybe not.

Anyway—happy new year.