The Diary of Zachary Michael Davis — Volume IC #### Entry 65 — Wednesday 6 April 2005 (Mother's Birthday / Raceday at College Park) — " 'Empty, Vapid Little Souls' " Dear Diary, I have shown markèd (if not _very_ markèd) improvement in my statèd quest to become someone worthy of that which I have. Finishing homework, _occasionally_ biting my tongue (figuratively speaking!) when I have nothing worth saying—these are some little things that I somehow feel I have been doing better. There was a track meet today at College Park. I ran in three events. I feel I ran well enough in the 400. My 800 was horrible. I am told my split in the 4x400 was a 58. What's the arithmetic mean of respectable, embarrassingly bad, and respectable? There was emotional instability (in a bad way) around the eight. (Fuck me.) Caitlin Casey gave me a ride home. She thinks being a translator would be a great job. She got into Boston College and NYU. She thinks NYU would be a great cultural opportunity, but she has a lot of financial aid for Boston. She related how (I think) James was really excited during my four by four leg. I love Zack, she said he said, you tell him to go faster, and he _does_. The news meeting is tomorrow, and I haven't check'd my beat yet. (Fuck me!) I was planning to talk to Ms. Bruce for my beat. I am thinking I will try to set up an appt. in the morning, and if there is a story idea, I will bring it to the EICs after the meeting. We non-senior _Page_ staffers were given sheets to fill out, to apply for editorships next year. I put "Editor-In-Chief" as my number one choice, naturally. I wonder: can I do this job? I figure I should reach for my dreams. If I am not good enough, I will suffer the natural consequences. If I'm not fit to make a living in this world, then the world will kill me. But I intend to make a living. I intend to be a human truly worth admiring. I intend—I want—to be your Editor-In-Chief, your fieldmarshal, your lit commander, your triple-platinum novelist. One tries as one does, and what happens—happens. Maybe everyone will hate me, but why should I care overmuch what they think? I mean, I want to be likèd, but if my actions lead to me being hated—what the fuck. Accept it as sin, accept it as fate. Then, untroubled by the situation, work your fucking _ass_ off to change it. I fear that whatever my occasional rhetoric about emotional self-sufficiency, humans are just hardwired to need friends. Too, maybe it is better to languish for attention, when one is so different as I am from that which one wishes to be. Because I wonder if maybe—just maybe—when you want someone to _love_ you, and _forgive_ you, you are really in your heart wanting advance permission to fail. When one feels pain, one wants to give in _so_ badly—but where does that leave us humans, if we crack at the slightest pressure, like eggs? However, I should not sketch conclusions (even preliminary ones) about humans from introspection, because I am not a typical human. On the bad side or the good side? We'll see, hoss. I feel I would be such a great boyfriend, Zack M. Davis, 2011, PDT. #### Entry 66 — Thursday 7 April 2005 (Common Era) — "Local Gray" Dear Diary, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't. I didn't talk to or set up an appointment with Ms. Bruce, or Ms. Amin, or anyone for my beat. SO we had the news meeting. And I got assigned a story about how they changed the passport rules to get into Canada and Mexico. How will I get a school angle on that, I ask myself. Isn't Nick Ball-Jones Canadian or something? Must research the details first, anyway. And it would be good to try to check up with Amin even if the news meeting already happened. You know, in case there's anything big happening. Or just as a matter of principle—I have to know my beat! "It would be good," I say. But really, whatever I write _about_ doing my duties in this space doesn't matter. Either I _do_ it or I _don't_. If it truly would be good, as I say, then I should do it, no? Then why do I say "it would be good", as if I secretly intend to _not_ do it, and am just creating evidence for some future jury to show that I did have good intentions? But of course, a good jury will say back to me: And what road did you pave? I emailed Ms. Garland about getting Issue 5 online today in class—should not I have also asked if there was anything new going on with the computer labs? And now I will change the subject! After practice, I went to the library to pick up _Looking Outward: Years of Crisis at the United Nations_, which was on hold for me. Like I said yesterday, there are a few little things that I am doing a little bit better. SO that's all I'm gonna say on the record today. From, Zack M. Davis. #### Entry 67 — Wednesday 13 April 2005 (Raceday vee Acalanes and Campolindo, at Acalanes) — "(impervious) Mind Check for Those Who Seek to Live" Dear Diary, Someone close to Ms. Gunnison died. I heard it from Maria first, during ART. I was planning to do the extra credit study guide for the HST test tomorrow, but I left my HST book in my locker at school. I was trying to make myself feel okay before starting for some time before I actually looked in my backpack and realized where the book was. SO I am writing in my diary now, instead. Depraved? Because my original Issue 6 story assignment was stupid, I am now going to write about the skate park that is being built in Walnut Creek. This evening I uploaded to Mother's laptop my photographs from today's track meet and ASB preëlection speeches. The ASB photographs came out terrible: they had _noise_. I printed out the information about the skate park from the city's website. I guess tomorrow I will send emails asking for interviews? I had been thinking about doing that _tonight_! Edits are due Monday. Can I get ints by then? I have to go to the shrink tomorrow. There is track practice every weekday. I am feeling very stressed! Depraved? I keep reminding myself that I must work hard, and bear whate'er needs to be borne, for the sake of the things I love in this world. I cried a little before the 800 today. Today was the "Day of Silence." I masturbated tonight. I imagined, um, being [redacted]. Oh, and we can't get onto the server, and no one knows why. Here's to this time next year, Zack M. Davis, 2250. #### Entry 68 — Friday 15 April 2005 (Common Era) — "I'm Not Going to Prom (Dag Hammarskjöld Abnormal Unicorn Edition)" Dear Diary, SO I made it through another school week. 'Tain't much, but I leave it out there anyway. I will do ints tomorrow, on the telephone. I had an appt. with Andrew Michaels today, because he double-booked me and another guy yesterday, on accident. This appt. was the last one. Unless sth happens, anyway. Today in ART, I finished my project, a chalk portrait of Sara Katzki. I had pretty much finished yesterday, so today I just smudged over with my finger a few places that got damaged somehow, and then the teacher other than Ms. Gray who has been in our class (I really don't know how to spell her name at present, it sounds like "Bruhsheers") sprayed it, and then I cut and matted it. The teacher hung it up in the gallery. It's not bad. Katzki was wearing a distracting strapless dress today. Next week might be bad. There's a meet, a pasta feed at my house, and I will most likely still be working on finishing my news story. I had a weird dream this morning. That is to say, I remembered a dream this morning. (Dreams, I believe, are always weird.) I can't recall very much at all (I never can of dreams) so I will just mention that there was this girl who had an uncanny resemblance to Lisa Rodgers, except this girl had four eyes. Blue ones. And Brianna Larson made a cameo, too, wearing a cobalt blue Under-Armor top. I have a tendency to doubt my memory of RL events a little bit, so I _really_ doubt my memory of dreams. Did I really dream what I think I dreamt, or do I accidentally fill in details or more _ex post_? I really have to work this weekend. Fiction, journalism, homework. Apply for more jobs. Are my diary entries more boring lately? Zack M. Davis, 2011. #### Entry 69 — Saturday 16 April 2005 (Common Era) — "Keep Moving!" Dear Diary, Survival and _doing things right_—these are what is important. I have been listening to music in headphones, adjusting the volume as applicable. Such beauty! Such _feeling_! And I here get so scared of things for no reason. I want to be able to go to school on Monday and truthfully say "I darn near cured myself." There aren't any guarantees, so I will have to learn to stop wanting them. There's no such thing as unconditional love—and if there is, it doesn't mean anything anyway, by its very definition. Your virtue—your status as _good_—is something you have to buy back every day through honorable action; you can't just get it once and keep it. What's the music for if I can't use the feeling to _do_ anything, but only to imagine? And how long can any music last, if no one cares to live to defend it? I get so scared sometimes. It's crazy. If people could survive the Holocaust, I can survive the eleventh grade—survive it _without a scratch_. Isn't that so? Purity & complexity, Zack M. Davis, 0955. ADDENDUM— I'm listening to _Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me_. Is this what it is to take a fall? Or have I earned the right to treat myself to this radio program? And what about _This American Life_? What if I listen to that too, psyching myself up all the time, and then at 1300 I SNAP into relentless workoholism? Or will I go back on that, too? But really, things aren't so bad. Father gets mad, I make a fool of myself, _whatever_. I'm alive. I am not dead. —ZD, 1158 ADDENDUM 2— Today's _This American Life_ is about people backed into a corner who have to make choices most of us would avoid. —ZD, 1233. ADDENDUM 3— Okay. I'm done with the radio for now. And it's well past noon. I'm confused and shaky, I guess. Don't know what I'm worthy of, don't know if I can find strength of will inside me. Don't know if I'm good. In any case, I'm alive. I'm not dead. Possibly indicating I'm doing _something_ right. Waxing cryptic. Here's to relentlessness, ZD, 1313. ADDENDUM 4— I am leaning towards not doing ints calls today. Surprise. When I am feeling JOU nervousness, I don't even want to _think_ about my topic. I posted sth in RS. Andrew Michaels and Mother urge me to socialize, but I think 'twould be ideal to just hold everything in. Maybe my diary is boring lately and it's because my life is repetitive. I get determined to be a great reporter, and then—crash. This madness. Over and over again. Anyway, I'm not dead. Here's to breaking the cycle, ZD, 1508. ADDENDUM 5— SO I am having another sad Saturday. SO I have wasted hours in sluggish depression, and everything seems hard. SO in terms of overall character development, "Keep Moving!" reads just like "Home Opener." SO I'm a failure. A total fucking yellowbelly self-contradictory _FAILURE_! SO I am _dishonorable_! SO I deserve to die! **\*BUT\***—"it's never too late to change"! Is it not so? If it's broke, try to fix it! If 'tain't broke, fix it then, too! Start planning! Fly the banner, howe'er futilely! Keep Faith—I mean, _Hope_, alive! Here's to antidespondence in the face of the impossible, and to moods that don't swing, ZD, 1749. ADDENDUM 6— I feel like I could pull this off. I think I'm going optimistic, and, for a change, I'm going to darnwell stay that way. It could be time to go off the record for a while. Here's to Lizzie Rauber, ZD, 1940. #### Entry 70 — Sunday 17 April 2005 (Common Era) — "And Nice to Serve It Well" Dear Diary, "It could be time to go off the record for a while," I wrote. Well, this is what happens when you phrase things noncommittally. I talked with Ben Goldhaber and then Chuck Goldhaber on the phone today. In the evening, I was able to deny my insanity, and got telephone ints with Mardi Veiluva. It was easy! "I think I darnnear cured myself," I imagine saying to Ms. Gunnison tomorrow, if she is back from mourning her friend. Veiluva even called me back to correct an error she told me and to tell me that there is going to be a skate park meeting tomorrow at the Heather Farm Community Center. I will definitely be there! Unless I get in a car wreck or sth! I'll have to be awfully sure not to do that. I feel very lucky. First edits are due tomorrow, so I wrote up what I have of a news story so far. It is ~260 words. Also, I placed hold requests on two books about interviewing at _ccclib.org_. I'm only on the waiting list for one of them. Things seem rather possible right now. I must keep them that way! Ambition is something full like 800 meters, Zack M. Davis, Graphics & Layout Editor, _The Page_ 2251. #### Entry 71 — Monday 18 April 2005 (Common Era) — "Tell Me Everything" Dear Diary, Ms. Gunnison's godmother, a Mrs. Rose, was killed by a drunk driver, it turned out. I talked to Ms. Blendow about our server issues in the morning and the beginning of sixth, and then I went to Shaun Johnston, and Ms. Blendow was already there, and Mr. Johnston gave us back our server permission. I don't know how we lost it in the first place. Weird. I found out from Blendow that while the Yearbook server is actually on 502's backroom computer, the Journalism files are still on the backroom server in 702. I had been given to understand the _Page_ server, too, was moved to 502. Practice was 6x400. I displayed a less-than-admirable attitude. I felt slow and sluggish. I went to the skate park meeting thing. I did my job tolerably well, I _think_. My notetaking speed needs much improvement. I have briefly looked over and added a few clarifiers to my notes. Should I have done and/or do much more before turning in? It is said one must _write like crazy_ after taking notes so that no key item slips away from you. Will the night's sleep make me forget things? Mardi Veiluva said she would email me even more information. She has been very helpful to me. Someone made a video with footage from the groundbreaking, and that was shown. Jeff Fox, who is a pole vaulter, has been involved in the project since he was in eighth grade, I overheard. SO I will talk to him, too, later this week. And I must remember names! There is a pasta feed at our house tomorrow. STAR testing begins, as well. I'm going to bed with my PRC homework only partially done. It is difficult. I don't want to be associated with Holden Caulfield, Zack M. Davis, 2354. #### Entry 72 — Tuesday 19 April 2005 (Common Era) — "Service" Hey, Diary: Pasta feeds = boring. Standardized tests = boring, but sometimes the passages one must read for the English tests can be interesting. "Let them come to Berlin!" Because of the special schedule due to the testing, the only classes I had today were ENG, ART, and PRC. I didn't miss HST and SPN too much, but JOU I did miss. After school let out, I stashed my stuff in [my locker] and went home on foot, so I could take the gray car to practice. As I neared the schoolside crosswalk in the direction of Newell, the red hand was flashing, so I ran to get across in time. Lizzie Rauber and Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff were rather ahead of me, crossing the same crosswalk. Maybe there was a third person with them? No, I don't think so. Anyway, I jogged past them on their left, and Lizzie said hi. I turned to greet her, and we exchanged our "how are you"s, and I began to walk with them, for what would be a very very short time, just while we happened to be going the same way. Lizzie asked if I went to Prom, and I responded in the negative. "Aw, that's sad," she said. "It was my own choice," I said. I found out Kathy's friends convinced her to go; she just went with them. On my walk I imagined asking Kathy to Senior Ball next year. But I guess that wouldn't be right. Why ruin something that's already perfect? Just kidding, I think. I'm not really enjoying track so much lately. I think I am being pretty good, in the early estimates. Well, not so much _good_ as showing improvements. I intend to continue progress. I'll keep you posted, as always. Here's to _The Chicken Doesn't Skate_, Zack M. Davis ADDENDUM— It's (far past the) time to start PRC work and also news story writing. Remember that which you value, and what you must do to preserve it or create it. Here's to response ability, ZD, 2217. #### Entry 73 — Wednesday 20 April 2005 (Raceday vee Northgate, at Acalanes) — "Magnesium Oxide, Magnanimous Sulfate" Friend Diary: I scored a point. I came in third in the 800, behind a Northgate guy and Jay. Mike Wickman didn't run the eight. I even led the race very briefly, at around the 200 mark. Coming around the curve towards the 500 mark, I was hanging fourth, but within striking distance of the Northgate guy in third. I took him early on the straightaway, I think, and he never came back to challenge me. I babbled sth to Schreiber and Dan about how I did good this time because I was within striking distance. I didn't get my 400 time, but I suspect it was pretty bad. I was sixth in a heat of seven, and pretty far behind. Due to the special STAR schedule, I had to leave to go to the meet before JOU class (which was only 35 minutes anyway). This was my chief rationale for spending lunch in 502 working (in my fashion) on _The Page_. The "(in my fashion)" is there to denote that what I was doing was really, really easy. I got the master up and downloaded a few of my photos onto our server. I pushed my news story up to ~380 words last night. I third-worry that I got something wrong or misrepresented sth, even though I have spent time reading it over and making sure that everything I wrote corresponds to what my sources told me. Well, there's actually one place where I'm not sure if my wording is misleading, but I will ask Ms. Gunnison about that. I sort of wonder about how I quoted and paraphrased Corey Piethe. I mean, what I said he said is actually sth he said, of course, but he also said other things. There is almost always sth one can do to make eir story better. I tried! And I try! And I shall continue to try! But too I know that results are what matter. Here's to making stories better, Zack M. Davis, 1931. #### Entry 74 — Thursday 21 April 2005 (Common Era) — "Testing and Reporting" Dear Diary, I am thinking of _not_ doing either of the additional ints I was planning (Fox and Jutagir) tonight. I was thinking I'll arrange a time with Fox tomorrow at practice. My story is long enough (I say that as if mere _length_ were what mattered!): I placed it on a page just to see. Kate gave back the old draft, and in addition to the corrections and comments it said "Good job Zack." After class, I gave her the new draft and babbled about it for a while. I remember she said I am trying my best and am too hard on myself. I went to school early today, on my bike. Ms. Gunnison saw me in the morning and told me that she met someone ("a friend of a friend") who she thought was just like me, personality-wise. Corey Piethe approached me in the morning to tell me more for my story: the park was supposed to be done by last October, he said, and it took them all of last summer to realize they didn't have enough money to build it. That's what he said. He said that they said it was because of steel prices rising, and I got the idea that he didn't believe it. (I sort of recall him saying something about "grown-ups arguing." I have such a horrible memory for events! I must learn to write faster!) So I said I was given to understand that that _was_ the case (prices rising, I mean), and I mentioned how Mardi told me the same thing happened with the Bay Bridge. (Concrete also rose, according to what Mardi told me Sunday, but I didn't mention it then.) And I think he said sth about how I could say that he and Mardi said sth, so that's two sources. Something like that? I think I don't trust my own memory, like I am just _that afraid_ of getting sth wrong. If I ever make a mistake in recounting what actually transpired in my life, Diary, you have this blanket apology that I am _so_ sorry. (As if "Diary" is actually a person.) Here, I will just type up what I have in my notebook from the encounter with Piethe this morning: last ye all of th summer to > realize they didn't have > > enough money to build it, "they were planning to have > it done by october > > of last year" Look at all those vowels! See what I mean about taking notes better? I stayed in 502 for part of the blank seventh, as mentioned earlier (the talk with Kate, remember?). Ms. Gunnison made an internet search for "Litany" by Billy Collins, and I, seeing over her shoulder, said "Billy Collins?" She said "Litany" was the best poem ever written. I said that "I Think Continually of Those Who Were Truly Great" was the best. She asked me to repeat the title, and she jotted it down. She gave me and another guy who was in 502 each a printout of "Litany." She had introduced me to the other guy, but I don't remember (Fuck me!) his name. "Litany" is good. It has a very strong voice. (Somehow I imagine Ira Glass reading it.) But I really don't like all the impenetrable imagery. "You are the bread and the knife". Okay. What does that _mean_? There doesn't seem to be any reference points. When Spender talks about "blood drawn from ageless springs", it's been established that the poem is all about greatness and glory and honour. But these marsh birds suddenly in flight—what's that about? It's anyone's guess. What's the "best poem ever" is, of course, a matter of taste. I suppose I like the specificity of words. You can get abstract concepts across with words. I almost feel like if you're going to try to use your poetry to try to "paint a picture" with words—you're better off just painting an actual picture. I am reminded of the abstraction pyramid in _Understanding Comics._ In fact, that book was probably what inspired me to just use the phrase "specificity of words." I took a weird sleep pattern last night, interspersing short periods of consciousness between sleep. In one dream, I remember saying to Nicole, and later to Grant Hardy, that we must have merely dreamed what just happened. I was quickly reässured that it was real. (_So_ close to lucidity!) There was sth with locusts, and hiding from them under a table in a supermarket. I think so, anyway. I cried in practice today, just a tiny little bit. I got to thinking that if I choose perfection (or even just near-perfection) as my standard of value, I doom myself to disappointment. ("You're only human," as it is said.) But if I am not committed to doing everything right, do I not doom myself to mediocrity, to sloth? But I remember the disgusting fact that no matter how boldly I proclaim my dedication to excellence—I don't have a history of actually showing that claimed dedication through amazing, give-it-everything-you-have effort. After practice, I picked up the books on hold for me at the library: _Creative Interviewing_ (third edition) and _The Journalistic Interview_ (revised edition). Here is an excerpt from the back cover text of _Creative Interviewing_: "Twenty years ago, author-teacher Ken Metzler learned something that startled him: _beginning journalists often were afraid to conduct interviews with_ such _typical news sources_ as fire chiefs, city managers, and ordinary people unwittingly thrust into newsworthy situations." [Emphasis mine.] Wow. That's me. I'm hoping these books will be very helpful. Anyway, to critique poetry, you have to make a living first. I'm not _too_ bad of a journalist, right? And I am young, no? Am I not learning? Am I not improving? Do I not get credit for that? I remember reading, I am almost positive it was in some of the margin quotes of _Major in Success_ (fourth edition), that the best indicator as to what your passion is is shown by which persons you envy. I envy journalists and novelists. I wish for—the romance I desire or, failing that, the strength of heart to do without for as long as I decide to. But everyone knows wishes are for losers, and good people have _goals_ instead. I too think continually of those who were truly great, Zack M. Davis, worried. 1942. ADDENDUM— In any case, I am in no danger of getting bored. —ZD, 2036. ADDENDUM 2— You know, fear and fatigue don't go so well together—or alone. I have been reading. I have homework to finish for tomorrow; I haven't done any of it! There is only one day left in this schoolweek, and only 35 left in the school year. And the school directory says it's _Colin_ Piethe, not Corey. —ZD, 2338. ADDENDUM 3— I really want to sleep, but I really need to do my work! In the evening Father told me to not procrastinate my remaining interviews too long. That made me angry, though I made sure not to show it. I know I'm not beyond reproach. On the contrary. I think it very wrong in most circumstances to demand credit for the things I do. I must simply work harder, be better, not give any would-be critics any material to work with. Show no weakness. Admit no pain. Take no damage. I imagine it's something of a cliché by now, but I'll show them. I'll show them _all_. This could be getting very silly. It could be getting very late. Maybe this is bullshit masculine posturing, though I am above that. Maybe this is just writing practice, and maybe this is "Escape from Demo World." In any case, my diary makes allowances for the telling of it. Be not pusillanimous. "Say not the struggle." Don't try to peg me. You'll be dead wrong. Ready—_break_. ZD, 0040 Friday. #### Entry 75 — Friday 22 April 2005 (Common Era) — "Play the System" Diary: An eventful day. I was in a bad place, so to speak, in the morning, but during ART, the awesome asst. art teacher whose name I do not know how to spell gave me information about a job offer. She told me of a kids' track organization (her friend is involved in it) that wants a high school runner to run with some of its faster boys. Superflexible: I could choose how many and which days to come, or so I am given to understand. She gave me the number, which I have not called yet. The teacher telling me about this opportunity really cheered me up. _The power of networking_, I thought to myself. I was rather excited at first. I want to earn _money_! But their practice starts at 1630. This conflicts with my own track practice. I was thinking maybe I could arrange to go once a week? But that's pointless, working an hour and a half per week. I am thinking that I definitely can't do it. The art teacher said that I might recommend somebody else if I cannot do it. Andrew Sheehan is not doing track, maybe he'd be interested. In my mind, I briefly toyed with the idea of quitting track to run with the middle schoolers in Pleasant Hill for money. But I should remember that so far I have only heard the details secondhand, anyway. The next editors of _The Page_ were named today, as was the new system for next year. We were given org charts, even. I am to be the Managing Editor. It's a new position. Think of it as third-in-command. I am to be more in charge of production, while the Editors-In-Chief are to be more concerned with editorial content (though they are ultimately in charge of everything). The Photo Editor reports to the Managing Editor. A position for Features Editor has also been created. There will be no columns section, though there is a Columns Editor. Columns will go into the news, sports, or entertainment section as applicable. (I also think putting more personal columns in the features section would be a good idea. This, I think, was mentioned in class.) Laura Fettig and Ashley Mrozek were named Editors-In-Chief. Chris Nomura was named Photo Editor. Tierney Allen, Opinion. Alissa Gossett, Features. Seanan Fong, News. Andrea Vasquez, Sports. Cecelia Choi and Annie Clark, Entertainment. Corey Jacobson, Columns. I don't see why there are still going to be two Entertainment Editors. News is a bigger and more important section, is it not? I'm almost relieved I'm not an Editor-In-Chief. I briefly discussed "Litany" with Ms. Gunnison. Track practice was cancelled. There was lightning. At the school library, I checked out _A Treasury of the World's Great Diaries_. (At first I had absentmindedly taken it from the library without checking it out (!) but then I went back checked it out the proper way. The book must not have been sensitized to set off the alarm upon being removed from the library improperly.) Check this out: from the diary of Henry James, November 11, 1882: "If I can only _concentrate_ myself: this is the great lesson of life. I have hours of unspeakable reaction against my smallness of production; my wretched habits of work—or of un-work; my levity, my vagueness of mind, my perpetual failure to focus my attention, to absorb myself, to look things in the face, to invent, to produce, in a word. I shall be 40 years old in April next: it's a horrible fact! I believe however that I have learned how to work and that it is in moments of forced idleness, almost alone, that these melancholy reflections seize me. Whan I am really at work, I'm happy, I feel strong, I see many opportunities ahead. It is the only thing that makes life endurable. I must make some great efforts during the next few years, however, if I wish not to have been on the whole a failure. I shall have been a failure unless I do something _great!_..." I have my own work to do. Presently, however, I will go take a shower. I'm only a little bit scared now, and on the whole feeling what I imagine is rather well. Here's to diarists, Zack M. Davis, 1719. ADDENDUM— You know, I was going to call Jeff Fox by now, but maybe I am going to give myself a little bit of a break right now. I have a news story written. I mean, it's the right length. I could use some better quotes, and some more information on the skater design sessions and if I can confirm that they wanted to get it done last October, I should put that in, too. I should definitely put that in if I confirm it. I know, if am I to be truly great, I must not delay or default when there is something I can do _now_ to make things better. But maybe I can work my way up to greatness in steps. Be just a little bit better every day, instead of going off sin cold turkey. SO maybe I don't deserve a girlfriend _yet_. I will. Soon, I am inclined to think. Maybe she is currently telling herself how hard she must work to deserve _me_! I love romantic parallelisms. Except for maybe that "Gift of the Magi" story. Is this a betrayal? To enjoy myself a little now, instead of struggling to put out every erg I have to further defend and create the sources of my enjoyment, of all that I value? And, leaving behind the issue of my own status for just a second, what am _I_ doing to save the world? Anyway, I can use my time tonight to work on my xomic and/or some short fiction and/or plan exactly what I am going to say on ints. And/or I can just read. And/or I could get extra sleep. The choice, and the results, are all mine. I am getting better at talking to people, I think. I mean, I just called the number about that job I can't take, to get more information. I totally flubbed it, and was extremely inarticulate (far too close to the point of sheer incomprehensability), but the point is that _I called_. And I wasn't really embarrassed at my lack of eloquence and coherence. The woman was eating, so I am to get a call back. Father says he's proud of me. He says I have to pick my slots—where I am going to be a perfectionist, and where I am going to let things slide. _Pesakh_—Passover—starts tomorrow night. We are to have a Seder at 1800. I don't like those so much. Miramonte's invitational (the Phillips-McCain Relays, IIRC) is tomorrow. I'm not going. I am supposed to do an hourlong run on my own. I might also go take a picture of the skate park construction site for my story. Here's to toasts, ZD. ADDENDUM 2— I got a call back about that running job thing, but no one picked up the phone, so the answering machine took it. I don't/didn't want to call back tonight. It is/was too late, maybe. Mother said I could, though. I might go to bed soon, after a little more reading. You know the plan—go to sleep, and try to fix things up in the morning. I must not use the failures of diarists past as an excuse for not giving things the effort they deserve. Here's to backup copies, ZD, 2035. ADDENDUM 3— Sometimes when I get inspired, I also feel a deep regret with it for all the time I have wasted: the hope and motivation of this kind of inspiration contains integrally within it a strong tinge of worry that it may be too late to make things right. _Let it not be so!_, I could be crying. It would do me well to remember what that feels like, at times when I am thinking about giving in. —ZD, 2046. #### Entry 76 — Saturday 23 April 2005 (Common Era) — " 'Don't Want to Be a Terrestrial Idiot' " Dear Diary, Imaginings of romance exist. I ran for an hour this morning. The NFL draft started today, not that I care. The topic of this week's _This American Life_ was "Sissies." I haven't started my xomic yet. I read on the internet for a while. I hit _Slate_, _Wikipedia_, _Reason_, _poynter.org_, a couple of links from those. Once again, I am feeling hopeful and nervous at the same time. But hope strongly predominates. I won't apologize if I'm not describing this perfectly. I am liking _feeling_ things at the moment. Will I still love being human in this way when, at some point in the future, I am in great pain? Though I love knowledge, it is best to try to not find that out. I shall be going to drive with Father to pick up Nicole and Kristina (sp?) from their residence in Berkeley, so they can attend the Seder. I haven't as yet called again about that kids' running thing. Here's to what you did for _me_, when _I_ came out of Egypt, Zack M. Davis, 1538. ADDENDUM— I must remember to remember names! At the Seder, I sat next to Jordan, the husband of Toi-Lynn (sp?). They came in just a few minutes late. They own World Yoga. I had some conversation with Jordan, although at the time I just thought of him as Toi-Lynn's husband because I didn't remember his name. He is part of a set of identical twins. I made a very stupid comment at one point—I asked Toi-Lynn jokingly if they (Jordan and his brother) had ever tried a switch on her. At some point, Toi-Lynn asked me if I was about ready to get away. I don't recall how she phrased it. At first I said I didn't understand the question, but actually I did. "I want to be independent, but maybe I'm not ready for it," I ended up saying. At some time, Jordan advised me to stop and smell the roses—to enjoy my life as it is now, as a high-schooler. My responsibilities are limited, and all that. When it came time to search for the _afikomen_, I declined to search, saying I was too old for that. This was in spite of urges by others for me to participate. Then, looking at Jordan, I said, "Oh, the _roses_," and began to token-participate. I looked under the pillows of the couch, even though I knew it couldn't have been hidden there, because it was right behind me during the whole Seder. Surely I would have noticed someone coming over to hide it, no? Masha quickly found the _afikomen_. Earlier, I was asked by Jordan if I was at school at the time of the pipeline explosion, or if I heard it, or sth. I told of how I didn't hear anything; how I was outside, and was told to come inside, and how it was only during that evacuation of the school that I saw the smoke. And I said it was especially weird because I'm on the school newspaper, and we had to coördinate our coverage. Jordan asked if we had advertisements. He expressed interest in advertising. _Score!_ I initially got up to get Issue 5, right then and there, to show him, but I stopped myself and said that of course, we're eating now. Later, I got the ad sheet that I had never used, copied down Katie Silva's phone number from the school directory (I had to find the directory first; it turned out to be in my backpack), still later asked Nicole and then later Mother (because Nicole didn't know) what his name was, and then I showed him Issue 5 and gave and showed him the ad sheet and the sheet of notepad paper that had Silva's number on it. I had also written our collective email address, _laslomasthepage@yahoo.com_ on the paper. He asked if he could keep the copy of Issue 5, and I said yes. SO I got to see Masha and Sveta, my adopted second cousins once removed. And I got to see Jackie, whom I have not seen in a long time. She was rather—inquisitive. She wanted to see my watch. That is, I took it off, and she actually held it herself. And when she and Sveta (was Masha there initially, too?) "invaded" my room, she turned on my compter ("I'm going to turn on your computer, okay" (possibly verbatim?)) and looked at my phone. She asked who Nadia was. (Nadia is on my call contact list.) "Just this girl," I said. She asked who Nicole was, and I said my sister. She asked why I only had three contacts, and I fumblingly explained how my contracts are split between the call contact list and the SIM. She (it must have been she) asked to look through my yearbooks. "Twenty-oh-four, or twenty-oh-three?" I asked. SO my 2004 yearbook was looked through, and there was much commenting on who looks cute in the photographs and who doesn't. One photograph, of Shiva Delfani, whom I don't know, was pointed out as being particularly pretty. I didn't think so, and said so. "You think it's just a good photograph?" Jackie (I think) said. _No..._ "It's too—" I broke off. I didn't have a word. "Perfect?" Sveta (I think) said. I must remember to remember events better, in addition to names. I'm always scared I'm getting sth wrong. I don't trust my memory, if I remember correctly. I'll remember a detail and somehow feel like maybe I just made it up. But that doesn't make any sense. I shall press on, the reader knowing by now that I am just doing my best to tell what went down, as I recall it. This is just my Diary, my personal record. I have briefly sixteenth-wondered if I should develop some sort of notation showing how _sure_ I am of a statement I make in my Diary. But that would be very bothersome and cumbersome. Some ideas are quickly dismissed, and with good reason. I guess the little black-and-white photo of Delfani conforms to the agreed-upon standards of feminine facial beauty, but I don't like it. I don't like makeup and high heels on girls. Heels just seem so _impractical_. What if a woman needs to _run_ somewhere? Today I said to Jackie, who was wearing makeup, that if you don't wear enough makeup to be noticeable, there's no point, and if you do wear enough for it to be noticeable, it's too much. Why can't you just be natural?, I said. She said that the right amount accentuates things. Don't I look natural?, she said. She did. I remember during freshman year, Sunny Lee, whom I had a small crush on at the time, said something about how she needed to get new shoes for the dance, or sth. "Guys don't care about shoes," I said. I seem to recall her looking surprised and saying "They don't?" But then, I have just stated an opinion on women's shoes, so I was wrong. And, of course, I was certainly wrong to make a blanket statement on the personal opinions of half the human race in the first place. Still, I'm glad I said that to Sunny freshman year. It's late, and I haven't done much work. All I have done is write part of the reading log I must do on _Catcher in the Rye_. Stop and smell the roses, hell. I have _business_ to take care of, independence (someday) to win. But I am going to stop using the h-word, as well as the d-word. I know what they mean, and I don't want to invoke those—images. If I want to cuss, _shit_ and _fuck_ will do. But then, if we are talking about meaning, is _fuck_ a good cussword either? When I say "Fuck me," what am I really saying? Could I be calling for someone to have sex with me? Couldn't that be a blessing? Unless we are talking about, say, anal rape. But that's not something I want to refer to either, for the same reason I don't want to speak of hellfire casually. I remember a conversation a long time ago at theater camp. It was, as I recall, with Meredith, whose last name I don't know. She goes to Campolindo now. "Fuck you," I said. "Do you even know what that means?" said she. I didn't. "Well I _do_, and it's not a good insult." I think I am going to stop cussing altogether, even when I am angry. Not that I cuss much right now, anyway. I'll just stick to "Curses!" for the general disgruntled exclamation. Or "Blast!" Here's to productivity, ZD, 0005, Sunday. #### Entry 77 — Monday 25 April 2005 (Common Era) — " 'Don't Want a Planet Under the New Mania' " Dear Diary, I stayed up very late last night, working on my xomic. I got up a little bit late, so I didn't take a shower. I rode my bike to school, departing at ~0740. In ENG, we had a substitute teacher, a Mr. Klocek. He subbed my PRC class once earlier this year. The assignment Mrs. Spencer had left us to do was to write a few paragraphs in response to the prompt Mr. Klocek had written on the board. The prompt, IIRC, asked if we identified with Holden, why or why not. O'er the weekend, our homework assignment was to do a reading log, the prompt for which was "How are you and Holden alike? Different? What do you learn from your expiriences?" The similarity between the two assignments was striking, so Klocek said we could think of a better question for everyone to write on. After thought, I suggested the prompt, "Write a short story about Holden when he was ten." We ended up having to write on how the story would be different if Holden was a student at Las Lomas High School in the year 2005. Discussion of our answers and the book in general soon ensued. Klocek hadn't read the book in a very long time, and didn't remember much. He didn't remember who all the characters were, and such. I told him how Sally was the girl Holden didn't really like but went out with anyway. Some other people said how Holden wanted to marry Sally. People said how Holden only went out with Sally because she was hot. At some point, Klocek asked sth like why would Holden go out with Sally if he didn't really like her. "'Cause that's the way guys are," said Chauntel Anderson, who sits directly behind me. (But was it not a male who asked the question? Am I remembering things right?) I turned around and gave her a brief look. I didn't glare, I just looked. "Sorry, Zack," I think is what she said. I remember her saying my name, anyway. I didn't respond. Perhaps I might start taking notes during things like interesting class discussions. I never seem to remember complex events clearly enough here to describe things as they happened in the best way. I fear accidentally distorting the record. But I have said this many times before. That my memory is bad, I mean. Press on. It's a personal record. Anyway, later, this evening, I thought of sth that might have been—interesting—to say to Chauntel—though I wouldn't have said it, even if I had thought of it at the time: "_You're_ hot, but I wouldn't dream of dating you." It's true. Chauntel is rather good-looking. Whatever. Klocek reminds me a little bit of the character Doyle on _Gilmore Girls_, somehow. In HST, I was given a slip that said to go to Mr. Lickiss's office at brunch. After the brunch bell [...] actually rang, I found that my classmates Zak Nelson and Andrew Sheehan had gotten similar slips. I heard it had to do with the PSAT/NMSQT. Zak, Andrew, and I began to walk towards the office together. Andrew asked me what I got on mine, and I told him 218. I told Andrew how the kids' track team wanted a high schooler to run with some of the boys. (I called about that yesterday, and said I couldn't do it, but that I'd give the number to the guy I knew (Andrew), if he was interested.) Andrew said he was interested. Zak opened the _back_ door to Mr. Lickiss's office, instead of going around through the main office the proper way, so we ended up going in that way. I wrote down the kids' track woman's name and phone number on a sheet from my little black notepad, and gave it to Andrew. The juniors who were National-Merit-Scholarship-eligible [...] were the ones summoned to Lickiss's office. There were 15 of us, I remember it was said. He gave us each an envelope which contained a letter and a form, offering us the opportunity to participate in the College Plans Reporting Service, which "is offered to encourage college officials to communicate directly with you about educational opportunities that may be available...." You get to pick two colleges, and the CPRS will provide your information to them. I was smiling, maybe even beaming. I think my joy wasn't so much at getting an envelope from the _National Merit Scholarship Corporation_ as it was from being in the same group as (in the same room as) _Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff_. Lizzie Rauber was there, too! As was Tierney Allen, Alexandra Davis, and IIRC, Atha Fong (whom I knew many, many years ago in elementary school) and Mike Senger. And of course the two boys from HST I mentioned earlier. I knew a surprising percentage of the other high scorers. Maybe I felt the affection of familiarity—I was glad just to know these people, maybe. It must be great to be highly, highly intelligent. The feeling that you are excellent, and that these individuals around you are also excellent—is something very special. At lunch I scanned my xomic. I have finished it by now. Though of course I could make a few tweaks on stray patches, what I have now looks _good_. I went to layout instead of track practice. After I came home, I ran my ~3 miles course in Shell Ridge. During conversation in layout, I said how I don't really consider myself Jewish anymore. I ended up paraphrasing Numbers 31, which prompted Ms. Gunnison to look it up. I joked that next year, instead of a Special Issue like in years past (though not this year), we should put out a regular issue of _The Page_, except everything would have accents. All the *e*s would have accents, I said, and the *a*s would have those two little dots, and the *h*s would have those Esperanto hats. That got some laughs. I made a mess with my matzah, and regretted that. My story is placed and fills up all the space, and has a picture and cutline. The ToC is in good shape so far. I'm using my middle initial ("M.") in my byline for the first time. That's how I _sign_ my name, and that's how I sign out here, and when I imagine myself publishing, say, fiction, in the future, it is under the name "Zack M. Davis." I want to be original—see, type "Zack Davis" (in quotes) into a seach engine (I think I tried this with Yahoo! or Google or maybe both), and you get over 1,000 results. "Zack M. Davis" gets zero. Unless something has changed relatively recently. The HST essay due date got pushed to May the ninth, instead of the second. It is pretty late, and surely I am in sleep debt from the prevous night! I am tired. I have spent a lot of time tonight writing this, but I don't regret it. I simply _must_ continue to improve. I want to be good. I want to be excellent! I've got to be shameless, relentless, but at the same time display (and utilize just the same when there is no one around to observe any display) _good judgement_. There's so much to win, and so much to lose. Sometimes it feels like I can't take it. But—there is so much to win. Here's to career advancement, Zack M. Davis, 2226. #### Entry 78 — Tuesday 26 April 2005 (Common Era) — " 'You Can Hear the Sound of Hysteria' ('Cause It's Coming From Me)" Dear Diary, Today in JOU, I saw over Robert Rosen's shoulder that he was looking at a website (I think it was _chipotlelovers.com_ or sth) that didn't seem journalism-related. I asked him if he was doing sth journalism-related. He responded in the negative. "_So get off the computer!_" I burst out, and slapped his back with my folder. Yes, I hit the man. I, who profess to value things like _maturity_. It couldn't have hurt him, but that is irrelevant. In a civilized society, one must keep one's hands to oneself unless one has a very good reason not to. I won't bother describing the aftermath. I had been behaving badly before the incident also. Perhaps one can't forbid oneself from feeling negative emotions simply by passing a resolution. But whatever feelings are _felt_, one must not _act_ on eir feelings unless one can justify it. Feeling bad isn't wrong. Being mean without reason is. Be a survivor, Zack M. Davis, 1515. ADDENDUM— I remember an exchange I had with Mike Senger at the Piedmont Distance Carnival this year. I asked him how he stays so _calm_ all the time. He said that his brother is bipolar, so he himself has learned to stay pretty cool. "Wait—Dan's bipolar?" I asked surprisedly. Mike said sth like that Dan wasn't actually _diagnosed_ as such, but... Oh, I said, "he's just fucked-up, like me." Or maybe it was a question, like, "Oh, so he's just fucked-up, like me?" Whichever, Mike chuckled. Dan Senger's senior year was my freshman year. He goes to Northwestern now. He was on _The Page_. —ZD, 1852. SECOND ADDENDUM— A new (or as the WB calls it, "fresh") episode of _Gilmore Girls_ aired tonight. The last scene made me feel better. I may ponder the subtle maths of reputation: how many good days balance out how many bad in the minds of humans? Or is the very model of good acts balancing out bad simplistic, inaccurate, and/or degrading? Pay it no mind. The past cannot be undone and people will think what they will think, needless to say (though I have said them, for I may be one who needs reminding). I will just have to move on (dot org or not, it's my choice) and learn to behave in such a way so as that I will have little to no regrets. If I was an asshole today, then let me be _good_ tomorrow and calmly analyze how best to deal with whatever—heck I may catch for any sins of today or yesterday. Honesty, hard work—halcyon. What did it take, _&c._ —ZD, 2126. #### Entry 79 — Wednesday 27 April 2005 (Raceday vee Alhambra, Dublin, and Mount Diablo; at Acalanes) — "Nerves, Thoughts, Path-choosers" Dear Diary, I ran the four and the eight in the meet today. I don't know what my 400 time was, but I ran the 800 in 2:08.7, and came in third overall, behind an Alhambra guy (in first) and Jay (second). I don't think I'll do aditional ints for my story. That's what I'm thinking right now, I'm sorry. But did I not get the basic story? Is it a sin to not go the extra mile, talking to everyone I can, searching desperately for the perfect quote, the charming anecdote, details no one told me? I am remembering how Piethe told me it was supposed to be done last year, but I'd need to confirm that, and a lot of the stuff he told me didn't make sense. What if he gets mad that I didn't take the angle he wanted? So what? I interviewed a woman on the telephone, I went to a meeting, I talked to people there, I wrote a news story telling what I learned. If people don't like it, let them write letters! Right? Am I doing things right? In journalism, in anything? Please tell me _I don't have to be perfect yet_. But only tell me if it's true. Do I not try, in my fashion? Do I not improve? If I am not yet virtued to infinity, neither am I so rapt in iniquity! (So to speak.) There was some extra space in the master, so Erin Greene will be drawing a xomic for _The Page_. She had sth drawn already, she'll redraw it. In any case, I'm not dead and this too will pass. _Newsweek_ and _Utne_ came today. Maybe I need to "chill out", but maybe that's a fool's game. Here's to currying favor with honesty and excellence, Zack M. Davis. #### Entry 80 — Saturday 30 April 2005 (Common Era) — "Right as Rain?" Dear Diary, _The Page_, Volume 54, Issue 6, is done. 'Twas emailed off to the printer (with the "M."s and all) in two parts last night. Yesterday was also the Bob Warren/Charlie Eaton relays, so Mother took the car to rendezvous with me at school at ~1650 (I was at layout), we drove home, I took the car to the meet, and then afterwards I drove back to layout. I was set to participate in the 4 x 800. Jeremy said we might not be able to run it. I was soon given to understand that Jay wasn't there for some reason, and Mike Senger got hurt the day before. And Coach Dan told me it was definitely scratched, but actually we ended up getting a team together. Dom Hoskins was in, and then they had got Clayton to do it, but then it was decided Ryan Kent would go in instead of Proto, and then Joe Brown showed up, so we didn't end up using Kent after all. In the packet I got earlier in the week concerning the meet, it said "Mike / Joe / Zach [_sic_] / Jay" under 4 x 800. But we went to press (so to speak) with Joe / Jeremy / Dom / Zack (order-sensitive). I didn't feel too nervous this time. I ended up picking off four guys in that anchor leg. Coach gave me a split of 2:07.6 (I am awfully sure it was a point six). I asked if that counted as a PR, because it was a relay. Dennis Tracy who happened to be right there (he's the coach of some other team) said it doesn't because I got a running start, and you have to tack on half a sec to get the open eight equivalent. If that's the case, then this converted to a 2:08.1, which would be a PR. I got back to 502 at 1900, carrying notebook, folder, writing utensils, and the container of leftover pizza that Mother had recommended I take with me to eat. "Sorry I'm late," I said, twice (I didn't feel like people heard me the first time). I said I brought pizza, and that I just realized I wasn't supposed to eat bread until—when does Passover end, Jenny? But, I said, lacking an explanation for the thirty-first chapter of the book of Numbers—"_Barukh atah adonai eloheinu melekh olam, ha motzi lekhem min ha-aretz_," I said, and took a bite. Jenny said I couldn't say the blessing over sth you're not supposed to eat; it's like killing someone and then saying a blessing. Ms. Gunnison asked why my family has leftover pizza in the first place if it is Passover. I said, oh, I guess we forgot that night, too. I said that we in my family are hypocrites; we can't _really_ be Jewish. I even said to Ash Mrozek that I didn't see why some gay people [are] really religious, when the Holy Book says pretty explicitly that that is wrong. I may be thinking I should really read the Torah all the way through, as well as the Christian Bible. Just because they are documents I figure I ought to be familiar with more than I am so now. It was only Ms. Gunnison and I at the end. The EICs are supposed to be there to the bitter end, but Macy's closed at 2100 and Senior Ball was tomorrow (today, now), so Danielle left. I told Ms. Gunnison about binary prefixes. There was a homework check in PRC yesterday, and I hadn't done any of the three assignments being checked. How foolish! On the whole, however, I feel well, I feel productive, I feel like maybe I am a human who has some inkling of an idea of what ey is doing. _The Page_ is done, and I am even running well. I must just keep it mature, and keep it controlled, and keep adding progressively one thing more to the list of that which I am doing all right, or right enough for now. I must make sure I have a job this summer. I need to start earning cash, and it would be an embarassment to me in front of Father if summer is to come and I am still unemployed. If I work for the city, is it a conflict of interest for me to report on it next year? Well, that cannot be, I am thinking. It would be one if I were to report on the exact department I worked in, though. You can't interview your supervisor, and all that. What am I to do today, and how am I to organize it? Perhaps I have even let too much of it go by already, as I am supposed, I think, to be looking for the seizing of it. But also I want to listen to _This American Life_ and perhaps _Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me_. But also I should go on a run. And do homework. And maybe go to the Century Theatres and ask about that job opening I saw about online. And I want to read and look up things (such as my PRC grade, if that's been updated) online. And I remember now how I am supposed to sell tickets for the track team car wash. I have my SAT in the morning of May 7, and the afternoon volunteer slots were all filled up, so Coach Val says I am supposed to sell even more tickets than my alloted six. It feels so stupid to me to be selling _tickets_ to a car wash! They want people to commit to going, I know. It occurs to me I could not sell my tickets and there would probably be no consequences. Or I could even lie, and _say_ I sold them, when really I did not, and get away with that. But I cannot do that, I must not tell a lie. And there is always fiction to write, xomics to draw! Books I can read or reread! And this room is a _mess_! It may be time to admit that my CD player is broken. It often makes a sound that it shouldn't while playing a disc, but I have endeavored not to worry about it. But this morning, _American Idiot_ _skipped_. Could the player have damaged the disc? I will have to test playing it on the living room player, and if it is damaged, I will tell Father about it: it is his album. Maybe I am no longer feeling _so_ well, _so_ productive, _so_ as if I have some idea of that which I do and what I would do to be good. I try, I work, I hope, I love, I think. Whatever will be, will be. A tautology is a tautology. In the nice time, I build the written record on the sidetracks, and my towers in the main sqaure. What did it take, _&c._ Here's to Lisa Guadagni and the University of Oregon, Zack M. Davis, 1054. ADDENDUM— Time has seemed to pass quickly! Using the internet is wonderful, but burns up a lot of the time-unresponsive-to-my-wishes! I may have to cut back. Surely what's spent of Saturday could be put to better use! Should I be more organized? Set up (for real this time) a plan of exactly how much time I am going to spend on what tasks? Mother walked me through making omlets, and then I washed some dishes (and cups, _&c._) by hand. She and Father are going to [go] on a trip to India June 7–23, so I will be left alone! The scenario is exciting to me. Tomorrow is May Day; there are only 29 school days left in my scholastic year. 29 days to bring my grades up, 29 days to endure gloriously, 29 days to win. And weekends to win, as well. And you can read about it _here_, should I decide to continue these dispatches during the time period in question (one must be careful in budgeting one's time). I have my worries, as there will always be worries (am I doing enough to secure summer employment; why oh why must I sell those tickets?; will Father hate me and curse me for this one?, and the others, to the point of nausea), but I will simply have to deal with them in my fashion. I must remember what I want, and think of how I'm gonna do it. I ended up listening to _Wait,Wait_, but not even all of Act I of _This American Life_. Maybe feeling a little scared, suddenly? Maybe not! Pay it none. Get manic. Independence song, _&c._ —ZD, 1703. #### Entry 81 — Sunday 1 May 2005 (May Day) — " 'No Soap Radio' " Dear Diary, I stayed up late last night working on my _The Catcher in the Rye_ final project. (I also flipped very very briefy through _Foundation and Empire_ before going to sleep.) We each get to choose which assignment to do. One can write an essay, create a film in a group, watch _The Graduate_ or _Igby Goes Down_ and write and essay comparing it to _Catcher_, create a soundtrack (at least six songs) for the book and explain how each song relates to the novel, or "add" a brief chapter to the novel, imitating Salinger's writing and the narrative voice of Holden Caulfield. I chose to add a chapter. I ended up making it an epilogue, and I wrote it to the end. It wouldn't work so well if it were _actually_ to be inserted into the novel as an epilogue, but I don't care. I feel like I could print it and turn it in right now (well, I'd have to double-space it first) and get an A. The sheet Mrs. Spencer gave us with the project details says 2–3 pages typed, double-spaced, but I went long: over three pages single-spaced. A little under 2100 words, which isn't actually so long at all. I really don't want to sell those car wash tickets. I have had trouble talking to strangers for _journalism_, which was something I wanted to do, and which is more likely to get a receptive subject. But selling a car wash in _advance_? The thing about fundrasier car washes is that often people don't actually actively _want_ their car washed so much as they don't mind supporting the local blank kids and getting a car wash out of it. Oh, I have sold car wash tickets for track before, door to door in the neighborhood. (And, as I recall, there was this time it ended up _raining_ the day of the wash, so I had to go back and offer people's money back, but people said to keep it.) And I sold cookie dough and pretzels for the Walnut Creek Marauders and as a cute little kid I sold wrapping paper and stuff for the Indian Valley fundraiser. _I don't want to be a beggar-salesman. I've done that bit before._ But the thing is, the track (and field!) team needs money, to pay for meet registrations and stuff. A car wash is a great way to raise money. But selling _tickets_ seems too forward, too direct. Can't we just serve the people who just happen to pass by the 76 station on Saturday? Selling tickets isn't really like begging at all, though. It's just like being any other door-to-door salesman, no? If people want a car wash voucher, great. If not, let them slam their doors. And do I not have a _duty_ to sell those six tickets, and more, because there were no afternoon slots left on the work sign-up sheet, and I have the SAT in the morning? (Though I could show up and help wash after my SAT anyway, even if I'm not on the sheet. You know, in case business is busier than people thought.) Even if I really don't want to do something, shouldn't I force myself to do it out of duty, because Coach told me to, because the team needs money and I have to do my share, and not doing it would make me a selfish, immature brat? What happened to willpower, if I don't do things just because I don't _want_ to? But then, even when you do something out of duty, it's _still_ because you want to—you want to fufill your duty, and doing the something is the thing you must do to fufill your duty, so you do it. It's a good thing these pages are secret. What would people think of what I say here? Does that matter? If what people think doesn't matter, why not just go out and try to sell a car wash to be redeeemed Saturday, because you don't care what they think of you? The thing about selling tickets in advance is that I figure the people you are selling to probably weren't otherwise going to be near the 76 station at Ygnacio and Civic on Saturday between nine and three, but they will now, just to get their cars washed by the nice high school kids. And if it weren't supporting the track team, if you were just a _regular_ door-to-door salesman selling advance tickets to a one-time car wash on Saturday, most of them probably wouldn't buy. So it almost feels like you are inconveniencing them. When people are already passing by the 76 filling station, and they see the kids with their sponges and signs, and they stop to get their car washed, sure, they are wanting to help the track kids pay for whatever a track team pays for, and that's a great thing, but it's a spur-of-the-moment thing. They're not out in town just to get their car washed because some kid managed to sell them a ticket and they're here to collect. Is the concept of emotional manipulation valid at all? You can't be inconveniencing someone when they are buying your services of their own free will. You just _can't_. I've been thinking of _Atlas Shrugged_ as I wrote this. I don't want to be a selfish, immature brat. I am a mature human, and I make my decisions with my own thinking mind, and people are free to hate me or love me for them, each in eir fashion. If only the hating didn't hurt as it does. (Who knows, maybe it doesn't!) But then, one must be careful what one wishes for, as storytellers have taught me. If you were to wish for something fantastic, and then it were to actually happen, and you hated it, someone could taunt you, saying that this is what you asked for. But it's silly even to say that, because words only have the power of communication (which is very powerful in itself, mind you), not the power to reshape reality, like they sometimes might in fantasy stories. So if there is a moral to this childish nonsense, it is that you can feel free to say "if only." Today, the _Times_ Perspective Section had a column by James P. Pinkerton of _Newsday_ about sneaky advertising—product placement, ads masquerading as content. Here's how the column ends: "Earlier this month, New Scientist magazine reported that Sony had received a patent for a technology that beams information diectly into one's head. [graf break] This technology is great news for the blind, but surely Sony's invention, if it works out, has even greater potential for those who wish to send messages into targeted brains, whether the recipients like it or not. What might advertisers do with such technology? The name of the advertising game these days is 'personalizing' the pitch, and so Sony's signal-sending might be too tempting to resist. [graf break] Of course, the feds might pass a law against such technology. Which leads one to ask: Would the government really foreswear from using such brain-invasive technology itself? [graf break] After all, don't we want the government to improve our education? Don't we want Uncle Sam to daze and confuse our enemies? The beast of new technology, once loosed, is impossible to pen up again. [graf break] And so sneaky product placement on TV shows will ultimately yield something more profound: idea placement, straight into our minds." Very scary! Kathleen Parker's column made some good points. SO am I okay? Am I doing well? Have I managed my time well? What am I going to do about the tickets? What am I going to do about getting a job? Do I live honorably? Who can help me? _Should_ they help me? How can I do better? 29 days to win / All think better free of sin, _&c._ Here's to networking, Zack M. Davis. ADDENDUM— Reread parts of _Foundation and Empire_, _Second Foundation_. Had a satisfying masturbation session. Enough, I have recovered enough. I'm not selling tickets tonight. Here's to stacks of books, ZD, 1725. SECOND ADDENDUM— Now I have _definitely_ recovered enough. It it so easy to forget one's ambition, and so difficult to cement it with the volition. But tomorrow is a new day, a new Monday. A new hope! I have registered for the SAT Subject Tests, but it's late, so we had to pay a late fee and they couldn't assign a testing center right away—Las Lomas and Acalanes were booked. In any case, let's do it right this time. I wanna be a writer, _&c._ —ZD, 2225. #### Entry 82 — Tuesday 3 May 2005 (Common Era) — "Lust Poisoning" Dear Diary, I was planning to do the homework assignment 13C (late, but he's not checked it yet) yesterday, but I couldn't—wouldn't, rather—concentrate. I just spent a long time thinking about the sexes and romance and things. Tomorrow is the last regular-season DFAL track meet. It's vee Miramonte and Concord, and it is at Miramonte. On the boys' side, Miramonte is the last undefeated team in DFAL competition, and we're 6-1, so it is a very important meet. I will be in the 800 exclusively. In ART, I got a pink slip to go to the counseling office for my junior appointment. I talked with Mrs. [Green] and she gave me a printout of my transcript and a list of relevant websites. I found out from her that if I become a National Merit semifinalist, a CSU will give me a full ride. (A _full ride_ at a four-year, for _me_? It could sound too good to be true; I will have to check this out.) The National Merit Semifinalists are selected from the pool of more than 50 000 I am in. ~16 000 become Semifinalists; the rest become Commended Students. I do not know for sure how they select the 16 000 (do they equalize a little for what state you are from?), so lacking that information, it's fair to peg my probability of getting a full ride at a CSU at around 0.32, is it not? I'm not masturbating until Friday, at least. We got our HST ese rough drafts back yesterday. Mr. Kolda liked mine, surprisingly. Maybe this diary only scratches the surface of my thoughts. Because I cannot find the right words? Because I cannot believe while writing that I actually think some of the things I think I think? Because I am ashamed, even in this most personal of records (which I, um, dream of showing someone someday)? Maybe I should input some of the things I have written in my little black notebook during school days. It wouldn't be a part of the record the way _this_ is, because I would simply be reporting the fact that I wrote it. _The views expressed by Zachary Michael Davis in this program are not necessarily those of Zachary Michael Davis or his sponsors._ But it would be disingenuous of me to write something in the black book just so I could post it here and say that it is something I just so happened to write in my black book today. I can _free_ here, totally free in my private record, is this not so? I imagine it's a _very_ repetitive record, with what is perhaps more than its share of weasel words, but somehow it could be that I like it just the same. But it _can_ get better, _it_ referring in this case to both the writing and the life the writing details. Honesty is so important. Work ethic is important as well. How many young would-be novelists have the head start on me? Is my existence helping the long-term survival of humans, or hindering it? I remember listening on _drivethrurecords.com_ to a song called "Sydney" by the band Halifax. One fragment of the lyrics spoke of curing "this loneliness with common sense." Survival! Here's to employment, Zack M. Davis, 1908. ADDENDUM— I must start work on my PRC homework. If I can get done the urgent school-tasks quickly, I will have time to spend as I choose without any worries. Conic sections and quadric surfaces can be _boring_, sure, but I'll want free time if I am to publish fiction through all this! Or even just relax and read or watch TV, if I choose that instead. O! Why do I do these things to myself? Here's to publishing-quality wikibooks, should there be any, ZD, 2038. #### Entry 83 — Wednesday 4 May 2005 (Raceday vee Concord and Miramonte; at Miramonte) — "The Tail Start" Dear Diary, What a _moody_ creature I am! Yours, Zack M. Davis #### Entry 84 — Wednesday 11 May 2005 (Raceday: Trials) — "Something Has to Change / Abandon All Pretense" Dear Diary, No point in keeping away from you, is there, Diary? It is not as if my purpose in this (personal) record is just to leave long gaps for some future obsessed biographer to puzzle over. How many words does a biography spend on junior year, anyway? Of someone who doesn't die young, I mean? And to get a biography, you have to be someone notable, and I doubt anyone has ever become notable by virtue of eir _not_ writing something. The problem with documentation is only a big one if you don't know how to prioritize. At the meet today, I failed to qualify for Friday's Finals, so the track and field season is over for me, and (I have to admit) I am glad. Having to attend practice can seem burdensome. With the sport done, I will have more time to invest in other pursuits. I feel well, now. I feel that things are possible. My life would be much better if only I learn to _remember_ this feeling, if only I could remember and _believe_ that I don't have to be scared of anything! Prerace despondence, preïnterview desperation—they hurt me so much, the cost me so much, and there is no rational reason for them. I get so incommunicably _terrified_ for no reason. This is my sin. One of them, anyway. Ah! Results! I raced the 400 meters and the 800 meters today. 400 meters: 57.14 seconds, the sixteenth-best competitor of the day. 800 meters: 2:09.4[0], good for thirteenth overall. Journalistic worries abound, as always. But I feel okay, right now. Yesterday, in the morning, before first, I asked Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff about the remaining girls' lacrosse schedule—I wanted to take photographs for _The Page_. I asked her when "does-slash-did" lacrosse end, but I think I may have stuttered on that line. She said the last game other than powderpuff was that very day, at Acalanes, at seven p.m. "Varsity?" I asked her. Yes, she said, "I assumed you meant varsity." "I know everything," she said at some point during our brief exchange. "You do," I said. The frosh-soph track champions were at Acalanes that day, and I was supposed to go to that anyway. Lucky! I arrived at the meet around 1700. It soon became clear the meet would not be over before 1900. I told several people that there was a lacrosse game scheduled at seven, and they were going to be mad. But as it got closer to 1900, and no lacrosse teams (annoyed or otherwise) showed up, it gradually became clear to me that there was to be no lacrosse game at Acalanes that evening. Could _Kathy_ have mistakenly gave me false information? I imagined, and imagined still later at times through the evening, mentioning it to Kathy the next morning, and imagined what I might say. _I must say I'm surprised to find out that you're human. Oh, don't worry. You'll always be a goddess to me._ _Me and James Lillich had this motto—_ _You see, I'd had this motto—well, it's more of an axiom really: 'Kathy is always right.'_ And I imagined this, and nearly decided to use it (except I didn't see her this morning!): _"The lacrosse game wasn't at Acalanes."_ _"Oh. I'm sorry."_ _"No need to apologize! Kathy, I've had a crush on you for the last eighteen months; you could_ kill my cat _and you wouldn't have to apologize."_ _"What?"_ _"Oh,_ come on! _It was_ obvious!_"_ (Or: _"Well, I'm not much of a cat person, anyway."_ Or: _"Sorry, I really needed to say that. Uh—have a nice day!"_ And/or something about wanting to get that _"on the record,"_ because she already knew, perhaps, 'cause it was obvious.) I imagined listing (with numbers) why I didn't ask her out on a date: it was fairly obvious it was unrequited, you're too good for me anyway, I don't have any money... Anyway, here's what happened in the physical realm (I shall let dualism reign in this entry): I went home, called up Jenny's house, and found out the seven-p.m. game _did_ exist, it was just at Monte Vista. With some help and controversy from Mother and Father, I drove over there alone (I did not use the freeway) and took some photographs. You know how I doubt my memory sometimes? I am really sure she said Acalanes. She probably remembered the location from a schedule. But locations can change. It was actually silly of me to ask Kathy: I could have asked Jenny Zaid Krenzin, who is in both varsity lacrosse (Kathy is JV) and Journalism (!). I am _very_ far behind on my PRC work! And I must get my JOU issues resolved! I had thought of staying up rather late tonight! Can I cope with all this stress? Will I get a job? Will I be a blessing to _The Page_? What will my grades be? Will I continue to be needlessly afraid of ordinary things, or am I now Rational Forever? Have I done a good job of converting memories to words? Will I say something (_something_ something, I mean) to Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff? Will I decide that I actually don't really like her much anyway? _Is_ there balm in Gilead? Tell me, tell me, I implore! For the answers, and more emotionally-charged diaristic dispatches—tune in next time, dearest reader! You'll come for the daring, honest, insightful prose—you'll stay for the entry titles! Survival! SO maybe I'm not joining the Larry Summers Lynch Mob, here's to Chris Nomura reminding Kristina Shaw-Krivosh about the real world, Zack M. Davis, 2139. ADDENDUM— Today in history class, we were in the Mac Lab to do an activity involving The Virtual [Vietnam War Memorial] Wall site. One of the things the worksheet said to do was to search for someone who died who had the same first name as you. (I'm not sure what the girls ended up doing.) Anyway, apparently, only one guy named Zachary died in 'Nam. Zak Nelson was sitting next to me. I expressed surprise that there was only one; it's a pretty common name nowadays. Zak jested that the finding meant "Zachary" was better. I said no, it just means we're due for the next war. —ZD, 2200. #### Entry 85 — Friday 13 May 2005 (Common Era) — "Never Again" Dear Diary, I barely got any PRC work done for the homework check today. It is the attitudes and decisions that lead to such depravities that today's entry title refers to. A lot of people weren't in class today because Physics and Calculus (and another?) are at Great America. There's a "Science Day" there. I thought that when I am a senior taking physics, I will not go. It sounds like a dumb idea. Too frivolous to be part of our school. _A theme park? Bah!_ I imagined myself saying. _The only theme park_ I _like is Civic Park_. _The theme is grass_. Today was Ms. Breashears's last day teaching us. She brought juice and cookies. She is working to get credentialed to teach art. She has worked as an illustator. She showed me a binder she has with some of her illustration work in it, including images that are currently on paper towels at Safeway. One of the techniques she happened to mention may help me in improving the lettering of _TFAoRSS_, and I mentioned as such: one can trace type. I want to try tracing typed letters for my xomic, because my hand-lettering (even with the rough guidelines I have started using) is messy, but type is ugly. Tracing Arial letters as a guide, however, may provide the critical balance between the neatness of type and the—_character_ (!) of letters drawn with human pen. (So to write.) Issue 7 is to be 36 pages long! I have my xomic, lots of pictures to take, and a half-page news on the Undergrad and Senior awards—I requested that, because I got a note one day asking me to take pictures of the Undergrad awards anyway. It is a very simple, straightforward story, maybe too much so. There are always awards. They could be overrated. I would take bylines over trophies. Anyway, set to thinking of a fresh angle. Set to thinking of what I am actually going to _do_ and _when_. I don't like reporting, and not even so much being a reporter—but it's _healthy_, I imagine, and I love bylines, and I love _The Page_. It's healthy to do unscary things that scare you—this, working on the theory that if you do it enough, you will be cured. It's only a year, _&c._ The Bay to Breakers is Sunday, I am to take swimming pictures tomorrow, I am to take track pictures in just a short while. (Field events should be starting now, come to think of it!) I am to go to the Goldhabers tomorrow—a relative published a book, I am given to understand. I must write more fiction—and finish my homework, too. SO maybe it's not going to be easy, and it's not going to be safe. I can't go on living like this. When I think now of my sloth and say "Never again!" it could be that this time I mean it. I figure I either need a girlfriend or I don't. Don't dwell too much, Zack M. Davis, 1634. #### Entry 86 — Saturday 14 May 2005 (Common Era) — "Isolatory Stance" Dear Diary, SO I drove to Campo and took photographs of the DFAL swim meet. They are not so bad. Mother and I went to the Goldhabers' place. There was a gathering there because of the book. The boys' grandmother had written a book and the grandfather had illustrated it. The book is _Sonnets from Aesop_. It is a collection of poems (sonnets, specifically, as per the title) based on Aesop's fables. There were copies placed out for only 15 dollars. The Bentley Prom is tonight. Chuck (who doesn't even go to Bentley) and Ben are going. I hung out with the boys during and after the book gathering. I talked to Sam about Kathy. I told him the lines that I remembered I imagined saying to her after the lacrosse location incident. Chuck and Ben got ready for Prom. A bunch of other teenagers came, to go in the limo with Ben, I guess. Chuck, I think, had other transportation plans. Chuck's date, whom I didn't get to meet, was named Bella Burry (sp?). Ben's date, whom I did, was named Kit Rutter. I repeatedly said that "Kit Rutter" was such a cool name. I even told _her_ so, when she came. The man who must have been her father said it was actually Katherine (sp?; "Catherine" and "Katherine" are pronounced alike, but because "Kit" starts with a "K," I will go with "Katherine") so Ben, who heard this, found that out. He didn't know; he said so, I think, when he heard, and I had asked him earlier if the full name was actually "Kit," and he said it was, I think. Well, I seem to remember one of the boys told me that when I asked about it earlier, and it must have been Ben who was the one who told me, for Kit was his date, no? Bella Burry is also a cool-sounding name. Anyway, knowing that "Kit" is a mere nickname, I realize now that it would also be altogether proper for the girl to be called "Kathy"! I worry about my news story. What _exactly_ am I going to ask? I don't _want_ to go to the Bay to Breakers tomorrow morning. I feel (_feel_, not am) so busy! But Father has already paid. And it _is_ tradition: this will be my sixth consecutive year in attendence. What is there to say about feeling bad? I hurt. I fear. I compunct. You just have to go on living, striking as one must, with, as best as one can manage—no regard to feeling. But feelings, I suppose, serve as motivators for it all. It's easy to get confused; it's easy to get hurt. It isn't safe; it isn't easy; not even here. _But the humans continue onward!_ Life, in all its glory, goes on! And I must go on, performing as best I can—even though I feel _so bad_ at times, even when it is (seemingly, to me) _too hard_. I can't go on living as I do, so I will just live better. Everything hurts, so I will just deal with it in my fashion. There is so much misery in the world, and the world is not yet safe from disaster—in the face of this, all this, I must ask myself: what am I doing? And I must find the _boldness_ (yes, that's the word "boldness" in _italics_) to do—that which I decide I want to do. There remain only 19 days of school! Layout week for the last issue of the scholastic year is the week after next! Surely I can endure—no, _triumph_, can I not? Everyone hates you, _&c._ Anyway, Kit—Kathy—you made my diary. Be proud. You're part of history now. Here's to Samuel Goldhaber's acting career, your faithful scribe, Zachary M. Davis. #### Entry 87 — Sunday 15 May 2005 (Bay to Breakers XCIV) — "Many Times" Dear Diary, "SOMETHING HAS TO CHANGE" it says at the top of the space in my planner (my beautiful, marked-up planner) for 10 May. I incorporated this into a diary entry title. I seem to be continually vowing to do things right—and then I don't follow through. Even writing this could be seen as a betrayal, because this time could be better used to do my homework and to plan exactly what questions I want to ask Ms. Sillavo tomorrow for my news story. Especially since it is likely I won't say anything very new in this entry—I have vowed, broken vows, scolded myself for breaking the vows, commented on that—how many times? It could seem that I never advance. A great many times in my diary I have chastised my self for not doing my homework, for having ints shyness, for not writing fiction, for not keeping my emotions under control. I always say that I will do better; I will keep it controlled this time. But after all this talk, how much has changed? Am I a four-oh boy? Have I cured my ints shyness? Have I finished a single short story in the last year? Have I learned to endure, to strive? No! I have not! And must it not stop, now, here? As I am continually saying? I have been listening to "Rhythms" by Sum 41 a lot lately. Today, I remembered reading an article in _Utne_ about how orchestral musicians take "beta blockers" to cure stage fright and make their performances closer to perfect. I wondered about the possibility of these beta blockers helping me with my ints shyness. I imagined saying to Ms. Gunnison sth like how I found the solution to my problem—"Drugs!" It is so late! I have been in this situation so many times! Did I not swear to myself, "Never again!" just days ago? Did I not make it an entry title? But I find myself—I have delivered myself—here again. And I write this! How many times have I reached a point like this, and went to bed, assuring myself that I would be good in the morning, only to act wrongly the next day, too? Why do I write this? What good does it do? I ask so many questions, and answer so few. It could feel good to just go to sleep now—but I've not finished my work! And I would feel unprepared for ints tomorrow. But if I do not get enough sleep, will I not feel bad all day tomorrow? What if I just didn't sleep at all tonight—something I can not remember having done before? Something has to change, right? So should I perhaps just seek to do _something_ different, because what I have been doing is just not good enough? I have these mental weaknesses—they are so shameful! There never seems to be enough time for me to do all the things I feel I have to do to feel okay! I don't want to do ints tomorrow! But I must, must I not, with edits due Wednesday? There are humans [who] fight wars and labor from sunup to sundown just to earn their daily bread. And I get so bent out of shape over the most basic things, doing schoolwork, asking strangers questions. I add to this personal record at times when I should be working. I have such beautiful ideals in this head, but I hurt, and I laze. I type as if I just want to _communicate_ these mental problems, but my words don't seem to suffice, there is no reader, and I don't _deserve_ any pity anyway—and it never helps when I get it. I guess I am something of a confused, troubled kid. I would like to be mature, but there are collapses. When I am feeling nervous about an upcoming journalistic interview (_i.e._ whenever I have an interview upcoming) I don't even like to _think_ about it. It's crazy. Thinking and planning should be easy. When you are thinking and planning, the only person you are dealing with is yourself. It is said people should seek help when feeling down and out. We have crisis counseling services at school, for instance. But those can't help. They tell you _it's okay_ to feel this way—but the thing is, _it isn't_. What happens to the world when people are as weak as this? How would humans survive if people got laid low so easily? There will be no more shrinks. Nothing can help, except getting it together in one's own mind—or drugs, perhaps. I read an interesting column in the _Times_ today. I even cut it out and highlighted certain passages. It is so late! What is wrong with me? How can I fix it, without seeking anyone (that wouldn't work), without any drugs (that would be cheating)? The other thing about mood-fucking-with drugs is unwanted effects. I have read that some of them surpress creativity. How can I go on? How can anyone trust me, when I break down so easily? People like me, care about me, feel sympathy for me when I am obviously down—for what cause, and for how much longer? Humans only have so much patience. I imagine people must reach a point where they get fed up with problem cases, and their sympathy turns to scorn. Ms. Gunnison has told me before that she totally understands—but what happens when understanding gives way to frustration, as, someday, it must, must it not? You can only forgive so many times; at what point do they say, "Fuck it, the kid is worthless"? How can I justify provoking pity even once? I will, however, note: I am, still, in no danger of getting bored. Maybe I can make that into something (though it may be that I have already tried this, or said I would try this, and failed many times). I will march into school tomorrow morning, totally exausted, and I will do just whatever I decide to do, and quite likely make a mess of things, but what do I care, because I am out there making my choices? But then, if I am the sort of person who can be bold like that at the drop of a proverbial hat, would I be feeling like this, doing what I am, now? I swear myself so often to be shameless, dauntless, ruthless—and sometimes I do go out there (there—where?) and say crazy things, just as if to show that _I can say anything_ and I don't care what people think. But I am, I suppose, losing something when I say something dumb. Sure, I show that I can wax audacious (in my fashion) but at the end of the day—any day—a stupid comment _is_ a _stupid_ comment. SO could I—should I—just march into Sillavo's room during seventh tomorrow, totally unprepared, and hope that the source does all the talking? Worst case: I make the fool of myself, no? Can I not endure? Can I not roll on, make decisions afterwards, not collapse because of a misstep? What if I went to sleep now, without any of that homework done? I need my rest, right? Can I not forgive myself for this day, and do better the next? But I have written "NEVER AGAIN". I have _written_ it. How can I look Father in the face next morning if I don't finish my work—on a _Sunday_, no less? How can I look any honest human eye-to-eye, and not turn away in shame? And still I write this! As if I need to emote all this, to no reader, stealing yet more minutes away from sleep and from work! Maybe I shouldn't even think about writing fiction at all, if I can't get my schoolwork done. There will be no more shrinks, but could it be that talking could help? If I could just confess all this to someone (a choice someone) would I not feel altogether better? I doubt it! I talked with the Goldhabers a bit, let some of myself out there—and there was something in that, but no one really _understands_. Or maybe they do and I am too thick to see it. Or maybe they don't and it's all my fault (as all things are) because I don't communicate well enough. Maybe people do understand and care, and I just can't bring myself to believe it because I don't understand them and don't care. Ha! It is humorous to characterize _me_ of all people as unfeeling! Hasn't that been the whole point? That I feel too much? Or is it just the right amount, but about the wrong things? Does that make any sense at all? Right now, I am just throwing out ideas. Asking questions. Asking—questions! Why didn't I quit Journalism? Ms. Gunnison knows how to be inspiring, sure (remember when I told her I was thinking of quitting?) and I love _The Page_, in my fashion, but when a job actually drives you crazy like this does to me, then maybe you should find a different path. An aside: I am actually not feeling so bad now, though all previous conditions exist. It's actually even worse, of course, because there is now even less time. But suddenly it is as if all this writing is beginning to dull the pain and worry. Does that mean it's time to quit this and go work, now that my hysteria has been cured? Well, it has been time to quit since I started this entry, so long ago. Maybe I am a good writer. I am certainly not a good journalist but I can bang out this introspection well enough—it might even be interesting, as diaries go. About quitting journalism: I have figured at moments that it is best to endure. I mean, in moments when I have ints nervousness in me, it is clear that I don't want to pursue journalism as a career. But I have figured that while I am in high school, I might as well devote myself to _The Page_. It's something to _do_. I made it through six issues this year, have I not? And I made it through unscathed, have I not? Well, actually, I _did_ cut myself. But it's not like that Swiss Army knife blade was very big or very sharp, and I didn't go very deep. I never called Cynthia Gorney. SO what am I to do? How am I to go on when it seems as if the thing I am best at is writing about my feelings in documents that I am not to show to anybody? Who am I, anyway, and what? I am just throwing out questions. This could be very silly, but it is late, it is so late and I am fubar'd now. The scholastic year is almost over. Even if I were to break down now, and limp it to the finish, with tears and failures, I'd still survive. Of course I'd survive. I have a grand safety net. There is shame, is the thing. How, in what way, would I live with myself during the summer, knowing I broke? How could I bear the shame of being offered mental help? I will, because it is late, and I am crazy, say it again: people, some people, say it is okay to need help, but _it isn't_. I can remember seeing the question somewhere: do you think crying is a sign of weakness or strength? And I think: what a _stupid question_! Of course crying is a sign of weakness! Stong people, good people, people who don't break, don't need to cry. You cry when you are _vulnerable_, you cry when you are _hurt_. There is nothing—feminine or masculine about crying; it's just _bad business_, that's all. I worry that if I don't learn to work, my ideals (but have I defined them with words?) will suffer, because if I am not out there living them or spreading them in writings, my memetic foes (to draw a phrase) will surely win out, for the lack of the opposition. It is so late, I am so hurt, I am so ashamed, what will they think? How can I go on? I want to sleep. But I just have to make my choices, no? What if I stay up real late tonight, finish everything, and bike to school tomorrow ready to suspend all personal thought and feeling (like this) for seven hours? I would push through it all, and then, later, when I got home, I could sleep. Endurance is a virtue. It's hard to endure things. But different things can be endured for different amounts of time. How long could I manage, to push out all personal thoughts for just seven hours, and concentrate on the expediency of the moment? What if I couldn't manage long at all, or _not_ at all? If it were easy, after all, would I even be writing this right now? Is it possible to repress your personality for stretches? I know, maybe it doesn't work like that. I remember talking on the phone to Nicole recently. I told her how I am an awfully cyclic character, and that I have to stop. I had to explain what I meant, of course. She said [...] I should just work on making certain parts of the cycle shorter instead of trying to do away with it entirely. All rationality, all the time, I said at one point. She asked if I knew which parts of they cycle she meant, and said I did. How could I not? It was obvious. It is so shameful to have mental problems. My parents can often tell when I am down. And if Father asks me about my homework tomorrow morning, am I to lie to him? Lying would be a breach of honor, but telling the truth would be a breach of dignity. I know, honor must come first. Father is often very sympathetic to me, I suspect more so than I deserve, but sometimes—rarely—he gets angry or annoyed. I hate it. Even if it is justice, I hate it. Have I been a good kid? I have kept my nose _relatively_ clean, have I not? But I have these _feelings_ that ruin everything. Oh, I suppose these emotions could lead to a successful literary or artistic career (if I can learn to work)—has it not been said that the great artists usually have a screw or two loose, so to speak? But why can't I be sane _and_ creative? _Am_ I so creative? I fancy myself a fiction writer, but I never finish anything—to be more accurate, I barely _start_ things. I wrote a crappy thousand-word story in one day in I think January 2004, and made some edits months later. I've never really been a great artist or writer or poet. I am often writing poetry fragments or trick phrases or conversations or songs down. Does everyone do that? Or am I special? If emotional instability and artistics _were_ inextricably linked (I don't believe it) would the words I string together be _worth_ suffering through this madness? Heresy to ask, I am sure, but perhaps one must question things. Am I even mad? What if this too, is normal? What if I am totally normal? I certainly don't believe _that_, but again, the questioning. If I never finish a fiction story, will the world really be _losing_ anything? The story doesn't exist now, so it can't be lost—do imaginings of a story count? I have learned, in my meager experience that imaginings don't go into words so effortlessly as one might imagine. Have I been writing this entry for hours? What happened? It is around midnight! Need I sleep to function tomorrow? Maybe I should just test this once! To try something new, because something has to change! What if my parents notice something is up in the morning? If they notice how sleepy I am, or how I feel sad. The sadness would probably about doing this (but I am enjoying this, somehow!) instead of doing my homework and planning for ints. What if they inquire? What could I say? I picture myself admitting I am having emotional problems—how terrible! Fake it until you can make it, Father has before advised or admonished me. SO can't I fake? (That is, can I not fake?) Why can't I go to school, push out all personal thoughts, take no damage, admit no weakness, just go out there and mix it up some? Nothing ever seems to work! Nothing changes! I swear to change, and I don't! I have this one life, and I cannot throw it away. There is no alternative—no feasable alternative—to life. Ambivalence, I think, is harmful. One must make a choice and follow it through to the end, perhaps. Because maybe indecisiveness just gets you the worst of both worlds. It's easy to picture yourself enduring in the future, compared to actually enduring something. Sometimes I feel like military life wouldn't be so bad. But knowing how this life makes me feel, that's insane, right? Then, I could definitely use some toughening up. Would it be so bad to relinquish the stories, the feelings? And just live? Heresy, heresy. Rah rah rah. It's easy to picture yourself enduring in the future, considering. What if I ran away? But then, if picturing things is easy, why don't I even want to _think_ about what ints questions I am going to ask? Would it be so bad to drug myself up? To submurge all this vibrance in prozac and paxil and beta blockers? To banish this natural fatigue with massive amounts of caffine? What good is clean living (of one sort) if daily life in it hurts you so much you can't achieve clean living (of another sort)? I took mood medications before, when I was a child. (Surely I am no longer one still!) I claimed they didn't make any difference. Others said it did. Some days I wouldn't take the medication. I seem to remember throwing it away sometimes. What if I didn't do ints tomorrow? If I procrastinated again? I mean, the undergrad awards are Wednesday, right? And I am slated to take pictures. Can't I do all my reporting then? I'd miss the edits date, though. The thing is, I do well at events. Like that skate park meeting. But one-on-one drives me _nuts_. But I need backround information! And there are the senior awards to think about as well! When are they? I will have to check—! Isn't the whole point of all this that something has to change? That I have to do something different? How can I live with myself if I procrastinate again? Should I ask to talk with Ms. Gunnison, and spill out all the thoughts I have been having about my news story? But what of stoicism? I talk to her enough already! Should I not be an independent reporter, making my own decisions, without needing to puke out all my histrionic afflictions before the adviser, blessed be she? And I can't just do all my reporting Wednesday! Because I remember when Ms. Gunnison was reading off the job description for Managing Editor, one of the duties was _making sure people meet deadlines_. "Well, that's ironic," I said. (I am self-depricating in public as well as the diary.) I can't fail to meet my deadline! It would be so disgusting! Maybe I should go to sleep now. I have a good grade in HST, the PRC won't be checked yet, and I can tie up the SPN at brunch—it is only tie-up, I think. Someone good would double-check that before going to bed. Whatever misery—if it is misery—I feel in the day, there is always nice, restful (unthinking!) sleep to serve as a refuge from life. (What kind of person are you when you need a refuge from life?) Unless I start having nightmares. Can I go to sleep now? Or is that betraying everything I love? Don't I need rest? Do I deserve rest? When I wake up in the morning, should I play it stoic? Should I be open? Should I lie if a situation comes up when lying would be easier? It can be so hard to know how to live your life. It is hard to know when you say things right. I know, I'm spoiled! I am a spoiled, rotten kid! I have no right to complain! I have no right to dodge my journalistic reponsibilities! Will I have to do ints thinking and planning tomorrow? Is that insane? Am I secretly setting myself up to procrastinate again, not even admitting it to myself? Whatever happens to me, Kathy is still thriving, Emelie Gunnison is still thriving, Kit will still be around. How many hours have I spent on this? Is laziness really just a prolonged, painful suicide? Somehow I feel this is great writing, but it doesn't _help_. _Nothing_ helps. Nothing! Yours, Zack M. Davis, 0046 Monday. #### Entry 88 — Monday 16 May 2005 (Common Era) — "How Do You Explain Sundays?" Dear Diary, Time passes, events are laid down, humans do their interactions—and suddenly, with the right interactions, things don't seem so bad. Not quite so bad. I can work. I can think. I can deal, in my fashion. No policy of isolationism is this: it is a return to normalcy! It could be that Mr. Kolda has an air of incompetence about him. How _do_ you explain Sundays? Leave it at this, Zack M. Davis, 1500. #### Entry 89 — Friday 20 May 2005 (Common Era) — "Never Again: Decision Point" Dear Diary, A good week (if I may be so bold to say)! Not good _enough_, but perhaps one should not expect so much of oneself. At the first. People think I'm smart, or act and speak as if they do. It's really nice. I nearly always deny it. Today, in ART, we were given license to not work at all (is art class "work"?) and instead to just go look at the various the Open House displays—of our room, the other art classroom, the adjacent gallery, the 3-D art room, and Wood Tech. Lisa Rodgers had a bookcase on display. Tony Dayton had a big table on display. Dayton, I detest, but really pay no mind. He's a bastard, but one I've left behind. I wondered (and even mentioned) if I should take Art again next year, as I have signed up to do. Why not Wood Tech to fill the artisan slot in my schedule? Shouldn't I have more carpentry and tools skills than I do? Am I not wasting my time in ART, throwing together my sloppy works and never seeming to learn a whole lot? I have thought that if I am in charge of graphics for _The Page_, I should also be in art class. But how much am I getting out of art class? Why not abandon this sparse path I have gone on for three years, in order to better become a (excuse me) Zack-of-all-trades? It is something to consider. There are many things to be considered. How much am I learning? I've been in Spanish class three years, and I know some vocabulary and tenses and all that—but when you sit me in front of Spanish TV, I am not liable to understand very much. They seem to speak so fast. I made the master for Issue 7, basically. I volunteered for it, yesterday. Doing it that night, I got sick of the paper book, so I just typed out what goes where on the computer. Adjustments were made today: at lunch, I figured out a way to keep the creative writing spread together. I talked with Katie about how ads were going to fit. Adjustments were made. Katie made a paper master today. Earlier, I had campaigned to do away with the traditional back cover honoring the seniors of journalism class. People wouldn't have it. When I made my master yesterday, I made the senior thing only take half of the back cover, allowing us to have two full pages of creative writing (rather than one-and-a-half) with the two-and-a-half ads I had slated in. This represented a compromise solution, one I have felt I could get really behind. I made a pitch to Ashley before SPN. She still didn't seem so keen on the idea. When Katie made the adjustments today because of the actuality of the ads situation, she said the seniors tribute would need to be a half-page, and the EICs finally acquiesced. Space limits are space limits. There will be two pages of creative writing. Some issues with the page with the leadership response. Ms. Gunnison is always right. I feel stupid, maybe. I stayed after class working on _The Page_. Last night, I finished "Caitlin, Supreme Ruler of the World; Or: Please Don't Be Offended Anybody, It's Just a Silly Meaningless Joke." I brought a copy to JOU class. Ashley and Laura were laughing really hard over it. Caitlin asked what they were cracking up over. I told her. Her amused reaction was along the lines of "Thanks—I think." I repeatedly said that I was ashamed of writing it. Kate was adamant that no one see it until final day. Having a script in an in-class issue is tradition. Writing and art—it could feel so—what was it they would call the St. Louis Rams? Finesse? In a bad way. Delegate all this to "Devotion," perhaps! I think I did well in my job interview yesterday. I noted irony in selling myself for a position with a government art gallery while having devoured _The Virtue of Selfishness_ the night previous. Nicole graduates tomorrow! What is there to say about being human, or feeling stupid, or repeating yourself? It is something, and you know the bit. Survival! Here's to Ash Simon, Zack M. Davis, 1931. #### Entry 90 — Tuesday 24 May 2005 (Common Era) — "Ash Survived the Drill" Dear Diary, I did a lot of rambling today. What is my character to be like? It seems as if I can never decide on some issues, or stick to a decision that I make. Emotions sweep over me, and I will feel I know how I want to play things, and then later I will feel different. I ramble in public life and text-ramble in my diary—and still, what is my identity? Bold or cautious? And I still have need to say more—so much expression, and so little gets expressed, is that it? And I have never even really gotten into the fiction projects I think of. Maybe if I learn to communicate what I want to convey effectively, then I will not want to say so much. If I pack all the wonders of my head into a novel—wouldn't it be fantastic? Maybe I would just learn to move on from all this. Is that even desirable? It depends on what I mean by "all this." I must be more _specific_ in these things. (Perhaps I should also define "these things"!) I must be able to give my answers to life directional questions the affirmative nod at some point. Oh, I must check them all, to be sure, but it could be (it _is_?) that at some point you have to make your choice and follow it through. After all, I want to _mean it_ when I listen to "Rhythms." Is what I just said largely nonsense? And is it _me_? In the Diary it stays, in any case. What is my identity to be? There is something interesting about men who are geniuses and amazingly productive and very intimidating—they don't care what anyone thinks of them. "I'm an insufferable bastard—and you need me." But I am no _genius_. Nor am I so productive as that. Nor am I very intimidating. There is always something to learn. I got a 2180 on my SAT. It could be very appropriate. It's 2179 plus 1. In ART, I told Ash Simon she is really cool. Do I have a small crush on her? I don't _know_. What constitutes a crush? I think matters of the heart could use some stricter definitions, and a better vocabulary. The subjectivity of it all—is it unspeakably beautiful or annoying and problematic? I'll go with the stock answer—both!—and leave that in the Diary, too. Oh, it is beautiful! But one must work to stay alive, if one is to continue experiencing all this! I pissed off Emily Peña today. Not literally, of course. She asked if she could use whatever font she wanted on her senior column. I said no, Ms. Gunnison doesn't like it, and I don't like it. On my next line, I said "You're not even in our class." Don't say that to me, Emily said, or it could have been that she said, You did _not_ just say that to me. Whichever, I angered her. I may not have thought of it immediately, but I did consider going up to her and saying "I can say whatever the hell I want." I rambled with Erin Greene. She's emotional, I'm emotional, and each knows all about how it can get in the way. I rambled, I rambled. I like Erin. I told her so. Stress over _The Page_! It's just this week, this Issue 7 layout week, and then it's over for the scholastic year. Relief! I got up early, thinking I would do ints with Swain, but I decided against it. I went to school early. I went to the library during lunch, and I picked _You Just Don't Understand_ off the shelf, and I read that some. I have much to do! I have hope, I guess. Here's to it not being unfounded, Zack M. Davis, 1822. #### Entry 91 — Saturday 28 May 2005 (Common Era) — "_Andcetera_" D.— Stdy. agn. (!). Iss. 7 f th'_P_ isn't dne.. We're cmng. bck. Mdy. (obsrv.'d Mem. Day) to fnsh. up. Didn't gt. tht. jb. w/city.. MayB. almst. gld. conc. ths., n wy.? Go wk. in priv. sect., & ll tht. Bt I wl. hv. fnd. jb.! Shd. I mke. cls. tdy.? _Is_ Stdy. Hmm. 'Twld. do me gd. to rmbr. (r _imgne_., b/c I my. not knw. fr. prsn'l. exp.) hw. mch. one can do w/ wknds. Is ll vry. gd. lstn. musc. & thk. 'bt. SEX & thgs.—but rmbr. hw. I flt. thnkng. 'bt. _RW_ & ll tht. & prjct. hw. t'wld. fl. be unmply'd n sum. & rmbr. hw. fls. get gd. grds, and hw. fls. _crry. admrt'n_! I may (n.p.i.) hv. mnt'd. ll ths. bef. sm. tme. (!). Sm. of my _P_ cllges. were vry. xct'd (ll atwitter) 'bt. gttng. mt. ECG's fncé. Isaiah ystdy.. I do not fl. bd, rlly.. I aim dscvr. sth 'bt. mnhd.. One mst. cnsdr. mny. ths! I o'ght be > hmbl. n my thgts., & > cnfd'nt. n pblc. spch., mthnks.. I hp. ths. shft. n nrrtv. gvs. ftre. bgrphrs. plzhre.! I pt. (2?) mch. n- ths. D.. Hre.'s t *P*P, & SEX. & wrt. tht. nvl.! Y, —ZM.D . ADDENDUM— Oh, cyclic, how cyclic is this! Errors are repeated, and there is a dim recognition that something is wrong—so oaths are made, but scarcely interpreted! Saturdays are wasted! It happens all the time: a small (_very_ small) triumph, and a stagnation! A lot of pretty longing thoughts are repeated, but there is little action! Little written but notes! There is this resentment of Father, this hating of his (extremely benevolent and rarely exercised, admittedly) rule, hating of his (occasional) condescension, but at the same time I am totally dependent on him, and—more importantly—know that he is right! And I have been wrong! "Now this is something you probably don't know about the world—" Do not talk down to me, I _do_ know it! But if I refuse to act on it, for whatever petulance or cowardice of mine own, I have not given others reason to believe that I know it! All my life has been _school_—friends have drawn parallels between it and work, not entirely unjustifiably—but school (as _I_ have experienced it) is something in the column of the _given_. I go to school, it is what I do, I did not choose it initially, I did not seek it initially. It is assigned to humans of my class (no pun intended) in their youth. Work—_the real world_—is different. You have to _find_ a job. I know—I have read—I understand—the real world is _not_ like school, it's hard, you won't be pampered like you are now. I know all about (I feel as if I know all about) the theory of work ethic—better then some of my contemporaries! _I_ don't beg and pester the Spanish teacher to let us have a _fiesta_ for the end of the (school) year, or _5 de mayo_—or no occasion at all. But at the same time, I delay with things that must be done; I procrastinate; I am, in far too many moments, lazy. I have overheard kids at school talking about jobs—and what have I done to sieze one? I got one interview (for a position in the fucking _city intern program for youth_), I entered an electronic application into that isolating fucking little machine at the movie theatre, I asked the new gelatto place if _they_ had anything—well, whatever, _it hasn't been enough_, and it is almost June. And Father tells me I should make those calls, and I am writing this instead of doing it. With my childish "Please, do not disturb" sign hanging on the doorknob outside my room. My colleagues on _The Page_ know I can be productive, that I can lick a problem, that I have _spirit_—that I can deal like a professional, in my fashion, do they not? Employers should be lined up _begging_ me to be their office boy! I know. It doesn't work like that. Nor should it. I am not so arrogant as to lay my troubles on the world, and [accept] no responsibility (except for successes). I can tell, sometimes, in my fashion, when an emotion is in conflict with reason. I just think I ought to be making some kind of money, at my age, knowing what I know. Independence appeals to me, even knowing (or thinking I know) how the _real world_ works. I don't want to have to answer to anyone. I know—I know, already—that you have to _earn_ your living, that it's not going to be easy and that it's not going to be safe, and no one's going to bail you out. And I think—I want to be—I think I want to be—I think that it is imperative that I want to be—game for all this. Even while I struggle as I do in Demo World, where I have regularly refused to work, even on, say, _Running Water_. "Have I / Waited too long?" Yes. "Have I / Found that someone?" No. But why should that get in the way of doing that which ought to be done? "SOMETHING HAS TO CHANGE." It has been said, written, and the rest. The Diary is a great thing, but it's recording, not sustaining (except, perhaps, emotionally). But it is very important, in its fashion. Sometimes, you have to use the telephone. Independence song! _Andcetera_! Yours, Zack M. Davis . SECOND ADDENDUM— I made one call. They said drop by on Tuesday at one, and I was like yeah. After I hung up I realized that I'm at school at one, but I resolved to go by after school. Father says he thinks that place moved. I'll have to check on that. I'll have to check on other job leads. I will have to check on many things. I will have to master the method to make the dream livable. I suspect my mistakes are of the forgivable. I'll try—I'll say it, too, to humans I meet—not to believe in half-measures. We can't get fusion to work, so let's try fission; it makes valiant meltdown or glorious completion of my mission. Bad metaphors set down in semaphore (?) lace a Diary, well, sit down to work, and call it forgivable! Ambition has energized in me, at times, when listening to a speaker—but what is it that keeps happening when the speaker goes away? Ho, what is that half-formed half-boy that wallows in the sun-libraries, demanding you to feed it and praise it—and call it a man? How long can this go on? Will not this creature perish, like all the rest, like all the others, too expectant of a world that guarantees no entitlements, and entitles no guarantees? Or—dare we to speculate against natural odds? Dare we speculate that even this lunk has supporting virtues (albeit buried deep within!)? That the time-clock is dripping, the tension is mounting, that bands within this creature are stretched nearly to point of severing, and chemistry, for once, decrees that something has to change? Oh, yes! After so many false starts, so many delayed injunctions, so many letters ignored and phones left ringing, Liberation Day is just over the sunset! Arise, half-human, and take back the other half of life and measure! Make a claim and defend it! Forget what the insane had pretended! Forsake on what you shamed and depended! Ho, friends, see—this creature has been called back from the depths of better-off-dead—and call it a _man_! Should I call Pizza Hut about _their_ job offering now? Fast food is open on Sundays, is it not? So tomorrow? Or what about those other places? If I were to—leave additional continuing job stuff to next week—and I would work diligently on the schoolwork now, of course—is _that_ forgivable? I have no loyalty to the Nation of Men; I am a citizen of the world—and _very_ comfortable in this skin, mind it! I can wax cryptic or poetic in the Diary, and maybe a novel, and I hope within soon to be worth a professional or two! It's heroic, stoic, also joyful and a _Page_ apart from you. Mother worries, but she needs not. My mind flurries, but it must bleed not. I am inclined to choose heroes of both worlds for my team! To splendor and labor, frolic and struggle, each in its turn, to constantly learn. Was Ranma cursed? Was this fantasy at its best, but humor at its worst? In any case, it is time for me to say "_No fiesta_," and Kathy concurs. "We have seen the enemy and ey is us." _Andcetera_. Yours in trust, Zack M. Davis . #### Entry 92 — Thursday 2 June 2005 (Common Era) — "Apolitical" D.— Deep Throat is W. Mark Felt. I have a sales job with local start-up SalonCraze!com if I want it. I want it. I met with Carrie Miller today at Pacific Bay Coffee Co. She was late. She did most of the talking, told a lot about how great the job is (flexibility, _&c._), which felt sort of odd—isn't the employee the expendable one, the one who has to prove what ey has to offer is enough? Am I super-charming so she wants me? She gave me a contract, and told me to call her on Saturday. I'd start 13 June. It seems pretty locked up! We finished reading and listening to the tape of _Death of a Salesman_ in ENG today. Father can get on my nerves, but I am mature enough to know that my annoyance—an _emotion_—is no substitute for reasoned judgement. Father is a very good man. One must judge and act as one can. I approve of Cathy Young. I read some of her archived columns on _reason.com_ during lunch, and, gender egalitarianism _nutball_ that I am, thought it uplifting to me. She even wrote one about how stoicism has benefits despite what people say about the importance of emoting. It was _sth_ like that; look it up for yourself, I guess. Maybe I should look it up again, or maybe I don't dare to take the time, with new opinon columns being written continually, and me with other things to do than read opinion columns. I leave this in the Diary, too, because it is a free personal record is why, and you can't take me. What do I believe in? Am I to be a Libertarian or a Democrat? If I am going to write politically-oriented columns for _The Page_, or if I am going to apply to LIP, shouldn't I probably have lots and lots of deeply-held convictions about controversial issues (AP Stylebook says that phrase is redundant)? One must deal, think, choose as one can. In JOU, Ms. Gunnison was talking about ethical questions, and she was saying sth like sth doesn't mean you have to go around worrying about the ethical implications of every step you take—followed by a great impression of literally worrying about taking an actual, physical step. Or _sth_ like that. Jenny commented publicly that that reminded her of me. I decide to say to you, Diary, I am f\*ing proud. I _think_ about things. One must, however, avoid the "analysis paralysis." I need to take better notes. _The Page_, Volume 54, Issue 7: Monday. _El Caballero_, Volume 53: Tomorrow. I have exchanged e-mails with Joshua Pierce Meltzer. I _do_ want to be independent, to pull my own weight, to be worth having around. How well do I report? How well do I establish good rapport? Who spams the spammers? _Andcetera._ If hope doesn't spring eternal, I'd guess it springs for a really long time. F\*k me! In the good way! Where is this woman who will be my intellectual and physical partner? I can feel as if I just be virtuous enough, all this will come. Does self-service get boring? She waits for me too, and all that. Cave? Well! I have _got_ to write that novel! F\*k me! Love my style, love the stars. Still, let's keep it professional. Clean living. Virtue, virtue, virtue! I may be bent out of shape, but my shape was bent badly to begin with, I might finally be straight now, with the last bend! That I may continue through all this! It's great being straight. It's the _best_. I mean it! I am going to be unabashedly heteronormative about this one. Question I have imagined asking a gay man: "You already _have_ a penis; why would you be interested in anyone else's?" What would [redacted] say, if I said that to him, verbatim? Aw, I am just having fun in the Diary. I _could_ be a stupid teenage boy who doesn't know _what_ the f\*k he is doing. But I _think_, see? I think. I try, don't I, as one must try as he—ey—one—she—blistering nebulosity—can? Here's to business, and busyness, Yours, Zack M. Davis . ADDENDUM— And write that novel! #### Entry 93 — Undated — "Shadow of Active Accords" D.— How many names do I have? Three? > 1) Zachary [first, given] > > 2) Michael [middle] > > 3) Davis [last, family] Or two? 1) Zack M. Davis [trade] 2) Zachary Michael Davis [official] I am done with childhood. I want to be independent. I want to take things seriously, and be taken seriously. I am sick of being a stupid high school kid, and I don't see what's so special about being a senior next year and graduating to become a stupid college kid. I want to live alone, and own my things outright. It has been more than seventeen years! I can read, write, and cipher. I can reason. What still separates me? What makes us adolescents? What barrier? Tear it down, tear it down, I will have nothing to do with it! No, simply let me leap it! I can jump; I can jump as high as _you_, sir. Leave Ben where he is here with his hookah, but let _me_ hop this barrier; I have got an empire or republic to build! I know—it takes much hard work to make it out there in the world! And you can't expect respect as a natural right—you have to _earn_ it! Am I ready to do what it takes? It is all very good for me to say "I'm going to _make it_"—but a bold prediction does not actually give one a full run of the future. If you really want it, how about saying "I'm going to make it _or die trying_"? How much are you willing to give, in order to get? Isn't it great to walk into a bookstore and not feel jealous? Isn't it great to walk out with a novel you purchased with your own wages? Isn't it great to have business cards? Isn't it great to have a title? Isn't it great to have _sex_? I want it badly. I want it badly, I, young and male, questioning or embracing, each as I call it, all the things those are said to imply; cursing my cyclicity, and blessing the cyclicity of human generations. I stand here now in the shadow of Active Accords, planning, considering. Am I ready to do what it takes? And what _is_ that, exactly? Who pays? Who plays? Oh, Kathy! —Zack M. Davis. #### Entry 94 — Wednesday 8 June 2005 (Common Era) — "Unusual Weather" D.— Three axioms: 1) Don't be afraid of the customers. 2) Don't be afraid of the employers. 3) You can always run away to Chicago. Unusual weather: it has rained in June! Today, I took the PRC and ENG finals. For the ENG writing assignment, one of the choices was to write eulogies for Jay Gatsby and Willy Loman. The other was an essay. I chose the eulogies, and did a very good job. After school, I returned _The Virtue of Selfishness_ and _Liars, Lovers, and Heroes_ (that one had a subtitle) to the city library. I quickly checked out _The Fountainhead_ and _Quirkyalone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics_. Started with Saloncraze!com. Met Carrie Miller at El Fornaio at ~1400. Met CEO Adam Carabetta. Given the info from Carrie. Out selling for an hour; light rain even began. Sold nothing. The whole thing felt light horrible and absurd, a mild flurry of embarrassment and dejection. And I didn't make any money today, because I didn't sell any cards. I thought that I wouldn't really mind getting fired so much. "I like to a take a minute or so between rejections," was one thing I approx said to Carrie as we walked back to Starbucks. When Carrie suggested a sympathy pitch, I said I felt it unethical: "I'm a salesman, not a beggar." Adam told me, "If you can get good at this, you can do anything." That might even be verbatim. Selling at school? I don't know. All this feels strange. Biking home from all this, I passed by _Erin Greene_. I went with her all the way to where she lives. We talked. I got _h\*llza rambly_. I told her how sales is absurd, but how it's good because I'm getting over my shyness, so I won't have any journalistic problems. —Journalistic problems? I told her that I have JOU shyness and related how on day of pipeline explosion I was on a bench crying because I couldn't get myself to go talk to Ms. Amin. Oh, did I get _rambly_ with Erin Greene today! I told her that re my curing myself of shyness I might even get up the nerve to ask Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff on a date. I told her about the lacrosse-Acalanes-Monte Vista incident. I said I wondered if I really liked Kathy or if I just love the idea of liking Kathy. I said how I question my own feelings. She said she does that, too. I brought up how I used to like Lisa Rodgers. That got a reaction. [...] Later, I proposed "blistering nebulosity" as a [phrase] to use as a wildcard when you can't find the word that is on the tip of your tongue, as it were. Lots of things were said between me and Erin, those were just some. The general point here is that I got rambly, and Erin didn't seem to mind. What if I _can_ say anything to anyone? What does this mean? What is all this going to do to my soul, or scientifically-defensible soul-equivalent? Part of a small song I wrote goes: "It's only a year / You'll have to endure / Everyone hates you but no one remembers." It is only a year now left in high school, basically. One year, and then maybe I can go leave all this associated sin behind in this town. Axiom Number Three could prove to be a source of strength. When am I joking? Why do so many humans say things they don't mean so often? Some things are clear: I don't want to be a debaser. I must learn to be more active: I cannot allow time to slip through my fingers, as it were. I don't think I am going to apply to LIP. Do I really want to be a "Times teen columnist"? I am not much of a columnist, really. Yesterday, I helped a woman named Elizabeth Moran move some things and put up some plant hooks and set up an iMac and make the light fixture so that it is not so bright (we removed one of the two bulbs). She has a very bad right knee. I only worked for little more than an hour, but she payed me $25! [...] I could have some very unusual ideas about what might be called, say, the tertiary sexual identities. It could be that there are some things I don't like to put to words so much. Maybe I am just waxing cryptic for my wide Diaretical (_i.e._, Diaristic) audience! This could be nonsense. I leave all this in the Diary because if I am going to be able to say anything (as long as it is true or truth-neutral) I should certainly be allowed to be free in the Diary. How am I to balance it all? How much of me changes through all these people skills and sales? Maybe I could be a total fake throughout the entire day, and I wouldn't need to take a break between rejections, because I wouldn't really be representing myself at the time, I'd be representing the company. And then, at night, I would come home and write frantically in _The Compatibilist Ethos_ [working title]. What is there to say about working with people? I like people, I really do. But I only get to know people from my culture. This world can be pretty confusing and hurtful at times! But it is all we have, so I had better learn to love all this, and deal with it, and/or make it better! People survived the Great Depression. So why did I think about crying today? How are we to sort through it all? How are we going to make it? You have to try as best you can, and judge as you can and act as you can. And you can hope, but the hope isn't what _does_ anything. I hope this is more than Western Lit. I really like my parents not being around. Oh, I must learn to be more mature. I thought about crying today, but you can't. You can't. One must hold all of it in and just keep selling. I must break through all these false agonies! And write that novel! Life can seem so hard, even in America. I don't like the term "ballsy." I'm writing _The Masculine Mystique_. Oh, sh\*t, I'm sorry! Who will give me a moral sanction? Mother tries, but she does not understand. Oh, that's such a cliché. I remember a quote from an excerpt of a girl's diary in that "treasury of the world's great diaries" book I got from the school library: "I am so afraid I shall get to be like everyone else." It may not have been spelled and capitalized like that? I don't know, I just—remembered that. > My time's up. I've "gotta" write that novel. It's only a year. You'll have to endure. Here's to the Lucy Stoners, > Zack M. Davis . ADDENDUM— Do it for Erin Greene; do it for Brooke Durant. No one says you can; no one says you can't. So scared, for no reason! Weather acting out of season. Could I weather this too, and find it pleasing? Do mercenaries have to atone? Does waxing cryptic in an unread document help anyone do anything alone? Why isn't everything I do a _Page_ apart? It would be useful to remember names and faces. The world moves, fortune changes. Isn't it _stupid_ how some people write sth like "Don't ever change" in _my_ yearbook? Change? Eric Cederwall wrote "I know you're going to be famous some day" as part of his inscription in my yearbook. If I could write that novel, sure. I'll have to stay alive. I remember Cecelia Choi wrote a book review for _The Page_ on a novel called _Summer of Glorious Madness._ I have had enough of madness. I would just like this to be a summer of glory. I'll have to stay alive. If only I could just accept that it doesn't matter what anyone thinks of me. If I could do that, I somehow imagine, I wouldn't feel this impending doom, right? If I showed this, all of you, D., to just one person I trusted, would that help? If I knew someone (someone young and _female_, I have here written in the subtext) were close to understanding me, and didn't disapprove, would all this madness dissolve in that knowledge? But why should one human's opinion matter overmuch? There is always the hope that _The Fountainhead_ or _Quirkyalone_ will cure me, at least for a while. Or, if I am _really_ lucky, _Realidades 3_. Or maybe some fiction writing would remind me of the method. I _have_ to stay alive! I have to beat this! I have to beat all this, and emerge _Page Perfect_, or near enough to realize whate'er percentage of the dream proves feasable! Ms. Gunnison! Did I do it right? I am **not** one of those boys who is always drawing penises on other people's possessions! And I will **not** be associated with them! This is one more reason to continue to endure all this, so that I can prove to any doubters that men like me _do_ exist. So that someday I can show by my counterexample that someone else _is_ thinking about what moves the world, that someone is working hard trying to be _good_, that someone wants to _understand_ and _achieve_ and do no harm. And I _am_ a man. It would be a tragedy not to do something great with it. —ZD. \* \* \* END Volume IC