The Diary of Zachary Michael Davis — Volume IIB


#### 156 — Saturday 29 October 2005 — " 'Break the Rules and Build' "

D.—

Was it impossible to help people control what they feel? If so, was this because feelings cannot be broken to reason, or because the breaking must come from _within_ the sufferer? What do I aim to make a career of, and what, pray tell, do I aim to realize?

It can seem as if when I am not fighting irrational terror (and largely losing) I am fighting laziness (and largely losing).

Consider all my rhetoric! I have spoken of _work ethic_, and _meaning it this time_, and I have affixed to the word "shameless" numbers acquired from Rome. I have set deadlines, and defied them—and I have lived, but to what purpose is my life being directed to in actuality? Defying regulations would seem to lose its romantic luster when the order being defied is one's own. But it could also be that I am growing cold on traditional romance—as it were.

Spoke I of shamelessness? Then why should I have cleared the web browser's history after doing reading on _ifeminists.net_ (I think that was the domain)? And why should I have given the explanation for this that I did?

I have read pundits glorifying the traditional wisdom about the sexes, pointing at some studies, perhaps, and gloating that we _are_ different after all, just like as was said. I wonder why the traditional wisdom is so glorified—don't you people find it _insulting_, to be boxed into a role like that? I have read pundits cite the statistics on the number of men enrolled in colleges—and lament the "feminizing" of education in recent years, the "pathologizing" of "natural boy behaviors." Misandryist sentiment could almost rise up in me—males not going to college? Bah! Forget the stupid _men_.

I hate being typecast! But—I _have_ known the joy of "roughhousing," and such, and I have found it good. What if so much of my world was inaccessible to women, and so much of theirs inaccessible to me? What if, for all my Diaretical sedition, I am at heart just a typical boy?

I just don't see why there must be an opposition! Don't I know _both_ the glory of competition and the bliss of connection? I do not see any sense in being lectured on how _different_ women are, how everything for them is _relationship_, or whatever. But aren't my values rather "male"? Is this confirming anyone's theory? But _I am no one you know_!

Some would say that it is people like me who are the _real_ sexists—men who dislike women who act like women, and women who dislike men who act like men. But doesn't the very _existence_ of humans who don't act in accord with their sex's stereotype bring the whole collectivist structure crashing down? When I wax "instrumentalist" (if I understand terms)—when I talk about rationality and achievement, and denigrate feeling, I am not attacking femininity, because _there is no such thing as femininity_.

What's "gender identity"? I have a male body, therefore I am a male, a man. It doesn't mean anything more; there is nothing _there_ to question.

But—"Nobody stays here by faking reality in any manner whatever." I cannot, _cannot_ go against science—can I? Neurology advances, and surely it will tell us more about our natures as male and female.

What if it turns out I just hate women and men equally?

I just don't see any room for _me_ in the double standard. Yes, I value status over closeness. But _I am neither of you_. Have the preachers of the Church of Mars and Venus actually ever had an uninhibited conversation with someone from the other side of the aisle? How can Cecelia speak of a "women's novel," when I have watched so much of _Gilmore Girls_, and found _that_ to be good?

But I do not see how science _can_ doom us to our separate prisons. I spoke briefly with Ms. Gunnison and Ms. Reeves-Hampton the other day—and it felt to me that we spoke, not as a teenage boy and two grown women, but just as _people_. And remember discussing _Harriet the Spy_ at the recent journalism meeting? It's beautiful to not have to fight a gender war—what could there be to fight about? Oh, there are the different physiologies and fuck drives—but _so what_? Seriously, they're _fun_! In a world of individualists, there are no wars, because no one gives any credence to the notion of _nation_. Or is this consensus simply a reform of collectivist conformity?

The binary division of body types and fuck drives is _beautiful_ and _fun_ and a very logical way to carry on with the business of reproduction—but they carry no _ideological_ content. Okay, so we'll have these different size gametes, see? And one party is going to have to _carry_ the baby while it's growing, and it would make sense to give that party a mechanism to provide for feeding when the baby is newly-introduced to the world. _Andcetera_—but both parties were rational beings! It's _not right_ to peg your conception of _me_ to all the other men—I don't trust them; I don't like them; I am—_not one of them_!

Why did I clear the history of the web browser? I am not to be ashamed of anything I think. This Diary is something rather secret for me to keep, a personal (for now, at least) record, but the system of spirit that—_gave it birth_ is not to be hidden. Couldn't I live, mostly, on the record? When I engage in a particular gross activity (straight as it is!) couldn't I post a sign on my door: "DO NOT DISTURB — MASTURBATING"? My sex role vendetta can be set free for all the world to see—let them see! I cannot _care_ overmuch what people think of me—I can _be_ "antisocial." I do not allow society (should there _be_ such a thing!) nor any human to have measures of control over me. I will just have to be so skillful that whatever people say of my politics, they'll _need_ me. They'll need me to run their newspapers or help them with their calculus homeworks—or what-have-you.

Is this ambition evidential of something "masculine" in my character? Don't be stupid.

Suppose I really have been fully converted to libertarianism? Why _should_ the People be allowed to vote away a portion of your money? And it is _your_ money in a real sense, because wealth is created by the labor of people, of individuals.

Rational shamelessness [may] be reckoned a measure of emotional independence? What about material independence? I do not have a job—but for the moment performance in my daily endeavors may be considered something of an equivalent. Hadn't I wanted to finish those math homeworks today? Somehow I feel as if I will not get despondent or scared or shy again—but even if this is so (some would think it delusional to think I will never dip back into the abyss) there is still laziness to eradicate. If you want anything in the world, you're going to have to work for it. If I want to be perceived as mature at a point that _may_ be "before my time"—I'm going to have to _act_ mature, to—"suck it up," to _work hard_. It's simply not okay to spend so much time reading inanities on the internet when there is so much work to be done. Doing things like math homework and journalism (O terrible journalism!) can be _so hard_—but all latent desires that stand in the way of ideological purity must be broken to said purity! The world wasn't built by the lazy. If this were a libertarian utopia, and I were cut off from my parents' support—how well would I do? How would I stay alive, and what would I be doing towards the novel?

I cannot defy science. If it weren't for my noble yearning that lets me use such terms as "ideological purity," what kind of male would I be? I suppose it may very likely be in my nature to be a chauvinistic, sex-obsessed brute. It is only through study and discipline and higher, more modern occupations that I might be a rational, intelligent, kind, sex-obsessed (not _necessarily_ in the way you might think!) _human of letters and arts and sciences_.

Would some say my periodic turmoil is caused by the insidious influence of feminist propaganda on my developing mind?

I cannot allow myself to be content with my natural path. It's _not okay_ to let emotions tear me apart; it's _not okay_ to be as lazy as I have been.

How many times have I sworn _the end of an error_? How many times have I asked, rhetorically, how many times I have so sworn? What would it take to mean it this time?

The end of Daylight Savings Time contributes an extra hour to this weekend. I must write "Equity", and write it strong.

Am I very different from my contemporaries, or rather the same? Is a balance to be struck between loneliness and solitary pride? Or was there even an opposition? Do I really want to live and see dreams come alive in full color, or am I just sticking around for the pleasure?

It may take all my bravery and all my strength. But I want to do things in the world, and too minimize my sin. I have been given much, but too I want to build. I want to do wonderful things. Is there a universal standard of splendor? How does one measure sin? I must study. Aren't there measures of goodness and strength in me? That I might look around my world and find it splendid.

As straight as it is!

Here's to self-control,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"Brooks-Durant Accords?"— So, just for the record: I did not choose this body. But what am I saying? It should not bother me that other people might think things that I don't agree with. Rand had Dagny say it: "You must never think that their existence is a reflection on yours—yet that's what you're thinking." I can write; I can do math; I can talk to people. Wouldn't it be splendid if a novel _I_ wrote were to influence someone greatly, and be referenced frequently in that person's Diary? So much is available to me—if I can take it and make it. Well! And problems in mathematics are not really so bad or terrible—would only that one learns to do them _in good time_! O I have made errors! But it is not yet Sunday, and I may yet make things up. Why is the patriarchy so common across cultures? I don't know, but _it's not my fault_. Other things are my fault. But there exist achievements to my credit. Doesn't Wendy Reeves-Hampton think I'm good? But I suppose the point was that my self-worth cannot come from the appraisal of others—certainly not _overmuch_, at least. Or am I now giving in to others' pleas or suggestions that I not be so hard on myself? But changing one's mind from reasoned study and debate is not to be construed as "giving in" as such. Has it been a tad out of character for _me_ to say "it's not my fault"? I just don't want to be an arrogant bastard. I have felt so much guilt; I have felt so sad and bad—it could be that I do perform (or reform) better when I am relaxed—not lazy-relaxed. O I have made errors—but let it rest, as guilt and shame and frustration have had a way of inspiring too much rest. Despite appearances, there's no conscription in a gender war. I could be as saying to myself: you're a good soldier, Kira Arg—_but let it rest_! —ZMD


#### 157 — Sunday 30 October 2005 — "Structure"

D.—

I have displayed some measures of productivity today—doing CLC work (in my fashion) adding to my Tuesday write (which I had written for _last_ Tuesday, before finding out we weren't doing one for that day) answering the chapter 8 textbook questions for GOV. Tuesday Writes are a fun assignment.

Now—there is always much one can be doing. And I have to do things for _The Page_! I need to write that review, and take down information from the interview tape I took with Ed Veiluva, and plan for _that_ story. O—and I must draw that new episode of _TFAoRSS_! And I should google that man ...

So I must not fritter away this Sunday evening, because in addition to all this I have to do—I must also remember my ambition to be a writer of fiction. If I _meant_ it (and surely I do!) then I will have to find the time to _write_ the stories that I think of and up.

I have posted in my room some words I read on the internet—"To cease to act is to cease to exist." It is decoration—and reminder. Also posted in my room (which I could probably tidy up a bit) is that space shuttle photograph I got for acing the physics test.

I am not to let a collectivist sentiment in society (should there—but let it rest) ruin romance for me. I know what I want, and I remember conversations I have had.

It feels nice to get a full complement of sleep. How much time do I block off for sleep? Or do I really do the blocking and scheduling so much?

It could be that even when one feels relatively good, one is still haunted somewhat by the awareness of the possibility of madness. It might be an uneasiness. I am not hurt now—but I know I can be broken—too easily, and fall away. I have _shown_ today: _measures_ of productivity—but I am not, it would seem, working at capacity, and there is much more for me to do—much more in the area that is continually tormenting me: _The Page_, and time moves, and all come too.

But I know something about how real this life is, and how finely one must focus one's aim if one is to get anywhere. You get this _one life_, and you're somewhere that has its pleasures—but didn't you want _fulfillment_? I am something of a utopian thinker: I think cycles in history can end; I think that human nature is something to be, in places, transcended; I really do think my near-perfect romance is _possible_ in the world. This was not irrational. It was just hopeful—because if we really put forth the effort (I think that's possible, too) we can do great things.

Do I repeat myself? But it could be that each cycle grows higher. Repeating some measures of the past is not disproof of progress. To be sure, a sine wave never gets anywhere—but the _sum_ of a sine wave and a linear function, does.

What if I took a nap after dinner?

So a human can get to hate certain things about society. And a human can get scared very easily, and get lazy still more easily. But didn't we make the world? A human can get so _sick_ and _hurt_ and _wretched_—but she is not altogether powerless. Even after the breakdown, and in front of all doubters, one can get up, set up, move [efficiently], craft all the plans ...

And show them a novel.

Here's to having fun with an assignment, and something I knew about sex,

Zack M. Davis

1819

ADDENDUM—"Starstricken"— How could I ever be lazy or hate being a reporter? How could I do anything but my very best, when I may get a chance to interview _Holly Lyons_? Until but a few hours ago, I did not know who Holly Lyons was, but now I could be as _starstruck_ at one of the best women's vert skaters in the world! In the past, I may have tried to motivate myself by the thought of me starstriking someone someday. Though there may be plenty of room at the top, it is still hard to get there—years of work away, if it is to be reached at all. But _today_ I sent a _message_ to _Holly Lyons_, who grew up in Walnut Creek and went to UCSC! (So is it that I am more Cherryl than Dagny?) I want to tell Ms. Gunnison. I have writing to do, planning to do—oh, and there is the dreaded cross country! O but I have a _chance_! Am I absurdly exaggerating the true extent of my ebullience? O but now I am _really_ going to be a WRITER! I could wish for more time—so I would have plenty of time to do _everything_ and get a full complement of sleep as well. But wishing never did anything. I have shown measures of productivity—do I deserve a masturbation session, or going to bed early, as a reward? But one cannot reward oneself too early—have I scarcely even _done_ anything yet? But the point is to remember that there are great humans in the world, and one cannot feel sad or angry or haunted—not when there is work to be done! Not when one has a chance for a change, and show _them_! —ZMD, 2040

SECOND ADDENDUM— I need to do better. But am I now placing too much guilt on myself? When should I go to bed? O control! —ZMD, 2129


#### 158 — Tuesday 1 November 2005 — "The Guilt of Society"

D.—

I have thought of getting Kathy a graduation present, when that time comes around. But I wouldn't want her to think I would be trying to _woo_ her. I don't think she has any idea of my greatness in spirit. (As surely I have no idea of just how horrible she really is?) But I suppose that could be because she only recognizes greatness in practice and actuality.

O human desire! What were we to keep, and what to fire?

What do you _say_ to people who want to earn something but don't always act like it? How do you explain to them?

Sorry about this—or perhaps not at all. Depends. What's "this"?

Zack M. Davis

0330 (!)

ADDENDUM—"IIB or Not IIB"— I mean, one has things to do—plenty of them. So one will simply do them, yes? —ZMD, 0359

SECOND ADDENDUM— Having facial hair is _fucking awesome_! What is it but that with a new body comes a new mind, engineered by the best of the old? A—"better version of me." Oh, _bog_! "Here's coming," ZMD, 0710

THIRD ADDENDUM— What will _The Page_ do when I graduate? Hasn't the question been asked, and don't I want to live up to the standard it implies? One can delay, and delay—but what was the point? One did have some notion of wanting to be a writer of some sort, and honorable in any case, and one cannot sacrifice duly-held notions to chance emotions. Did a famous man with a name that started with K. define angst as the fear of failing in one's responsibilities to God? Is it then that I am a "second-hander" and have angst for fear of failing in my responsibilities to society? It could be strange how little of _events_ are recorded in my Diary, compared to feelings and notions. Am I terrified still then, of accidentally bearing false witness? But a reporter is someone whose job it is to find out what really happened and set in print description of that which really happened. A human can trust something of her memory—but may also learn to take notes better. Ms. Gunnison wants me to stop practicing the self-deprecation. After school, she noted that I looked discontented. I said I'm not allowed to talk about it, and surely she said that I'm not allowed to feel it, either. Do I get to feel worthless like that? Or is it an act? It can seem to get as if I feel I want a _deep_, _strongly-worded_ reässurance from someone special—and perhaps also a hug. But of what use is a causeless reässurance? I don't suppose I like it, when people are too nice to me—causelessly nice. I don't like the _nice_ girls, the classically feminine girls. How can someone say I'm a good person, and it's going to be okay, when ey doesn't really _know_ me or the situation very well, and when I don't love _em_? (But I suppose all that matters is if ey loves me.) I want _intimacy_—a mutual knowledge and sharing of passions and strengths, and then can come a reässurance that rings true, because it is an informed one. How quickly do I turn to notions of romance? I have not done a good job of displaying the quirkyalone spirit—nor do I wish to, in full. I _do_ want to find everything left in one person, one relationship. But the idea of separate beds was strangely—titillating. Each an individual—but with all the passion so often credited to "becoming one flesh."

But passion must be broken to reason. One can delay, and delay, and wish to do a piece of work _later_ tonight, but too wish to go to sleep. And one can _wish_ to be a great newspaperhuman, or student. But one can reason, and one sees the goodness one has done when one has worked. One wants to display greatness, but it could seem that to get to greatness, one might have to learn to not depend on the appraisal of others, to develop a certain _ruthlessness of spirit_. Think of a reporter who tracks down every lead, makes every call. One aches for forgiveness—but must remember that there was something better and that forgetting that there exists this something better may not be something that can be so easily forgiven.

Can't I be virtuously ruthless? O passion! O rest! O _control_! Here's to Karen Michalson, ZMD, 2205.


#### 159 — Thursday 3 November 2005 — " 'Demo World Rebel' "

D.—

What's missing? One [can] imagine conversations. One can get consumed by an issue and feel as if one feels trapped by society (or more than just society?). If the gender collectivists were right all along, wouldn't it permeate everything, every aspect of life, change everything by leaving it the same, and leave me no room to breathe (as it were)? "You've locked us airtight, comrades." But I could be misusing the term _collectivist_, and I have a life to live, courses to pass, and a newsmagazine to manage.

One can imagine being judged by someone on one's side for betraying the Cause by not standing up, by submitting oneself to the societal norms. But is anyone going to come to judge?

Do I really love my parents? If I don't, how can I stand to live off their charity (overmuch)? Am I to be content with my _natural_ path, which, I think, includes no novels?

Ms. Reeves-Hampton would seem to love my writing. Don't I want to be still better? To prove—_something_?

To speculate about life, one must too maintain it. O production!

Perhaps Kathy was not so great after all, and I just never got close enough to notice. What was only a symbol? And myself?

One can get consumed by an issue—but let it rest. One can only live by one's own standards.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

0733

ADDENDUM—"As a Brave Machine"— I have taken photographs of a volleyball game for _The Page_. Really, I do not know how many times I will say it or berate myself, but there's no point in sulking and being afraid. Staring forlornly at Ms. Gunnison as if silently pleading isn't going to _do_ anything, except maybe annoy her and waste my time. I have a chance to apply for this amazing scholarship at CSU Long Beach—a _free ride_ renewable for up to eight semesters. _That_ would be something special. Knowing such gifts can exist (I do not know how many times I will say it or—) how could I ever be lazy or sad or scared? I want to show people (I do not know how many times—) that _soy_—dedicated. O university! What am I not willing to do to strike forth—now? Here's to crushes held by people who believed that intimacy was possible in the world, ZMD, 2040


#### 160 — Friday 4 November 2005 — "Implicit Differentiation"

D.—

Be careful with internet time, hey? It's easy to let it get late. To hold a glorious vendetta, one must back it up with strength. Recent developments (inside and out?) have led me to believe that the tasks set before me are very possible, and that the odds of me emerging a winner [are] great. But one is not to be content to be a winning kid—one must [strike] forth—measures, _andcetera_. Can I afford a few more pleasures tonight? Just don't let rot get to Saturday. Here's a novel idea (no pun—but let it rest): why don't I stop complaining and moaning during school? When you love what you do, you don't need much in the way of recreation—and so I won't, this weekend, because I love—_measures_. It could be that masturbation is sinful, not because sexual capacity is wrong, but because a properly industrious person will not spare the time and energy on such an indulgence. Isn't work _fun_? I have rediscovered today that ints are _not_ so hard or scary. Calculus, underneath all the boredom, is fascinating and beautiful and important. Didn't I cherish the comments on my Tuesday Writes? And O _The Page_! So really I must simply remember all this fun, and the purity it gives that is so lacking in the more obvious types of fun. What could await me—in Long Beach? _Measures_! I once wrote a poem titled "Double Drive"—wrote it with Kathy in mind. Perhaps I am to be _driven_ more than ever before, on a double drive of love and vendetta. No one would have to know about the vendetta, because it could be I don't need to talk in public about things like suffering. I wouldn't have to tell anyone. I can voice my opinions where appropriate. I want to introduce Josh Meltzer and Seanan Fong to each other. O notes! O control!

Here's to novel ideas—in more ways than—but let it rest. (No, not _that_.)

Zack M. Davis

2140


#### 161 — Saturday 5 November 2005 — "Substructure"

D.—

It's so easy to be lazy (I do not know how—) but one must _remember_ what one could win. One must _remember_ purity. You've got this life, now _pay_ for it—and make improvements. It feels _good_ to get things done, and it's a feeling you can (I do not know—) _hold onto_, not like an orgasm which lasts a second on stale late mornings pressed to the bed. Clean this room, and clean yourself up; pull yourself together, if you wanted to write in your own words after "summer of." Maybe I will watch _Teen Titans_ tonight, but other than artistic pleasures like that, why can't all time be devoted to certain—measures? _How_ do I get to feel that time slips away? There is some justification for pleasures, and it's _important_ to read the opinion pieces on the internet. One can get to repeat oneself in a Diary, indefinitely recombining the same oaths and inspirational phrases, and not even mention things like how Mike Senger's not going to NCS. What can wipe out a morning, and what an afternoon? But what was I waiting for? How can you moan, and search a tape for an unseen episode of _Gilmore Girls_ like that? _It's not okay to live like this_. It's not okay to just _let things happen_, acting only when acted upon, because where will that leave you? It might leave you happy. It's not the way to mount a glorious deconstruction. I could act naturally, settle for comfortable things, and I might end up with some decent job, and a wife who loves me in the way pocket sexists have a way of loving—and some little ones who will take to whatever the _zeitgeist_ of the popular culture happens to be.

But I want something great; I want to define my own space; I want a romance free of the pocket sexism and sacrifice so latent in the popular conceptions. Perhaps it would do me well to fantasize _specifically_, that I might have a better idea of what next to do. Imagine finishing a novel in Long Beach.

Enough! I am going to get myself something to eat, and then, surely—_the end of an error_!

Zack M. Davis

1424

ADDENDUM—" 'We Fail to Represent ... It's Time We Take Control' "— I love Raven from _Teen Titans_ and Paris from _Gilmore Girls_—as far as one has feelings for fictional characters. How can so many hours go by with me accomplishing so little? It's been better than many days, but this is not near to excellent. What if it was as I had two modes of consciousness: one floating and free and one instrumentalist, and each had their advantages and disadvantages? The idea could be uncomfortable to me, because I like to think that there is an _ideal_ of behavior, and not just varying types of imperfection. But perhaps there could be created an ideal by utilizing both ways of being, and knowing how to toggle between them as the situation demands. It can be hard to understand how one can want to be something, to do something, and then keep acting almost as one has been? Why can't there be a _break_ with the past, one moment where I see where my path is taking me, and make the derivative discontinuous as I turn on the cusp? Because it's _not okay_ to live as I do, and lamenting this didn't change anything, either. It is as if—or perhaps for once I should say that it simply _is_—that I have a responsibility to ev'rything I love to actualize the potential of ev'ry minute of ev'ry day (I do not—). I'll have to go out to the park, and make one or more telephone calls, and write, and draw—oh! I want forgiveness and great discourse and love and sex and—more dialogue for Raven and Paris. How could I let a Saturday like this happen again? Oh, I have done CLC work, and PHY, and—I printed out the sheet of pieces for making the master. But wasn't I home by noon? Isn't it late? I want a girlfriend to hug me, and reässure me, and tell me in words that _she_ didn't think we were so different, either. There was this great moment in tonight's episode; I wanted the screenshot—but let it rest, I suppose. Raven and Starfire _do not exist_ (in real life) and there exist pressing matters. I do not know a woman with the right kind of mind who will give me the support I desire, who desires _me_. But you—both of us—win your romances by actualizing heroic potential. Private bliss implies that there exists a public world to act in. "Celebrations should be only for those"—but let it—but let _that_ rest as well, perhaps. Don't I want to be mature and respectable and adult (I do—)? Don't I want to lay forth all the passion and discourse in fiction? _It's not okay to waste away_. What is it but that I know desire and want to explain it? I know everything is probably going to turn out about fine in the foreseeable future, but I want _more_. Understand me, and I like you as—but let—me go to bed anon. —ZMD, 2129


#### 162 — Sunday 6 November 2005 — "Superstructure"

D.—

There is no shame, or guilt, or sadness.You just _work_ at things, and usually get about what you deserve. There was no _terror_, it was just that one's body may resist certain orders, and this poses difficulties. But one does not feel sad about this, because one does not feel sad about anything. One would like some fantastic reässurance, but one is not to waste away for the lack of it. It's just Roarkian innocence. I've been doing drawing on an episode of _TFAoRSS_. "What a great artist dies in me!" But I am not yet dying. I am not yet dying, and if I had writing to do, then I would write.

_Dayenu_!

Zack M. Davis

0959

ADDENDUM— This is getting ridiculous—as if it wasn't already. Joan Kennedy Taylor is dead, and what have I done? It's never too late to change, surely, but you can't help—feeling—something about how you noted how your past is fucked up, and then later you noted how the past since first said notation is fucked up about the same. You can repeat in a Diary the same sentiments—this too—in different wordings, over and over, with varying degrees of beauty and comprehensibility—and where, pray tell, _are_ you going, and why? I had meant no disrespect to Joan, and I had meant to be productive all day today. How can you tell what was caused by fear, and what was causeless? Who do you go to for support when support was a myth? I have said that I cannot go on like _this_ forever—but that is likely the most likely thing to happen. I don't think I understand what happens to me, what I go through—why I let things fall apart for no reason. Why I set to do something, and then—I don't want to do it. But one must hang on, persist, though everything, through anything, is it not so? It has been argued that darkness has its advantages. So let it be understood that I must just go on without dwelling on hurt or guilt. It silly that one should be brought to bad states by something that might not even be an emotion. It can seem impossible to explain, even to oneself, why one is doing what one is doing. One must go on; one must work—think of spot color—think of Long Beach! Was I "triggered" then? If one is going to use such terminology, one might as well imagine for oneself a sort of "antitrigger." Recognize, accept: okay, I have gone into madness. And now I am coming back. You can make a phone call to start; you have done it before. Remember how kind words affected you or didn't, and how you have learned that you can leave yourself largely indifferent in the face of another's anger.

So it's happened again. It's never too late to change.

Enough, ZMD, 1422

SECOND ADDENDUM— So what if I give myself a masturbation session, and after that, I'll feel better and go do things? How carefully does one have to wash one's hands after jacking off? I'm thorough, but am I thorough _enough_? I jack off with my right hand. —ZMD, 1438

THIRD ADDENDUM— So I have masturbated—straight as it was. And can't I say anything? No one understands! I don't understand! What the fuck? But mind you I am not ordinarily given to such crude language! Am I in my reckless phase now? But if I can get things done for _The Page_, is the important thing. Here's to not having phases, to Joan Kennedy Taylor (that she existed!) to Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff (that she exists!) to Cathy Young (that she writes!) to Emelie C. Gunnison, and to everyone who understood something about motivation, ZMD, 1501

FOURTH ADDENDUM— It feels good to be rational, to be able to move, to be able to breathe. Yes, masturbation and philosophy, properly administered, can do the trick (not a skateboarding trick). Maybe I should save masturbation (straight as it is) not for a reward, but for a pick-me-up—until I learn to pick myself up. Oh, but I _do_, don't I, when I—_but let it rest_! Push through all the madness, fight it—break through, don't just break. Living on the record. But one cannot spend too long in a Diary—one cannot let this sense of being able to move fade. No, it must stay, that I am _shameless_, that I am _guiltless_, that I—oh, but let it rest, and just get on with the business, yes? And if I die I will have left _this_. So fuck me. —ZMD, 1509

FIFTH ADDENDUM— I went to the skate park, talked to some people, took some pictures. Now it would seem that no longer is the issue getting myself to do things, but rather getting myself to do things _well_. And one might be inclined to say a small blessing for this! Fighting one's own incompetence is _so_ much more satisfying than fighting one's own emotions. Do you know what it is, Diary, to feel safe? My tasks are far from finished. But I'm human again. —ZMD, 1640

SIXTH ADDENDUM— Getting oneself to feel okay, to be able to do things, is great! But one must _stay_ able! Don't—let—it—fall. I want to show them. —ZMD, 1745

SEVENTH ADDENDUM— So I'm not making an ints call tonight. I just have to do my other work. I want to get my sleep, and wouldn't it be cool to get to school very early tomorrow, and work on my comic, and maybe even talk (confess?) to Ms. Gunnison? Things are probably going to turn out okay. What if I "make my move" when I get out of high school? Oh, I have to apply to universities! And I need to settle on a senior project topic. Why am I so easy to hurt? This afternoon I was able to summon a feeling of "pride and power." And now, what's my state, mentally? It's not so late; there's still time. What if I'm lonely, and what if I hate myself? What am I hoping to accomplish in absurd accumulations of addendums? Now everything I experience is through a male perspective—but did that _constitute_ anything at all? Am I going through an inexplicable crisis, or was there no crisis at all? What do I want? I want to fufill all my obligations expertly and calmly, and have time for pleasures and the fiction writing besides. Also I want my romance. Well. There's no point in feeling hurt. Maybe it's time to stop writing in the Diary for a while, for real. A _long_ while, perhaps. What more can I say? I have spent hours whining and writhing in this writing, and through all of it, surely dearest readers have gotten something of an idea of who I am—now, and they can form their judgements of me—now. I have thought of saying to Ms. Gunnison tomorrow that something died in me today, and I'm not sure if it's good or bad.

Enough.

Zack M. Davis

1947


#### 163 — Saturday 19 November 2005 (Raceday: NCS) — "It Does Not Have to Be This Way"

D.—

O glorious deliverance! Today I raced at the NCS Cross Country Championships at Hayward High School and I watched tape of _Gilmore Girls_. Why should it be so rare to feel _good_—like this? All the standard turmoil is just so _irrational_ in the comparison. This sense of possibility and deliverance _is_ Pure Reason—it has to be—and all Critiques are to fall flat or nearly so in the end!

It could be—it has to be—there comes a time when one looks at anger and jealousy and despair and "the battle of the sexes" and sees that _none of it is necessary_. It doesn't have to be this way.

It could be that a human in misery temporarily cannot understand happiness and hope and that a human in deliverance temporarily cannot understand despondence. And I don't understand—but there are many things I do not (yet) understand, and to cure this there is sacred study. I _am_ something of a utopian thinker—I think there _can_ be change, that we as individuals and society as a whole don't have to keep making the same mistakes over and over again—off into infinity. I know I'm hardwired—but there are paths open to something that could be called "volition"—and I reason that these measures of control are—"enough for now."

Why would you want to yell at someone? You don't get _mad_, you get _even_—not how you think, unless you too have something of my glorious revolution burgeoned within yourself.

Injustice exists—and _Quarantine_ may always haunt us. But this life is all we have, and there's something good in it, and there's something to fight for—cheerfully, willingly. And if it was all meaningless in the end—hmm. Strange, I could have just been about to say that it doesn't matter anyway (naturally) but I won't say that because if it matters to _us_, that's all the meaning we need—all the meaning that possibly can be.

Will the Singularity happen?

Did I say "I think I'm going to cry"? Fight it, willfully! It doesn't have to be this way. "It's time we take control."

One cannot give up—not when Ms. Fettig and Ms. Gunnison and Mr. Davis-\_\_\_\_\_\_ can gush about _Harriet the Spy_ in the nighttime.

It's okay not to be joyous. But there can be no tears, no frantic yelling. _That_ would be illogical. Because all you can do is _work_ and _think_ and be as rational and productive and _righteous_ as you can. So fuck me.

Here's to libertarian transhumanist feminists,

yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

1817

ADDENDUM— Remember—Eddie Willers cannot believe in the existence of Jim Taggart. Who is John Galt? Heck, who _isn't_? Jaykay. —ZMD


#### 164 — Sunday 20 November 2005 — "The Song of Eighteen"

D.—

"The revolution is not made in bed." _That's_ what I will say if—_when_—people express surprise at how much I accomplished o'er the Thanksgiving break.

SO a human can get lonely. A man can lie in bed for an hour and jack off and make little moaning sounds. But it's not something to identify with. If I want my perfect match, I should set out to _find_ her, or set up a beacon that she could better find _me_.

"I'll make the most of it; I'm"—well ...

Perhaps I am not to be so much of an _activist per se_—I am not the type to hold signs and yell at rallies. I am busy with my work—but my novels are infused with a certain ethos, and I could show with a few biting remarks at a dinner party that I attend with poise—I can show bitches and bastards that _I am no one they know_. When do I drop out of metaphor, and how often do I make bad ones? One must study.

Today I purchased _Before the Blackout_, thinking I will write a music review on it for _The Page_.

> O glorious deliverance—here's to drawing up the papers of incorporation of the FedEx-of-the-Soul,

Zack M. Davis

1522


#### 165 — Monday 21 November 2005 — "Metastructure"

D.—

The revolution may be made partially at the computer—but not like _that_! Come, it is never too late to change, yes? So one is not then to be so torn by guilt: one is simply to make course corrections. I had known the revolution was not going to be easy. But it can start with a book.

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—" 'If You Know Where You Stand' "— Pleasures of the flesh last an instant. Pleasures of the intellect last—as long as the intellect. The intellect is grounded in the flesh. What was it but that compressed into three words are all the lessons I had needed to learn: "_First_ things _first_"—in more ways than one! Yet am I now an the cusp of deciding to break it again, with a cartoon? The last time? _Is_ it? But what can I afford? At least bring back some inspiration. —ZMD

SECOND ADDENDUM—" 'Past Action Zero' "— I have watched tape of _MLaaTR_, and I have watched a little _Star Trek: The Next Generation_. All through my Diary I have berated myself for my laziness, for this state of existence that knows no long term and wherein pleasure, not reason-and-purpose, is the _de facto_ measure of all things. And yet—I could seem to remain the same, or nearly so—a little better, but far too far from the phase change. I can spin the most _beautiful_ phrases in my Diary! I _think_ and even _talk_ of writing a novel, but do I then seize chances to write? No! I do _not_, and this is deeply wrong. Some vague notions, some radiant dialogue rotting in a scenebook—_it is not enough_. If I can sit here in what is surely _the lap of luxury_ and fuck off my life, and let the beauty rot—how would I fare somewhere where people have to struggle just to stay alive? What does my behavior implicitly say about how much I value life? Or is it that in a hard place I would adapt? So am I then a helpless—pawn—of my environment? It may not be proper for a compatibilist to think in such terms but even if this is true I think I am altogether justified if I am to cry _let it not be so_! If I do love to write, then let me now write my Personal Statement for the University of California admission application, yes? After this.

It's just not okay for it to get past four in the afternoon, and have the only dolisted accomplishment to one's credit for the day being having read some in _Wuthering Heights_—and only about thirty pages _at that_. One _cannot_ let life pass one by, as it were—I want to say that a man might as well drown himself in his own semen. I don't know what a woman might as well do, but I can be sure it's equally nasty and is in any case none of my concern.

_It is such a beautiful Diary_, and there is no shortage of important things for me to do—that I would release beauty unto the world, and such. You can't be afraid to write, or to use the telephone. Not if you wanted something in the world. The revolution is not made in bed. Have I been feeling unusually tired lately? What if I took a nap—but when? If I really liked fiction writing, couldn't I do it as natually and often (or more) as I can do Diary writing?

If someone were to scold me for my lack of progress on the college application process, I could have no defense—they'd be right on every charge. What is a friend? Surely I am a better writer than Erin. I suppose there is time for me. Ayn Rand didn't even speak _English_ at my age.

Here's to dedication, ZMD, 1703

THIRD ADDENDUM— _Every_ human is an island. —ZMD, 1705

FOURTH ADDENDUM— Things are not so bad. I _have_ time, and I have gotten some reading done. My novel is to serve in part as a repudiation of the idea that we need to _settle_ with our faults, accept our small iniquities as part of the human condition. I don't want to be a _normal_ human, sentenced to an endless string of triumphs and failures canceling each other out into infinity—or zero, rather. It doesn't have to be this way. I'll show them.

When? —ZMD


#### 166 — Tuesday 22 November 2005 — "The Web, and a Fine Line"

D.—

How can we cope? In a world with feelings and quick responses, how can we go on?

Don't ask stupid questions. I am not—I cannot be—an insolent child. I could be as constantly searching for the realization of my own adulthood and my own independence. I may like to think I already have them. Do I? Again, don't—but let it rest.

What do you say about instituting a reform program that forbids you from mentioning its existence? I am not altogether convinced anything is funny. Suppose I am to hold myself apart from the others then, as I do, only more so?

What is incomprehensible?

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"Just a Symbol Here"— It could seem as if all will to live could be downed in a postmodern morass—how do you know you're right? But I know everything about emotional turmoil, [...]. It's enough, one should think, to keep oneself through the interim. —ZMD

SECOND ADDENDUM— No one understands the full truth of my current agony! But what is—what could be—the point of explaining emotional agony to anyone? —ZMD

THIRD ADDENDUM— I think I am hurt from shame caused by a response to something rude I said o'er the telephone today. I recall reading on [redacted] that she had finished her UC application. I have spoken of taking things seriously. When am I going to? What must I forsake, for a time or forever, to get myself to behave? O comfort—I mean _control_! —ZMD

FOURTH ADDENDUM—"Heartless Soon?"— "And show them a novel"! Well, I _have_ sinned today, hysterical male that I am—that I have been. Whatever my fits, and my _l'shon harah_, I do have some idea of the direction I want to take, the calm and studied rationality that I want to exude, and I believe have so exuded, in my finer moments. Perhaps it is this: whatever odious sins of conversation I commit, and whatever subcatastrophes befall me, I cannot let myself fall in hysterics. Because that never did anything useful, and only wasted time and energy as I fell behind—then. If my actions merit scorn in the minds of others, let me be then so scorned, as long as I do not cry! And if I am lonely? Let me be so then lonely, until I meet my match, as "we are all lonely"—and I have these pages! Secret for now, digital only for now, but I will write, and write, and I must take special care to preserve them—more than I have, surely! But this record must be saved in full as preserver. So if people come to think of me as a cruel bastard, at least _this_ will exist after me to explain, as much as words can, the bastard behind the bastard—as it were. I have to take it into my heart that I cannot let anyone's _feeling_ stop me. I can get to feel like such a genius, pouring out my soul so—so cleverly—if this _is_ my true soul, and if we _have_ souls. And if this is truly clever.

What if it's like this: others might like you, and you might like yourself, and preferrably both would be true, but you have to have at least one of the two or you cannot humanly go on. But the others' affections and even more obviously your own affections need to be earned by action pleasing to the standards of the standard-bearer in question.

Perhaps it's like this: that it's funny (oh, but _nothing_ is funny!) how if you screw up a little, the shame from that screws _you_ up, and you keep sinning, and you're liable to electron-tunnel yourself to—ruination, but if you do well a little, the pride from that does _you_ well, and you're likely to keep doing well and teleport yourself to—

I don't know. I've never been there—or not long enough, anyway, to read the signs.

It's a system with two attractors ...

So if Ms. Gunnison is to hate me and fill my "letter of recommendation" with horrible libel (or truth) and Kathy is to spend her passing periods plotting my murder, and Seanan is to develop a complex philosophy disproving my existence—I won't cry. Because negative hysterics never did me any good.

It's simple, isn't it? No shame. No victims ...

If I _am_ wired for destruction, please accept this Diary as apology or explanation. But not excuse—there was, one should think, no such thing. —ZMD


#### 167 — Wednesday 23 November 2005 — "LP"

D.—

It is angering and humiliating for someone to remind you to do your work. You think that it is your concern and your concern only. But if your parents were never to urge you to do your homework when you were young, where would you be—now? If one does not want to be pushed, one should then demonstrate that one does not need to be pushed any longer! To end the torment, one must not fail to present the fiery "Q. E. D." of "Already done" at the hastening of a deadline.

And if a sense of senseless agony would seem to interfere? A human can get so lazy, and a man—a _man specifically_—can get so lonely for a woman—it would seem, but can "suck it up", so fuck me.

ZMD


#### 168 — Thursday 24 November 2005 (Thanksgiving Day) — "_Treaty of_—"

D.—

I had better be grateful—what chances have been ceaselessly provided for me! And how much, then, has been carelessly discarded? It could be that having surveyed varied swatches of passion and dispassion, one can get to feel very—_human_—the adjective that means everything, I guess.

What is one's ability to see beyond the present moment?—_act_ beyond it, rather—I've good vision. A university application is of momentous importance, is it not? A human is not merely the hopeless subject of fits. Volition was not a legal fiction—and, if it was, don't legal fictions too have something of their own power?—in this case.

There could be spaces where there is no help possible. Consciousness is not to be patched. Within us there is something more than multimadness. Why so hesitant? I know what I like—I can deal. Then!—what broke?

Why doesn't a human just _write_ what needs to be written? It isn't right to laze about, to delay, to—destroy the future without lifting a finger. I have had my beauty—I am to make more. People struggle to get into college; they struggle that their children might get into college! And _my_ struggle? If presently it was only intrapersonal, this is no excuse (!) for sitting by and letting another chance go! Would I justify myself in letting go by saying that someone else deserves it more? But that's true if and only if I do—let it go. _And I shan't_. Stars above (and surely they are all as hollow) I don't even _own_ a white flag!

And it's Thanksgiving Day, so all the flag shops are closed.

Bless them every one. So—but let it rest!

ZMD

1419

ADDENDUM— This has gotten ridiculous. I have been so stupid and miserable—unworthy of so much. What _would_ Kathy think? I've not been worthy to speak her name, defiling it with _my_ lazy mouth. But no longer, assuredly. I've got bootstraps in mind (as it were) and strength enough to pull. Was I afraid? Of what? All you can do is work—write—what-have-you! And I have—_measures_, and measures enough for universities, and _The Page_, and showing a novel, and showing them grades. Today is Thanksgiving and I give thanks for volition or what's left of it, and what it is to be! Can I snap myself into moods, or does it just happen? O scientific method! It takes a certain kind of human to do it right, a kind of mind that knows truth how to find, and exactly _when_ to unwind (if there is such a time)! Then! Measures! And how Kathy spends her break, it is not for me to know—now! This has gotten ridiculous, but it's coming around. So fuck me (retroactively). —ZMD, 1532

SECOND ADDENDUM— The family has attended Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Father's friend Steve. An older woman, Donna, I'm sure, said we'll be hearing about me—indicated she's convinced I'll do well. Also she told me the application of toothpaste will dry up my pimples. Mike is quite a character. A woman named Michelle looked intriguing to me. How splendid it would be to be married to the right person! How splendid it would be to have a perfect memory! I must concentrate on my work—I would seem to be continually saying this, but it is true. Think of what can be won! I think I hunger for prestige—to be _known as_ a hard worker, a human who takes things seriously—it is so gratifying! I hunger to be above reproach—I want to be so talented and polite and everything that no one would _dare_ criticize me! Yet, I am still not done with my Personal Statement! Horrors—if that's not finished this late in the break, how am I to finish a novel, being that kind of person? But, resolved: a person can change. I think I can get to feel sometimes like a very superior sort of person—what's my self-esteem like, on the balance? "All you can do is"—well, am I doing it? Maybe I am good at _feeling_ things—if "good at" makes sense in this context. Good at feeling things—_for a boy_? Oh, _bog_!

What if it's just one more thing we have to deal with?

ZMD

2046


#### 169 — Friday 25 November 2005 — "That Which Is Going Around"

D.—

Ridiculous! How long have I spent on the internet so far today—and doing what, and for what purpose? Am I ambitious or ambivalent? How can I bear myself this way? It is true that there are many things worth doing—but not _equally_! It is splendid to look at a mathematics site, but—"_first_ things _first_"! One can have great bonny notions of glorious things that can be done o'er break, and it is simply then intolerable to find the day Friday and oneself seemingly _at a loss_ to account, even to oneself, exactly where all the time went! What happens?

I wonder how good my memory is, compared to others—controlling for age, of course—and sex?

Is it simply that I overestimate how productive I _could_ be? The time it takes to do a task is not infinitesimal. But, Diary, it is _Friday_, and I'm not so sure I feel like I'm so sure I know what took up all the time of the week! What's with all this uncertainty—if I can be certain it is uncertainty? Is _this_ how Schrödinger's cat feels? What do you _say_ to people who decide that they cannot—? How do I explain? I do a lot of reading and skimming on the internet—how much time does it take?—and how much do I come away with?

It is just that—I came into break thinking of working on university application, amongst other things—and yet here it's Friday, and I've yet to finish my Personal Statement—the thing is not to exceed 1000 words, yet I've not completed it!

It's sickening! It's evil! I suppose some would call it "ironic," considering how good I am at writing about myself (1–168A2).

Nicole has bought a new coat.

What if I were to take some comfort time to masturbate, and let climax be _break point_, after which I would pounce on that which needs to be done, acting like a bogdan robot or angry man (_specifically_, but only as required by the nature of the break point)? I would _pounce_ on my due writing, and while I was at a lull thinking of what next to write, I could tidy up some. And, having quickly hammered out a draft, I would make some telephone calls (strictly business) or go get a haircut.

It is simply unbearable to go on being as lazy as I have been! Because the Diary is _fucking amazing_! Because a job well done is a part of its own reward. Because, Diary, it could be that in _some_ ways I _am_ a very superior sort of person. What would Cecelia think?

Is break point theory insane? Insane—as compared to _what_? Here's to it ...

_Bog_, this room is a mess.

Zack M. Davis

1321

ADDENDUM— There was no pun in "break point." —ZMD, 1323

SECOND ADDENDUM— I have driven Nicole to BART. I spoke to her about my application motivation problem. I think that I wanted her to just _listen_ to me relate, but she asked questions about my Statement. So that would be me wanting relation, and her looking for solutions—me displaying the "feminine" pattern and her the "masculine." I like role reversals because they show that nothing exists to reverse. [...] At the same time, I realize that Nicole's approach _is_ the _proper_ one: problems are to be solved. I made a great quote during our conversation: "You're no fun; I like that." —ZMD, 1500

THIRD ADDENDUM— Again, again, again, how can I live like this? —ZMD, 1541

FOURTH ADDENDUM— I may feel as if I need a girlfriend. It may seem as if there is so much agony and distress, and I am so lonely. And also there is the guilt of how—much time and many chances I have wasted. And who could help that? Who will forgive me for that? Am I dying of something imaginary (distress) or dying for want of something that shouldn't exist anyway (unearned sympathy)? But, a medical doctor or even a student would tell you—I am not dying. I could be hopelessly longing for someone (female) to understand my senseless misery—but if it _is_ senseless, it should _not_ be understood. I have thought (haven't I so thought—who doubts?) of calling Laura on _Page_ business: I could mention the error in her story, and in Rocky's [Note, 2 December 2005: what I thought was an error in Rocky's story was actually correct], and ask how many pages the next issue is going to be, so I could call Kimberly and get us on the printer's calendar. I called the Goldhaber triplets, and left a message—none too coherent, I reckon. What can I do? I can work on doing that which needs to be done, of course. How can I bear it? But how can I bear the course I _have_ been taking?

If humans can't successfully rebel against human nature, where does that leave us?

Enough. —ZMD, 1804

FIFTH ADDENDUM— I have talked extensively with Josh Meltzer by telephone. Some of the things I say are clever, and to him I say things I wouldn't say to anyone else I now know. Think of my whole sex role vendetta—if that's what it is. Mother hates her job.

Perhaps one needs not hope for forgiveness when one has failed to do one's job, because one is alone the major one to suffer from failure, so no one else cares. I have thought of saying to someone when I go back to school that I'm not _good_ enough to enjoy my breaks. What is there to say about my misery?—if it is misery. Where's _my_ romance? So—help me! —ZMD, 2220


#### 170 — Saturday 26 November 2005 — "_End of_—"

D.—

It's Saturday, and things are, largely, as they have been—this is absurd! One can ponder the future, or revel in the glorious _passion_ invoked in the last minute of a song recording. But there one is, alive—and left here to this life, to maintain it or not, to spend it—as one will. One can dream of romantic expression and relation—but one is left here at least knowing that dreams _are_ just that—though things do not have to remain as they have been. This, one should hasten oneself to remember, is not something to be left to chance, if one was the type for reveling in passion—_and such_.

What kind of beauty _is_ there but intellectual beauty? Oh, well also there is sex, and mint cupcakes. But I don't suppose I'm much of a baker.

This room is a mess. So—but help me, and don't take too much rest.

Zack M. Davis

0948

ADDENDUM— Perhaps a novel teaches one about the exhilaration that can go with general turmoil. Ironic? Get to due writings, please! Right? Bog. I'm a sinner. See how I'll pay for it, you just watch. —ZMD, 1441

SECOND ADDENDUM—"Who Wanted to Live?"— I have spent some time making some dreadful noise. What is there to say about my hours of senseless agony? How can anyone tell someone about herself? One can write a Diary of what one does and how one feels—but how does one tell a University what one is, and why one should be accepted? But one must not complain—one cannot harbor hopes of avoiding responsibility by complaining that the task is too hard! Enough. —ZMD, 1657

THIRD ADDENDUM—"Four"— This time last year I cut myself. I think so—because in the space in my old planner for Friday 26 November 2004, there is written "SI" enclosed between asterisk-type stars, and the letters and stars together are boxed. How much have I changed between then and now? And what if I were to take blade to flesh again today? —ZMD, 1723

FOURTH ADDENDUM—"Give"— Please, no more madness! It's just _bad business_! —ZMD, 2359


#### 171 — Sunday 27 November 2005 — "Call for Song for the Day After the Revolution"

D.—

What is it but that all I need is a little bit of self-righteousness, that I was dying only for the want of it? I must be prepared to be industrious, to stalk through all halls ready to take tests or make calls. Because it is important that I make something of myself—even were it only to spite [redacted] in my mind. _Especially_ were it only—but let it rest. I _cannot_ go on living as I have been. I _cannot_ continue as a reasonably bright lad prone to periodic and senseless self-destruction. I _must_ make myself accept it in my heart: give up these [insane], unproductive emotional fits—or give up life. Do dearest readers think I am again taking to hyperbole? You'll see. How can I accept this way of life as just something to bear through, or drug away? If I cannot bring myself to abolish it by will, _why not_ leave the world to Kathy and company, if I can't make good use of my share of it? It could seem as if _all I want_ are my comforts, and a good standing on the education track, and to write a novel. Well, couldn't I give up a little of the first, that I might gain the other two? Time passes, and I am to pay for this past week—dearly, I'm sure. Am I a hopelessly unrealistic planner, to think I could push myself enough against my limits to get what I want? But I can only plan as if I have free will—how could anything else be possible?—how could anything else be bearable? I must be able to deny this senseless misery by recognizing that it _is_ senseless. But if it were that easy, why wouldn't it be common knowledge, that reason can dispel depression? I cannot assume I operate under different laws then the other humans—can I? How can I possibly bear being human, if _that's_ what it means, this kind of helplessness? But it can't mean that, because there would seem to be certain people who have things under control. I have to succeed, because _I know_! I think I'm going to buy _Summer of Glorious Madness_.

I don't have time for this.

Enough.

Zack M. Davis

1515


#### 172 — Tuesday 29 November 2005 — "Engaging the Absurd"

D.—

It must be horrible to say something you don't mean, or something poorly phrased that will be grossly misinterpreted. A human wants to maintain the vision of herself as ideologically pure in public action. Surely I am not just another _guy_, with many endearing qualities, actually, but of course hopelessly naïve about it all. What is left unnamed, and why? And what could be more specific?

Enough—but that is not quite what I mean.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

1626

ADDENDUM—"Without Adjectives?"— What if I were to cut the bullshit and start saying things explicitly? But that would require recognizing that I have bullshit to cut—if I do, which may not have been conclusively established. I _can_ write—this has been shown. And if it is noted that it is late, let it be known that it has also been shown that I can work, in my fashion. What if it's been that I have thought as if I am living through an interim between the bad old days and the glorious intrapersonal revolution that is to come, when actually these days now are part of the bad old days, and my task is to enter the interim? But I suppose there's no reason to suppose one's progression of character can necessarily be easily split into three eras. Am I lonely? Am I suffering from a fractured sense of personal identity? But one is not to sit around whining about feelings and identity and purity all day. I have read blogs. I have read essays. Who am I? How can I let people know? Am I a feminist? Am I a libertarian? How can I go on using the internet as I do? But what's wrong with using it as I do? How can I possibly manage? When am I tormented, and when am I just acting? How much sleep should I block in? Would meeting the right woman fix everything? And yet: how could it _not_?

Would but that all of this was merely a prelude to an interim as I mean it. It can seem as if I have so many things to deal with right now, and that in so many ways I have failed! Am I paying now for that wreck of a week? And my time usage today?

Who will forgive me? Who can understand me?

Bog! This room is a mess! Enough.

Zack M. Davis

2204

SECOND ADDENDUM— I should impose a hiatus on "frivolous" internet use. I think I'm going to move to shelve my anti-Selective Service column for an issue. Should I do it without playing the self-hate card? I need to write my review. I plan to sleep first. I have sinned! Why don't I take the lesson to heart? It should never have been hard, because being responsible is _fun_. —ZMD, 0010 Wednesday 30 November


#### 173 — Wednesday 30 November 2005 — "Explicit Differentiation"

D.—

A good day—or what passes for that around here. In the morning, before school, I completed a draft of my music review on _Before the Blackout_ for _The Page_. I made some changes on a paper copy later in the day and gave the draft to Cecelia during sixth, as stories were due today.

Today, twelfth-graders participated in "Senior Most" voting for the yearbook. I voted for Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff in eleven categories, which I recorded in my planner: Successful, Best Laugh, Spirited, Daring, Rock Star, Best Smile, Best Dressed, Best Physique, Best Hair, Best All-Around, and Best Eyes.

I received the grade of B- on my bottle stopper. (I may not be entirely joking when I tell people Wood Tech is my hardest class.) I think it is a very good bottle stopper. I read in _Time Enough for Love_ during lunch. I broke the curve on the most recent Government test. Later, I completed and submitted my online application to CSU Long Beach. I spoke on the telephone with Josh Meltzer. Interesting notions were discussed, such as a connection between fiction and distorted memories, and the idea of aesthetic (but not moral, or course) superiority of heterosexuality.

In the evening, I attended the cross country banquet. Schreiber read a piece by an anonymous runner on the team. Andrew Sheehan thought _I_ wrote it. I believe the author is Jeremy MacMahon. During my time at the front when I was called, I tried to look dignified. I put my gaze to the clock on the far wall. Schreiber noted my improvement late in the season. He described me as different, and I think said he figured out what makes me tick. And I am different. I am hardly "one of the guys"—though nor do I cross any lines. My "gag gift" was a bike chain keychain, which I appreciate.

Will I be able to maintain and further achievement? This room is still a mess.

Enough.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

2238


#### 174 — Friday 2 December 2005 — "Feminist Luke"

D.—

Today Ms. Gunnison got a letter published in the _San Francisco Chronicle_.

Mr. Reeves, father of Ms. Reeves-Hampton, returned to teach in our English class today. There was a substitute teacher in Wood Tech, and the class watched tape. In Physics, the class did a lab—my group ended up with a large calculated percent error. During lunch, I used the internet from the library. In Government, the class went to the library for the purpose of doing research for the presentations we will have to give. I intend to do much work on this project tomorrow.

I drove to Concord High School and took photographs of a girls' soccer game there for _The Page_. I got rather lost, but found my way.

Who cares if I could hypothetically be feeling guilty or lonely? Wax instrumentalist.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis


#### 175 — Saturday 3 December 2005 — " 'Nothing Above the Verdict' "

D.—

Need I remind myself that I am coming of age in less than a month, and I want to be a writer of fiction, and responsible beyond my years? First things—_first_, and all that.

Today I have gotten a haircut (number four all around) and gone to the library. Next week, Mother is to depart on a retreat, leaving me alone.

ZMD

1500

ADDENDUM—" 'Past Prologue' "— Maybe I should've been a songwriter. I am, in my fashion, but—then. I am young; so much is open to me if only I work at it! What's it worth? Who is—Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff? But there is my first-world white male privilege to think about. I suppose I can get overcome with a sense of my own greatness, at times—or _potential_ greatness. I'm _different_ from most people. I don't party; I study. I _create_! Life _means_ something to me; I have _ideals_; I take it all seriously—or want to. Perhaps I'm arrogant. I'm coming of age in less than a month—childhood is over, and if I have an aim, it's far past time to start some _concrete_ planning—to say nothing of (but imply much about with every eloquent, ambition-dripping word) _doing_. I am going to hyphenate this "Davis" with something upon marriage, or—blast the whole patriarchal superstructure!—take _her_ name. And when tradition-bound fools incredulously ask me "_Why_?" I will have a stockpile of glib answers ready for them. Zack M. Davis is not—well, not yet. No, I am not yet well, but I am coming around, as I have said. I can catch on, and up. I can deal. But what have I accomplished _today_? _Well_—I will manage. I'll take Sunday, I'm sure. _Believe me_.

Tonight I watched the _Teen Titans_ episode "Lightspeed". I enjoyed it very much.

ZMD


#### 176 — Tuesday 6 December 2005 — "Skimping and Saving Prelude (Emily Brontë Young Masters Edition)"

D.—

I am going to stop talking about Kathy. Today Government class featured in part an article about incumbency, and when it was my turn to read out loud I said "she" and "her" where the text said "he" and "his" in reference to _an incumbent_. Do I still believe I can change, after days like today? The answer is: _You bet_! Which only brings up another question: bet for or against? But _that_ may be beyond my knowledge, or maybe I am the house and the game is rigged so there are no probabilities because _I know_ that _tomorrow_, finally, _I am coming around_. Then! _Measures_! _Andcetera_!

ZMD

ADDENDUM—"Permanency and the Change of Heart (Thomas Gramstad Learning to Speak Edition)"— I got a B-double-plus on my second bottle stopper in Wood Tech. I have spent much time on the internet tonight. I have wanted to establish my independence, and my goodness, and still so want. What if I were to burn up my one-day-late coupon in English on the Senior Project Letter of Intent that is due tomorrow? I can get to feel, when I have messed up, that I could turn it around, and that this would be the last night of badness in the world. It would be so simple, to do things right, so why not just do them so right, starting tomorrow? It is so good in theory—but it could be that such words are a shibboleth to those who hate theory. What if I set up a framework of rules? What about an intrapersonal market theory?—perhaps I should have to _earn_ internet time by doing fiction writing—a minute-for-minute basis, or whatever ratio seems best—or base it on word count. And long-term projects are to be treated as _anything but_, and blocked into my regular homework pack. The reason the switch works so well in theory is because in a lot of ways being responsible is _genuinely_ fun for me. It feels _good_ to do things right. I know that sense of being righteous and powerful is more valuable than any amount of chocolate chip cookies—not that you'd know it by observing my behavior today. When, then, is break point? These pages are simply the story of a human. Here's to future history, ZMD


#### 177 — Wednesday 7 December 2005 — "Surely This Leaf"

D.—

One must learn to face the reality of the necessity of action. One may not have the time to buckle under a seemingly incommunicable emotion, not with schoolwork to be done, and sleep to be had, and fiction to be written. And one would probably not wish to buckle in any case, besides. What if I am too much of an isolationist? I could be lonely, or perhaps I am stressed—or tired. What is to be said of my condition? Maybe I'm just fine. Self-expression (like _survival_) is not automatic. If there's something I want to explain, why not make a novel? There's no sense in exclaiming and tearing up a voter registration form because the seal fails to work as it should. Life does not have to be half-agony and half-ecstasy, half-sin and half-righteousness. It doesn't—_have to_—cancel itself to nothing. Can't I write? We know I can cry, but that accounts for nothing. Say "literally."

ZMD

2157

ADDENDUM— But if I don't cope, if I don't puzzle out my problems, what do I leave the world to, without my voice? What irreason and what sexism? So what if it is only a vendetta keeping me alive? I can only judge that I _am_ alive and it _is_ a glorious vendetta. —ZMD, 2224

SECOND ADDENDUM—"_Letter of_—"— I can write. I can work. If I am prone to temporary hysteria, it _is_ temporary, and what madness I do suffer I'll pay for in the full—as I must. I have shown certain measures of virtue today—though certainly not _enough_. See if I'll make it. So fuck me. Here's to memory, ZMD, 2308


#### 178 — Thursday 8 December 2005 — "Fight the Power: End Linear Regression! (Amy Biehl Truth & Reconciliation Commission Edition)"

D.—

I could stand to be less expressive, and more focused. There was a test in Calculus today; I think I did very well. Layout for issue four of _The Page_ continues. I took photographs of a jazz concert, because I want to put one on the ToC. Also I have a photograph of the "knight" in the theater lobby. Why did I watch _Hi Hi Puffy Amiyumi_? I could stand to be more _self-assured_. I can go it alone for the mean-time. I have my virtue. I offer myself forgiveness.

Now only to accept it! Do I get sick on praise? What do I mean? Please. I may not need immediate approval so much, if I have reason to believe humans will see these pages one day. Because I'm _innocent_—but that is probably not the right word.

Zack M. Davis


#### 179 — Saturday 10 December 2005 — "Skimping and Saving I (Cathy Young Allowed to Use the Title Edition)"

D.—

I like myself when I am working, when I am _doing something_ that I can be more sure is worth the time. I haven't liked myself enough today so far.

Today I filled out the voter registration form I got from Mr. Bremer, taped it shut, and put it in the mailbox.

A human can doubt his or her memory, but certain things must be recorded. All you can do is your best, and if one cannot be sure of not flubbing some details alongst the way, one _can_ however be sure of not flubbing so badly the gist, the spirit, the heart of the matter. So resolved—I try, and what I write is no sin. Or is better than _not_ writing, in any case. One might say one is going to stop talking about something—sometimes things come up. _As memory serves_: At Layout the other day (but why not say "yesterday" if that's the day I am so sure it was?) Seanan, holding an art sketch[pad], asked if I wanted to see an example of classic beauty. I may have initially consented, but I did indicate I have not been so interested in _classic_ beauty. Alissa Gossett asked if I was more interested in modern women then, and I indicated I was. She inquired as to examples (that is, she said, "Like who?") and I said like Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff.

"I love Kathy," said Alissa at one point.

"You don't even know," I replied.

Anyway, the classic beauty Seanan had been referring to was architectural in nature.

In the "Senior Mosts" for the yearbook, Kathy won "Loudest".

Yesterday I stayed at school in 502 a long time after all the other _Page_ staffers had left—yearbook people were there, getting things done for their deadline. I looked over the pages of _The Page_ and made small changes as I saw fit. I have a PDF file made that should be ready to FTP to FolgerGraphics on Monday morning. While I was still at school, I sent an email to Ms. Gunnison and an email to Nicole. As my watch indicated the coming of the end of Friday, I said, "three—two—one—happy Saturday!"

I have much schoolwork to take care of—there is that Government presentation I should finish today though I've barely started, for one thing. And there is the Reflective Essay due sometime next week in English, and there are other things, and Senior Project looms so! How can I possibly cope with life? How can we bear the interminable confusion and heartache?—and _this_ from those of us who are largely free from the oppression of _regular_ ache! But—so resolved—life is worth living until proven otherwise. And I've used the title—no prelude. We've been insulated, but it's been said that life is naturally dangerous, and it might be time to discover something of that spirit. But then, hasn't it been core to the project that one ought to defy nature in certain ways, if nature means what certain people seem to say it means? _Nothing_ is easy, then. I'll make the most of it. I'll build my own strength, to fight for the project, to really write that novel. No excuses, and no victims—not where I'm from, where I've been protected.

Because it's time to start—liking myself.

Here's to Gunnistack,

Zack M. Davis

1524 (!)

ADDENDUM—"_Coming of_—"— _Someone forgive me_! But I am alone. What if I take a nap? I have set the VCR to tape _Teen Titans_ tonight. I've decided not to watch it this weekend. How could I afford it? I'm so alone. But what did I ask for? What would I be willing to "settle for", and why? Where's my match? Today, I retrieved yesterday's mail from the mailbox, and my bank statement was in it. Where is there pressure for me presently, anyway? It is only that there are many things that would be desirable to get done before Mother comes home tomorrow, and I am left alone to do them, with no other responsibilities to contend with. (Mother's note indicates she'll be home at about 1300 or 1400.) What if I don't take a nap? What if I just stay up working on my Government project, _&c._, and just collapse into bed at noon tomorrow? I'm supposed to be calm and capable. I'm supposed to be able to handle it all. I really want to write those novels, I really do—I think. Then how can I have this hesitancy and turmoil? I care for arts and sciences. I care about things. Need I remind myself—yet again—how soon it is until I come of age? I have experienced wonders of passion and reason. Maybe I'm getting my strength again now. I _have written_, I _have worked_. Am I isolated? Am I guilty? How can I explain? I have some notions. I might be bring evasive. It is up to me. What have I done? But it's not too late. I can even yet make something of this day. After I'm eighteen, and have done _something_ towards establishing my independence, I likely will sign up for an online dating site because whatever the expense, I need companionship, and it seems like a logical way to go about looking. Josh Meltzer is an interesting person to talk to, but I wouldn't be interested in dating a hypothetical female analogue of his. I can get to feel like I'm special; I'm _different_. Maybe most people feel that way. But what's the point of having these little unfounded exceptionalist attitudes when you can actually _be_ an exception? O disturbance of disturbances, how can I be free and proud again? But I _am_ free. Now I have spoken to Mother on the telephone. If there are some things about life one deems sad, one is not to lose even a bit one's enthusiasm for life. One is to do whatever is necessary to continue to live to further the good. You can wax idealistic _and_ instrumentalist. Indeed, to do either properly, you almost have to. Do I bore dearest readers? Then perhaps I will presently leave you and go like myself. Maybe when I come back the title will mean something. So fuck me. —ZMD, 1642


#### 180 — Sunday 11 December 2005 — "Skimping and Saving II (Ayn Rand All My Rhetoric Edition)"

D.—

I have slept. I have not been liking myself. Perhaps I do not know what I am worth, even by my own standards. Perhaps I am unfit to live. To be sure, I am more intelligent and creative then most. But also there has existed in me evasion and periodic senseless agony. Should all humans be entitled to a livelihood? People, but not all of them equally and collectively, have created computers and buildings and farming equipment. Who dies in Libertopia? Who dies? So many things have been handed to me, but what of those who are given nothing? I have said that I am more creative and more intelligent than most—I believe it. One wonders how humans have then survived.

If I want to live, I should be prepared to do what's required of me to earn my keep—in my fashion. One may hate having to do schoolwork—but compare it to the alternative! Education is so vitally important! Maybe I should start with the premise that I'm not worthy of being kept alive, but neither are most people. Maybe I just need to _accept in my heart_ that if I am miserable, then at least O what a glorious way to be miserable! Maybe I need to learn how to set beautiful things down for moments, so I can take care of certain matters of business.

Yesterday evening I bought gasoline and candy at a gas stand, and sheet protectors and binders at an office supply store. I assembled a binder of the Diary Volumes IA, IB, IC, and ID. So there is something of what I have thought protected in print.

How can I talk to people for Senior Project? How can I go on? Maybe I need to accept that everyone can hate me, and it doesn't matter because _I know_ I was trying to act for good. Shouldn't I be able to accept anything now, because I know that if I died right now, my binder of my assembled Diary Volumes I would probably be found by someone, so someone would read it and decide I was not really so bad? How can I go on; how can I go on? I might get to think that if only some woman not my mother would hug me and comfort me and tell me I'm okay then everything would be fine. But it is likely this is a delusion. Did making a print version of the assembled Volumes I make everything fine? Maybe I need to accept that _nothing_ is going to be _fine_ like that, that there was _no such thing_ as _fine_ like that, that heaven is for after death, and _I want to live_ and am basically an atheist just the same. Does it make sense to think one could learn to be okay by accepting that nothing is ever going to be okay?

Maybe emotional turmoil is okay if you use it to _do_ things, but if most often it is just unadorned turmoil—how can I go on? At times when I get to work after a period of evasion, I remember how easy it is to do this thing. So why evasion? If I can learn calculus, why can't I learn tenacity? One can be convinced that both are vital in life. What if I can't let anyone make me feel guilty, because I've already felt it so much by myself that with any more surely I would die? I did not _mean_ titles to be ironic. I did not think I would sleep so late, but one needs one's sleep, yes? I am not a sexist.

Why should I even feel guilty—over long evasion of a school assignment? Guilt is something properly felt over undue harm one has caused to others. It's _my_ academic career to make or ruin. _My_ life to live or run into the ground, and if other people disapprove, what can that be—to me? I have not _stolen_ anything. If, on 29 December, my parents decide to kick me out of the house and stop supporting me, they can do so. It's up to them. We cannot recognize the concept of emotional coercion. Every human is an island; it has to be thought of as so, because if we accept responsibilities for the well-being of everyone around us, surely we will all die of shame. Perhaps the good thing about being alone in the world is that you die alone, too: you don't bring anyone else down with you. No shame, no excuses, and no victims. So perhaps I don't have to writhe in incommunicable terror and shame, because I never shot anybody. But this could be vilest sophistry. It's not hard to see why a reasonably bright sinner would make knots with words trying to disprove the existence of his or her guilt, as faced with the full reality of the matter, surely he or she would die. So perhaps then I _am_ guilty and _do_ deserve to die, but must continue to live as well as I can, just the same.

When will humans set up self-sustaining colonies on other planets?—I do not want to say "if ever." Right [now] we're stuck on one planet. Will we make it? Is it possible for us to make it? Are the collected Volumes I worth reading?

I have needed to clean myself up—in more ways than one. Let it then be so done.

Perhaps it is time to go off the record for a while—a long while, and mean it this time. There is other writing I can turn to. You know what I am—now. How can I ever feel good about myself again?

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

1119


#### 181 — Sunday 25 December 2005 ce — "Skimping and Saving Rearmament"

D.—

What is it but that I go through cycles of revolutionary fervor and nihilistic despair so hopelessly alone? I have not been liking myself enough. The Butowicks sold their house, so I've picked up some employment from that, and thus made $230 so far over this Winter Break. Nicole has come home. Mother bought me a rack and some bags for my bicycle as a gift.

What is it but that I can get to feel my ideas are so beautiful, and yet I cannot properly articulate them? If this is so, how can I be sure I really do have great ideas? What if "ideological purity" is just a front for arrogance and fits of passion? But then how could I live? Surely a human cannot properly define her- or himself by negatives alone—antisexism included, it would seem. But what do I have to go on? However—_so resolved_: I simply must go on. Is it not so? I must continue to live, and must outperform [redacted] in all relevant areas, because _I_ am not a sexist, and surely I cannot allow men such as him to set terms in the world.

I have been writing in my small black notebook a lot. It's important to have a secret notebook. (As in _Harriet the Spy_, it's the contents, and not the existence, that's the secret.) Here is an excerpt from the secret notebook I have been using:

[redacted]

And another excerpt:

> I bet Brooke Durant feels like  
> this _all the time_.

And another:

> NADIA THOMPSON: Zelda, this is really  
> sweet.

> ZELDA M. DAVIS: And that's just a two-  
> candy-cane poem. A queen-size  
> box of Milk Duds will buy you  
> a sestina.  

And another:

> Feminists — the anarchists of the  
> sexual set.

And:

> People say I
> overrepresent women
> in my fiction, &
> _they're probably right_,
> & it's because I
> think I was starved of
> strong female heroes
> as I [_sic_] child. I mean,
> who do we have? Kira
> Argounova & Harriet
> M. Welsch?
> Affirmative action
> is okay when it
> doesn't involve real
> people.

One more:

> SEANAN FONG: You have one thing Casey doesn't.  
> ZELDA M. DAVIS: What's that?  
> SEANAN FONG: Humility.  
> ZELDA M. DAVIS: You're an idiot. Casey Ackerman-  
>    Alexeeff doesn't need humility!

Then. How can I survive in my repeated desolation? I have thought of a vendetta, but one must be strong to carry such a thing. It could be that I am a weak male in many respects. I speak illustratively.

If I cannot explain, is it because I am a man? If I have gotten angry and thought of withdrawing in my fashion from civil society, is it because I am a man? It could be that what set me to my antisexist passion is that it is said males are not so good with words and feelings, but words and feelings could seem to be as what define my entire existence. But existence is not defined in terms of anything but itself. Existence exists, and we're going to have to deal with it largely as it is. It is true that humans have managed to do many things that could seem to be _prima facie_ impossible—but this is not to be construed to mean that _all_ things are possible to the gallant spirit.

If a woman beats the crap out of someone who has claimed traditional limits on what she can do because of her sex, she has done the antisexist cause well by serving as a counterexample. But an antisexist man cannot turn to violence so easily—not without resolving certain things.

Humans have needs. They need food and water and sleep and they need it to not be too cold or too hot. Who can say but that at least some of them have emotional needs as well?

There can be no more time for childish occupations. There can be no allowance for running one's mouth and talking shit on the couch, as all speech is to be consistent with a statement of principles, and all speech was to be dead serious. Even jokes are to be dead serious, because this is life and it's important. It's not just something you can afford to chill out in overmuch, and it could be that a human needs ideological purity most of all.

But perhaps not. What's purity when you're starving and thirsty and freezing? A human has needs, that's all. And it's just—one more thing we have to deal with. I have survived this far. And, to be honest (but surely I am always honest!) my _survival_ has never really been in too much doubt. It's not a matter of staying alive; it's a matter of _doing things right_—a matter I suspect many of my contemporaries never care to take up. So I do then have certain small measures of pride: I do care about doing things right. I can take solstice in that I have written pages of this, and someone is likely to see it when I die. So no matter what hate I incur now, what relationships I destroy, what misery I put myself and others through—there may someday be certain measures of understanding, if only one way. But perhaps I have already said something such as this, and dearest readers are not interested in seeing it again. Suffice it to say I value these pages as a record of what I have been, and I wish deeply to preserve this record.

If I have survived, I can continue to survive. How could I bear it if things and me were to remain as they have been? I _could_ bear it, this history could indicate. _But I shouldn't have to_. We do have certain measures of control, and there can exist certain measures of reform. I left junior year with knowledge of its wreckage, but even if I left senior year with knowledge of a much greater wreckage, then life goes on.

I have not been altogether evil. I have written these pages. Maybe certain measures of madness are a part of me, and have even their upsides, and are just (collectively) one more thing I'll have to deal with. But then there is the madness of 19 December 2005. There are some things you shouldn't have to deal with.

Records indicate I have masturbated every day for eight consecutive days. Will I _ever_ get tired of the fantasy (straight as it is)? There can exist measures of perverse pride—_no pun intended_. Yesterday I remarked to Nicole that I often don't like myself, but when I do, I _really_ like myself.

I worked on "Congress Shall Make No Law" quite a bit (in my fashion) on Friday.

How will I manage Senior Project? This worries me greatly, because of the nature of my project, and the nature of the madness that has so stricken me. But surely I can no longer show weakness. I am no longer a child, and I can think of things to say and do. So much of Winter Break is gone. So much of _this day_ has gone.

"I don't know where to begin," _&c._

I want to do things _right_. How much of a prize have I been?—in more ways than one. What my genius, my laziness, and my cowardice? Does anyone see? Or will they at least get _this_, when that time comes?

I _do_ hope that Kathy keeps a Diary—even if it's not her own. So fuck me. I am,

Your progressive correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

ADDENDUM—"Surely This Leaf Redux (Max Planck Blackbody Edition)"— Nicole's friend Alex has been over. I have acted childishly and hysterically. Why? I cannot explain or justify my behavior. Why should I need to emote in public when I have _you_, Diary, to set the record straight?—as it is. Why should I hurt and moan when it is very clear what should be done? Perhaps I should strive to be an intensely private man: wouldn't it be interesting to seem "normal" (as it is) in public action but have an immense private world of writings? Would it really be so hard—to be an actor? For I could write "actress" in my little black notebook and no one would be the wiser. And this is because I am very wise. So resolved? I simply cannot continue to exist being as whiny as I have been. Only—it has been so often that I have spoken of switching to another _modus operandi_—yet how much have I really changed?

I could make daily life as a game, to see how calm and controlled I can be, and if I can get humans to note a change in me. A "game," did I say? Are all males so eager to make a competition? This could be as one more reminder that I cannot afford hysteria; I cannot continue as I have been. Because there are great matters that must be dealt with. —ZMD


#### 182 — Monday 26 December 2005 — "Lieutenant Comandress (Surely This Leaf Second Redux)"

D.—

Today I worked and made $60. I bought a $23 Barnes & Noble gift card as Nicole's birthday gift. I chose a card that had a picture of Emily Dickinson on it, and I taped a picture of E. E. Cummings over that, and scribbled over a picture of Dickinson on the thing the card is attached to. This is because I remember Nicole remarking yesterday that she did not like Dickinson. Before I decided to buy the gift card, I looked around in Broadway Plaza for a gift, and I saw Jeremy MacMahon working at the Discovery Channel store.

I have finished my Senior Project commitment poster.

It is a considerable puzzle why I would spend excessive time looking at things on the internet when I have such beautiful ideas for fiction I want to write, and when I am psychologically burdened over certain pressing tasks it would be wise to attend to. I am,

Your so-far-insufficiently-muzz correspondent,

Zack M. Davis


#### 183 — Wednesday 28 December 2005 — "Skimping and Saving III (Greg Egan Guard That Border / Coming of Age Edition)"

D.—

Today is my eighteenth birthday. Nicole gave me the Gorillaz album _Demon Days_ as a birthday gift. Today working I earned another $60—and some candles. Mrs. Butowick was just going to toss an amount of candles, so I asked if I could have some, was answered in the affirmative, and ended up taking six.

A night of drama. I suffered some senseless emotional turmoil—"stress," only. I masturbated (as in the morning, or the morning before, or the morning before that, or—) and took a very short nap. Father may move out for a time, as he and Mother have been having problems with their relationship. I don't seem to care very much. Father and I talked for a time.

It would seem I don't really love my parents—strange, perhaps, as it's evident I owe as everything to them.

I am pleased to be eighteen years of age. What am I prepared to do to win certain measures of noninterference—to win my independence? In any case, the fact is and will probably remain so for an indefinite period that _shit happens_ and a human is just going to have to deal with it as she or he can. Life is dead serious. It may be best to simply construe it all to be a sort of _adventure_—which it may be.

Diary, do you suppose there's any lasting happiness to be found in the world?—for surely we did not need it—_too_ badly. I'll make the most of it—or we'll see what happens to me instead. I am,

Your protagonist,

Zack M. Davis


#### 184 — Thursday 29 December 2005 — "Skimping and Saving Second Rearmament"

D.—

What could I write to explain? But it's no use whining about how you can't explain, or life is too hard, or the day is too short, and there is similarly no use in any other sort of "existential whining." The fact is and seemingly will remain until Singularity or what-have-you that you cannot escape a problem by ignoring it. You cannot emerge from the madness as a new human without _doing_ something new. You cannot, nor should you even wish to, hide the heart of the issue after the jump, in the ninth graf. What's the heart? What's the issue? Who could explain, and who knows?

If a human really wants nonintervention of outsiders, why would she or he then repeatedly fail to show that she or he does not need intervention?

Where does it end, if not today? What secret did I miss in aimless days of gaiety and _Star Trek_ novels? And what, for all my incommunicable terror, was there ever to fear? Did I ever have an agenda or a vendetta? When will I be able to walk free under my own power?—knowing that I have sinned, to be sure, but not needing to be prodded to do what's necessary—as presently I am not sure I can bear any longer the indignity of needing to be prodded—as it were. Surely this leaf will be turned, else—then. I am rendered hurt and as lost. All my troubles are my fault, and my fault alone, I hasten dearest readers to realize that I know. I am eighteen years of age. I have learned many things, including but by no means limited to something about when to keep my trap shut tight. Yet something more has to change, something more must be learned, else—then. What am I prepared to endure? What can I give up? How can I go on? What am I prepared to suffer?

What can I say—about "extreme measures," or what-have-you, or metasyntactic variables? Only but this is surely as the end of the world, or of an error—or no end at all.

And, volitionally, I aim—_am_—to take my pick.

ZMD

ADDENDUM—"Then You Know Where to Land"— I have picked up two books that were on hold for me at the library. I have spoken with Josh Meltzer over the telephone. I have not been liking myself. —ZMD

SECOND ADDENDUM— I have just made a telephone call. How can I bear having feelings as I have them? I will bear it; that is all. —ZMD


#### 185 — Sunday 15 January 2006 — "Skimping and Saving IV (David Slack Season of Gratuitous Secondary Characters Edition)"

D.—

Today was the last day of my employ to Pat Butowick.

If only I learn to refrain from spending time in ways I can't presently afford—excuse me, learn to _like myself_—then things will be fine, or what passes for that around here. Things would seem, in many ways, to be going fine. I have earned some money. I am nearly done with what is (surely) my next-to-last semester of high school; finals take place 17–20 January. I think my grades will be—not too bad. I have submitted my short story "Congress Shall Make No Law" to _Strange Horizons_. I should definitely get more serious about writing fiction—though I might make a point not to _talk_ about it overmuch.

Senior Project is worrisome. O how I have delayed! What is to become of me?—yet surely with effort I can make up for lost time—excuse me, _wasted_ time.

Surely, with a little more effort, everything is going to be fine. A little bit of ints shyness is understandable and can be managed. It would merely take some planning and some willpower, in quantities I am sure I can conjure up. The madness of 19 December is only a memory. With just a little bit more tenacity than I have consistently shown, the best _is_ yet to be. What if I get that scholarship? What if _Strange Horizons_ accepts my story? What if I write a much better story (as surely I will) and _that_ gets published? O how much is possible!

Perhaps I need to change tacks. Perhaps, rather than focusing on learning to endure misery for the sake of that which is good in life, I should be focusing on learning to love life. It is hard to endure suffering and perform through it solely for the sake of some likely future reward. I do _not_ mean to suggest that "the journey is more important than the destination." Rather, I am speculating that one is going to have a very hard time reaching one's destination if one has a strong distaste for journeying.

It was recently called to my attention how wonderful it is to really _want_ to get out of bed in the morning. That want really says a lot about a person's sense of life, that one should cherish conscious existence so much that just being awake is something to look forward to. To be sure, whether or not you cherish waking life like that has a lot to do with how things are actually going right now, and what you can be sure of waking up _to_. But there could be another factor. _Of course_ one wants to get good grades. But some students _like_ doing the homework, even while a chief reason for doing it is to get the good grades.

Perhaps I have not been adequately eloquent, or rational. I don't think I know just what to do about sexism, and I don't know how to save the world. But I know that "reality is not optional." _The facts stand_. I am a man—a man _specifically_. I have certain measures of agency. Something is going to happen, and it's _real_, it _exists_, and I, despite all men's limitations, aim to have my hand in it, and play that hand wisely. If I have sinned, if I have procrastinated, if my mixed metaphor didn't go over so well, I may yet be forgiven. The madness of 19 December is past and dead, and I aim to keep it that way.

I suspect I may be coming down with a minor illness, as I have felt a little sick today. I am,

Your rational correspondent,

Zack M. Davis


#### 186 — Monday 16 January 2006 — "Skimping and Saving V (Laura Fettig Friends and Ends Edition)"

D.—

I watched tape of _Gilmore Girls_ this morning. I watched the _Teen Titans_ episode "Things Change" when it aired at 1600.

If one is so far behind and feels sad, surely one must simply work on things. It is better to do _something_ productive rather than mope about one's stress and laziness and loneliness. If one is having trouble getting oneself to work on Senior Project, perhaps one might as well clean one's room in the mean time. Similarly, just because one believes one cannot finish a story _tonight_, does not mean one should refrain from writing fiction altogether. I have said that I don't believe in half-measures. But even half-measures are better than _no_ measure.

Things might not even be so bad. So I am behind on Senior Project. It may be that a lot of people are. It is likely I can make it up. So it might not be a great paper. I might embarrass myself badly in some ints, but feelings pass. I won't die; I won't fail outright. And even if I did fail outright, and universities rejected me, I still probably wouldn't die. I will be able to write my fiction. _That's_ important.

So how does one explain my disposition today? If I think fiction writing is important, why don't I write more? If I want to do things right with Senior Project, why don't I take some notes and send that email? If I think what others think of me does not matter so much, why have I suffered shyness? In sum: if I love life, why does it hurt me so much? Why do I hurt and laze about and generally make a mess of things?

Things change. I am not the boy I was freshman year. What is emotional need? I have my writing.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

1840

ADDENDUM— Did I not write of "clamping it down" in my little notebook? _Wax instrumentalist!_ It could be that all I need is to have some sense knocked into me. Diary, what do you suppose are the odds I will feel good and motivated after sleeping? What is this isolation about? Really, it is only a matter of months. If you wake up and you find half the decade is gone, let it suffice to be that in that half you have come into your own, and it is now that this new self is really starting to act on things. Yes, _now_ this self will act! I have certainly made my impact on _The Page_, and surely someone would have good words to say about my emerging feminist consciousness. Many people seem to like me. I have written that being responsible is fun. Now I must only prove that I _meant_ it. I must hold myself up and make myself strong, and disregard the stares of fools who don't even make their own lunches. So one can cherish quotes-from-memory of one's crush; it's well. And so there are a lot of things about people you'll never get to know. It's fine; we'll deal. It could be pleasing, being part of the class of '06. I believe I do know something about having a sense of community. Perhaps it is that it has been established that I am to hold myself apart in certain ways, and a question is whether I should do it with malice or without. But there are other questions. Do I want to go to college? Do I want to do things right? Do I want to write fiction? Again, _do I want to live_?

Diary, if you would just smack some sense into me, I would be _much_ obliged.

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

2002


#### 187 — Tuesday 17 January 2006 — "Skimping and Saving VI (Amy Wolfram Dime Turn Edition)"

D.—

Today I had a Physics final at 1020. I arrived at school earlier than this. Lizzie Lanfranki spoke to me to see if her column could be a full page, instead of a half. I met with Nadia and Nora Murphy (aka Muffin Winters). Nadia had a box of donuts and such, and I took one. I went to 502, got a copy of the _Chronicle_, and spoke with Ms. Gunnison. Though I have thought about not _talking_ about writing fiction overmuch, I told Ms. Gunnison that I submitted my lousy short story to _Strange Horizons_. She questioned whether I really thought it was lousy—as I'd not have submitted it if I really thought that. I replied that _I_ liked it, but I couldn't justify it philosophically. She said, I think, that you never can, especially with fiction. At some time I said that maybe if I did my physics homework regularly, I would understand it better. Ms. Gunnison said that I shouldn't beat myself up over it. "On the contrary," I said, and proposed that all I need is for someone to smack some sense into me. Ms. Gunnison said that never works.

The physics final was not too hard. I think I did rather okay—perhaps even rather well.

After the final, I went to the Wells Fargo on Broadway and made a $300 deposit into my savings account.

I did some rereading in _Atlas Shrugged_!

I had a dentistry appointment. Mother came, and drove both ways. Dr. Gefvert says my home care is good, and that I should probably get wisdom teeth taken out during the summer.

On the drive back home, talk turned to the subject of my teachers. Mother said that Ms. Gunnison [makes you] want to work on the paper. I said that Ms. Gunnison makes you want to live. Mother said she thought I was in love with Gunnison, though she's already married. I asked Mother what she was suggesting.

Though it's true—assuming I know what love _is_.

Mother said that at Back to School Night, Ms. Gunnison told her that she thought I was capable of running the whole paper by myself, and that the reason she didn't give me such a position is that she thought I would take it too seriously.

Hearing this even secondhand honored me so much. How could I ever be lazy again, knowing the mindful ecstasy of love and production? Yet I have not really been so productive today, and _still_ I fully intend to watch _Gilmore Girls_ tonight. Maybe the character Paris will appear in this episode, and I will take her muzz as inspiration to increase my own. It's true: we'll _always_ have Paris. But that doesn't mean you don't have to pay the cable bills. Well, actually I'm pretty sure the WB is broadcast, but I was speaking illustratively—just the same.

My official Selective Service registration acknowledgement card came in the mail: attractive, but _so_ unconstitutional.

O am I prepared to do that which should be done?

It has been said that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. But unless you are a scientist studying the lives of flies, the only reason I can think of for you wanting to catch flies would be to kill them.

As memory serves,

Zack M. Davis

1828


#### 188 — Sunday 5 February 2006 — " 'And Then Kick Back' "

D.—

It's hard to explain, and easy to get confused. It's easy to spend a lot of time on things you might not have time for. And it's hard to figure things out. Physics can be fun and beautiful. I have a picture of Emmy Noether and an unpublished alternate cover of _The Page_ pinned to my wall. I have been worried about Senior Project. I have read what of Katie Kolodzie's science fiction novel-in-progress she has emailed me and I have emailed her extensive comments. _Strange Horizons_ has rejected "Congress Shall Make No Law." Ms. Gunnison is pregnant. I will try to do things right and keep things clean and organized! One must consider opportunity costs—time is so very valuable! So many people have existed—O glorious existence! O glorious books!—only that _getting_ to them could be a trouble.

My first semester marks are as follows:

English 4 — A-

Wood Tech — A-

Calculus AB AP — A-

Physics — B+

US Govt/Econ — A

Journalism — A

Here's to being unafraid and able to find things,

Zack M. Davis


#### 189 — Thursday 16 March 2006 (Diary Day) — " 'You're Way Too Close To Dive' (Personal Holiday Spring Cleaning Edition)"

D.—

My Senior Project paper was due today. I wrote nearly all of it yesterday. I cut school yesterday, the intent being to use the time to finish the paper. Having the paper done—as bad of a job as it was—makes me feel much better. There's still this "experiential" thing to manage—but I've an idea on how to proceed, hat tip to Ms. Gunnison.

I suppose today is to be reckoned a good day, as I have behaved well—or what has in the past passed for that around here. I will have to take exacting care to not procrastinate again, as I do not want things to remain as they have been. Was the time I spent reading on the internet today worth't?—maybe. One is to get some credit for "baby steps"—only I'll not call't that, as I should have been _long since_ a man—only there's a better way to phrase that. One is to get some credit for small measures.

Notebooking has emerged as an important part of my life—though I'm between notebooks at this moment. Diary, do you suppose it's strange to have a Diary _and_ a series of personal notebooks?—only for me it seems to be the best arrangement. And I've not written in the Diary much lately. How will I keep it all straight?—my notebooking, my Diary, my fiction (yes, _still_ I believe in't!) and all the glorious business of life I want for myself? The problem with documentation may be a big one, but even if this is so, there are many other problems still bigger. There's the Hard Problem of Ethics, the Hard Problem of Free Will, the Hard Problem of Survival—oh.

_Then_. Other developments. I have been accepted (conditionally on continued academic performance, of course) to UC Davis, UC Santa Cruz, UC Riverside, and CSU Long Beach. Last Friday, on something of a whim—I was under stress at the time, as I recall't—I asked Katie Kolodzie to Ball. She said her parents would probably "pitch a fit," and I quickly said sth along the lines of: okay, then probably not; but she thanked me, for the offer.

_I can_ wax instrumentalist to a fine degree—haven't I shown't, at times? I will do reading and writing and planning and execution. _I will have my goodness and my beauty!_ And who can say but that by Diary Day next, I will also have my romance?

I will have to like myself. I will have to listen. I may even have to hurt. But don't complain. "Take it like a woman." I am,

Your increasingly rational correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

2149


#### 190 — Saturday 18 March 2006 — "What's Shiny (Wendy Reeves-Hampton Feminist Icon Edition)"

D.—

Again, there is a tension in having both secret notebooks and a Diary. What goes in which? Only I can write just whatever I feel like in either, and virtually no one will come to challenge me for't. There may be an events v. notions dichotomy or there may not be so. But soft! There _exist pressing_ matters, and I am in any case a beautiful creator of beautiful documents.

Today I went to Salon, my first time. Seanan and his friend—whose name I cannot presently recall—and I talked for about and hour and a half. I enjoyed't very much. Sociality can be incredibly rewarding—with the right people.

I then drove to OfficeMax and purchased: three small notebooks (for secret-notebooking purposes) some candy, and a box of labels for mailing _Page_ subscriptions. I believe I will try to get Sydney to get me reïmbursed for that last. I felt a little bad about accidentally making a pencil mark on an item I was examining. I ran my eraser over the mark and did not end up purchasing the item. I went to the Honda dealership and got a key copy. And I went to Wells Fargo to open a checking account. I spoke with a personal banker named Tanya Goldberg, who is probably a Jewish banker, because she wore a necklace featuring a Star of David. So I have a checking account and I am to have a credit card.—O glorious adulthood! I then bought some groceries.

I composed, and sent, an email to Caitlin Casey. I did some reading on the internet.

One must watch so carefully the expenditure of one's time! Material scarcity is not all that much of a problem (all things considered) for those so priviliged as I. But time scarcity applies to everyone. I am,

Your increasingly responsible correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

2053


#### 191 — Friday 24 March 2006 — "Bluebook (Betty Friedan Countersink Edition)"

D.—

Stayed late at layout today. Mother came to 502 unexpectedly when there were only a few of us left and we were going to go very soon. If only I had kept my phone on, or called in! Mother and Ms. Gunnison spoke a little. Mother drove me home, and Father drove me back to school in his truck to retrieve my bicycle.

Lately I have been reading _The Feminine Mystique_, and I have adored it. I have called it the second intellectual bombshell of the midtwentieth century.

Yesterday, I drove to San José to attend a panel discussion about the future of newspapers, for the experiential component of my Senior Project. I arrived very early, so as to avoid traffic. There was an emergency—a fire I am certain—near City Hall, where the event was to be held. At one point during the time while I was waiting for the event, a man approached me and proceeded to expound a long, rambling rant about these fuckers who look normal but may not even be human, and leave messes in restrooms. Eventually I told the man that I had to go. It turned out that I was earlier for the event than I thought: I had mistaken the date. But I did attend another event, which was free—Salam Pax, an Iraqi blogger, gave a speech and answered questions.

The day before, I lost the gascap to the Civic, and it wasn't until when I got home from school yesterday that I noticed this. Before getting onto the freeway to San José (680 South) I went to the Honda dealership and bought a replacement. Does Mother do too many things for me? It is important to me that I be responsible and mature. I will have to take full stock of the reality of the situation.

Well, I don't have to tell you _everything_.

At this,

Zack M. Davis

2242


#### 192 — Sunday 2 April 2006 — "I Was Crying When the Street Blew Up (Roger Penrose Bibliophile Edition)"

D.—

There is no school [this] week, as it is Spring Break. Daylight Saving Time has begun.

Issue 7 of _The Page_ came out on Friday. There are many things about it to be pleased with; the cover is elegant; the graphic I made for the Face-Off is very good.

I have been rejected from UC Berkeley and UC San Diego. I did not at this time get the scholarship at CSU Long Beach; the mailing contained a form with which one can indicate if one wishes to be placed on the wait list or not; I do not intend to ask to be put on the wait list.

My check and credit cards have arrived in the mail.

On Thursday, I went (on the event's _actual_ date) to San José to attend the panel discussion on the future of newspapers. I stuck around and listened after the event was over, and ended up getting interviewed by a podcaster. Senior Project experiential is still worrisome. Neither Ms. Reeves-Hampton nor for that matter anyone else is going to hold my hand at every step of a way. Aren't I _prepared to do what it takes_ to get the requisite [English] grade to continue onward to _university_? Ms. Reeves-Hampton says she has graded my Senior Project paper, so it will go on my quarter grade. (Friday was the last day of the _third_ quarter.)

Yesterday in the morning I attended Salon, but this time Seanan and I were the only ones who showed. After Seanan left, I checked out _The Bell Curve Debate: History, Documents, Opinions_, edited by Russell Jacoby and Naomi Glauberman. (Salon has been held at the library by Civic Park since its inception.)

Yesterday in the evening, Mother and I went to town. Mother got a latte, and I got a burrito. We went to Bonanza Steet Books, and I got five books and Mother, as I recall, got one. To pay for all these books, I used up my remaining store credit, and Mother paid the balance remaining. The books I got were: _The New Left: The Anti-Industrial Revolution_ by Ayn Rand, _Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology_ by Ayn Rand, _Mathemagics_ by Margaret Ball, _The Emperor's New Mind: Concerning Computers, Minds, and the Laws of Physics_ by Roger Penrose, and _The Passion of Ayn Rand_ by Barbara Branden. I have spent a great deal of the time since then reading.

That I read is splendid and vital. But there is much to do to secure my purposes.

Zack M. Davis

2020


#### 193 — Thursday 6 April 2006 — " 'Theory and Practice' (Margaret Ball Information Theory Editon)"

D.—

Bad habits abound amidst my glory and goodness. I disapprove of sleeping late; many things need doing—and it is already _Thursday_ of Spring Break! Yesterday, I dropped Mother off at Oakland International—she's visiting Nicole out East. Yesterday I added to "Equity"—I believe that I will find great fulfillment in (finally) writing fiction significantly. This morning, I did internet reading—_again_. Reading such is splendid, but _time is limited_ and I fear that I have used time in nonoptimal ways that will get me into—perhaps this is an exaggeration—"no end of trouble." Father left me a note and forty dollars—the note mentions summer jobs, indicates that the forty dollars is so I can buy us groceries, and mentions the digging he has assigned me to do ("either tommorrow [_sic_] or Saturday"). I'd planned to do the digging today—_and I will_.

I suppose some would contend that I'm an obsessive—always thinking about markets or gender equality or adult responsibility. ("Equity" deals with all three.) Who knows me? How can I prove my worthiness? Do I need to cut myself off from blogs, that I could have time to finish my work and write my fiction?

Diary! _How much have I changed?_

Immigration has been an issue in the current events media of late. I am,

Yours,

Zack M. Davis

1157

ADDENDUM— I have done my outdoor chore. I have printed out a copy of "Congress Shall Make No Law" and put it in a binder. Father has telephoned. Perhaps when one is asked how one is, one should make sure to not hesitate. Am I really so ignorant? I do not like it when I perceive I am being talked down to—but when there's no _intent_ to belittle, who am I to express indignance? I am not insulted that Ms. Ciano knows more about physics than I. So I should not be insulted that Father nags me, when I have not demonstrated that I do not need to be nagged. Maybe I should shut up, shut up, shut up, accept my inferior status, and offer no arguments! Oh, what am I talking about? But maybe that's the point: that I have not yet earned full confidence, so I am to study, and I may prattle in my Diary, but in my dealings with grown-ups I should submit. Worries of school and employment abound, and _hurt_, but I'll deal, and I'll think, and I'll write. _Especially_ I will write, perhaps. I have studied—to a certain extent—how technology has changed the craft of writing. So I know that—with word-processing and laser printers and high standards of living and so forth—it's easier to write a novel today than it ever has been. Mark it as a reminder that I am not of the first tier, when so many have prevailed more than I, and in much harsher conditions. I _have_ my three pet issues—or _two_, as I am not a real free-marketeer. Is it that incitations to open up only spur me to keep things in more? Should I be _relentlessly_ seeking a job and fulfillment of Senior Project experiential _now_, that I might do what I will with my keep only _after_ I have earned it in the full? Oh, how will I manage? Diary, I _will_ keep you posted. Presumably. —ZMD, 1507

SECOND ADDENDUM—"Word for Word"— I have said that I am not a very prolific writer. But what if you count my Diary?—and my secret notebooking? Surely those who have seen me in my goodness and who have seen the masses of my contemporaries would conclude that I am preëminently employable! But _soft_—hadn't I considered being _humble_? Exactly how much is to be kept secret? But come, the day will not wait for me. —ZMD, 1523


#### 194 — Friday 7 April 2006 — " 'The Age of Envy' "

D.—

Not a good day. I spent a lot of time on the internet. I let much of the day—just slip away, as it were.

I have started reading _The Passion of Ayn Rand_. Oh, to be passionate and relentless! There are so many _people_ in the world, each distinct in personality, and time exists (as it is a part of existence, which _exists_) and 1926 was as real then as 2006 is today! Oh, perhaps it's a silly waste of energy to get caught up in wonderment at the obvious. It could be that one can get to feel isolated from oneself, sometimes, as if one is doubting existence, doubting that one _exists_ in _this body_ and it's all _happening_. And—it could be—that I have been having that feeling more often of late. Oh, what am I saying?

I have drawn parallels between myself and Rand. Yesterday (who doubts that it was yesterday?) I wrote a passage in "Equity" that I thought read like something Rand would have wrote. Kathy could be an analogue of Leo—but that my feelings were never so strong. Rand was not interested in women; the role of "prime mover" in her works was reserved for her ideal man. This could be as _I_ am not interested in men, and my fiction will feature heroic women prominently. Only _I_ know that both these are arbitrary aesthetic dynamics, as _values_ are always and eternally gender-neutral. Essentialist theories aside; I will deal with them later!—will learn to deal with them later—surely!

Maybe I need to cultivate within myself more Randian arrogance. Rand knew what she wanted, knew what she thought was right, and acted accordingly. But Rand was very smart. I am smart, but _how_ smart? How much can I lift with the strength of my convictions? Who am I to know?—to live? But existence exists, and I exist, and maybe if you're going to want something in the world, or believe something, you really have to mean it _in the full_, and no half-measures can be permitted. Rand endured hunger. Shouldn't I be able to endure foods I don't like?

I have, in my time, done a lot of internet reading. I have read blogs and articles. I was once deep in the _sluggy.net_ forum community—I am no longer a part of that community. Time scarcity is limiting. I know the kinds of things certain bloggers say.

I have read an article by Christina Hoff Sommers; I have _seen_ the enemy (_cf_. 91A2, 126).

Still, one cannot get mad at society, because "there is no such thing as society." That there are vicious collectivists out there cannot alter one's treatment of an individual.

I have been timid; I am easily ashamed. But where will that kind of behavior get one? I believe (do I not so believe—who doubts?) in the vision of my novel _Take It Like a Human_ (formerly _Figuring Things Out_); that, if written, it would be a vital intellectual bombshell and exploration of the facets of one of my pet issues. I think (do I not so—) my vision of _44p3 from Redemption_ (formerly _The Compatibilist Ethos_ formerly _Running Water_) is sketchier. But still beautiful.

And it's never been easier. Maybe in our rich society the market for art is already saturated. But am I to abort my artistic vision just because there are a lot of other artists out there, and I fear my message will not be heard? (I've heard of being pro-choice, but _this_ is ridiculous!) But it's silly to talk about abstractions like markets when you've done as little as I have. But I may have a demonstration that I've what it takes, _viz_., _it is such a beautiful Diary_!—which, I think, has gotten better with time. I thought (who doubts?) that Katie Kolodzie, beautiful, beautiful Katie Kolodzie, had pro potential with _her_ story, riddled with inconsistencies, awkward bits, language errors, and "we all found a starstation"isms though it was. What if I put into my fiction the kind of dedication she puts into hers—and much, much more? By any reasonable account, I have plenty of leisure. Why not direct a significant part of it into my beauty?

Still, so much is worrisome, and so much valuable time has past. How can one have Randian arrogance when there is so much to be ashamed of? Summer employment, Senior Project experiential, Senior Project presentation, and _Page_ duties all weigh on my mind. To be sure, so many others have done so much worse than I have done or indeed conceivably will do, but how does that even bear thinking of? You do not win medals by lowering the bar, nor do you distinguish yourself as virtuous by noting your moral superiority to Brandon Hodges or some scummy boys on the Duke lacrosse team.

I will have my beauty. I must do what I can to secure it, it and my privacy, is it not so?—that I can [transcribe] everything and all this, and no one has to know unless I want them to know. I _do_ so want to go to university. But why should anyone believe me on that count if I do not back it with due dilligence to get the requisite mark in English?

But aren't I so _sophisticated_? I have my documents and my life. Will they survive?

What if Seanan Fong ends up writing my biography?

"Lovely morals you heteros have," _&c._

Yours in trust,

Zack M. Davis

2312

ADDENDUM— Why does life seem so hard when _it's never been easier_? —ZMD


#### 195 — Thursday 13 April 2006 — "Dress Rehearsal"

D.—

Today I gave my Senior Project presentation, and so I wore nice clothes to school. I changed into shorts for Wood Tech, but put my nice pants back on afterward. Brian Riley gave his presentation on the Palestine-Israel conflict before I went. I did fairly well. I got a 180/195, which figures to 92.3%—this including a +5 points for going on the second day of presentations. I also received back my Senior Project paper, on which I got a 294/330, which figures to 89.1%. It—_looks like_—I'm going to university.

I had been distressed. Now—well, there are still many areas of concern. But I do feel much better.

Yesterday, I did some fiction writing. It is good that I write. Who cares if some of my art springs from my deviancy (straight as it is)? Today, I checked out _Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man_ from the school library.

The Every 15 Minutes program was held at school this week—the crash simulation on Tuesday, the assembly yesterday.

Mother and I are to attend a _Pesakh_ seder at the Meltzers'.

There are many areas of concern, and I have felt so much shame! O terrible that I behaved such that Ms. Gunnison saw fit to send me outside! I must learn to better recognize when to shut up. I am _not_ a "knucklehead." I am _mature_—so resolved! If I have questions to come up with, let me think; if I have calls to make, let me dial—and so forth. And perhaps I _can_ take time for beautiful and fun things that I want or need. I must do all this, that problems might be so resolved!

But—if it _is_ redemption I want—why would I be looking here?

"Fire with fire," _&c._ I am,

Your increasingly rational correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

1606


#### 196 — Wednesday 19 April 2006 — "Corrosive"

D.—

Not a good day. I behaved poorly, acting hysterically and running my mouth. The school schedules for Tuesday through Friday of this week are unusual, due to STAR testing. As a senior, I do not take the tests. Today I took photographs of a track meet at Campolindo for _The Page_.

Yesterday, I pinned my "apple" to the "tree" in college/career center, indicating my choice of university. Later, at home, I finished accepting my admission to the University of California, Santa Cruz—I could not complete the process the night before because the website was "on the fritz."

Diary, shouldn't I speak less? Haven't I been a jerky loudmouth?

Just whom do I think I'm converting?—oh, what am I saying?

Um, crush infamy.

I am your correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

1935


#### 197 — Sunday 30 April 2006 — "Glass House"

D.—

I have behaved poorly. The next issue of _The Page_ is due to publish on 5 May—this coming Friday. We've not finished it yet. I'm supposed to have written a feature about Sudoku. I've not written it. This is the second to last issue of my third and final year as a _Page_ staffer, and _still_ I suffer (and _how_!) from ints shyness? What madness! O horrible that I have let it come to this yet again (_cf_. 6, 8, 9, 19, 21, 22, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 39, 66, 69, _&c_., _&c_.)! I also have not yet drawn my _TFAoRSS_ episode for this issue. I did take photographs of an event at the JCC today for _The Page_.

It can seem as if my major troubles stem from journalism stress (in which case they would soon be coming to an end) but that may not be accurate. Haven't I felt turmoil over my UC personal statement—my Senior Project paper—racing—_&c._? And I'm _still_ a finicky eater.

I have many virtues; why do I let so many chances go to waste?

My AP test is Wednesday—3 May.

I have emailed to Katie Kolodzie and Seanan Fong about 7700 words of progress of "Equity". Katie responded positively.

People—of _any_ sex—who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. So it is said. It is wrong that I have let myself been defeated so easily, so many times, in so many respects. Tomorrow is the first day of May—International Workers' Day, if I'm not mistaken. I have been given so much. I cannot let myself be a waste of capital—if I understand terms.

On a particular day last week, I cried, and talked to Counselor Scott Swain in his office for a time.

The next editors of _The Page_ have been named.  
Maybe if I learn to put first things first then everything will be as right as rain, as it were—and I do mean to understand terms.

I am your correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

2119


#### 198 — Saturday 6 May 2006 — "Queen's Knight to Santa Cruz (Keri Heldt Premature Endgame Edition)"

D.—

Right now things seem to have a great potential to be absolutely splendid.

I suffered heavy turmoil on Monday over my default on obligations to _The Page_.

The feature and comic that weren't, were cut, and Ms. Gunnison sent me home.

Issue 8 came out yesterday. There is to be color in Issue 9, which will be the last of the scholastic year; I have taken some color sports photographs. Jeremy Erickson is the new Managing Editor. I don't think I have felt completely at ease talking with him.

I think I did very well on the AP test (Calculus AB) Wednesday.

Yesterday, I checked out _Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women_ from the school library.

My sample ballot for the 6 June primary election has arrived by post. I believe I have decided how I am going to vote. The partisan primary races are not very interesting for me, as my party, the LP, only has one person listed on the party ballot for each office—less than that, in the cases of tenth U. S. House and fifteenth State Assembly.

You know, Diary, I've read that there are disproportionately few women in support of libertarianism, but for what it's worth, there are more women than men listed for partisan offices on my LP ballot. There's Lynnette Shaw for Lt. Governor, Gail K. Lightfoot for Secretary of State, Donna Tello for Controller, Marian Smithson for Treasurer, and Kennita Watson for State Board of Equalization District 1.

I intend to undervote on the tenth U. S. House and fifteenth State Assembly primaries. For nonpartisan offices, I intend to undervote on the county offices, where all the candidates are running unopposed, as well as on Judge of the Superior Court, where I could not easily find information about the candidates online. I think I will vote for Grant McMicken for State Superintendent of Public Instruction; I looked at his website, and I guess he has some interesting ideas about education.

On the measures submitted to the voters, I intend to vote No on Proposition 81, No on Proposition 82, and No on Measure A.

I may write a column against Proposition 82 in _The Page_. How sure am I about what I think about politics? Surely one may justifiably have a strong opinion about some things even if one has not fully formulated a universal theory of political justice.

Well, I guess I have some glory and happiness and innocence and excellence to go win. I am,

Your increasingly rational correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

0845


#### 199 — Monday 29 May 2006 (Memorial Day) — "Index"

D.—

A recent source of stress on me has been the problem of employment. Specifically, I have not yet secured a summer job, and it is very late in the month of May. There was some drama over this on Saturday between Father and me. In private, I cut my leg with the Swiss Army knife that Father gave me a long time ago, I believe for my tenth birthday—a little slash on my left leg.

Father bought a used Prius. With this new car, he will be allowed to drive in the diamond lane on the freeway—useful for the commute.

I did the finishing on my blue secret notebook.

I had a _lot_ of fun yesterday. I went to Salon, but only Seanan and I came. So Seanan and I talked for a time. Then, I drove us both to Pleasant Hill to go to the writing club meeting. IIRC, six people showed up total—me, Seanan, Katie Kolodzie, Samantha, a girl whose name I found out was Marie, and a boy whose name I still can't remember. Katie had emailed out stories for everyone to read for the meeting—but it was just Chapter 13 of Katie's _Tomorrow Will Never Die_, an unfinished fanfiction of Katie's, and that fragment of "Equity."

We had ice cream, and we looked in the bookstore Borders, and we talked, and it was so wonderful!

O friends! O fantasy!

—O lust!

There was talk of getting me (as our departing member) a gift in Borders, but I protested, saying I didn't derserve a gift. Katie said you don't get to decide what you deserve.

I was upset to read from the back cover of Robert A. Heinlein's _I Will Fear No Evil_—but—well—I will fear no evil.

Seanan, Katie, and I were the last to leave: we ate and talked in a restaurant after the others had left, one by one.

Katie was picked up by a parent, and I drove Seanan home.

I have read in three books that I bought over the internet, on credit: _The Robot's Rebellion: Finding Meaning in the Age of Darwin_ by Keith E. Stanovich, _Reclaiming the Mainstream: Individualist Feminism Rediscovered_ by Joan Kennedy Taylor, and _Ceasefire! Why Women and Men Must Join Forces to Achieve True Equality_ by Cathy Young.

It is sad that I have not planned my time optimally today, as if I had learned nothing from the lessons of yesterday—and the day before. Don't I want to write fiction? Don't I want to know well some things about economy?—in more ways than one. Oh, exactly what is to be narrowly personal in scope?—and exactly how narrow?

"I'll make the most of it," _&c_. I am,

Your increasingly rational correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

1710


#### 200 — Saturday 3 June 2006 — "_Elohei Sarah, Elohei Rivkah, Elohei Leiah, Veilohei Rakheil_"

D.—

On Thursday, there was a surprise baby shower for Ms. Gunnison. I gave Ms. Gunnison a $25 Barnes & Noble gift card as a gift.

Yesterday, Volume 55, Issue 9 of _The Page_ came out—with the full color on eight pages. The yearbook, _El Caballero_, also came out. Commencement is to take place on the ninth.

Before class yesterday, I said goodbye to Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff. Whereas, (I said) it's the last week of school, and whereas I had a crush on you for a really, really long time, I thought I should say goodbye.

She was "nice," but didn't make a deal out of it. I don't even think she stopped walking—and I'm glad. She indicated it's been a great four years. As she continued on her way up the 200 hallway, I said, "All the best at Swarthmore," and she said, "Thanks."

I think I have a conception of romance that differs from most of my contemporaries. I don't want to be to Kathy what Nadia is to me, and I'm glad that Kathy didn't give me the chance. I don't think rejection is a reason to stop liking someone—but I do think it's a reason to stop pursuing her. I don't believe in "getting the girl"; I believe in human companionship, freely given or freely denied.

Yesterday, Katie Kolodzie gave me a pen as a gift on behalf of the writing club.

Today, Mother and I went to the _Bat Mitzvah_ of Sara Rose Meltzer. I suppose it's hypocritical of me to attend religious services, when I'm not a believer. Today, I actually ended up _holding the Torah_ as a part of the service. Isn't going through the motions sanctioning everything? Congregation _B'nai Tikvah_ is one thing, but this place, well ... it's something else.

Sara addressed the congregation and read from Ruth, but I did not see her read from the _Torah_ itself. She's a girl, you see. The congregation was split up by sex: men on the right of the little partition, women on the left.

Isn't my sanction something special, not to be given away to just anyone?

O university! I am very excited to be going to university in the autumn. Only I still do not have employment for the summer, which is very worrisome. It would be nice to have money, but really I am more concerned about what Father would say. I fear his disapproval. I realize fully how miserably dependent I am. But it's this dependence that allows me to enjoy the great lifestyle I do in the way that I do. O terrible shame!

I must learn to write fiction more plentifully in my present situation, because if I think I have troubles _now_ ...

In any case, I think about things—I am _fully aware_ of my situation, and I think I understand some things that many don't, about the big issues. I am only to keep on climbing ...

So I'm not a self-made man. I can _still be_ a great man. Perhaps I will someday be active in a community—_without_ a goddam partition running down the middle of its room. I am,

Your increasingly rational correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

1602


#### 201 — Friday 9 June 2006 — "Going Deep (Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff Frontier Editon)"

D.—

Tonight, I was graduated from high school. After the graduation ceremony, Mother, Father, and I ate lemon chicken and rice at a restaurant near the school.

Today I had my Calculus "final," but the class just ate and associated and watched _Zoolander_, our studies for the year having been concluded some time before. I looked at the screen a little, but for the greater part tried to ignore the movie, which I had already seen before. After that was graduation practice. After practice, I went to the city library. There, I bought _The Physics of Star Trek_, and borrowed a Margaret Ball novel as well as a book on matting, mounting, and framing—this last because I hope to get a summer job at Cheap Pete's Frame Factory Outlet; I am to go on my second interview Monday.

I looked at Kathy Ackerman-Alexeeff too much today. I am,

Your graduate,

Zack M. Davis

2226


#### 202 — Sunday 18 June 2006 — "Libertarian Sisters"

D.—

Nicole is visiting.

There were a record number of attendees at today's Salon (specifically, eight). I enjoyed the event very much. Seanan brought a rug and a table and tea and cookies. The discussion was intense. Inna argued that, knowing someone is from a given culture, it's okay for an employer to discriminate, to "play the odds" (my term), success being the standard. On this view, the burden of proof is on the exceptions.

I found out that one saloner, Tania, whom I had never met before, is also an _Atlas Shrugged_ enthusiast. I felt attracted to her.

Our family hosted a lake party today.

Nicole's friend Alex gave me some burned CDs as a graduation gift. Father's friend Roger gave me—a $25 Barnes & Noble gift card.

I am still unemployed. I expect a call from Cheap Pete's on Tuesday. _O terrible default!_

I have started reading _I Will Fear No Evil_ by Robert A. Heinlein—a library copy, naturally. The novel is very well written and it excited me (_cf_. 53A) but of course I disapprove of it because it is not feminist.

On Friday, I had minor surgery (under local anaesthetic) to remove a salivary stone. I hope I have not messed up on the postoperative care so as to cause more problems.

I have taken to the mechanical pencil.

My final semester marks are as follows:

English 4 — B+

Wood Tech — A-

Calculus AB AP — A

Physics — A

US Govt/Econ — A

Journalism — A

I am your increasingly rational correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

2327


#### 203 — Thursday 22 June 2006 — "Radio Static"

D.—

O terrible default! I am still unemployed. There has been some goddam psychodrama—that's what I'm calling it—over this issue. Please, no details. My parents love me.

Aunt Tilly has died, and Mother has been upset that she was not notified in time to be able to attend the funeral.

This morning I made the same mistakes I have been making for so long, and regretting for so long. My "story still remains." I have reneged on an understanding that I would _do_ some things at a particular time. I suppose one approach in response would be to relax, to pardon myself, to not beat myself up. But how can that be allowed? Oh, it is as if I go through endless cycles (vicious in series) of sin, terror, and paralysis. But haven't I said this or something like it, written it? What the fuck should I do, give up on glorious abstractions like _willpower_ and get to reëngineering incentive structures?

If one attempt at a task is not working and one is out of tacks on it, it makes sense to not pout but switch to another task. But when mental blocks within oneself are the only cause of the first not working, the situation could be muddled. If one's reaction is to simply accept it and switch to the second, then one is treating _one's own hangups_ as just another part of the objective problem. O terrible Eganesque tanglings! O terrible hypocrisy!

It can be reässuring to think that I will just study very hard at University, and I will get wonderful grades, and then I will graduate and it will be easy to get a great job. But is it true? It's a very competitive world out there—and I'm a sinner, as things stand. I sleep late and procrastinate, not because I find nothing objectionable about these activities, but because it gives me the pleasure of the moment and I feel I can get away with it!

Oh, how will I deal tonight? What will I say?—how can I explain?—justify myself? How can I live with myself? What can I say to you, Diary, that will convey any more information?

When you say, "I won't let anyone get me down," are you commendably maintaining just self-esteem, or are you being an amoral blockhead?

Enough.

ZMD

ADDENDUM— I worked on weed-cutting for an hour. I have talked with Father. I think I have gotten a lot better at speaking with Father in the last year or so. In the conversation with him just now, and the big conversation with him and Mother yesterday night, I have said more than I usually say. I keep myself rather collected, which is important. Now sentiments and notions have been put to air. I suppose this has made the situation better, and much more explicit. Apparently I made a face when Father made a comment about the national character of Russians in relating a small story. In the ensuing tangent, I botched a point trying to make an _Atlas Shrugged_ reference, and I tried to recover—but there is more I have thought of saying. At one point Father asked if I hated it here, if I hated him. I denied it. I said—perhaps rather too late to be very believable—that I love him. What if, alongside all my other peculiarities, I have an unusual philosophy of family?—if I have really _developed_ anything of the sort. Mrs. Goldhaber is to hire me to help with a chore. If I do not get much employment the remainder of the summer—as seems very likely—I simply _must_ write, and profusely. I have read enough to develop something of an ideology, and I must justify my existence with something other than my own immediate pleasure. That things have been made more explicit—well, I guess it functions as a reminder of how important everything is. At some point, you have to deal with actual people.

Enough. —ZMD, 1951


#### 204 — Wednesday 28 June 2006 — "Conservation Laws"

D.—

Today Father asked me if this is really how I want to spend my summer. I said that I didn't know.

Over time I have come up with many songs or parts of songs in my head, but I have no plans to start a band, and my few attempts at notating some of the music were not spectacular. I do not imagine that I am going to be some sort of great songwriter. Similarly, I come up with stories or parts of stories in my head. But I _do_ imagine that I am going to be some sort of great fiction writer, and, as if in consolation for what I am not, intend to incorporate some of my song lyrics into finished fiction stories. But that's the thing: _finished_ fiction stories. How many stories have I finished?—_ever?_ There's "Congress Shall Make No Law." I have a crappy thousand-word piece that I believe dates to January 2004. There's a 289-word (!) piece—I don't know _what_ you'd call that—titled "Values," and _that's_ old. What else? Am I to count [fiction] I wrote for school in the fifth grade, or the fourth? Am I to count that poem I wrote that told a little narrative?

I have thought about writing fiction for so long (_cf_. 6, 7, 8, _&c._). It has been so ridiculously long—as I have _slept_ so ridiculously long—where does it end? Oh, I have written some recently. I have been doing work on a fun story titled "The Greater Glory of Our Humble Academy." But I have not done enough, if I really want a lot of something to show for my summer (_cf_. 100, 101). But how do I really want to spend my life? What do I care about? If I _really_ want to be a writer, I should write profusely, with no excuses—and no apologies. What do I care about?—materialism and individualism? What's keeping me here? If I don't have my art, what do I have in life? But that's the thing—I have _never_ had my art, not how I have imagined it. So what do I have in life? What kind of useless tramp am I? I have tried to be accurate in my Diary—have I flubbed any observations?

Chores, chores, chores! I do not enjoy clearing away leaves or weeds. But then, _allegedly_ I enjoy writing fiction, so who am I to say what I actually enjoy or do not enjoy?

What if I were to decide that I _don't_ care about art, that I _don't_ want to write stories, that I would just stick to my Diary and secret notebooking? What would I have in life, then?

Secrets, secrets, secrets! Who am I hiding from, anyway, and why? What if I just _asked_ Father to read what I have of "Equity"—or my _Take It Like a Human_ scenebook? Should I just be open? What am I living for?

The scholar in her study rocks the shadow on the wall, _&c._ I am,

Your correspondent,

Zack M. Davis

1100

End Volume IIB