The Diary of Zachary Michael Davis — Volume ID


#### Entry 95 — Thursday 9 June 2005 (Common Era) — "Everyone Loves You and Everyone Remembers—and It Doesn't Help _One Bit_"

D.—

I have been emotionally not good today. It is as if I am still "shell-shocked" from trying to sell to strangers yesterday. This terror is that same that I have felt at times when trying to fufill my obligations to _The Page_. But then, I had the forces of journalistic inquiry on my side, so to speak. Now, I am just annoying people in the hopes that by some chance they will actually go for the package so I can make some money. Carrie had said she would call me at 1230. She didn't. I called her at ~1320 and she said she was just going to call me. We're meeting tomorrow. Carrie, yesterday, had wanted me to try to sell to my teachers. And there was also the suggestion, yesterday, of telling the stranger-customers that part of the proceeds of my sales would go to _The Page_—and an extra $5 per card would actually be given to _The Page_. I was not comfortable with the idea.

Today's finals were SPN and JOU. There was no actual final in JOU. We did mailing. _Ms. Gunnison_ bought pins from a company in Alaska for the seniors of Journalism. The pins are of a typewriter, and have a skull in front of a crossed pen and pencil, and say "WRITE HARD" on the left, and "DIE FREE" on the right. Laura went and photocopied out the copies of the In-Class Issue. "Caitlin, Supreme Ruler of the World; Or: Please Don't Be Offended Anybody, It's Just a Silly Meaningless Joke: A farce" got a positive reaction.

I opened up to Ms. Gunnison, with the obligatory prodding. She remarked how the strangers saying no to you thing was a lot like being a reporter. I said my bit about the separation of charity and commerce.

One must have "thick skin."

_Caitlin Casey_ wrote me a letter. I saw her writing it near the end of the Final period (am I a snoop? [...] and now this?), but I didn't say anything. A few minutes later, she gave it to me, and said something, and gave me a hug. The letter was folded into eighths, and has "DON'T LOSE THIS!" printed on the outside, on one of the outer-facing eighth-page rectangles. The letter is written on binder paper in black ink, and this is what it says:

> Dear Zack,  
> I am so sorry for everything the world has ever done to  
> you or ever will do that hurts your feelings or makes  
> you feel alone or angry or broken, but Zack, my friend,  
> these are the things that have and will shape you and  
> have made and will make you the person that I admire  
> and love. Zack you are a creative boy, a kind and  
> smart boy, a very talented boy, and a very lonely boy.  
> We are all lonely, though, and I hope you know that.  
> You are among the loneliest, but things will not always  
> be the way they are now, and that is what you must  
> remember whenever life sucks. There are people who understand  
> you, Zack, and I do. Not entirely, but enough to make  
> me love you and worry for you and count you as  
> an amazing friend. You will struggle, Zack. You will  
> cry and life will suck and then it will get so much  
> better than you could ever possibly imagine. You will  
> find friends, a girlfriend, and things like photography  
> and music that you are great at and things like  
> drawing and writing that make you amazing and that you  
> are great at. You are funny Zack, and a great  
> athlete. I love you.  
>
> Love,  
> 
> Caitlin Casey. 
> 
> Good luck next year!

Too touching to touch! And I, perhaps, too touchy to fully understand even this? I do know one thing: Caitlin is a rockstar. SO, was this what I have been waiting for? Didn't I have that idea about a letter of support bringing a man (boy) back from the brink? Well, that was fantasy. _This_, the story in _these_ pages, _is_ real, although sometimes it could fool me! Here is Ms. Gunnison's inscription in my yearbook:

> Zack:  
> 
> Where would I have been without you? Where would  
> The Page be without you? I spend a fair amount  
> of time thinking about the funny, pointed, ironic,  
> off-the-wall things you say. Thank you for taking  
> ethics seriously. The world is a better place for that. 
>
> –Ms. Gunnison

SO there is my moral sanction, now imposed in red ink in a bound book. Has anything really changed? After I came home today, I watched _Teen Titans_ for some absurd amount of time. Has anything changed? Did I think watching "Nevermore" would make me a capable person? (I could say that it is worth noting that I have not seen "Fear Itself" yet, but this is no time for jokes. Worth _noting_, I said? Worth not*h*ing, perhaps!)

Do you know, Diary, what I could do? I could tell Carrie that _I quit_. But I do not think I will. I want to earn money, and even working on comission, one can do that. And by annoying strangers to spell them special salon deals, I could be said to be making practice for annoying strangers when I have the worthy cause of _The Page_ behind me. And I could give this a chance, as I have only done an hour! And I don't want to antagonize Carrie. But the real reason I feel I must not quit is because quitting = treason. I signed on (implied verbally) for the summer, did I not? Should I not follow it through? It could do me good to remember the larger time scale. What is one summer of sadness? One summer of badness? Even when you _don't_ really need the money so bad? Should there _be_ any money, I mean; I _am_ on [commission].

I could—make it up, couldn't I? Now that I know (and I think I should have learned by today) that entertainment and notes of approval don't soothe my inner turmoil, I could put more time towards being more productive, towards being _good_, because I would know that I will always feel this way. This could be one of a class of notions I am continually having that may be absurd under observation.

"It's only a year." A year, even, is not _so_ great on the time scale of an entire life. If I can just endure a little longer—I'll be done. I leave this school and thus can quit this _Page_ and I will be long done with marketing forever—but of course, it could be that there are always new challenges to face. A new struggle. And I will always feel guilty, perhaps, I will always be terrified of some triviality that I cannot explain or would be embarrassed to explain. And I will have my triumphs and my joys, but an uncooked carrot to eat or a fresh face to greet and interview or sell to will always be enough to reduce all the joy to nothing. Cyclicity, cyclicity! What do you think of this prophecy: _You will struggle, Zack. You will cry and life will suck and then it will get so much better than you could ever possibly imagine. And then it will suck. And you will cry._

The cycle ends, sometime. Everyone dies, and one might (I am sure to distance myself from this position, just in case) hope it not too much to hope that there is simply nothing on the other side. But—I digress. Here's what Jordan Holm wrote in my yearbook:

> Zach–
>
> It was fun having journalism  
> with you this year. You are  
> a great guy and have so much  
> knowledge. I believe God has  
> a plan for your life. I wish  
> you the very best for the  
> future! Ephesians 3:16–20  
>
> Love,
> 
> Jordan
> Holm

And here is Ephesians 3:16–20 (King James Version):

> That he would grant you, according to the riches of his glory, to be strengthened with might by his Spirit in the inner man;  
> That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded in love,  
> May be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height;  
> And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of God.  
> Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us,  

It must be awfully comforting to believe that the Ruler of the Universe is on your side. I have no such faith at the moment. Mother and Father and Caitlin and Ms. Gunnison are on my side—as much as they know of it. But they are not the ones who define morality. Well, maybe they could be said to be, if morality is sets of rules that humans have made up for good living, and thus, is human-defined. But that is different, and you know this, Diary.

I am thinking, however, of a human way of breaking the cycle. There has got to be a way outside drugs to learn to not be terrified of trivialities. If I were to write and publish a _novel of literary merit_, maybe things would be okay. Maybe I could justify _some_ things to my self.

People are taking jobs that make them miserable all the time. People are suffering, really, not like my pseudosuffering.

The end of "Unusual Weather" was clever. But words can only impact so much. A letter of support is not a shot of bravery; a declaration in a Diary is as substantial as a shadow. Shadows, some friend might try to reassure me, are real, too—they are objectively observable phenomena. I might say that whatever the reality of the existance of shadows, a shadow is still not _made_ of anything. It is just a place where the light didn't come through. It is a _lack_. Exactly, some friend might try at it again, and determination is just a _lack_, a lack of illogical emotions. I _know_, I might say, I have identified this many times before. _But how do I keep the emotions from coming through?_

It's such a beautiful Diary! But how do I defend its source? How can I keep it on course? How can I force it into holes it hates, with "It's for your own good" as my only tool, my one reassurance—when I am not so sure of it myself?

Are my antecedents clear? Who puns the punsters? Who reads this, and how many backups and hard copies should I make, to ensure that this survives, if I don't?

A creative, smart, talented, lonely boy. It could be so. But what about a creative, smart, talented _man_, who can turn off pain? Shouldn't _ey_ be writing in this space, writing a true story that is not only _worth reading_ as this is, but also is full of heroes? Or rather, has a hero at its center, as this as it is is already full of heroines?

_It—is—such—a—beautiful—Diary!_ What can it take? What did it take? What would it take for _breaking the cycle_? How do you end an entry? How do you leave a percent of your soul on the page, that half-tangible virtual page, and hope that it is enough and that it will be read? Cue the theme. _Andcetera_.

What's _my_ problem, ma'am? My problem—my one problem—is the contradictions of my character. And the thing that haunts me—one of them—is just a statement hurled around in some book I once read, and keep coming back to. You see, it is said that _the price of a contradiction is destruction_.

Is there a lesson today? Letters of support, _Teen Titans_, "self-service"—nothing helps. SO one must help oneself—not in _that_ way; I am done with gutters; the fantasy, straight as it is, bears no relation. \*G-D\*, it is said, helps those who help themselves. \*G-D\*, it is said, has a plan for _me_.

What is it that I have not tried yet, that will work? A girlfriend? A novel (one of _mine_, I mean)? Drugs (no!)? _Willpower_?

Kathy, start a diary. Mine is better in the artistics, but you just might have better subject matter. _Verba inta sunt intelligenda, &c_.

If anyone has a plan for me, I am ready to hear it. Just—don't get too close. I'm easily frightened.

Is it possible to thrive in misery? Why do I ask this? Sales is an honest line of work like any other, isn't it? What's wrong with telemarketers?

This could be enough for today. No one is reading! No one is reading!

All my misery is my fault. I can always go home crying. Even if I were to go into evil now, there would be the record of what good I have done in people's hearts in the past—my yearbook and Caitlin's letter serve as records. But no one writes mean things in your yearbook.

Novel or girlfriend. _The Compatibilist Ethos_ [working title] or _Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff_. What about both? What about perfection? What about protection? What's there to say about depression?

Kathy, I hate to break it to you, but I think you might just be a symbol here.

There. I said it.

Now—doesn't _that_ feel better?

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis,

praying (hoping) that our fragility is something _very fragile_—and that someone will push that fucker off the table!

ADDENDUM— Sometimes, you have to do your own pushing, and human the broom and dustpan, besides. Nicole says don't martyr yourself to a job, that you have to temper a general principle like "never quit" with plain _common sense_. It is strange that I have emotional problems. I can deal with Carrie, I can deal with Father, I can even deal with strangers; is this all not so? I can quit, or I can not quit. I could run away to Phoenix, try to make it on my own. I can say what I decide to say to whomever, and whatever happens to me from that, happens. It's all in my command, it is all in my choice, and there's no need, really, for anyone to feel bad about anything. It is all a matter of the calculation. Is this the way things naturally work, and all this madness was self-imposed, or did I just describe an impossible world of desires without feelings that has no bearing on events hereabouts? Nicole seems to have things together—when I talk with her while I am despondent and talking as a pseudoïntellectual neurotic, she often gives reasonable advice and little reasonable admonishments to me. I am afraid of losing face. What would Father think if I told him I quit a job so quickly after taking it adamantly? What would Carrie think? How could I go on, knowing that I volunteered for something for a summer and then ran away, screaming, after two days, after one day, after one hour? I don't think I've been eating as well as I could be, with no one preparing me dinner. Mother would disapprove! I can't have that! I suppose part of my enthusiasm about living alone was for the opportunity to prove that I am mature, that I can take care of myself. I have imagined cleaning up around here too, so everything will be spotless when Mother and Father come home. How can I go on when I can't let myself display what I feel because that would be humiliating and show weakness, but I cannot find it within my ability to hold this all in?

I disgrace myself by staying, and I disgrace myself by going. Everything I do is soaked in blood and this time I have misplaced not my keys, but my happiness and honor.

What if I just quit tomorrow, meet Carrie at the rendevouz point and say "I can't do this"?

But didn't I stay on _The Page_? Didn't I rise to Managing Editor? Oh, but that was different! That was _journalism_! This is fucking _marketing_!

How can I go on? How can I _not_ go on?

I'm so scared. I feel so guilty, like by offering strangers this special deal, I am stealing their valuable time from them. I could have some sort of guilt complex, if the psychobabble has any meaning. I don't like not being liked, but being liked has no corresponding positive effect on me. I can't go through with it; I can't back out. I can't justify a breakdown, nothing can justify a breakdown. Oh, when someone has some deep emotional problem, their friends and families have all sorts of sympathy for them, and treat them real nice. Aren't they being enablers, spoiling the person, who could be saved permanently by a few sink-or-swim sessions? Or, in some cases, their sympathy is really saving a person who would sink in the sessions, I am sure. But there are some things that are not worth saving!

So many people have these ideas about what it means to be a man, a _man specifically_, I mean, when I don't really think it should mean all that much. I don't want to dominate or conquer anyone! "Metrosexual" is a very stupid term. What do grooming habits and fashion have to do with sexual _orientation_? There is so much definition creep! Masculinity is the circumstance of having a penis! Heterosexuality is being attracted to the opposite sex. That's _it._ You can draw all the _correlations_ to other traits that you like, but please don't fuck with the _definition_! These are gut reactions. Maybe I am wrong! Maybe I am exactly what some people say I must be, and am just pretending to have different preferences in some matters.

What do you _say_ to people who decide that they cannot live but they cannot die? How do you explain to them?

—ZMD


#### Entry 96 — Friday 10 June 2005 (Common Era) — " 'I Would Be One Medal of Honor' "

D.—

I quit. I went to the rendezvous area, and Carrie wasn't around, and I called her phone and Adam picked up and he said that Carrie was on an emergency trip to Southern California, and so I told him. I'll have to return the stuff another day: the clipboard, and the credit card slips, and the _cards_.

I was crying during my ART final. Counselor Dianne Green was concerned about me, and we talked. When I got home, she had left a message on the answering machine for my parents. So I called and told her my parents were in India, and then, at her asking, I told her the story. And she asked me to call her on Monday, and I said I would, and so I am going to call my counselor at ten a.m. on the Monday after school got out.

I drove to school in the morning during the blank seventh final, and picked up my chalk portrait. Then I biked back to school to take the final.

Directly after the ART final, but before I actually biked to the rendezvous area, I stopped by the College/Career Center and checked the binder one final time. The thing with Elizabeth Moran was still on top (I hadn't notified the Center that I'd filled it). But the woman there told me something just got faxed in, and she showed me the information for it. Pat Butowick wants eir home office organized.

I have been miserable—moaning and weeping. Now I can reason again. I could be very lost right now. Who is an idiot?

Here's to the Republic of the Nonrestrictive Classification,

Yours,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM— June, a third over? How much television have I watched, and am I to watch? Relax, or bear down? Who believes reluctant searchers, and what is to be done with them? What kind of 17-year-old student has not yet learned how to "suck it up"? I love to hear the voice of Janice Kawaye. June, a _third_ over? Who is an idiot, and what is to happen to em?


#### Entry 97 — Monday 13 June 2005 (Common Era) — "There Is No Place Called Home"

D.—

Socialized with Josh Meltzer in Berkeley for ~7 hours (!) yesterday. Had been planning to see Nicole that day, but did not. Made $55 today. This brings my total earnings (through the "odd jobs") of this summer to $121. I do not have a steady job. Perhaps may consider giving up that search and relying solely on the "odd jobs" for income? Obviously, 'twould mean less money but more time—am not certain on estimates of other costs/benefits, _viz._ loss/gain of prestige within family. Had wanted to prove my mature sense of responsibility to Father, Nicole, _&c._, perhaps? Do not want to be precived as lazy. Wish to be independent soon, for all that this means. Must be more resourceful of time—could always be doing sth. Must remember _fiction ambition_. Have been sleeping too late. Am to cut weeds on hill for Father (I queried by email if he wanted it)—he has paid me in years past; this could count as an "odd job." Summer Xross Country practice starts today. How important? What if _hay_ a job that extends into this? Take it, for the money? Or take Xross, for all that that brings me? Perhaps am too worried about prestige? Can deal with Father, can I not? Father relayed to me by email that can "advertise" in Lake newsletter about the "odd job" availability. Perhaps writing this now is stall tactic? Would like to shock parents with my goodness when they return (this will be on the twenty-third): have house cleaned, show them my chalk portrait, tell them about the money I made, have hill weeds cleared, and whatever else. Writing fiction this summer is something to definitely concentrate on. Writing a novel is a longer, harder process than one tends to imagine. But if I could just sell _one_ short story, that would be _sth_! I cannot let the opinions of others hurt me. One must simply move on, doing just whatever ey thinks is desireable to do. I get scared; I get indecisive. But _think_—I rambled with friend Josh for some absurd block of time yesterday—and did that help? Perhaps not even (as I am so fond of believing) confiding in a hypothetical friend who is female and the best friend one could reasonably hope for would help in the way I am so fond of believing help is possible. It is good to have friends, to socialize, to exchange the ideas! But the solution to what is continually ailing _me_—this—_problem that has no name_ (oh, sh\*t, am _so_ sorry)—may be something one must have to find in eirself.

O, to find it in oneself! This writing may have been _such_ a stall tactic!

_Q: What will I say to Nicole, when she calls tonight?_

_A: Whatever I decide to say._

It is time to go off the record for a while!

Yours,

_Zack M. Davis_


#### Entry 98 — Friday 24 June 2005 (Common Era) — " 'Your Story Still Remains' "

Dearest,

Mother and Father have returned from their trip. I have received my SAT Subject Test scores as well as my second sememster grades.

English 3: A-

US History: A-

Art 2: A-

Spanish 3: B+

Pre Calc: A-

Journalism 2: A

SAT Subject Test in Literature: 770

SAT Subject Test in Math Level 2: 750

SAT Subject Test in U.S. History: 740

I have received publications including application materials from Harvard and Yale (addressed to the Mr. Da S, of course). This was very inspiring to me. _Harvard_ and _Yale_ sent materials to _me_. I am young still (and what does that imply, if anything?), and the glimmer of an official organization holds great value to me. How could I have let my self be as lazy as I have been? There are so many opportunities for me to sieze, so much I can win for my self, so much I could do for others—all this, if I so choose, is it not so? _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ is a very good television show, but one should think I have had my fill of it. "Tangenting" is acceptable in a Diary. What would it mean, and what would it take—to forsake something one loves for the sake of something one thinks one ought to love even more? How much should I give, that I could attend one of those universities, that I might insofar wrangle with the best of them in whatever field I choose, to the best of my ability? Wasn't Active Accords II supposed to be more than just some decoration?

I have not been writing fiction. This room is still very messy.

I have been given so much, I, 46 chromosomes iterated with a lot of input. What do I have to do to do it honor?

One must keep organized, have a proper place for one's things. One should not have to wade through piles of junk when space can be compartamentalized and lists can be made.

I have volunteered to help maintain _j._'s clip files. A three-hours-a-week dealie. There is that organizational glimmer. This room is not glimmery. Cleanliness is next to—humanity. Wouldn't it be _neat_ [_sic_] to have one's records all neatly organized? What if I even kept a record of the books I have read? This Diary has been reöpen'd; I didn't leave it very long. I can use it for whatever I desire, and disk space is cheap. Bless the humans who made computers possible—and develop them further. I like my writing style(s). Who else uses the dots when a prefix has two vowels abutting? I guess I will ask Kathy to the Welcome Dance, if that's what it's called.

Enough.

Here's to good quotations,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"Relics"— I have here a sheet of binder paper that I doodled on during my summer school Chemistry course that I took last year. Here is something that I wrote on it:

24 June–

the interval should be

over now. If you haven't had enough time to heal

by now, then you never ever will, so you should

stop wasting time gettin' over it

One of the doodles on this page became the basis of a short story I have started but have not yet finished. (I know where I want to go with the story.) The doodle drawing is of two children, a white boy and a black girl, staring at a flask of liquid on a platform in front of them. Word bubbles mark their dialogue:

"Behold..." says the boy.

"What is it?" says the girl.

"Destiny."

"What's its density?"

"0.801 g/ml.

"This, undoubtably, is the density of our future!

"A coupl'o swigs of this, and you'd have precognition on just about anything. Raises some philisophical [_sic_] issues, but that's worth it, right? I mean, surely you'd like to know the future!"

Another doodle on the page is of two girls standing in front of a—lectern?—with a thick book open on it. We see them in profile. The girl on our left has her arms out, open, in gesture. The girl on the right has the hand nearest to us at her side and her other hand behind her back, guardedly. Word bubbles mark their dialogue.

"We work well together!" says the girl on the left.

"Only in context." says the one on the right.

"The context of LIFE?!"

"No."

_Dayenu_. Here's to clean rooms, ZMD.


#### Entry 99 — Tuesday 28 June 2005 (Common Era) — "Young Beasts May Feel Shame"

Dear Diary,

I watched "Covenant" today. Another _Nine_ episode is being taped. I had planned to start cutting the weeds on the hill by a selected time today that has already passed.

Did the volunteer thing at _j._ yesterday, working on the clip files. At one point, I was feeling pretty silly, doing this work for free. I wondered what I had been expecting to get out of this. Then a writer, Joe Eskenazi, asked sth like if anyone in the office fancied eirself a photographer. I raised my hand. This was my chance (!).

There were three men involved in some sort of interfaith program coming to be interviewed at two-thirty (1430), and I ended up getting to be the photographer, with a staff camera, a little digital. SO I took photos of the guys while they were being interviewed as they sat on the couch in the interview room, until the batteries ran out. SO I am to get a photo credit in the issue of eighth July (unless the magazine were to decide on a different graphic solution for that piece for some reason). Mr. Eskenazi took down my name for the credit beforehand—"Zack M. Davis"—but _j._ has this horrible style (to go with their horrible new name, no doubt) wherein they like to put bylines and photo credits in (forgive me) LOWERCASE, so it will surely print like "zack m. davis". _J._ is not publishing this week.

I left _j._ ~1630, having arrived ~1000. This makes for six and a half hours, with only I think two short breaks for water and [also, additionally:] getting showed around initially. (And (sths like?) testing out that camera, but that is actually productive because I had to see how it works and all. Of course, within work periods, are there idle moments? One talks with others in an office, and if productive work-related communication were the only motive, surely humans could get by with less words, couldn't they? But I digress, and wonder if I convey the right meaning with all my words here.) It could be funny: I seem to have been a good worker when serving strangers: for the Butowicks for extravagant pay and for _j._ for _no_ pay. But at the same time, I have not yet finished cleaning my room, and I have not yet started clearing the weeds on the hill. Also, I have not had a record of doing my homework consistently. When working with others, there is the motive to keep on time at all times. When alone, somehow, it seems more difficult to keep to a schedule. Father was right, of course.

How many hours of deweeding am I going to do today? How could I justify to Father that the hill has not been cleared by now? How can I explain away any moment I present to others a nonoptimal, uncalculated demeanor? How can I justify to Mother and Father a single pimple on my face or neck, when surely if I could just have better hygiene it would not be so? I'm not perfect so no one can ever love me and it is all my fault!

You know what your problem is, Diary? You can't tell when I am being serious.

_Dayenu_.

Here's to the derivative of _f(x)_ at some time _x_ as I choose it all to be,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"Tiberity/Wait Till Next Day"— One step forward, and one step back? Or is this a treadmill? No longer, let's say. Here's to Beyond Reproach, ZMD.


#### Entry 100 — Wednesday 6 July 2005 (Common Era) — " 'It's So Unlike You' "

D.—

Today I continued cutting the weeds, and I suppose I am done. It would be nice to also clean up the stairs going up the hill, however. I went to xross country practice, also, and upon arriving home I joined the men's group's basketball game. The team I was on lost badly.

When I am done cleaning up my room, it will be—relatively—spartan. I want it to be clean, and without junk lying around. I will make it orderly.

Why don't I leap at chances to write? I can dream about showing off to people my finished ms. of _The Compatibilist Ethos_ [working title] just fine, but when it comes to actually _writing_ the thing—well, I don't do a whole lot of that lately, if you can hear only understatements. There is, of course, still time—it is early in July. However, the time to start, surely, is when it always is—_now_. I must remember my _fiction ambition_ if I want to have these dreams of publishing fiction stories come true—and even without publishing, I will have to have _something_ to show for my summer to Kathy, will I not? Also on the artistics, I could make this summer _TFAoRSS_ xomics for the coming Volume of _The Page_. Father recently bought one of those "all in one" devices for his computer—generally, it will be used as a printer but it also has a _scanner_. It would be grand to meet Laura Fettig and Ashley Mrozek and have a xomic (or two or three or—) already done, with the photographic backgrounds and everything. And a book review. And a few story ideas. To show that I care about _The Page_ to do _all this_ over the summer. To show that _soy dedicada_. I mean _dedicado_.

I have more than $700 in cash. I am still in the informal employ of Pat Butowick. The Butowicks want to sell their house, so I am helping with packing and such. Mrs. Butowick pays well. I get $12 an hour as a base, but she has given me some sort of bonus every time. I get $80 for six hours, f'rinstance.

Recently I have done a lot of reading on _friesian.com_.

I have noticed a while ago an old calculus book of Father's on the dining room bookshelf. I have looked in it a little bit briefly. I have brought it into my room. I figure I ought to study it a bit (or a lot) before summer is out—so that when I start (what I guess I will abrv. as) CLC in late August, I will have sth of a head start. To show that—I am dedicated.

I have plenty to do. I just hope—Father does not ask too many questions about how I spend my days. Being home alone in June was great—I did not have to answer to any human.

I will have to decide carefully what I will do with the cash I have earned this summer—and am to earn. It is not as much as I'd've earned with a payroll job with lots of hours—but I have plenty of splendid things to do. My worry is making it look respectable. (Perhaps a more actually pressing worry would be actually getting myself to do the things I fantasize about doing.) Anyway, a payroll job I get _now_ would not be very high-paying. If I were to diligently spend (for once) this summer developing my skills—well, couldn't that, in the long run, be a financial net positive? I have also thought of maybe performing at one of the open mic nights at Pacific Bay Coffee Co. If I fill in those two blank lines, I could perform (_a cappella_, as I do not play an instrument) my "New Goth Neutral Themesong" [provisional title], and then I could recite Poe's "Annabel Lee."

About the money I now have—I will have to establish a holding contact on that old Wells Fargo bank account that is in my name—saving money is important. Right now, at home, I have room and board _gratis_, but someday I will be paying my own rent and such, and every little bit counts. I would like to be—relatively—frugal. So many people buy so much junk—I will buy things only when I really know I want it. There are certain things I would like to buy this summer, however. I have in mind a few books. I would like to buy a transparent clipboard in the hopes that I can use it with a lamp as a sort of poor human's lightboard. A fresh cartooning pen. Maybe—just maybe, even a recorder for journalism, to replace the ones (yes, that's, sadly, plural) I broke—I think I would get a digital this time. Or also I could purchase a new CD or two! One must make spending decisions carefully—and remember to save. And maybe (what is this _maybe_?) even give to charity, Ayn Rand notwithstanding!

Why don't I jump at the chance to write, except, sometimes, in the Diary? Oh, I do have a good start on that poem—but poetry is lesser in my dreams than fiction stories.

It's summer, and I am a man to have an agenda. One must keep it calm, keep it professional—and active. Things are good, but there may not be cause to relax—I must keep things good and make them much better still.

Is this, all this, my true voice, or am I also grandstanding a little for some future Diaretical readership? (If it is not offensive or anything and it's not a sin to write what I do, perhaps call this the "Anne Frank Jealousy Syndrome." Because surely _some_ Diarists all around must envy her fame, and want _their_ respective Diaries too to be known and approved of—and _loved_. But remember—Frank is famous for _being a Holocaust victim_, for having to hide in that Secret Annex. All this is horrible.)

I may have asked that question before. _Do_ forgive.

It's summer and I have lots to do. I can read a lot, amongst the varied projects. Maybe I will make it all look respectable, or maybe that is a second-hander's notion. I want to keep the novel secret from my parents while I write it—but I _do_ have to write it. An enticing plot is difficult to create—but so what?

Kathy is different.

Gonna do it in my way, _&c._

Here's to Newton,

Zack M. Davis


#### Entry 101 — Thursday 7 July 2005 (Common Era) — "Inspiration Has the Coolest Username / But Not So All the Others Always Look the Same"

D.—

I just thought of a plot for _The Compatibilist Ethos_, that "novel" of mine which I could not come up with an "A" plot for! I have had some sort of vague inkling along these crime lines for some time—but then just in the last half-hour or sth or less my mind has generated a superstructure around that vague concept that I think will service. I almost feel like this new idea goes somewhat against my original conception of what this story would be about. But also I realize that I didn't really _have_ too much of a conception of what this story would be about—mostly I just had some vague vision that I wanted to do something inspiring and hopeful in a secular sort of way. I hope this is accurate.

I know, I haven't actually told you anything yet. It's in a separate file—and I should type out some more notes, whatever I can think of before I decide to actually go to bed. If the idea still looks good in the morning, I think I will—finally have the motivation to write, now that I have an A plot to supplement the sketchy beginning of my B, and C, and—whatever else I thought. Does it really divide so neatly into letters. I'll have to see, when I _write_ it! There are plot issues, to be sure, but plot issues are nothing compared to not really having much of a plot. I do dearly hope this idea looks good in the morning—in the sense that I hope it is actually a good idea; I do not hope that a bad idea will still look good in the morning because I am deluded somehow. Did I dare write that? I don't want to "jinx" myself? Do I believe in that, now? Or have I?

I will have to have something to show for my summer.

Ms. Gunnison will be impressed and happy with my ms.

And Kathy? I am not sure whether to say "We'll see" or "Who cares?"

I haven't really told you what my idea is yet—and I will not, in this entry. But you, Diary, are no person at all. And as for the readership—perhaps by the time you make it into their hands they will already know about this (excuse me) story idea of mine.

Anyway, I am a creative and intelligent human, and that means—Ms. Durant, you are in for something of a _ride_.

Fearless and unashamed.

Here's to the Order of the Pencil and Keyboard,

Zack M. Davis, WRITER

ADDENDUM— And I won't even need any "invisibility shields."

SECOND ADDENDUM—"Surge"— One must remember to make backup copies of one's work. It is no longer Thursday.

THIRD ADDENDUM— Mourn the dead in London, solemnly.


#### Entry 102 — Friday 8 July 2005 (Common Era) — "Dependent-Independent"

Diary:

Not done cleaning my room, but am much farther.

Am to go to the home of Allen Ray and Debra, friends of my parents, at 1930—am to set up their new computer, I understand, for $8 per hour.

Tomorrow, am to attend xross country practice in morning, and start work at the Butowicks' at 1230. Understand Varsity is to run at Pleasanton Ridge, and then afterwards at Shadow Cliffs, as well. Am to drive there with Mother.

Shall have to write text for an advertisement for my "odd job" services—this is for the Lake Assoc. newsletter, understand.

Yours,

Zack M. Davis


#### Entry 103 — Friday 15 July 2005 (Common Era) — "Davis Physics Seven (Caryl Rivers Faith & Reason Edition)"

D.—

No point in keeping away, right?

Today Mother and I went to Davis to take the tour of the University. I drove. The Goldhabers were on the same tour as us—less Sam, who has a back injury. Afterwards, all of us were to go to lunch together. I drove with Mother, following the Goldhabers' vehicle, but we lost each other, and after looking around Davis for a while, Mother just drove me home, no _rendezvous_. We hadn't exchanged cell numbers with the Goldhabers, or agreed on where exactly lunch would be. Mother and I regretted not going to lunch in the Goldhabers' vehicle when we had the chance, opting to follow in the Civic instead.

Why can it seem hard to explain events exactly right?

Mother and I did some things around Walnut Creek yesterday. I got $45 store credit from Bonanza Steet Books for trading in the books I no longer wanted from my bookshelf. At xross country practice that day, we ran to Civic Park, played freeze tag, and ran back.

I added a little to "Devotion" last night. Could it be that fiction writing comes to me much more easily when publication is far from my mind, when I am writing as if only for my own amusement? Seanan Fong had wanted to start a Writing Club at school last scholastic year. Perhaps we will start one this coming year.

Am I "spoiled"?

Nicole Davis and Lauren Shapiro are coming to dinner tonight.

Thinking up entry titles beforehand is okay.

I am working for the Butowicks tomorrow and Sunday.

I have communicated with Erin Greene in comments posts to [redacted].

It is fifteenth July—much of summer break has past. What if it ends having been neither glorious nor mad?

Life is mysterious and amazing. Sometimes things can seem very scary. Are we helpless in the face of the overwhelming reality of it all?

My face—my needs—it could be that I wax cryptic far too much. Are there certain things one feels as if one cannot say, even to you, no person at all? One can sometimes tend to doubt one's feelings and judgements. Is this a good thing, because it keeps one away from irrational fanaticism? Or is it a bad thing, because it leads one to never reach a firm judgement, a fully committed decision? "There are no absolutes," is, of course, [an] absolute. Can we rephrase the idea into a statement that is not self-contradictory? How should we evaluate "There are no absolutes—except this one"? It can seem that I am certain of so little—but am I certain of that? I have thought of showing the Diary to someone—what if I don't? What if I leave it closed to all but me until my death? Of course it will have to be made open after I am dead—all this writing cannot just be for my own amusement and introspection—I want it on the record, someday. It would seem a waste not to.

There is something pure about writing, I have said, and I meant it. The image of typing rapidly, putting one's being into the text, not caring one iota about what any human on all God's Earth—or elsewhere—will think of what is coded there—is beautiful.

Maybe this entry, like many others, like countless silent oaths in mind, like countless vows scribbled in notebooks, could serve as a new declaration of purpose: to write shamelessly. But haven't I sworn to be shameless before? What else was all that business with the Roman numerals about?

One must do one's research.

Something may have been bothering me, or maybe not. And I am always afraid of libeling someone in my Diary. Not only do I doubt my feelings and my opinions, but I doubt my memory. I have said this more than once to my Diary, as if—as if I want to escape responsibility for my words. The pen may or may not be mighter than the sword (observe the indecision again) but the pen (or the word-processor) does seem to have (_seem_ to have?) unique powers of its own. One can be afraid to use one's words, I suppose (I merely _suppose_?) for fear of wielding their (perhaps) terrible power wrongfully.

Our tour guide today, a woman who attends the University, mentioned something about a course (it had to have been a course, I suppose) called Physics 7. I think she said something about how men once did better than women there, but now the same material is presented in a different way, and the women's collective performance shot up as a result of this. I think the guide used the phrase "women's brains" somewheres.

Perhaps you see why I get so afraid of misrepresenting things in my Diary. My memory is only so good. (I was sporadically, as I felt like it, taking down a few notes on the tour, but they are poor beyond poor.) If I could magically be handed, at the end of each day, a verbatim transcript of everything people have said within my earshot that day, I could include in my Diary much more expansive and interesting commentary on those around me.

In the notes I was taking on the tour today, I have this written: "physics 7 — gender equity for med school".

You know, our tour guide did not have any notes on her; she was telling us everything from memory. It occurs to me that one should not have to take _physics_, or at least, not very much physics, to go to _med_ school. Did our tour guide misinform us, perhaps by misspeaking? Or is "physics" short for "physiology" in this context?

Anyway, the only reason I mention the topic is because of the gender egalitarianist streak I seem to have. It disturbs me that there should be such things as "women's ways of knowing." Are the sexes really so different?

Let me consider. Say that by teaching the same material in a new, different way, you considerably boost the performance of women in that class. Okay. What happens to the men's scores? If they go up considerably by a similar amount as well, that _could_ seem (_maybe_) to indicate that the new teaching method is better, but also that men have a greater innate ability in the subject—because with the new teaching method, _everyone's_ scores go up, but the men still score higher than the women. Certainly not a "best of all possible worlds" for someone who hopes the sexes aren't too different outside the realm of—well, sex.

If the men's scores stay the same with the new method, that could seem to indicate that while men learn equally well with both methods, women need a particular teaching method to learn as well. That is, _if_ the boost in women's scores from the new method results in parity. If the boosted women's scores are _better_ than the unchanged men's scores, it would seem to indicate that men are more insensitive (of course) to the teaching method, but women are smarter _if_ you teach them the right way. A somewhat similar conclusion could result if the men's scores actually did gain a boost, but were outstripped by the women's greater boost. But if the boosted women's scores are _worse_ than the unchanged men's scores, then that would seem to indicate men are naturally smarter and also more method-insensitive.

If the men's scores go down with the new method, that would seem to suggest men and women have exclusive learning styles, which would seem to indicate that _single-sex classes_ would make for the best education system.

I have made sure to use a lot of *seem to*s and such, because one must be very careful with statistics. There are many ways to make a seemingly [plausible] analysis fall flat. All of what I have just said could very well be nonsense, and it could be shameful to have had written it. (But then, must everything in a Diary be rigorously checked? Could not these pages be used just for bouncing off ideas? It is not as if I am writing for publication—not _immediate_ publication.) It is not as if there are only two teaching methods possible in the world, after all. And "men" and "women" are not monolithic collectives, they are just groups of unique individuals who happen to have something in common (_viz._, sex). But if the bell curve of one group shifts locations, as it were, when one variable (_e.g._, teaching method) is changed, true, it does not say much or anything about a given individual—but it would seem to say something about the general nature of having a particular trait (_e.g._, sex). What if the sexes learn the material equally well, but the tests are somehow biased? But if that's so, then we have found a cognitive difference—we just don't know if it's in learning the material or in taking tests.

Treat every human as an individual! Judge them by their merits alone, and nothing else! It seems like such a sensible, _just_ rule. But it could be (forgive me) that there is a problem with it. Question for study: is Brianna Larson a fast runner? I would say she is a very fast runner—for a girl. But if you hold her to the boys' standards, she is really nothing so special. So what is a track fan to do? Clearly, it's not fair to hold her to the boys' standards. So it would seem that it's okay to say that Brianna is fast—for a girl. After all, it's only athletics. But what about when it isn't? Why is it so acceptable to say "I'm strong—for a girl" but not acceptable to say "I'm good at math—for a girl"? In one way that was a stupid question—the physical differences between men and women are obvious, well-known, and well-accepted, while cognitive differences are not so obvious, and are widely disputed. If there is a difference in, say, math ability, as _some_ people (for some reason) think, it has to be slight, because it hasn't been proven. I don't believe it. But it could be that the question strikes at something much more fundamental. Even if it were proven that, oh, I don't know, say, men can't write poetry—and I said that I'm a good poet for a boy—could it be that somehow that me proclaiming my skill relatively based on sex in this way seems—wrong? Women are weaker physically, okay, it's only brute physical strength; it really doesn't matter so much, the _mind_ being the important thing. But when you get into cognitive and behavioral differences—that strikes at one's _identity_ in a way that purely bodily differences don't. Am I being overly dualistic? After all, the body affects the mind, and vice versa. Even if we are dualists and consider the body as just a vehicle for a gender-neutral soul of pure consciousness that could just be hooked up to any body and be good to go—surely there are certain aspects of living in a male body or a female body that are going to have effects—maybe subtle, or maybe not—on the development of the mind.

But why should we feel resistance to the idea of mental sex differences? Those who assert great difference between the sexes generally don't go around saying that one sex is superior to another. They're just _different_. And they complete each other. Even those who could be called "gender egalitarianists" don't generally dislike _all_ difference—it is not as if I expect or want there to be equal numbers of gay and straight people! Why resistance? Why not celebrate diversity? I remember reading—I think it was in a letter to the editor of _Time_ on an article the magazine ran on the subject of women in the sciences—the viewpoint that it is valuable that men and women are reaching the right solutions by different mental pathways. So on a tricky problem, scientists of one sex can catch something that their colleagues of another sex might have missed. I think that was it, or might have been it.

The resistance could lie in the attractiveness of dualism. We expect to hold all humans by the same standards—we believe in free will—we believe intelliegence to have a universal nature—we believe all humans have the capacity to act rationally. So when someone asks "_Whose_ reason?" you can see why we get testy. Because we don't want to believe our lovers are alien intelligences, whom we can never understand and never empathize with—because I don't want Kathy to be some incomprehensible creature with whom I cannot communicate, but only compromise.

But just because we _want_ something does not mean it is true.

But it doesn't mean it isn't!

I spent a long time on this entry. It wasn't written all in one sitting—Nicole and Lauren have come and left since I started. But it was nice to write, especially on this topic that I have—feelings about. Perhaps a problem with Diary writing is that because entries are written "day of," they cannot be edited (besides basic spelling, grammar, _&c._) extensively without losing the _immediacy_ of the medium. The _point_ is that an entry is marked with a date, and that what is there is what the writer wrote on that date. So if I said something horribly stupid in this entry, if there is a gaping [hole] in my reasoning, if I have been _unforgivably sexist_, I think I will leave it in the record anyway. Because this is what I wrote today. I can't very well go out and burn all the things I wrote in the past and no longer agree with. If I really hate something I wrote, I can write about how much I hate it in a future entry. But maybe I should not do this so often—after all, there is such a thing as enough metawriting.

Yours,

Zack M. Davis


#### Entry 104 — Monday 18 July 2005 (Common Era) — " 'Why Are You Different From Them, Odeen?' "

D.—

I worked 14 and three-quarters hours on the weekend. Assuming I have counted correctly (why all this uncertainty?) I now have $949 in paper money. This is not counting those $2 bills. Also, I deposited $320 in my savings account last week. I intend to deposit more soon. All this money could feel something like a small fortune. Depositing money in a bank account is very satisfying. Money in your bank is money that you don't have on you or in your house in physical currency—but it is equally _yours_. I am interested in seeing the next bank statement for the account—and because I have actually deposited money that I have earned working, it will be, in a sense, _my_ statement for the very first time. Currently the statements have two names on them—mine and Father's. One can not have one's account solely in one's own name until one is of age.

Mrs. Butowick will probably have more work for me the weekend after next, and she said she would give my name to someone else who might have work for me.

Yesterday, I told Father that today I would clear the stairs on the hill. So I _definitely_ have to do that today, whatever else I do. (Does that mean I should have started already? But I _am_ _writing_. Writing has an _importance_ to me, so when I can get myself to do it, I ought to. If "getting" oneself to do something has any meaning.) One must use (spend?) one's time wisely. Yesterday Father also gave me $140 with which to buy new running shoes, the change from which transaction I will return to him later.

There has to be such a thing as enough metawriting, but maybe I am not very sensitive to it. Now, I am not sure if anyone (of my oh-so-wide Diaretical audience) has noticed this, but the name of Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff has appeared in my Diary at far above chance level. One only puts so much time and effort—and skill (and honesty?)—into one's Diary—it only scratches something of the surface of one's life—without actually damaging it, of course (!). I suppose it could be argued that by sheer random sampling error, a name could be greatly underrepresented or overrepresented. It raises a point—surely Josh Meltzer is by any standard my best friend, but he does not appear in the Diary all _that_ much for it. Then, this is probably easily explained by the fact that he lives in another city and I do not see him so much. "Out of site (!), out of mind." How much interaction do people ordinarily have with their best friends? It could be a meaningless question. _Who_ is the ordinary person? Is ey male or female? There is the mean, the median, and the mode, and none of them tells the whole story.

It could be that so far I have had a very introspective narrative style. My Diary does not _describe_ other people so much.

But back to Kathy. I have thought that since I mention her so much here, I might as well try to articulate here why this should be so. Clearly, I like her—or I like the _idea_ of liking her (or so on up)—or I like the idealized vision of her I have built up in my head—which may have little to do with the woman herself. Again, what constitutes a crush—and what love? How does it start? What is it that I saw special—and see no longer, or not so much—in Lisa Rodgers? Back in middle school, what was it that made Molly Ashkenas so fascinating—I mean _besides_ the fact that she was a girl and I wasn't? Why Molly specifically?

(As an interesting but trivial note, I might as well mention that I have just noticed that in the 2001–2002 Tehiyah yearbook, the personal pages of Molly and myself are printed on opposite sides of the same piece of paper.)

So why Kathy? A thing is, I don't really feel like I know her all that well. She was in my English 2 class. I sat near her for at least a good deal of the scholastic year. And she was on my xross country team—not junior year, though.

How do friendships happen, anyway? Are they best spontaneous, or does sometimes someone have to go out and actually _try_ to make friends? I only have four people I would really call friends—Meltzer and the Goldhabers. A friend, I have thought and stated, is someone who you associate with _outside_ of things like school and xross country practice. If Nadia Thompson were to ask me if I considered her a friend, I suppose I would say yes—but I would be using what I might feel might be a watered-down definition. Maybe I have been too strict about the definition of _friend_. Perhaps I could start calling many of my friendly acquaintences _friends_, and call people like Josh Meltzer _close friends_. Maybe I should stop spending so much time on matters of mere nomenclature!

I don't have any friends—_close_ friends—at Las Lomas. I think I take a little perverse pride in this. This summer, during a discussion with Mike Seed, he told me about how his friends are graduating ahead of him. (We had been talking about seniority in high school.) I said with pride how I don't have any friends at this school, so I'm already used to it.

"What? I'm not your friend?" he basically said (it could be verbatim) with mock indignation. I explained to him my definition of _friend_.

But back to Kathy. The problem with having a crush on someone you don't think you know so well is that maybe when you do get to know em better, you might not like em anymore. And how does one deal with that? But if a relationship is not about to happen "spontaneously" (_i.e._, at the will of both persons simultaneously) then it would seem that the way to start to find out would be to openly express interest—and see what happens. It could be that one doesn't usually get to know _anyone_ very intimately—not like one might imagine. I know _my_ "inner world" is vast—so why shouldn't anyone else's be almost as vast? Or vaster?

You can't need to know someone in order to get to know them.

So perhaps it isn't relevant overmuch to me now what Kathy would think of my Diary—this story I tell about my self. Because it could be that when one thinks _so_ much about another, imagines so many exchanges, one should go _do_ something about it. Haven't I reached that "critical mass"?

But I stray from the question again. I have been writing—and not writing—for a long time now today. I am not sure how satisfied I am with the more recent words. So much doubt!

Kathy is intelligent and ambitious. This, surely, is a matter of public record. I remember from something she said sophomore year that she signed up for some absurd number of AP courses junior year. I think she said her family had to talk her out of taking another.

Straight As are sexy.

She plays an instrument, and lacrosse.

She seems confident, self-assured. Tenacious.

I want to say that Kathy is not "feminine," nor does she cross any lines. _Kathy makes sense on her own terms_.

I remember once she mentioned her church—is she religious? I hope not.

Enough for now. I don't know right now how good of a writer I am—right now.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis.

ADDENDUM— One can spend a long time wading through memories and wonderings and one's poems, and it is good. But moderation in all things, hey? —ZMD.


#### Entry 105 — Tuesday 19 July 2005 (Common Era) — " 'But All the While...' "

D.—

Well, not in all things. It would be silly to seek moderation in intelligence, for example.

Today I spent a long time on the internet, much of it reading and skimming articles from _Reason_'s online archive. I am still grateful for Cathy Young.

At ~1630, I went to town. I deposited $400 into my savings account, and I bought new running shoes with money Father had given me for the purpose. I put the change and receipt on his desk and mentioned that I put them there in the note that I wrote before departing to xross country practice.

Mother got a job in San Francisco.

It could be that ambition and inspiration come to me in rare sudden sparks that are quickly blown away by the wind. (I can mix metaphors any old time, however.)

Today I got the idea that I could write a column for _The Page_ that would discuss my flirting with libertarianism, and about the concept of fixed negative rights, property rights being important to this discussion. And about how rights, if they are actually to be _rights_, are absolute, and not provisional. So if we have property rights, then it's taxless _laissez faire_, but if not, where do you draw the line, huh? I had once thought that in _Atlas Shrugged_, Ayn Rand did not make a strong-enough case against the mixed system. I didn't understand how she could say (I think it was in "Faith and Force") that the choice was between Objectivism and Communist slavery. It could be that now I am sort of seeing her point. So I thought that for this column I could talk about the libertarian position representing solid _principles_ and _rights_, as opposed to just putting up whatever laws one likes. But _then_ I would mention that utilitarianism—the greatest good for the greatest number—is also an solid _principle_. But of course there is the question of _what_ is the common good, and _who_ defines it. The phrase "All or nothing" came to mind. I am not sure if I am doing the best job possible describing my thoughts—but then, when one thinks of writing something, the entire point, it would seem, is putting one's thoughts into words! Better to make a mistake in one's Diary than _The Page_, right? Maybe not—maybe they are both bad enough to warrant no comparison—is it not honorable to treat all the words one writes with a certain sacredness?

Maybe I _am_ doing the best job possible—by definition. But maybe I'll not get into this again—right now. I can _press on_ in the Diary, and if I were to misrepresent my self it would be my own fault.

Opinion writing could be hard for me because of my uncertainty. It could be hard for me to come out with a _strong opinion_ on most issues, because I see both sides, and I don't know where to stand. I like Ayn Rand—and I go to a public school. Maybe I do have some opinions about some things. I generally really like personal liberty—it's those personal economic liberties that can somehow get worrisome. The idea of property rights is grounded in the idea that one has the right to keep the fruits of one's labor. That makes sense. But what about land ownership? No human creates the land—it can be developed, of course, but is that enough to justify—as an inalienable right—land ownership? But there does not seem to be any other way to live—can anyone just walk into any building or area anywhere, just because no human created the Earth? I do seem to recall reading in something by Rand sth like that the only proper definition of "creation" involves making something new from things that already exist. It's a good point. _Of course_ no one creates something from nothing. If I expend an incredible effort building a boat, am I to have no right to it because the wood my ("the," some might say) boat is made of comes from trees in the forest, and trees are a part of nature and belong to everybody? This would be absurd; it's _my_ boat; _I_ built it. But where did I get the right to cut the trees? Are they trees from my property? Whence my right to own that property? Or did I buy the wood? The person I bought it from, whence _eir_ right to _own_ the land where the trees were? People could be said to establish a _claim_ on land when they _develop_ it from a state of nature—they cut down trees, they dig irrigation ditches, they build buildings, plant crops. They are "mixing their labor" with the land, and thus they get the _rights_ to it. But there is something to be said for preserving part of the natural environment, right? Put under this model of gaining property rights by developing land, it could seem that this cannot happen—natural land would seem to be undeveloped land by definition—and thus, no one can claim it as property and _keep_ it as a nature preserve, because to make a valid claim on land you have to put work into the land.

You know, for such a clear cut, all or nothing thing like _rights_, this ownership rights of land thing seems too "squishy." How much of your labor to you have to mix with natural land to make it yours? Can one just go out into the frontier, chop down a tree here and a tree there, and maybe dig a few holes, and then say, "All this is my private property"?

The thing is, there hasn't _been_ so much of a frontier for a long time now. I mean longer than many people might initially think I mean—the very word "frontier" conjures up images of American Manifest Destiny—white man subduing Nature in the march of civilization Westward. But as pretty of an image this is (in many ways) the fact is that _there were already people living here_, of course. Does it matter so much if they didn't develop it with big buildings and such, the way the Europeans did? The American settlers weren't claiming land from _Nature_, they were taking it from _people_. But then, haven't I heard it said that many Native American tribes had no concept of property ownership? (One must do one's research.) If this is so, it could raise many issues. Is there any good solution when people with such radically different viewpoints meet?

Let's play alternate history. What if the European explorers, decided _not_ to colonize the New World, because there were already people living here? What course would "Western" civilization take? Technological development is _so_ important to me—it's the means by which humans gain power over their environment. And the Native Americans of North America, I am given to understand, weren't really doing so much of it. The Incas and Aztecs were really advanced. Right? When did the Inca fall? One must _really_ do one's research; I am now just throwing out ideas in the Diary. SO where does this leave me? I am proud of the cities that have been built on North American soil. Civilization, technology, _progress_! But I can't very well condone what happened to the Native Americans. What am I supposed to do? Loudly curse the white man for taking over the West from the natives, and, under my breath, utter words of thanks and praise that, whatever the ethics, he went and _did_ it?

And what does this mean for _us_? Is it okay for someone to come and (slaughter us and) take our land because they will, in some sense, make better use of it?

All this is very bleak.

But the Native Americans could adopt European technology. Trade and contact can occur without violence. Why is technology so important, again?

I have written some interesting things here—maybe some of these ideas could be adapted into something for _The Page_. Maybe my uncertainty and the way some ideas run into others could have something to do with my fascination with the idea of writing fiction. A fiction writer needs not be inclined as a column or op/ed writer to come down hard with a _point_ or an _argument_. A fiction writer, it seems to me, has the option of delving into ideas without pushing a particular idea overmuch—not that this option needs to be used—look at, well, Ayn Rand. One can be an _explorer_ of viewpoints, rather than a _conquistador_. But then, maybe this is not as true (if there can be [degrees] of truth) as I make it sound. As I stated in Entry 101, I now have a better idea of what I could do for a story for my dream of a novel. I scribbled out a few ideas last night, even. But I might not be _perfectly_ comfortable with this prospective path for Brooke. My objective in writing (not that I have done so much writing on it) the story has been to write something _inspiring_. I want to write an elegant, interesting, _inspiring_ novel. But that goal—may be too vague, may be invalid. A work of fiction cannot be a shot of pure inspiration. (Though there may be a drug like that someday.) It's a _story_, of course, a narrative about _people_ doing _things_ for _reasons_.

_You can't write a good story and avoid_ ideas.

I want my protagonist to be something of an ideal woman. I don't mean someone _perfect_— but someone who really has the right mindset, the right attitude about things. If I can't write her story and feel entirely good about her decisions—mustn't it be because I don't have confidence in _my_ decisions—because I don't know what the ideal human does—because I don't know what I want?

I am _so_ good at choosing entry titles.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis,

0019 Wednesday 20 July 2005


#### Entry 106 — Wednesday 20 July 2005 (Common Era) — " 'It's Only For a Day' "

D.—

It could be that there is a limit to banality that even I dare not exceed. It is with this in mind that I may avoid saying that time flies, or complaining that there aren't enough hours in the day.

Today I have again spent some absurd number of hours on the internet. The _Reason_ archives, again, captivated me. Is this something like what it is to undergo a conversion? Mother would probably disapprove of me spending so much time on computers, but it is not as if I have a physical fitness problem—not with the running I do. And surely sitting around reading and skim-reading as I have is better than sitting around playing computer shooter games. Unless, I suppose, one's goal is to develop hand-eye coördination, or skill at shooting games. Or a statist political philosophy.

I also slept late, as one might guess from the "time stamp" after the "signature" on " 'But All the While...' "

I also watched part of "Battle Lines," but not very much, just the beginning up to where Kira is crying in grief and Sisko sees the natives and says that we've got company.

It would do my ends good to devote more time to writing—and not just in the Diary. It's probably pretty funny how I dream, talk, and even _write_ about writing a novel—or some short stories, but I rarely actually _write_ the fiction. It's harder than it sounds, I've found—not to suggest that this is any excuse in the world. Writing a book takes a long time and lots of effort. It's delusional for one to think that one can write a great book-length story with only casual effort. People write full-time, do they not? And of course, I have yet to create any new _TFAoRSS_ episodes this summer—though I have a stockpile of ideas. I see no reason not to create many—tasks that I complete now for school are tasks that I will not have to do during the school year. Not that creating an episode of _TFAoRSS_ is an ordinary "task"—it is a work of art, and I am privileged to have the opportunity and means to create it. Did I not have that ambition to shock Laura and Ashley—and Ms. Gunnison—with my goodness?

It is as a matter of rare sparks, blown away by a cruel chance wind ... but it could be that there comes a time when one takes matters into eir own hands.

As if they were somewhere else to begin with.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis


#### Entry 107 — Thursday 21 July 2005 (Common Era) — " 'What If I Would Say?' "

D.—

Haven't I noticed some time once before, how there can be a certain pleasure in being busy? When did I forget it? This, I do not remember.

On summer days alone in the house, especially when one wakes up late, one may do everything at eir leisure—and may feel pressure on certain late afternoons, when it is 1600 and one has not accomplished much—or indeed, decided on something to accomplish.

An (unbiased?) look in the mirror shows my body to be exquisitely manly. Have I yet fully matched it in mind? (If it seems that I am decending into patriarchy, Diary, I assure you that this is not so.)

Today I went to the library to check out some books on starting one's own small business for Mother, and to pick up _Gold_, which was on hold for me.

I watched "The End, pt. III" at 1530. I feel as if the story of the three-part episode was not so good. A criticism I thought up today was "There are so many *deus ex machina*s, you can't even count them." I'm not sure if that's valid. I don't know. Am I not thinking enough? Basically what I want to say is that when I _love_ the characters enough, I might not care overmuch or at all when some story part seems contrived or sketchy. Raven again looks amazing in the white cloak. Starfire's solution of fighting _each other_'s dark sides was brilliant—it's so simple and I didn't see it beforehand, and I give the writer much credit for it. Now—to wait for Season Five, should I have time to watch it while it is airing.

Today at xross country practice I did some of what could be almost conscious Starfire imitation in my dealings, as I do sometimes. I use it for what may be something like Socratic irony. It pleases me. Could assuming the tone, however, be immature? It could do me good to consider the issue.

I did some reading in _Gold_.

It is sad that we should feel inclined to give any shred of validity to the idea of "emotional coercion." However, we do have all sorts of dependencies on others, and so it should not seem surprising that the opinions and reactions of another can cause us some sort of "pain"—however, one must remember that one should not feel one has a _right_ to be approved of—for one has not. It is _not_ coercion for them to not like you, and it's sad that I should even feel for a moment that this may not go without saying. If someone thinks you are going to—the bad place—you will have to judge such claims for yourself, or abdicate judgement.

Father says he does not think he is the enemy. I have never marked him so—not for long, anyway, realizing the insolence of such a listing—I just would like there to be no inquiry into the content of what I am writing. I have informed him of your existence, Diary... he would never _look_, to be sure. It is just that I disliked the questions—have you been writing?—what have you been writing? Of course, privacy—no one reads without permission—is key for a Diary, and I _have_ it, to be sure—but wouldn't it be even greater if no one even knew (_now_) that there was something to look at?

I need to get up earlier. I need to write fiction. I have masturbated every morning for—how many mornings? Why? Shouldn't I have satiated myself for at least a while? I should know the sensation, and it is not as if it gets any better—straight as it is. But of course one is not satiated. One does not generally get tired of food or sleep for more than a day. One imagines EP has something to say on the matter.

I need to get up earlier. I need to write fiction.

Here's to not leaving anything out,

Zack M. Davis


#### Entry 108 — Friday 22 July 2005 — "Blistering Nebulosity"

D.—

The joke was on me, perhaps. It has been said that sometimes one must just "laugh things off"—and it may be that I am doing that, in my fashion.

Why do I have so much trouble actually sitting down to write the stories I proclaim I want to write? It could be a silly and trivial profession, to be sure—but this does not concern me now, I think, because it does not need to be a _profession_.

Am I a parasite, or how much of one?

I must not complain, if things are not as easy for me as I had expected. The only one to blame is me—for either my weakness or my expectations, though I think it should be the former.

The problem may be that there is something I have failed to understand about summer vacation.

I must not complain ...

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

1442


#### Entry 109 — Saturday 23 July 2005 (Common Era) — "Nonabdication"

D.—

It could be funny. Why should it be that there should come to pass incidents that I almost feel I do not wish to document in the Diary, and not primarily because of any troubles I might have with description? (I may need to practice the description.)

Take this morning, for instance, during the xross country run. On the Iron Horse Trail there can be these little posts at waypoints, and a short fence—or I think maybe it is more like a gate—on the side. Now sometimes when I am running, I take to leaping over things that don't need to be leapt over—it is a bit a show-offishness I indulge in, you see? So this morning, I did a sort of assisted leap over one of the gateish things—I jumped, but I put my hand on the thing—_while there was someone next to it_: some woman in-line skater (surely it was in-line skates) who I suppose was probably leaning against the gateish thing to strech, or _something_. Was she touching it? I did not touch her, of course—but I rattled the gateish thing, and that is _just so rude_. Running onwards, I yelled back: "Sorry! Couldn't resist!" And then I said "Stupid!" referring to myself, for I was very embarassed. And my running became a little erratic thereafter, for I was ashamed.

That wasn't even the only gate I went over that run—there was another, earlier. Such show-offishness must be—childish. What on Earth could I be trying to prove to people, when I do things like that? What's the _point_ of jumping over a railing or a fire hydrant? The action of clearing some barrier may have some element of fun to it—but do it in private, please: why show off stupid substunts? Who cares, grow up, don't rattle this thing I am stretching against, _andcetera_!

I did yard work for Father. I cut some small eucalyptus away with an ax, and he and I did some sawing of a fallen tree part up on the hill, and I cleared leaves. Father has more yard work for me for other days. We will have to finish with the fallen wood on the hill.

I started drawing a _TFAoRSS_ episode yesterday, and I printed out the dialogue text from which I will trace.

It could be that sometimes, things can seem meaningless. But I must not complain.

Here's to the full explanation,

Zack M. Davis


#### 110 — Tuesday 26 July 2005 — " 'I Know What I Want; You Just Take Me Through the Motions' "

"At times, though, it's hard to puzzle out [the characters'] problems in the midst of all the emotional turmoil. While it may leave women teary-eyed and heart-warmed, guys might be left scratching their heads."

> —"_Summer of Glorious Madness_: break the rules and build a garden" by Cecelia Choi, _The Page_, Vol. 54, Iss. 4, March 4, 2005

" 'You seek escape from pain. We seek the achievement of happiness. You exist for the sake of avoiding punishment. We exist for the sake of earning rewards. Threats will not make us function; fear is not our incentive. It is not death that we wish to avoid, but life that we wish to live."

—_Atlas Shrugged_ by Ayn Rand

D.—

It is very easy to waste time. There are so many wonderful things I can do with summer hours—and day after day, I don't end up doing very much. Already much of _this_ good day has past, too. It's disgusting of me. Development in character could happen slowly—but maybe too I can force it faster. I have decided not to use the internet or watch television today.

Father bought me a new bicycle on Sunday. I have encountered some issues with it. For instance, it has seemed to me that the bike makes a little more noise than it should when it is in gear combinations two-seven or two-eight.

And I have found the front derailleur, controlled by the left shifter, does not always shift up (from two- to three-) when I try to make it do so. Having examined the owner's manual, I now suppose this may have been caused by putting too much force on the pedals while trying to shift. Yesterday, puzzled and dismayed at the problem, I was riding in the neighborhood, testing the left shifter repeatedly while looking down at the chainrings—and I rode directly into the right back side of a big green parked motor vehicle—an SUV, I suppose. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going. I was not hurt, nor was my bicycle. Surely I could not have damaged the car—the crack-lines (indiscernible or nearly so by touch) I saw in the vehicle's backlight must have been there already.

I have not been to file at _j._ since the twelfth. I have plenty of great things I can do. I am liking my present condition—alone in the house, left alone in a comfortable, well-stocked house to occupy myself as I will. It could be very unnatural, for someone like me to be supported as I am in a way that I can enjoy this luxury. I recognize this.

Yesterday night, I installed onto my computer _Microsoft Entertainment Pack: The Puzzle Collection_. I played the games yesterday and today. It could have been—it _was_—a filthy waste of time.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis


#### 111 — Wednesday 27 July 2005 — " 'I Know What I Want, _And That's More Than You Can Say_' "

"Studies have confirmed that with a lot to do, people really use their time well and do better in all their activities. People with extra time, on the other hand, feel less urgency and end up squandering valuable time away. Their performance suffers as a result."

> —_Major in Success, 4th edition: Make College Easier, Fire Up Your Dreams, and Get a Very Cool Job_ by Patrick Combs

"He had attended to the matter without breaking his chain of appointments, without raising his voice, without sign of strain, uncertainty, or apprehension; he had acted with the swift precision of a military commander under sudden fire—and Gwen Ives, his secretary, had acted as his calmest lieutenant. [...] her manner of performing her duties suggested the kind of rational cleanliness that would consider any element of emotion, while at work, as an unpardonable immorality."

—_Atlas Shrugged_ by Ayn Rand

D.—

What is stagnation? One would do well to recognize its "presence" immediately and take all appropriate countermeasures.

Allen Ray Powell left a message for me today on the answering machine. I could have gotten the phone at the time, but did not. He would like to talk to me about some marketing ideas that he thinks he could use my expertise with. I did not hear the message until Father came home and _he_ played the message.

I have not yet written any fiction today, nor have I done today any more work on my CLC summer assignment, nor have I worked today on a _TFAoRSS_ episode.

I used the internet. I played some _Rat Poker_. I did some reading in _We the Living_. None of these are bad things.

> In the morning, I masturbated.

What has happened to my vaunted purity? What has happened to my hours—my agenda? There is no reason for me to look guilty and bewildered in front of Father.

Gonna make my self pure, _&c._

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"My Act and My Word"— It is—interesting what an athletic game and a shot of righteous anger can do for a person. No doubt EP has something to say about this as well. At xross country practice, we played two forms of tag. I enjoyed myself. I even sung a part of the _Teen Titans_ themesong while running, more than once—just for fun, to drop a reference. Walking back to the parking lot after tag, I became involved in a conversation of a crude nature—a conversation that deserves no further account here. Later, talking to Coach Dan, I posited the possibility of me running by myself tomorrow (practice is at 0730 at the Sutherland gate) and he said he did not trust me to run on my own. I became _quite_ indignant and even turned to ridicule: for example, a thing I did to this end is that I rhetorically asked if I should run with a video camera to prove that I ran. He said no. "I'll be there at 7:30," I eventually said.

I sang during my drive home. I passed up the house initially, reset the trip odometer, and drove up to where the Shell Ridge entrance by Indian Valley is, and back, taking a left on Lakewood Circle on the way back (as opposed to going on the big hill on La Vista as per on the way there). This was for the purpose of finding out how long this route is, for running.

Why do some people wave to someone between cars when they see someone from their group going to or leaving from the group's destination that day?

I _keep_ my word, Diary. Right now I don't see how I can ever allow myself to lie again, except under particularly extreme circumstances. Surely the man who does not trust _me_ is a fool, is he not?

So it turns out I have work with Allen Ray tomorrow at 1530.

Here's to passion,

Zack M. Davis


#### 112 — Friday 29 July 2005 — "Fragments and Tangents of Possible Prelude to Theories of Control"

D.—

Sometimes one is inclined to declare the inevitability of general turmoil, and take a strange kind of release from tension in this. Sometimes, one starts to crassly say: "We're in—" and then breaks off, remembering what the next word actually _means_. Sometimes, one goes ahead and _says_ it.

How is one to account for a breach between one's personal and universal theories of ethics? One might consider it dishonorable to do something eirself, but have no problem (even "on the contrary"!) with others doing the something. Is this discontinuity to be reckoned acceptable? I tentatively posit that it is perfectly acceptable to hold oneself to a higher standard. But suppose one were to concede the practical necessity of a something ey could not do eirself without losing honor in eir own eyes. Would this not render the "higher" standard for self and the universal standard for others mutually exclusive? "Someone has to do the dirty work"?

An ethical system, it would seem, would define specific actions to be virtuous or sinful or amoral. An amoral action would seem to be one that _doesn't matter_. Is it reasonable to define an action in the system to be amoral, while conceding that it is necessary or at least somewhat desirable for the smooth functioning of society? It must be reasonable, because choosing to study one profession over another is clearly amoral (assuming the profession one chooses to study is one like "steel worker" and not like "jewel thief") while not everyone can choose the same profession if we are to maintain the division of labor. So a profession choice is (generally) an amoral action—but, if the preservation of civilization as we know it is to be considered an ethical goal, it does actually _matter_ in some ethical sense—_viz._, it affects in some way an ethical goal.

Why is the preservation of civilization an ethical goal? Do only _idiots_ use "moral" and "ethical" interchangeably, as if the two words did not have different definitions?

Sometimes one is inclined to declare the inevitability of general turmoil because of the sometimes seemingly insurmountable difficulties inherent in—nearly everything, it could seem. Of course there are actions that involve no difficulties, but deciding what actions to do and when invariably does—doesn't it? One can write a page, and find oneself unable to tell if it is nonsense. One can be torn between conflicting thoughts and feelings and be unable to figure out which are Emotion and which are Reason and which to follow and why—and how to find out. The point is that life is challenging, and one can embrace the challenge or cower from it. Staying consistent, however, is a problem for some. Clearly, it is more desirable to choose to face life gladly and valiantly rather than to live in a state of constant and unyielding terror of nothing and everything. But fear, guilt, doubt, despair—all exist somehow, despite the clarity of our choice on how to make choices (or so on up). And so it comes to pass sometimes that we—that one—that I—cower in terror of something and nothing and everything, that I weep, that I mourn, that I, despite all vows, do _not_ face life valiantly.

Perhaps, assuming this model is even valid (can I even tell?) it not a matter of either-or. There could be a _spectrum_ between gladly embracing the challenge of life and frantically screaming in submission to the scepter of the seeming impossibility of it all.

_Spectrum or toggle-switch?_ Are these our only possibilities? How cold is space, and how the sun? How deep is "solution space"? Could it be that the smarter one's mind is, the more dimensions one can include in one's model—or is that too simplistic a model of the nature of models, should it be that we _do_ use models and _need_ to use them to think? Am I using the term _model_ correctly?

I think we should not give any shred of validity to the idea of "emotional coercion"—one must take responsibility for one's own emotions! People will say what they will say and do what they will do, and one just has to puzzle it all out as best one can as the autonomous being that one is, doing just whatever one thinks is desirable to do, under one's purpose—to live a life that is both _worth living_ and _worth having been lived_—if that makes any sense. I'll have to figure out if it does, and if it doesn't, I'll have to figure out a better way to phrase the idea, and if I find out that the idea itself was that which did not make sense, I'll have to discard it for a better theory of purpose. Perhaps it is in error to speak of all this in those exact words, for all these *have to*s are actually voluntary. But on the other hand, if we are to hold this to be so, there is no reason for anyone to ever speak about _having to_ do something, is this not so? I'll have to make sure—if I can and should I choose to spend the time.

But what if there would seem to exist shreds (or more?) of validity to the idea of "emotional [coercion]"? What if we should find hints that suggest we are not autonomous beings, that our science is fraud, that our values are contradictory? Well, it's a problem. But life is all about problems and we will not shy from wrangling with this one as we do with all others, as best we can. We'll try to figure it out; we will have our hopes but we _are_ looking for the Truth, and aim to find it, and we will never cry and—never be afraid—because this is life, and we have chosen the method. It will be difficult, and we will likely feel pain—but this is life, the only thing we have, and there is nothing else we can see to run away _to_, so we know it is foolish to run away in fear, and we always try to act on our knowledge.

It _will_ be difficult. But that's life. That's the method, and the theory of purpose. That's—the compatibilist ethos.

All this could mean that I don't have to explain. Freedom can seem scary—the popularity of the Sartre quote may help demonstrate this. But I suppose I will just have to seek liberation from my fears in this particular fear—if you understand what I mean, Diary.

Hell! Whose meme is this?

But I don't use _that word_. Really.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM— What is there to say about feeling stupid? —ZMD

SECOND ADDENDUM—"Roark Measures"— I feel that marketing is just a trashy field by nature. A journalist is judged by the quality of her stories. An architect is judged by the quality of her buildings. A shoemaker is judged by the quality of her shoes. But a marketer is judged by the number of people he gets to buy something that they wouldn't otherwise buy—although I suppose one could phrase (_spin_? _frame_?) that as "the quality of his sales-generation." I don't. I can see how the art of selling things could be deemed important. Perhaps it is _very_ important, indeed. But it still seems trashy. Public advertisements, though, have a _dignity_ about them that spam and junk mail do not. What about "targeting"? A consumer receiving unsolicited "junk" about a good or service that she _wants_ may not regard the material as "junk." But it's still unsolicited, which means: trashy. —ZMD


#### 113 — Sunday 31 July 2005 — "Ribbons (Jacking Off to Ayn Rand in the Conservatory)"

D.—

Friday evening, I went out running in Shell Ridge, and I stopped on a higher elevation and looked around and paced and thought for a good while. This while Mother and Father had gone to Berkeley to pick up Nicole; they were all back when I got home, and I think Mother and Father had left before I went out running. I let myself be persuaded to go to a film with Mother and Nicole. We went to the 2130 showing of _Me and You and Everyone We Know_. There was much discussion before the film. Ayn Rand and what I suppose I will call the relationship of demographics to ideology came up. Nicole is smart. The film was good, though I tend to expect more of an _ending_.

I called Josh Meltzer ~2330 that night, and we agreed to meet at 1200 the next day at the Downtown Berkeley BART station.

Yesterday morning, there was a big "block" garage sale in the neighborhood. Mother, Nicole, and I went to look around in the morning, and I ended up purchasing three items, for a total of $3—_Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal_ (!—50¢) _The Romantic Manifesto_ (!!—50¢) and a typewriter (!!!—$2—!!!!!).

Mother, Nicole, and I went to visit Grandfather in the place where he lives and is taken care of. His mind is—not what it once was. After the visit, Mother dropped me and Nicole off to our respective destinations in Berkeley. On the way to Grandfather's residence, I called Josh, left a message, and then he called me back and I said that I am being driven to the rendezvous point (instead of taking BART) and that I might be a few minutes late, and we agreed to push our meeting time to 1215. I ended up getting there before that time, however. I think Josh did, too.

I returned the copy of _The Alchemist_ which Josh had lent me. I hadn't read it, but Father has a copy, so I'll just read _that_ when I decide to. (I have told Josh as such.) Josh gave me on loan _The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress_. I hadn't asked for it, but I hadn't asked for _The Alchemist_, either. It might be reckoned strange that I am fond of SF, in my fashion, but have never read Heinlein before. I gave Josh on loan the copy of _The Romantic Manifesto_ that I bought in the morning and had in my bag.

Josh and I associated for ~6 hours. At the end I got to meet another friend of his.

One might wonder if perhaps one should do _less_ reading per sitting, but have _more_ reading sittings.

Item: It can be _fun_ to write on an anachronism! Also, I am very grateful for personal computers, and word-processing software, and computer printers.

One might wonder about kinds of strength, and who has them, and why. One must take good notes and show fortitude.

Here's to me, and to you, Diary, and to _Me and You and Everyone We Know_, and to everyone we know that we don't really dislike so much,

yours,

Zack M. Davis


#### 114 — Tuesday 2 August 2005 — " 'Since You Found Me Out' "

Dear Diary,

How badly do I want to live?

Yours,

Zack M. Davis


#### 115 — Friday 5 August 2005 — "Sins You Found... (Kira Argounova Nerys Airtight Edition)"

D.—

I am sure some people would reckon it a strange question, but I think perhaps it may be an important one to ask—and answer. How badly _do_ you want it? Are you committed to living out this life, through anything, or are you just around for as long as there is more pleasure than pain?

Do you have a purpose, and are you ready to do what it takes to achieve it?

Are you _worthy_ of living?

Do you stand by your ethics? Do you have them defined?

Who are you going to trust, yourself, or your _self_?

I could tend to imagine a world where I am prepared for all this, and make all my calls boldly—where it _doesn't really matter_ if I like the food, because I am a man (as opposed to a _boy_, _not_ as opposed to a woman) and men can "make do."

But I am not really imagining a _world_—I am imagining a _self_.

Here's to communicating well what you mean to say,

yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis,

1005

ADDENDUM— I bought a watch, and deposited a $44 dollar check into my bank account. I watched some television, and that was wrong. I imagine "self-starters" do not worry about whether their activities are respectable. What can be said about people who _willfully_ make the same mistakes over and over again, knowing the wrongness, and forgiving it while it happens? I intend to tape "Second Skin" when it airs, but other than that, I can hardly have any further need of _Star Trek_. Mrs. Butowick called; the house at 1063 Rudgear Road has not yet been sold. Tomorrow, I am travelling with Father to Santa Cruz in order to see the University. The day can yet be won, I am sure; it would only take a little work—this, I am sure, is as it always is. It could be that one must always be doing something—if one finds oneself not in _deep, important thought_ and also not engaged in some sort of worthwhile activity—one might as well _clean_ or something, no? The shifts and throes of "R.O." could make for interesting songs and poems—if I have understood the term correctly, Ms. Cagen! Believe me—I can be a writer or a worker when I decide to be—and back the decision with my will. I think it is unwise to doubt overmuch the power of _my act_ and _my word_, when I can get them "online." And what was the point of having them off at all, anyway? Too much of the instant gratification has seemed to lead to much long-term ruination. Would it not be altogether wiser to ease back on consumption of it? Surely there was no reason to have _that_ many enclosed "bv"s in my planner. It could be said that there is nothing wrong with it—_except symbolically_, and it could be that little things like this set overall tones of antipurity and reckless consumption. It could be, maybe, perhaps when I am in certain moods, that there is so much I might want to say about the fantasy, straight as it is, and bearing some relation. SO of course it will be gently obvious to our fair reader that there are still some things I have to figure out. But one is not to shy away from this, nor drown uncertainty in _Star Trek_, nor leave the answering machine to get it. One is to think, and to act on the thinking—and to _feel_, even, while knowing, we should hope, something about how all this works, and with an inkling or more as to _certain_ kinds of _why_. One is to remember that about goals which speakers say, and to think of quotes attached to proper nouns that start with _K_. Do I yet ramble? Do I have, at times like now, something of the appearance of a madman? Ah, but you see, I can be a _passionate_ writer—and we may yet hope someday soon, a _logical_ one as well. _Believe me_. And I like you as well.

"Nuclear renaissance," _&c._

Here is to passionate art and precise reporting,

yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis,

1545

SECOND ADDENDUM— I hope Ashley returns my call soon. I wonder what kind of cell phone reception one gets in Shell Ridge. Believe _me_, for I have truth to tell. What is there to say about feeling lazy? Pay it none, and also find something new to say.

Checking out all the fonts, _&c._

Here's to people who never really finish their to-do lists _but only because_ they never run out of things they consider worth doing, and thus, when they finish, they simply add more things to the list,

figuratively yours,

Zack M. Davis,

1855


#### 116 — Monday 8 August 2005 — "City Money"

"If any man feels that the world is too complex and its evil is too big to cope with, let him remember that it is too big to drown in a glass of whisky."

—Ayn Rand, "The Metaphysical Versus The Man-Made"

"I just put a pen in my pocket without the cap on."

> —John Wagstaff (sp?), at an 8 August 2005 EIR Scoping Meeting

D.—

A box accompanying an article by Theresa Harrington in the 7 August _Times_ about the city's library plan indicated that there was to be held a "[p]ublic meeting regarding integrating Maxwell property into Civic Park" at 1900 today in the City Council Chamber at 1666 North Main. I decided to go. I went. The meeting was actually an Environmental Impact Report (EIR) scoping meeting about the library/park project.

A few years ago, the city approved a Civic Park and Library Master Plan. The most important aspects of this plan were to construct a new 39 000 ft2 library structure in place of the current 9 500 ft2 library and to contstruct a new 400-space parking garage. Recently, revisions have been proposed to the plan. This "new project" would call for the acquisition of the adjacent 0.75-acre Maxwell property for the project, and would have the new library be 50 000 ft2, and the parking structure include 300 spaces. The Maxwell property is a private home owned by Julia Maxwell, and qualifies as a historical resource under the California Environmental Quality Act (CEQA). Under CEQA, the new plan requires an Environmental Impact Report, while the old plan for the smaller library, I am given to understand, merely required a Mitigated Negative Declaration.

Julia Maxwell doesn't want to sell. The city could use eminent domain.

The agenda handed out at the meeting noted: "_The purpose of tonight's meeting is not to discuss the merits of the project; rather, the purpose of this meeting is to provide opportunity for public comment and questions regarding the **EIR process, scope and content**. The City will proved a number of future opportunities for public input on the proposed Master Plan revisions_ [...] _So, please limit discussion tonight to the EIR scope, content, and process._"

Many people at the meeting were hostile to the new plan. Steve Height, Elizabeth Height, and Julia Maxwell all spoke during the meeting. Elizabeth Height is Maxwell's daughter and is married to Steve; they live on the property the city wants. The family history was spoken of. Steve noted that not one city official came over to the house to introduce eirself.

A woman named JoAnn Hanna said that the scope of the project far exceeds the site—"I think they're trying to put a 500-pound pony in a cat creek, and it's not going to work," she said. I am _rather_ confident that that is verbatim. Why does it seem that I am so unsure of so many things? One must write quickly while taking notes.

I asked two questions at the meeting. I asked what makes a property historic under CEQA. Later, I asked if public resentment counted as an impact. That caused a few people to laugh. It doesn't, of course. One of the men running the meeting (one would suppose it was the city employee, Steve Waymire) said that when the City Council makes its final decision, it would surely take political as well as environmental considerations into account, and that the city wouldn't take on a project that it didn't think the public approved of. "Yes, they would," said more than one person.

Julia Maxwell said that 42 years ago, the city acquired the land for the current library from her family.

"I want to die in that house, so your project takes that away from me," she also said.

After the meeting, a woman introduced herself to me as Theresa Harrington, and asked me my name. I told her, and I also said that I was the Managing Editor of my high school newspaper, _The Page_.

Surely one learns with practice...

Have I not acted in good faith? Have I not tried to be altogether true?

What if you owned a house, and then someone bought up the land surrounding it on all sides, just to be mean? You wouldn't be able to leave your property without [trespassing]. What's a Libertarian to do?

Some information can be confusing.

Here's to observers,

yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis


#### 117 — Tuesday 9 August 2005 — "Quotation Rigs"

"She nodded. 'Of course. I saw that. Never mind, Mannie dear; I long ago quit being disappointed in men for what they are not and never can be.'"

—_The Moon is a Harsh Mistress_ by Robert A. Heinlein

D.—

Perhaps I ought not insert myself into the conversations of others...

I spent many hours today reading.

Brianna Larson has stated she won't see _Wedding Crashers_ with guys. It is not a motion picture that I intend to see.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis


#### 118 — Thursday 11 August 2005 — "All Poets"

D.—

It is better that people publish newspapers, knowing they may contain a few mistakes, than not publish any newspapers at all, fearing to possibly bear false witness.

On 6 August, when Father and I were travelling to Santa Cruz, to see the University, there was a segment on the radio about video weblogs. "Vlogs," I think they were called. I recall the segment ended noting that while Andy Warhol said that in the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes, perhaps, in the future, everyone will be famous _to_ fifteen _people_. I thought that was clever.

Yesterday, I met Ashley and Laura to discuss selling subscriptions to _The Page_ at Tri-S. We are to have a subscriber raffle—my idea.

I bought three scented candles yesterday.

How does one get oneself to write, to work? It could be that one needs a _purpose_. One would think that even a petty, selfish one would do. _To prove to all doubters_—well. It could be that one must decide if it is to be deemed _okay_ to continue on one's natural—_ordinary_—trajectory. If it is to be _acceptable_ to live out one's life as under standard projection: go to some college, take some job, start some family—die. One wishes to do something _extraordinary_—although perhaps one should check what exactly that is. Writing, too, is _some job_, of course; all jobs are _some job_—and one does not wish to be unemployed! One might wonder if being extraordinary has something to do with just a lack of _ambivalence_—with not compromising between moving to one's _prime goal_ and any blind lust for any triviality.

What if everyone was so busy writing their "genius" novels that no one took any time to read novels? What's a publishing industry exec. to do?

Maybe _Kathy_ could teach me something about the method. That _all poets_—well. What's a "sk8er boi" to do?

Why, that which he chooses to.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis.

1116

ADDENDUM— "To the stars through great difficulty." But still, to the stars. That's the important part. Am I a very hopeful person, that failure after self-inflicted failure I still believe that somehow I can turn things around? Could it be that at some level I have bought into the myth of human perfectability and that I will cling to this in the face of facts, logic, history, and all things? But is it really a myth? Should we give credence to the notion that we have _levels_, and should we feel insulted by it?

If I really do want it, how could I let anything stand in my way?

Here's to the stars,

Zack M. Davis

2100


#### 119 — Friday 12 August 2005 — "To Defect From Defectiveness (J. K. Rowling Prolific Too Edition)"

D.—

I got up early today and went for a run before breakfast. I recall my chronograph time for this run to be ~29:34.

I made two "cubes" of candle wax.

I spent much time on the internet.

I watched part (forget how large a part) of a _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ episode ("The Search, part II") and almost all of a quite good _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ episode. I had already seen "The Search, part II", or at the very least the parts that I saw today, or almost all of them.

I am to go out to buy grand prize for _Page_ subscriber raffle.

Josh, via email, says to work on the novel.

Wasn't there something I wanted to prove to someone?

At this,

Zack M. Davis

1452

ADDENDUM— I know it must be something of a cliché by now, but _what's wrong with me_? Do not misunderstand me: the apostrophe in _what's_ here does not signify the omission of a space and the _i_ in _is_. Rather, it signifies the omission of a space and the _wa_ in _was_. The question is what _was_ wrong with me, because surely I can be okay from now on if only I will it to be so. Is it incredibly superstitious and unsophisticated to believe in things like _will_ in the modern age? Could it be that certain people have some blistering irrational _need_ to believe in certain things? Is it that religionists can't [conceive] of and won't permit a world without G-d—but I, oh, _I'm_ different: the only lies _I_ need to maintain the ludicrous hoax of my self-worth are _my act_ and _my word_ and _self_ and _will_? But consciousness exists. _Self-improvement_ exists; we've seen it; we've _done_ it. If it is rare, we are not to be discouraged because _most_ of the time have been aimless. _Gold exists_, if yet uncoined. To put our selves through _anything_, to prove a point, may not be in our power. But are we then powerless? Appeal to Authority rings flat compared to Appeal to Experience, which may be reckoned valid—for the interim, at least. If I want to, I can just sit down and write. We knew this. Here's to Au, Ag, Cu, & Na, Zack M. Davis.


#### 120 — Sunday 14 August 2005 — " '—_You Don't Even Know!_' "

"Yorke's poetic storytelling is both sentimental and animated, complicated yet simple. Then again, life is just that. Life isn't always peachy, but it's certainly beautiful when caught in the world's madness."

> —Cecelia Choi, "_Summer of Glorious Madness_: break the rules and build a garden", _The Page_, Vol. 54, Iss. 4, March 4, 2005

D.—

I ran rather well at xross country practice yesterday morning. I made a snarky comment to Coach Dan in reference to how he said once that he did not trust me to run on my own (111A: "My Act and My Word"). I bought matches at Safeway after practice.

Father and I worked on getting yard waste to the disposal center yesterday.

I have felt bad about my continual failure to live up to the ideal self that I imagine. I have felt that I should always be doing something _useful_, to further my ends. There are many great and productive things for one to do. I have plenty of _ideas_ for fiction I could write. One can study, _andcetera_. I think about writing a novel, but I realize that writing a book is a lot of work—one can't just write casually, just whenever one has a naturally occurring urge to write, for these are rare. And this is summer vacation I am in right now—during the school year I will be very busy, and if I can't bring myself to produce fiction _now_, what am I going to be able to do in the school year? College looms in the distance, and work—what is going to happen to my dream if I do not seize opportunity now? How am to face all doubters? I want to stand on my record, on my honor, and show by my counterexample—but all these must be built up.

I suppose it may be misguided to beat oneself up, as it were, for not being perfect, or even near-perfect. One tries as one does, performs accordingly, and achieves an according percentage of the dream. "Tanstaafl," _andcetera_. SO perhaps I should feel no shame—I simply do what I do, and generally suffer or splendor—accordingly.

Because we are not then powerless, _as such_.

I want to buy some white T-shirts and some iron-on-fabric sheets, so I could make custom T-shirts with Father's printer. I have imagined if I am with KA-A during spring sports season, I could make sth like a KA-A _replica jersey_ to wear to one of her lacrosse games!

I can write (forgive me!) franker than Frank, peachier than Pepys.

Here's to candlepower,

Zack M. Davis

1121

ADDENDUM—"Deliver Us From Fools and Artists Who Use 'Splendor' as a Verb"— I spent a lot of money today. I bought iron-on T-shirt transfers and a typewriter ribbon at OfficeMax. I bought a package of T-shirts at Target. I painted a bowl at Color Me Mine, as a gift for Father—his birthday is tomorrow. I bought gasoline for the car I was driving in—the Accord, in all seriousness. I bought three $10 Jamba Juice gift cards, as second prizes for the _Page_ subscriber raffle.

I put the quadratic formula on a shirt. The transfer didn't work _exactly_ the way I imagined, but—_tanstaafl_—and I am overjoyed that I can design my own shirts! This is a fun, creative, and—stylish?—activity. Perhaps I will make a "FREE BAJOR" shirt. Kathy would get the reference.

How can we justify property rights? How can we justify justification? How do we know what's right, and justify these emotions, too? It's _not_ going to be easy, and it's _not_ going to be safe—well!

It could be that heavy are our sins. I've heard it said that it's a virtue to be able to carry burdens, but _this_ is ridiculous!

How far are you willing to go? How much can you bear; how rationally can you reason? How many questions will you ask—and answer, and to whom, and to what end? How many words will you write, and on what, and show to whom? How many shirts by iron-on printout—and how by loom?

Deliver _us_? _Why_? We, the humans, bred and raised for self-delivery?

What would Kathy think of my shirt, my Diary, my writing progress, my food preferences? And what would Ayn Rand think of Wikipedia?

Here's to H, C, O, F, S, Cl, & At,

Zack M. Davis

1851


#### 121 — Monday 15 August 2005 — "Gender Charge"

"A polling firm asked, 'If you were to be born again, would you rather return as a male or female?' Fifty years ago, most women wanted to come back as men and not a single man wanted to come back as a woman. In 1996, men still liked being men but women said they'd prefer to be reborn as a woman."

—_Mean Genes_ by Terry Burnham, Ph.D., and Jay Phelan, Ph.D.

D.—

Now how are we to interpret this question? Specifically, what would it mean to be _reborn_, and should we regard the concept as valid? It's easy enough to imagine waking up one strange fine (?) morning in a new body, but being _born again_ means starting out all over, from being a baby—from being an embryo, presumably—which means starting again _without_ all one's present memories and knowledge and ideas. Without my memories of being _me_, without my knowledge, without my _ideology_, would I really still be _me_ in any meaningful sense? From a materialist standpoint, the question could be seen as nonsensical. Our identities are formed by our genes and our experiences, are they not? Swapping a chromosome (and what a chromosome to swap!) would affect both, because even in the most egalitarian of all possible societies, the physiologies are very different—that's the point—and make for different experiences, to whatever degree. But then, what _is_ that degree? If _any_ part of one's life had gone a different way (any _significant_ part, anyway, for surely the tiniest details of a particular folding of one individual protein cannot matter overmuch) then one would have different experiences in some way—to a certain degree. If I had chosen _chocolate_ ice cream today instead of mint—if my arm _didn't_ get fractured in that football game—these alternate Zack M. Davises would have had different experiences from me, but they could still be considered to be _me_ in a very meaningful sense. But this analysis, like so many, runs into the "heap problem"—exactly how similar do alternate lives have to be to share, in some meaningful sense, the same identity? But perhaps this is merely a word problem—it stems from the fact that in this context I am making _identity_ something of a squishy concept. Where _exactly_ lies this threshold between A and not-A, as it were? It would be interesting if some sort of mathematical measure of personal-identity-concurrence could be developed (a ridiculous notion, to be sure, I think, but the Diary makes allowances for the pondering of it). I am imagining if the many worlds interpretation were true, and one could (with the appropriate technology) view the multitude of alternate versions of oneself and have some device peg a number to each alternate communicating mathematically exactly how similar each is to oneself. The guy in one universe might only be 96.2% the same as me, for example. The idea is obviously ridiculous because one simply cannot _quantify_ such things. I liked _Atlas Shrugged_; I have a scar on my right leg; I have some experience with Judaism; what _percentage_ of myself do those facts comprise? Absurd! But even if the _totality_ of oneself cannot be quantified, would it really be entirely misguided for there to exist _some_ sort of quantitative psychological/ideological model allowing for quantitative comparisons between individuals? I ask because it would certainly interesting to know, in terms of cold numbers, if on 28 December 1987, Maxine Miller Davis had given birth to a girl with a genome identical to mine except for one chromosome—how different would this girl end up from me?

Would I even approve of her? Would she keep a Diary, and which of ours would be better? Perhaps in this possible mulitverse there is also a way to objectively quantify the quality of a Diary. Why not? We have gone this far, have we not?

One might wonder if there are people out there who hope that the many worlds interpretation is true, just because they hope someday, with some future technology, to read alternate Diaries.

It's easy enough to imagine waking up one strange fine morning—but this thought experiment too has complications. What about hormones? One can imagine waking up with some fantastic new different-model body, but still being and feeling the same inside—as it were. But things have been written about the effects of certain hormones, and one may not disregard evidence on the grounds that it makes one uncomfortable. Am I still the same person, inside, without my testosterone? Perhaps the heap problem of identity was not so simple after all. One thinks of very worried people reading _Quarantine_. Change does not equal death, to be sure. Or we are all dying all the time as we grow and change.

Many troubling problems can arise when one ponders big questions, but one is not to shy away from this ...

Concerning the question in today's quotation, one may think it wise to run the cost-benefit analysis. Men are in great preponderance bigger and stronger—benefits, yes? And men do not have to deal with menstruation and pregnancy—but are we to count pregnancy as a bad thing? Women generally live longer.

An interesting possible response for a man to the question in today's quotation: "Male—but not for the reasons you think."

One wonders about a poll wherein _every single man_ chooses the same one of two options. Is the sample size big enough? Is it anonymous—are people worried about how their answers will be perceived?

Concerning the fantasy, straight as it is (53A) I have thought that if I were a woman, I would probably just masturbate about being a man. "Cheerful symmetry."

Here's to universal reason,

yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis,

dearly hoping I have not offended some Higher Authority


#### 122 — Tuesday 16 August 2005 — "Postwrap for the Last _Star Trek_ Episode in the World"

D.—

If one wishes to write a novel, one is going to have to _work at it_. I can improve. I have taped and watched "Second Skin". Amanda Schaffer has a piece in _Slate_ today rejecting EP. I have printed it out. I suppose I will show it to Father. Getting up early is nice. I am to meet with Ashley, Laura, and Ms. Gunnison tomorrrow at 1000. How quickly will I get myself to improve, assuming I do at all? There is, to be sure, much to be thankful for. Thankful—to whom?

Here's to letters and sciences,

yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis


#### 123 — Wednesday 17 August 2005 — "_Summer of_—"

D.—

I suppose I ran my mouth a bit at today's journalism meeting. I lamented my novel progress. Sydney, our business manager, was present; she will be working with me tomorrow at Tri-S. Some tasks have been assigned to me; I am reintroduced to the stress and elegance of _The Page_—and summer vacation is to be regarded as effectively over. Mother and I are going to Tri-S this evening. I am interested in seeing my schedule and receiving my planner. Last year's planner is a work of art, I inputted much expression into it. This year I am to generally reserve my planner for planning and recording (think "bv" or lack thereof; also, D. numbers) purposes. I will have other books for expression—if that is the right word. One is to consider theories of fitting things in. My glory, my record, my fancy—all due consideration must be given into planning and living a life maximally worth having lived. People have limits, to be sure, but such a life can be created within them, if only one _tries_! One imagines the Koch slowflake, disregards horrible metaphors—moves on. Journalism is a serious business. One is to consider oscillating one's mood, [recalling], perhaps, a character in an unfinished short story. What is my theory of fitting things in to be? There is, as there seemingly always is, and perhaps always will be, much I could be doing—between xross country and classes and _The Page_ and the Diary and my fiction ideas and—perhaps coming soon?—certain _burgeoning_ relations—how does it all fit together? How is one to relate and select all interests under the special banner and binding arc of my life? That _all doubters_—then. One can only do so much; one is to partake in some amount of sleep. I am all but signed on for xross country—why? Is this really furthering my interests? Running is hardly an intellectual pursuit. But it is great to go fast under one's own power, and the team is a source of physical discipline. And there exist races. And I adore the strength of my own body—only 'twere greater. It could be very important that one takes up things like this, amongst all other interests. Summer vacation is to be reckoned effectively over—but why did we let it exist as vacation _as such_? It was just summer nonschool time all along, and we didn't notice or see or believe. I think I can live life without caving in hopeless abdication to the inconceivable horror that lies underneath. But too we have reason to think that it is only an illusion, or defeatable, someday.

I am waiting to undertake something beautiful again. But _why wait_? ...

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis


#### 124 — Friday 19 August 2005 — "Bleeding the Ninth"

D.—

I have not had a good day so far. I broke schedule.

I spent a lot of time on the internet. I drove Nicole to Berkeley. I sent an email to Josh Meltzer.

I felt "sparks" of ambition yesterday evening.

Today is not normal; I cannot let days like today be normal. To prove to _them_. Something about the man that I am, and can be. And I am—then. I aim to discover something about individualism.

Here's to Sydney Koliha,

Zack M. Davis


#### 125 — Saturday 20 August 2005 — "Children Learn to Say 'Inviolate'"

D.—

It could be that days have seemed to end similarly: there are no revolutions. One notes the failures of the day, resolves to eliminate them the next, falls into the incomprehensibility of sleep—and it's a new day, and—what happens?

Progress, as far as it has come, has come slowly—why should this be? How is one to know if one is working off the wrong theory of control, and how is one to reconcile this with one's conception of one's identity?

One should, one should think, engage in some sort of emotional planning, no? That all the day's sadness and badness might go.

I have been "one of the guys"; I have been serious; I have been silly; I have been Socratic; I have been sociable; I have been many things. Consistency, to be sure, is not to be reckoned acting the same way in all situations—or—if one is to entertain notions—_is_ it?

Don't we want to be _certain_ of certain things?

"There's no such thing as society." Stars above, _I believe it_.

Here's to human perfect ability,

Zack M. Davis


#### 126 — Sunday 21 August 2005 — "In Violet; Or: Liberty and the Learning Curve"

D.—

Three essentials:

1) Know thy enemy.

2) Know thyself.

3) Know the difference—or create it.

I like to be left alone. One requires much self-restraint in order to prosper without external controls. One feels strong regret at times—is this to be reckoned a good emotion that leads to future progress, or is it just as stifling as any causeless depression?

Father and I went to Sears today, and he bought three pairs of jeans for me. I listened to _On the Media_. I worked on my CLC summer assignment—I have not yet finished it. I consider phone calls, contingencies—feel regret for certain stretches of time spent on the internet. How does an observer distinguish between deceitful procrastination and valid extra time taken to prepare? One must be prepared—and internally controlled—but _not_ by the wrong sorts of emotions.

The CLC summer assignment _wasn't already done_ by 21 August? What madness is this? How is one to explain when one is questioned about something like this—and then express a wish for the elimination of scrutiny? Could it be that one has to learn something at more than just the intellectual level? But what other levels can we accept? Or is asking that second a little "closed-minded"?

What am I asking for, looking for? What sanction or what doodad? I had aimed to discover something ...

Please. If I may state for the record—unequivocally—"Long live the difference." _Andcetera._

Mine in trust,

Zack M. Davis

1901

ADDENDUM—"Disaster"— It's so _disgusting_ that I didn't internalize the lesson at some point through all the time I have had. Is it really so hard to say that one has _had one's fill_ of one course—and is choosing another? I am to express interest to Kathy this week, am I not? I am to start school this week, am I not? I already have responsibilities for _The Page_ to execute, do I not? I have exercises (for the student) in mathematics to complete, do I not? I have cross country practice and _Page_ business to attend to tomorrow, do I not? It can be—interesting study to make a mess with candles and matches—or with one's body. But one is _not_ to make a mess of one's life and one's goals! Where are we _going_ in life? Didn't I want to write fiction? What has happened, and what has not? Didn't I want to write great fiction, and get perfect grades, and be a great _Page_ staffer, and make money, and have some amazing i-muzz girlfriend—didn't I have all these selfish personal goals? Things are too often put off for another day. I'm so sorry. For _both_ of us. —ZMD


#### 127 — Monday 22 August 2005 — "Near Twelve Falls"

D.—

I saw some people and made some calls—this is JOU work. We're "shopping around" for a new printing firm for _The Page_ so I was trying to get quotes (no pun intended) and also I left a message to someone from the AUHSD—want to talk about the residency verification issue this year. I could have done more—today and on days before—but I have shown that I really can call people and talk to people, and such. That is something, is it not? I haven't been _bad_. Won't I be able to make things work during the school year? I am excited to see my _Page_ colleagues tomorrow—it [is] as if I feel I would feel JOU work easier having been in the JOU-class environment each weekday. I want to "compare notes" (or quotes, I guess) with Sydney—see how she has done with the printer-shopping task. I am to go to xross country practice soon today. One imagines I will see Kathy tomorrow. I believe I can make things work. I have not been _bad_. I have not been _bad_.

(Brightly:) So! Here's to being good!

Oh! Leave it at this, a very quick D. dispatch, isn't it? But isn't it _not bad_?

yours,

Zack M. Davis

1510


#### 128 — Saturday 27 August 2005 — "Radio Silence"

D.—

The first four school days of the scholastic year are over.

On 23 August, before first, I told Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff I was wondering if maybe she might like to hang out with me sometime. I could have been more eloquent. She said "No," and she said that she is busy—taking five AP classes. I asked how many classes she was taking total, and she said six.

The exchange led to an interesting volley of emails between Josh Meltzer and me.

SO there are the two JOU classes—sixth is big. We of the JOU classes get the _San Francisco Chronicle_ free each school day; Ms. Gunnison wants us to be reading the news. I have done a phone interview with John Stockton of the AUHSD.

I have not been running so well this week. I have started reading the book Jay gave me through an intermediary.

Nicole has received a job offer.

It is not as if one can blame the messiness of one's room on thermodynamics.

Purity,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM— I have been reading. It can be so difficult to make an argument, and one can even find oneself having difficulty refuting arguments one knows to be absurd. Knows—by what means, if one has trouble stating why? It could be reckoned strange how one's thoughts can be so eloquent and clear, but one finds it so difficult to articulate them in actual _physical_ speech. But we mustn't be scared by this; we can only work to improve our skills. _Who_ wants to be the center of the universe? I aim to learn something.

What if I gave Jay a copy of _Atlas Shrugged_? —ZMD


#### 129 — Wednesday 31 August 2005 — "Katrina"

D.—

Why should I feel bad, or feel as if I feel bad, when there is nothing to feel bad about in my life? You only get this one life, so far as we know, and so you have to take it seriously. You don't want to screw up; you don't want any second to be a true waste. You want to achieve that which you lust to achieve, and we the humans are likely going to have to work hard if we want to stay alive, whatever we are—with so much space between each star, and some extra things we want off so far. _The Page_, Volume 55, Issue 1, has potential to be so great and so beautiful—but within all such potential there exists also potential for disaster, if we don't try hard enough. What could any discomfort _now_ mean—compared to the great fork between holding something _Page Perfect_ in your hand and holding some trashy crappy rag of a high school newsmag, and knowing—in either case—that it's _yours_, that _this_ is the end result of what you and your colleagues' were willing and able to do in this sphere? I have wanted—I _want_—an end to my self-imposed mediocrity. Because I have this one life, and I want to do things right. How can I allow myself any self-destructive emotions, or things resembling them? And how, be they emotion or illusion, could I let it show? What—was it that there was something I wanted to express? But my face could never be so eloquent—a distorted voice, a pained look, frantic movements—what do _those_ do, for anyone? If there is something one wants to express, one should write a great novel. Some things are forgivable in childhood. But I am a man now, I _have_ to be, because it has been so long. Someone who is good at being a man can "follow through" and is "above insolence and triviality." And I want to be good. I want to be great. I want to do things right. It could be that I am seeing something Kathy has always known, or known for a long time—but I don't think she would see it that way. But then, haven't I known what I _should_ do for a long time now? What's wrong with me? Why do I improve so slowly? Could anyone really help me? How effective can be a friend or a shrink? Isn't it all really up to me? One must do the things one must do—one must do the things one has signed oneself up for. Do I not like to look at girls? Do I not like to breathe? Do I not understand what's happening in New Orleans? Aren't I prepared to do what it takes to continue to breathe—to continue to look?

What if you had to do something immoral to stay alive?

Dilemmas exist, but what is a human to do? Curse life for being difficult? Curse the universe? Curse logic? Or bless life?

Despondence can happen, but it is not constant. How productive is ambivalence? Should one not reach a conclusion about things as they are—and settle the issue permanently, and never allow any doubts to surface again?

Intelligence,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"A Thought"— You know, the only thing that was ever _really_ at stake was my feelings. This could be a heartening notion. Feelings? What are _feelings_? Rough 'em up, I say! Right? —ZMD

SECOND ADDENDUM—"Eyce"— "All you can do is your best." One just has to work on one's work, and catch whatever sleep and chase whatever goals and loves and fantasies. And it's only a year. Above all, _tanstaafl_. And why should anyone object to _that_? —ZMD


#### 130 — Thursday 1 September 2005 — "Eirspace"

D.—

I feel as if I don't want to go to college. I want to get on a train on 10 June 2005 and go find a job somewhere across the country. I don't want to make _steps_ towards adulthood—I want to go out there into the world and make it all on my own. I'll send postcards to Mother and Father and Nicole. People will think I am a _stupid young man_, testosterone and idealism coursing through my veins and making me want to _go_ somewhere. And will I not have the bravery to _let them think what they will_? Let them battle over me, for I am a _feminist_ and an _individualist_ and a _WRITER_ with a capital ev'rything. There is no frontier in America today, and there never was, at least, not for longer than you think—but it is that kind of _spirit_ that I am feeling. But if I am an individualist—if I am truly prepared to let them all think what they will—why, then, do I have the situational journalistic shyness still? Why were my emotions acting up today? Why did I allow it?

I'll hate my coworkers, to be sure. They'll all be stupid and uneducated (!) and _sexist_. But I won't care, because I will hold the job, and I just won't go out drinking with them. I'll go to my small apartment and _write my novel_ on my cheap computer. (It is as if) I want to start over all on my own, and work my way up. And it can seem as if there is nothing I want to be in this world but a fiction writer—but what's so great about that? But if that too falls, what do I live for? Is there anything really _meaningful_ in this world? But don't we create our own meaning? It is said that atheists treat life cheaply, because to them it has no meaning. But why should the existence of G-D make life meaningful? If _we_ aren't meaningful without a Creator, why should G-D be?

If I were to stop my formal education after high school, would really be a sort of intellectual suicide? I don't think so. I could buy college textbooks and read them, all by myself. If I am going to fantasize, let me fantasize: so I will get on a train and get a job somewhere far across the country. In construction (there is to be a building boom in the South) or at Walmart, say. And at night I will write. And I will spend money on internet access and books to continue to expand my intellect all on my own. And then when _The Compatibilist Ethos_ is a success and makes me lots of money, I'll be able to use that money to recontinue formal education—at a community college? Or an actual university?

I want to come into town on a train with one bag, and find work. I want to be self-sufficient at eighteen. One thinks of character in a book one once read—Cherryl Brooks. But I come from a _good_ family. I have the opportunity to go to a _university_; it's mine; there is no doubt. (It is as if) I want a clean break. I have great parents, to be sure. But I don't want to have to answer to _anyone_—I want to take isolatory stance. (It is as if) I want to run away—but it wouldn't really be running away, because people would know I'm going, and all.

If you are going to _make it_ in the world, you are going to have to _work hard_. But how late is it now? Shouldn't my homework be done by this time of day? Shouldn't I be writing fiction now? And yet I want to take a shower, and I have toyed with the idea of going to bed absurdly early, and then just working when I get up.

It's obvious that I am not prepared to make it in the real world. But maybe if I just dive into a sink-or-swim situation—I'll swim. Can't I journalize, when I need to? Isn't my writing _so good_ when I actually sit down and write it?

It is as if I feel like I can control myself now, like I can control my emotions? But then—how does one explain some of the ways I felt today? How does one explain some of the things I said and did and wrote, and that thing I do with my eyes?

Nicole thinks I should go to college, and had reasons. Nicole is smart, and can sound something like the voice of reason sometimes when she is rebutting a fancy notion of mine.

Now I have talked with Mother. I will probably go to college after all. I guess. How late is it? Why haven't I controlled my emotions? Will I be able to do journalism tomorrow? I can be so miserable.

Should I just _devote_ myself to writing? Isn't that how anyone gets good at anything? By absolute devotion? I think about that novel. What am I willing to do for it? Don't I want it? Don't I want it more than anything else? Why university? What have I done? I can be so miserable.

One thinks of the gender gap in chess, and an article one read in a magazine.

Mr. Bremer's dog is named Dagny.

Here's to her dagtag [_sic_],

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"Eirtime"— Whenever life seems like meaningless suffering, one should remember that we create our own meaning. (And our suffering? Was that ours too?) I have felt all these feelings before! There are new things under the sun; we've seen them. We humans, some of us, create them.

What if we were wrong? What if the individual was just a manefestation of the collective, and men and women were alien breeds, and there was no such thing as reason? And what if—as can seem likely—there can be no way of knowing? But we have to trust something of what we perceive—even if we don't quite believe that existence exists, we're still going to have to react to this world which might just be socially constructed, if things like people actually do exist to construct it—if _construction_ has any meaning. So what if our science were to show us that we aren't what we think we are? And what if it has? Surely all data would fall before the fact that I think, therefore I am—that I exist, volitionally. Does it matter if "loyalty mods" are possible? Though what have I known of volition? I, the journalist who would cry and run away from sources? How much sleep am I going to get tonight? I have to make everything work, and I always feel as if I _need more time_—but isn't that the exact cover someone who refuses to put forth the effort of thinking would use? I've had the time, the wealth—what I haven't had was the will. Won't I have to make a final judgement? I get so scared and depressed and miserable and guilty—and I want to sleep. But I need a lot of time to think things out—I can't just get up at 0650 and go out and do journalism in my state. But what kind of a state is one in when one does not get enough sleep? Surely one cannot allow oneself to skip a homework assignment or two—that's the road to ruin. But Mrs. Horton collects five homework assignments at a time—and she is not to collect tomorrow. So I can postpone the CLC assignment given today. I mean to start writing my news story tonight based on the information I have _now_—I believe it will help. I must know where I stand. One must think. One must think and not be scared. Isn't life worth it, whatever suffering I go through, and am to go through? Don't I love to think, to act, to _exist_ in this world? Isn't every sensation of pleasure some sort of very special reward? Why misery? All my emotional turmoil seems to stem from journalism. Is it worth it? But I cannot step down! Not when I am the Managing Editor! I am a senior; I am a man! And all this will pass, and be gone, as Volume 53 is past and done!

_It's only a year; you'll have to endure._

"The Raven" is a great poem. And one can give it an alternate ending that makes it yet greater just by deleting one dash and one word.

Why agony? Why madness? Why did I stay on Journalism? A Diary read-through can show you what torment I go through. But it's irrational! The idea of "loyalty mods" disturbs me, as it disturbs all humans. Don't I already know something about what it is like to be ruled by an emotion I don't approve of and can't justify? Is this comparison absurdly overdramatic and unwarranted and _evil_ to write? And if it is, am I to pay for it, and how badly? Is it a sin to consider even for the briefest moment certain things? But, as it is said, there are no evil thoughts—except one ...

It can seem strange that control over oneself should be something one should have to work for, rather than an _inviolate fact_ of human nature. But if it is something one has to work for, who is it, really, that is doing the working? My irrational emotions are part of me, the physical person, to be sure. Which parts of me the physical person do I identify as "I" and which are [poison] to be eliminated? And if the parts that comprise "I" change and switch? What? Why? _How_?

I have survived emotional turmoil. But will my dreams?

How can I make this the last night of this class? I am a _feminist_ and an _individualist_ and I want humans to go out and solve problems all over this universe. Do I understand terms? I will have to be rational tomorrow—and from now on.

I am not a gambling man. But everyone plays Pascal's Wager.

Here's to people who are good,

Zack M. Davis

\* \* \*

END Volume ID