October 2001

I have been crazy, doing crazy things, good things, as well as baffling things. Tariq and I spoke on Saturday at length. We were in a playful mood and flirted innocuously. He said that he and Raymond had a lovers' spat, and this led us to playfully recollect some of our own crisis, laughing. When I hung up with him I playfully leaned against the wall and sighed, 'I love him!'
Tracy and I went out drinking and got drunk. Very drunk. Someone gave me a blowjob in a bathroom stall.
Today at lecture, Dr. Bearden, otherwise stern and serious, suddenly noticed me and stopped, "Emil, I tried to get your attention, but couldn't. I treated myself to a meal. You were very busy."
'Oh, you were at Half Day?'
"Yes."
Everyone laughed. Dr. Bearden was about to resume his lecture, had an afterthought, turned to the class, "And he seemed to be taking very good care of his people. They all looked happy."
I am crazy. How is it that I can be so many things at once? One moment I am the good grandson and the next a sighing figure against a bathroom wall...
Vanessa is a second-year nursing student. Last night we drank red wine and studied. This morning we nursed our hangovers over a breakfast of cream cheese-stuffed, pecan-encrusted French toast and coffee. The U.S. has begun airstrikes on Afghanistan. This results in a series of brightly-colored nightmares in which I am piloting a small aircraft with no windows, darting straight up into endless skies, spinning uncontrollably, before suddenly nosediving, the plane shaking violently- and at any moment I may be thrown out into certain death.
Saturday evening I ventured into the city and met friends at Cafe Flore. Iranian, Assyrian, Arab friends. We did not talk about war, terrorism, or fear, which was a relief. I was in a carefree, flirtatious, confident, and dangerous mood. Afterward, I snuck off on my own in search of a chance encounter, something surprising and delightful, but these days there is something very predictable and disappointing about the Castro. All I encountered at the three different bars were cruising, lascivious men who approached me with the same absent look in their eyes. Or was I seeing the death of my own fascination in them? There was a time when I would have turned each man down politely, but on this night I was unapologetically impatient, outwardly cool.
I've called home almost daily, and Jackie seems to be warming up to me again, when in the beginning she was cold and standoffish. I try not to resent her.
Will all the people of the world work together to bring about a lasting sense of global unity and peace? I believe this is possible when others seem resigned to the verisimilitude of war and greed.
I saw Tariq at Wael's birthday party. We leaned against a dimly-lit wall and talked only briefly. My heart was heavy from two nights before, having been stopped on Golden Gate Bridge and failed a field sobriety test and issued a DUI, spending the night in jail. I was more elsewhere than with Tariq. I knew I still love him and could barely meet his eyes.
Can't concentrate. Can't keep up. Can't cope.
I called my immigration attorney and sheepishly told him about the DUI. He chuckled and said he appreciated my candor. "Although you've grown up here you don't have the same privileges as a citizen, and need to use caution in your everyday life. I feel bad saying it, but it's true."
I think of a day when I am finally secure and can feel at home here, a part of things.
I miss drinking and bars. I crave being drunk, but need to be sober for a while.
I went up to Novato to try and figure out how to bring my bed down to San Anselmo, unable to rent a truck because of a suspended license, and the phone rang. It was Tariq.
I laughed, 'What are you doing calling me here?'
"I don't know, I got the numbers mixed up!"
I leaned on the kitchen counter, looked out the window, and told him about the arrest, falling out with Jackie, having trouble concentrating on my studies, and giving sobriety a chance. He said that while he was proud of me for being sober he was also deeply worried about me. I assured him that I am well, embracing life in a loving and proactive manner.
Earlier I'd spoken with my public defender Christy, who was as usual attentive, sincere, patient. She said we could try and fight the charges, but I interjected, 'Christy, I don't have the time, money, or energy to fight this. And maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I've already looked into AA and am planning on attending a meeting this week.'
I could tell she was smiling into the phone, "That is so refreshing. OK, this is what we can do..."
This morning I made it a point to exercise, as it always energizes me no matter how tired and stressed I am. Walking out to my car in the parking lot behind the gym I saw two men arguing in Spanish in front of my car. I asked them to please move so I could pull away, but they didn't hear me and continued to argue for some time until the verbal row turned physical. They wrestled each other on top of the hood of my car. One man threw a punch that landed on the other's nose. I grimaced. I tried to talk them down, but it was useless. Then the man who'd received the punch turned to me and said in English, "He took my parking spot!" The other man slipped into his car and retrieved a wrench, chasing the other round in circles. It was both shocking and humorous. Finally I was able to squeeze through and drive away.
I wouldn't mind a drink, a drink, a drink. Friends are supportive, although some of them don't think I have that great a problem as to go completely sober. But I know otherwise.
Last night Vanessa performed a striptease on the coffee table; afterwards, she offered me a hit of heroin from a folded up sheet of aluminum foil. It didn't do anything for me.
The two older gentlemen who come in every weekend say that I am destined for great things, and for a moment I let myself believe it- a moment that's tucked in the back pocket of a century in flight. Others feel obliged to tell me I remind them of Roman paintings and sculptures. Pauline, another regular, wistfully admits, "You remind me of a friend of mine... He died a few years ago."
Again I smoked heroin with Vanessa. What is the matter with me? Always between a dream and a hard place. Always rearing, restless, ready to run, gallop into the promising horizon. So, I tie myself to an iron post with a rope that's braided out of forced logic. The nebulous horizon lies, possesses false promises.
I know I will survive this brutal winter called life.
Vanessa's downstairs, nodding off. She admits she's been on a binge, but becomes irritable and defensive when I try to talk to her about it.
I continue to learn. My perception of the world constantly mutates.
A woman who dined alone on the sunny patio today took the time to say, "I want to thank you for the wonderful service. It really made this lunch a special occasion."
Each living moment here, as human, is an opportunity to leave a lasting imprint of love, of hope, of kindness, and to touch someone else in some small and vital way. What is the point of life if we don't constantly strive to breathe love and significance into everything we do? Life on earth is really an intimate garden party, small but significant. I opt to live in Hanging Gardens, marveling.
Sober from alcohol, but seeking escape through other addictions and dark alleyways.
A woman I had never served before kisses me on the cheek and wishes me a wonderful rest of the day.
It's apparent in Vanessa's eyes that she's out of control and destroying herself. Doesn't anyone else see this? Her father, our co-workers, other nursing students at the college... What can I do anyway? What can I say? Who do I tell? What silent alarm do I sound? I'm terribly worried for her. She's been smoking heroin and meth, drinking an entire bottle of wine every night. Dazedly she bumps into furniture and absently laughs it off, and says incoherent things.
I called Tracy and thanked him again for taking care of me the morning I got out of jail. I had called him and he'd received me at his office in Haight-Ashbury, where I had crashed on the sofa by his desk. He had worked while I slept off my hangover, a Billie Holiday CD playing over and over. When I woke up he had pulled up a chair to the edge of the sofa, firmly planted his elbows into the tops of his thighs, leaned in, and chastised me for my terrible habit of drinking and driving. He had been loving, but firm. I still remember the disappointment in his face.
The affection I feel for Vanessa is so deep, so brotherly, it hurts me to see her struggle. I wait in a dream.
Shammi has moved to L.A. I wait for her to call out of the blue, her robust voice penetrating my soul. Tariq leaves a voice mail.
Today a customer asked if I am a writer. This took me off-guard. How had she guessed? "You seem to connect with all kinds of people. You're very sensitive." I had never seen her before in my life.
Every single moment counts. Every human being counts. Every experience, every gesture, every word, as well as every sweet syllable inside every word.
Sean Penn and his wife Robin came in again today and sat in my section. Robin wore black and looked beautiful. Sean was not as aloof as he usually is. Robin smiled and even waved goodbye as they left the restaurant.
Tonight I went to an AA meeting in a charming little chapel in Mill Valley. Claude, whom I'd met at a meeting in Corte Madera, approached me during break with a white envelope containing a newspaper clipping about Iran. We stood near a gorgeous Japanese Maple that had turned a breathtaking crimson. "So, when are you going to call me?" he asked.
'I don't know, Claude,' I answered without fanfare. Before the meeting I had been to yoga, exhaling at the ceiling like a dragon, drumming my stomach in a strenuous pose, hissing like an old heater. Now words seemed cumbersome.   
Claude is a sweet, gentle soul in his fifties. At that first meeting he'd been somewhat aggressive, extending his hand and introducing himself, pointing out the stacks of AA literature on a nearby table, offering his phone number. I know all these gestures are typical at an AA meeting, but there is something odd about Claude. I can't quite put my finger on it.
Vanessa was passed out on the couch when I got home, and woke up when I walked in. I sat with her and we talked briefly. She said she was scared and wanted to be sober again, cried. We made plans to go to an AA meeting with a classmate of hers who is twelve years sober.

September 2001

Stephen says life is good. I agree. We're at one of the resorts at Russian River, sipping cocktails poolside, recovering from last night's festivities in the city. The breeze is delicious. The sun departs; so does my penmanship. Someone is groping me. I have to go.
Lying on my back, surrounded by half-naked men, a nearby fountain spraying us, flirting and laughing, watching birds of prey circle slowly overhead, kissing Stephen in the sun... was heaven.
Some of the men had sex in a hot tub that was set back under a cluster of redwoods. I have no right to judge, but I found this scene comical and vulgar.
Too many cocktails in the sun led to a misunderstanding between Stephen and me, and he shoved me; not hard enough to knock me down. I couldn't believe it. Walking back to Stephen's Range Rover he tried to get me to talk, but I was angry and asked him to let it go. I privately wondered if what we had just begun was already over, before it had a chance to flourish.
On the drive back to Marin, when we'd both cooled off a bit, I apologized for whatever I had done or said to make him angry enough to push me. He said I had rejected his kiss.
'Well, I'm sorry. But nothing I do or say gives you permission to become in any way physical or violent with me. We've been honest all along and you need to trust that when I don't want to kiss there has to be a good reason that is my own and has nothing to do with you. You doubted me, Stephen.'
Stephen was remorseful, "I can't believe I did something to jeopardize our relationship."
I thought to myself, It's already over and you don't even know it, Stephen.
Then I remembered that one of my favorite shirts was at his apartment and I'd have to put off breaking up with him.
Mind you, I want to give this a try, but I have no tolerance for even an inkling of abuse. I guess I'll know in a few days what to do, or what to let happen...
Meanwhile, I will live with my heart open, but shrewd.
I called him tonight and again Stephen acknowledged losing his temper, didn't make up stupid excuses, which I respect. I, too, apologized for having been insensitive. He was relieved that I'd called, though he said he was prepared to be dumped. I suppose I have to admit that I like him.
And I don't want to be the kind of person who doesn't forgive others their shortcomings, is stringent, uptight, lonely. Not that I'm afraid of loneliness. If anything, it's very easy for me to walk away from anything and anyone.
We're not perfect, are we? But we're in this together- all of us. Let's take care of each other and hope for the best. All of us. Together.
Nothing's right, but nonetheless my life is amazing. I'm surprised at myself for wanting to be with Stephen, who I think can be shallow, materialistic, and drinks too much. Perhaps I see myself in him and find some semblance of commonality in his shortcomings. Also, I am homophobic and sometimes think he is too "gay", immersed in the Castro bar scene. But who am I to make such rash judgments about someone else's choices and needs?
I don't want to admit that I know Stephen and I are temporary, because I see nothing wrong with impermanence. Time cannot gauge or devalue the significance of human relationships as it does wine or a piece of furniture. Stephen and I will learn a great deal about ourselves and when we part ways we will do so, hopefully, with deeper respect for each other.
Yoga.
I met Stephen for drinks in the city where he greeted me with a huge bouquet of flowers. How did he know blue is my favorite color? For someone who pops pills and knows how to drink he sure can be thoughtful and romantic. I was deeply and superficially moved. The small card read, "Habibi, I'm glad to have you in my life... as is my heart".
In his presence I seem to lose touch with my prejudices and inhibitions. We kissed. And kissed. Other men looked at me and smiled, flirted, but I threw them up in the cool crisp San Francisco air. Stephen laughed with me, made funny faces. Someone left their headlights on and their battery died, but my flowers are still alive.
Where do I let go? How do I begin?
He says he wants to orgasm with me, however we choose. We've cuddled. We've kissed. We've slept tangled, but we have yet to have "sex".
I can't believe I want to go out again. What am I thinking? I'm still hungover from last night. Achy from yoga. I'm so immature. But there's so much life in me that needs to be lived, expressed, shouted! Jackie asked where the flowers came from and I told her about Stephen. Only his age, occupation, and how it's 'nothing serious. We're just dating. You know, having fun.'
This morning started like any other morning. I showered, dressed, stepped into the car, turned the engine and the radio came on. A woman's voice announced that all flights had been grounded. That's strange, I thought. Is this some kind of emergency drill? The horror unfolded as I sat in morning rush hour traffic. I looked at others sitting in the cars around me, searching their faces for answers I had no questions for. No words. Commercial airplanes flown into New York skyscrapers? The Pentagon attacked? A fourth airplane crashing elsewhere? Thousands of innocent people killed in a matter of minutes. Hours taking more lives...
The day was miserable. Serving customers was awkward and unnatural. I resented those who sipped lattes and laughed, and tried to accept that everyone handles trauma differently. And what next? Revenge? On whom? Is the U.S. going to react hastily as they did with Japan with atomic bombs? It's too much. All of this. Too much. Too sudden. Too frightening. As an Iranian Assyrian I am petrified as to what this may mean for me, my family, and all Middle Eastern people everywhere. Please God, guide us toward understanding and help us evolve from violence and war mentality. Help us.
It's a beautiful day, as was yesterday in New York City, from what I could tell on unfathomable news footage. And yet everything here in Marin, this bubble of unreality, seems unchanged. It's business as usual. People laugh, drink, eat, go about their day. There's even a Mylar birthday balloon tied to the back of one chair. It seems absurd that people should celebrate openly and not mourn the death of so many men and women. So much destruction. I don't expect them to wear black, but...
Is war around the corner? Will we learn or will we die?
Jackie and I decided to go to yoga and get away from the news that almost made our brains explode with grief and incomprehension. We soberly joked that we would have to change our names and make ourselves more American. We anticipate anti-Middle Eastern backlash. Jokingly she called me Mike. I called her Lisa. We hold our breath.
Stephen annoyed me on the telephone. He was almost giddy, arrogant, irreverent, untouchable. He spoke excitedly about the attacks as if they were scenes in a Hollywood movie, played out on a theater screen, the victims actors, the crumbling towers special effects. I said I didn't want to talk about it anymore, but he carried on excitedly.
Anita sounded worried, almost sick. Her voice was vacant. She's afraid of the government's reaction and cautioned me to be careful. "Watch your back. You look Arab. There are crazy people out there looking to get into fights."
Already we missed our freedom and rights, imagining a restricted half-life imposed on us Middle Eastern immigrants. Will we be issued some kind of identification card distinguishing us from citizens of this country, if not forced to leave altogether?
Jackie says the fact that we are Christian will protect us. I'm not sure how much I believe this.
Stephen and I were supposed to have dinner tonight. He cancelled.
I'm at a Japanese restaurant, feeling heavy, disenchanted. While I know the entire world feels dejected, I can't help but feel alone and isolated. I'm butting heads with people I once admired on the idea of war and retaliation. I cannot be in support of murder, no matter what the provocation. It's cowardly, inhumane. There is just no justification for the slaughtering of innocent people. Both Jackie and Stephen have said we need to go to war, take revenge. I disagree vehemently. I don't want to go into detail about who said what, but I know that I will never look at certain people the same way!
Will we open our eyes and be wiser?
It feels like winter. I'm chilled despite drinking hot jasmine tea.
Where is the sun? Does it refuse to shine on us lovely cowards and hypocrites? Where is the sun...
Some merely see the world with their eyes, feel it with their hands. This seems so limiting. Eyes and hands are for perceiving walls, ceilings. The heart has far more imagination, might, and depth of perception, and when allowed becomes the brain of compassion, forgiveness, gratitude, global harmony. The heart, unlike hands and eyes, can reach far beyond borders and prejudices.
Where is the sun? Not in my soul today.
I met Stephen Saturday evening at his apartment, sipped red wine as he got ready; red wine I purchased from a young Arab clerk at a convenience store. On Tuesday Stephen had been excited on the phone, charged, having stayed home from work and watched the news all day with a friend. They had drunk a bottle of something or other and taken Ecstasy. On Wednesday he'd cancelled dinner plans. Now I felt palpable distance between us. Even his roommate David was cold, when before he'd been affable and warm.
'Is David all aright?'
"Why? Was he cold to you?" Stephen asked matter-of-factly.
'Well, I didn't perceive it as having to do with me. I was just asking if he's OK.'
"We're all a little on edge right now."
'Yeah, so am I. But I don't think we should just rush off to war. Who would we go to war with anyway? We don't even know who's responsible yet.'
"I'd be careful if I were you and not run my mouth off."
'I'm entitled to my anti-war opinion, Stephen, as much as any member of this society!'
He did not hold my hand.
Dinner was uncomfortable. We agreed not to talk about terrorists and war anymore, to just have a nice time.
When the men sitting at a nearby table finished their meal and left Stephen said, "Did you notice those two men looking at you funny?"
I thought this was a peculiar question and answered with some annoyance, 'No, I didn't notice. And please don't point such things out to me if I don't pick up on them. I want to enjoy my dinner, not live in fear.'
"I just want you to be careful."
'If I was 'careful' I wouldn't be sitting here with you having dinner. I'd fear you and your HIV. Unless you sense immediate danger and feel we should react please don't tell me to be careful. It's not for me to deal with someone else's prejudices. As a queer person I've been self-conscious all my life and I'm finally getting over that. I'm not about to take a step backward!'
He remained unsympathetic.
'If I'm such an inconvenience to you maybe we should just break up!'
Only days before my otherwise compassionate aunt had said, "I'm sorry. I have no sympathy for Arabs. I'm going to buy an American flag." We'd argued. She'd attacked my sentiments regarding human rights, said I was naive. Hours later I had called her and apologized. 'I just think we need to differentiate terrorists and Arabs.'
Stephen said he didn't want to break up and was only concerned for my safety. I felt he was being oppressive.
After dinner we met some of his friends for drinks and again the conversation turned to Tuesday's attacks. Stephen and one of his friends were vehement about going to war, but against whom? I tried not to engage in the near-sighted debate, listening instead to ambient sounds of the bar, people-watching. I stood up and said I had to go, 'You guys have no idea what war is, what war means, sounds like, looks like, feels like. You think bombs will conveniently fall on the bad guys. Innocent people will be killed!' And stormed out.
Only when I was on the bustling street did I break down and weep. I drove home through the familiar fog that nightly wraps itself around Golden Gate, shrouding its curves, cables, and peaks. The next day I did not roll out of bed until three in the afternoon. Stephen did not call, and while I want nothing more to do with him, with his imperialistic views, I wished he would call and say he understood.
I do not hate Stephen, I hate no one. I only purely resent his inability to comprehend that wanting war is as hypocritical as the terrorist attacks that continue to divide us as individuals, as a nation, as a global community.
It feels strange to be doing yoga in a world that's dilapidating.
I called mom who is now in Modesto. She sounded worried. "Are people at the restaurant being mean to you?"
This annoyed me, 'No. On the contrary, they are being extra nice. Come on, mom, this is Marin. I should hope that ignorant people are in the minority here.' This seemed to assuage her.
I feel autumn approaching in my bones. A thought. A recollection. An association. A river. Colors change. Surrounding hills express in changing color joyous arrivals and sad departures. My soul is profoundly connected to the landscape, not to politics. I'm in accord with the politics of nature, trees, hills, storms, and flowers. Not men. Let them kill each other. I don't know them. Why should I feel for them, grieve for them, want the best for them? Let them eat each other alive!
When I stop feeling for others I begin to feel intensely sorry for myself.
We've all been living under a collective mask that's now being painfully peeled back, finding it hard to look at each other and ourselves without suspicion or flinching.
Now we ache for all the frivolous luxuries we took for granted, hurled into unknown places.
Let's fall between the grass blades that ripple high on Mt. Tam, bury the last of our wishes in the sand at Stinson, hurl our new hatred out to sea where it may be softened by salt, years, and sun.
Tariq worries for his brother who owns a convenience store in Ohio.
In a dream I walk for miles and miles in many cities.
I e-mail Stephen:

Dear Stephen,

This e-mail is not written with even an ounce of ill-will. On the contrary, I celebrate a lovely phase of my life that was shared with you. Thank you for that. I will always cherish it. 
It seems that right now, faced with a national crisis- rather international crisis, because this is about human rights across the globe- we are each forced to reevaluate our selves, our opinions, and our relationship with one another, as well as with the world. It is not an easy task. 
It seems also that everyone I know, American and Middle Eastern alike, once loving and nurturing, is beating the drums of war. But what do they mean by war? If they mean the capturing of terrorist groups and individuals responsible for the attacks on September 11th, then yes, I am in total agreement. But if they mean launching missiles, dropping bombs, destroying families, buildings, and cities then, no, I cannot advocate that way of thinking. I'm brother and sister of all people of the world. 
Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but I should hope that the people in my life arrive at theirs only after prolonged consideration, having felt more than just blind rage, sympathetic of the ordinary people who will be sacrificed in the process of war. 
I was only a child when Iran was at war with Iraq. I can still hear the sound of bombs in the distance- a terrifying memory. We were often without food and electricity. What had we as children done wrong? Nothing, Stephen. Nothing at all. 
Haven't I heard time and again that people living with AIDS be shipped off to an island somewhere because they are a threat to society? Am I to side with them too? Stephen, it is heartbreaking to hear someone living with HIV speak of war and of killing as a viable solution. How can you? 
I, too, resent the persons responsible for Tuesday's crimes. They have set us all back a hundred years. Thanks to them we must all start from scratch to prove that not all people from the Middle East are terrorists and against the U.S. 
You're a sweet man. I know this, but I also know that you're not strong enough to be in my life. I'm not saying you're not good enough. That you are. But this week you challenged my sensibility, my faith in humanity, and told me not to "run your mouth off". You projected your own prejudices onto me, your phobias, your insecurity. You think you're being protective by reminding me that I am different, but you are being oppressive. 
I love the world. I trust the world. I am not afraid of the world. Once you showed me off to your friends, kissed and touched me in public, then you forfeited, withdrew. Stephen, your fears are not mine. Do not give them to me. I do not feel them. 
Take profound care and know that I am grateful for having known you,
Emil 

Another summer falls from trees.
I've decided to move into Vanessa's two-bedroom apartment in San Anselmo.   
Atom and eve.
Feeling that I am abandoning my family by moving out.
I am half-everything, not fully devoted to one person, one country, one God. The dream always begins and always ends. The dream of love in a loveless slumber.
I have not felt connected to Jackie all summer. I don't believe in her anymore. I sense that she tries to understand me, listens but the words are processed in her intellect, not her soul. I withdraw, tell her nothing. I'm tired of these divorces. None of my relationships last. Is it my own doing? A sense of loss. Where does it come from? How long will it last? What part of me will it take with it when it, too, dies?
I'm hoping that Vanessa, who is again sober, will not slip back into heavy drug use as she did last summer.
Child's pose.
We ought to be born elderly, arriving at youth with all the knowledge of a lifetime, dying only as sage cells.

August 2001

Lyphe is good.
A sunny afternoon in San Francisco.
I'm high. Listening to Swing Out Sister.
It has been an eventful summer. I've been to L.A. for Eli and Jim's wedding, back to Santa Barbara, and Chicago.
Beauty and profundity. Darkness and danger.
I am now twenty-eight!
I was having a slice of pizza, minding my own business when he walked in and flashed the goofiest smile. It was late in the Castro where I had come to celebrate my birthday, by myself, with strangers at bars, dancing shirtless, friendly, smiling men dancing with me, caressing my chest. I smiled casually back at the stranger, avoiding encouraging an encounter as I had already gone home with someone earlier. Don't worry, I didn't engage in risky behavior. We had only jerked each other off.
Again he flashed that endearing smile and I couldn't help it. I smiled back and said hello.
He said his name was Stephen and we walked together, smoking, talking. He said he liked to kiss. We spent the night together.
I can't sit still and am insatiable. My confidence scares me. My beauty feels dangerous. All my windows are wide open and thoughts and desires fly away on vagabond winds. Kissing others. Nipping. Tasting life that is married to inevitable and handsome death. The streets are shiny, as if wet from my kisses. They dip and turn.
I am an addict. I've always known this. I want to be sober, but don't know how. The need for a buzz is electric. The electric need jolts, demands an outlet. I take drugs to appreciate. To alleviate.
A slice of pizza. A goofy smile. A kiss that has led to this, to now, to here. Stephen and I have seen each other twice now and have enjoyed good food, delicious cocktails, and each other- kissing, cuddling.
That first night, on my birthday, we discovered that we have a mutual friend- Nadia. This came up when he asked me what ethnicity I am. And while Stephen is six years my senior we went to the same junior high school- Herbert Slater in Santa Rosa, California. That night in bed he divulged that he is HIV positive. I said it didn't matter because I did not plan on doing anything stupid, and held him.
Stephen is so unlike Tariq. He isn't hesitant about complementing me, being enthusiastic, kissing me, calling, e-mailing. Our attraction for each other is buxom.
Tonight I met some of Stephen's friends at a restaurant in the city. Everyone was polite and colorful. So many conversations, gestures. I did, however, feel at times that I was on display. Stephen likes to wear me on his arm. This bothers me, but I am waiting to see what happens. I felt beautiful. Friends joked that Stephen is the jealous type. They huddled around me, asked me questions, tenderly touched me, were fascinated. I asked them questions too, wanted to know their story.
At the end of the night Stephen walked me to my car up a hill on 18th Street. "Everyone adores you."
'Of course they do!' I joked.
We had taken Vicodin and felt weightless.
Socializing with Americans is so much more lighthearted than with Middle Easterners. We are too intense, too complex, political, particularly queer Middle Easterners. As much as I appreciate my Arab, Iranian, Assyrian friends I find Americans refreshing, straightforward, candid, easy, frivolous.
It's almost four in the morning and I can't sleep because of the drug I took. No one tonight knew I was on the drug. But here I am, high, smoking by the side door in the garage as everyone else sleeps.
Tariq is living in Oakland with his boyfriend Raymond. I have no desire to see him.
Life is no longer about the right thing but the juxtaposing of contradictions.
Why am I drawn to drugs, to intoxication and intoxicating others? I wish I were water, not human. Rain, not flesh. River, not bones and thoughts.
Summer of addiction. Willing to give up everything to gain complete understanding of what it means to be human, to love like humans, to give and take with them.
Stephen poured wine into our glasses while multicolored lights reflected off of our smiles and silverware. We were dining outside. I stretched, lit a cigarette, and asked, 'So, where to from here? What are we doing?'
Though tired and sleep-deprived, I languidly enjoyed Stephen's company, his silly facial expressions, his animated gestures.
"I'm really into you and want to pursue a relationship. I want to be monogamous."
I said I hoped that he was serious about what he wanted, that I would not be just a whim for him. Again he expressed anxiety about his HIV status, and I shrugged, 'It doesn't worry me, Stephen.'
We established that we would continue seeing each other. Stephen smiled, "I'm excited I have a boyfriend."
We laughed.
We made out in my car. Light fell dramatically like leaves on our faces. The kisses were hot. Black because our eyes were closed, exchanging phosphenes with our lips. My legs tingled, butterflies, lightness, floating sensations, an acute feeling of here and now.
He asked if I have told Jackie about us. I said I hadn't and saw the disappointment on his shadowy face. I explained that she and I have not been as close this summer, we have barely seen each other.
Over dinner he'd asked, "If you could change one thing what would it be?"
This is it. These are the ruling events. This is our inevitable journey. The moments within which we age are tidal waves and fire. I do not fear death, but a life wasted on fear and precaution, self-preservation.
I thought about it a few moments. What would I change? I've spent so much of my life trying to accept things as they are, I can't imagine having the power, the luxury of change. What did he expect me to say? His HIV? Because this did not cross my mind.
I spoke to mom recently who has moved to Las Vegas and hates it. She has a brother there, a close friend- Andre Agassi's aunt. She wants to come back. I miss her immensely.
Jackie and Mom-Suzie got into it with my uncle Sam one weekend. Sam, like my grandfather who was abusive, is temperamental, unpredictable. They told him he was not welcome back. He told them they would die terrible deaths. I imagine he regrets his outburst and feel sorry for him.
I try to comfort my grandmother whose heart is broken, wondering why Sam and mom resent her so much, lash out in such ferocious ways. Is it that they are the two oldest of the four and remember more of the terrible Tehran years?
Dad's alcoholism. Mom's rage...
The human body slips, falls, bruises, sneezes, farts, aches. Even the mind suffers. But the soul remains resilient in ways that the body and mind cannot imagine.
Stephen is somewhat immature. But who cares, I tell myself. We're just dating. No demands. No expectations.
I had a dream in which Stephen became angry and violent.
I pick up the six-hundred-dollar tab for Stephen's birthday. Money does not matter. I break the rules before they can break me. Surprising myself is a thrill.

July 2001

I exercise. I try a new drug. Everything is related and blurred. It's hard to tell what's good for me anymore. But I'm having fun...

June 2001

Can you hear me?
Like water the days gush by. Rapids.
One of the regulars who comes into the restaurant, a handsome lawyer, says, "You're getting more handsome every day. What are you doing? Are you modeling?" Then we talk about school and writing. He orders huevos rancheros and a mocha.
Future breaks.

May 2001

No entries.

April 2001

There's a fire dying in the fireplace, as another rages on in my heart. A fire of new hope.
But first, I spent two days in bed. The phone rang but I did not answer. On the second afternoon I heard my grandmother's voice on the answering machine, "What's the matter my son? Tell us your troubles. You can't just stay in bed all day and not eat. Everything will be all right." Pause. Then, "Broon kelba." (Son of dog.) And a chuckle.
Jackie and I caught the flu. We stayed home for a few days and drank lots of tea, made a big pot of chicken soup, all of which we ate. I removed nail polish from her hands as she was too listless to do it herself.
A certain Palestinian sighs in my heart and his shadow melts on my tongue before my whispers can capture him. Night howls.
Again I'm reminded that I can love them from a private place without their consent, in their absence- my father, Tariq, Iran.
And where would we be without my grandmother? It is her home we live in, her business at which mom works. Through sheer determination and hard work she has built a life for herself. A life that sustains all of us.
Her strength and discipline, her work ethic and persistence are a tower I cannot touch. There aren't many Assyrian women like her- divorced, older, self-sufficient, a true entrepreneur!
Hell in my head.
Shammi talks me out of taking antidepressants, asserting that antidepressants merely muffle the voices without healing the person, that they are only numbing agents. She says she worries that my creativity will be dulled by medication, adding that she will support me whatever I decide. She is passionate and vehement.
A church on a corner.
Sidewalks.
Insatiable California sky.
Mouth wide.
Mom-Suzie jokingly threatens to beat me up when I say I am not hungry. She thinks I am too thin now and scrutinizes me with profound disapproval. Then she becomes serious, asks if I am sick. I wonder what exactly she means by "sick". Does she mean AIDS?
Jackie's been looking spent. We stay up late, talking well into the early morning hours, and as soon as she has admitted a fear, a particular private regret or loss, a disenchantment too severe to recover, she waves the fresh phrase away as if it's a plume of smoke between us. In subtle ways I encourage her during these times to talk to me, burden me, watching her all the while with photographic eyes, making certain the image, so dear and so vulnerable, is burned permanently in my mind. I listen, but I rarely touch her. She looks so fragile and distant. But it is a mistake to respect this supposed distance, because after all, she loves to wrestle and horseplay!
Didn't she reach over twice and pinch my cheek while we played cards with Mom-Suzie this afternoon, like she would when I was little, herself just a child then?
Suicide is out of the question because it would actually be murder- a murder of her spirit, what's left of it.
Truth is... I have a lot of growing up to do. It's simple. Extremely simple. As simple as light that comes and goes with the clouds and the rain. Now the moon is flamboyant and pompous, dancing deliberately, seductively across a blue-velvet sky, throwing rays of silver to the trees that wait, flowers that sleep, and young Assyrian men who happen to be keeping a child's diary. It's simple. Brutally simple.
From here, beneath the moon, adjacent to possibility- running through the hills, the horses, the grazing cows, blooming wildflowers- it's easy to dream of stability, a well-lit future, a life that's profound and free of guilt and anguish.
I don't want to admit this, but I am Tariq.
A bridge.
A leap.
A need to forget and return.
I starve myself.
My mind is not good enough. My body. My past. The future.
Sometimes, when we're not laughing, Jackie and I pause and just look at each other and say nothing. Our brown eyes communicate something big, deep, and dark- stating the obvious.
Art was a lie, my escape from life, a desire for something better, an ideal. I'm not an artist, but a creative escapist. The artist is gone now and what's left behind is just me, a man. No one. Nothing.
All we can do is let life's crinkled pages be turned by the windy hands of fate. Turning like colors, like carnival rides, like dancing figures on a stage.

March 2001

I went to the City of Angels, amidst darlings and devils. Never mind what brought me here. Never mind what happened between the last entry and this one. It's only life- blue-eyed, lean, cigarette-smoking life strutting on uneven sidewalks. I found an enormous eraser and erased every inhibition by feeble candlelight. Erased the past, the future, all of it. I threw away everything, gave away books, boxes of them. Sentimentality was folded between the dusty pages. Nostalgia broke in the move. On the drive down I witnessed a fatal car crash. A woman was thrown from a van, lay face down in the grass, her clothes ripped from her body by the impact.
On the way back north I stopped in Santa Barbara and visited with Anita and Frederick. I confessed to Anita that I am sick, the depression overwhelms me. The words were bruised, their harmonious bones broken, their veins misleading. I wondered if I could hide, disappear without hurting others or myself.
Vacant halls of my mind are lit by candles. Thoughts spill like hot wax in senseless patterns. The walls shudder with memories. Recollections put on a burlesque show, showgirls stomp their high heels. High hopes topple like civilizations. I am lost amidst the standing columns of my dreams, fluent only in the terpsichorean language of the deaf soul, which retains the poetry of life; not the prattle of avoidance, the plaintive realities.
I went for a run on the path that weaves through the UCSB campus. The sun warmed the coastal breeze that carried all aspects of the sea, accompanying me all the while like music, and the squawks of seabirds. A small startled snake slithered into the aromatic brush, rhythmically breathing all the elements into my lungs, veins pulsating with meditative appreciation for nature. Someone like me is far better at envisioning other lives than living his own. When I looked up from the swerving path, its bumps, crevices and cracks, I found I had arrived at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.
Here I sprawled on the grass and listened to the waves- white horses, as Frederick calls them- stampeding toward the hot shore, stumbling over one another in salty haste, trampling one another with ice-cold fanfare. One thing remains steadfast, barely- the acoustics of my diary, whose pages are not churned by words, nor turned by hand, but by time. Time whose averted face wears a hidden countenance, whose plans remain clandestine, whose gender and motives, agenda and morals are secret, vexed by its own knowledge that life is not as concerned with it as it is with untimely coincidences.
Again I went to the ocean, sat on a small backless bench on the edge of a cliff. Below an occasional figure jogged soundlessly by, androgynous surfers bobbed like buoys as they waited like dreamers for the next crest. In the nebulous horizon outlines of misty islands flickered and for a moment I considered swimming out to deathly distances. I cried quietly because it hurts my feelings that I should want myself dead, and my obstinate refusal to accept life as it is created the swell the idle surfers were waiting for. I need to grow up.

February 2001

No entries.

January 2001

No entries.

December 2000

The moments at the airport, before his arrival, were sweet and exciting. I chuckled at how nervous I actually was. The plains of the immediate future were wide open and when I looked down on them I became dizzy and giddy. A sanguine wind blew through my hair... the wind of anticipation.
Tariq arrived, we hugged, proceeded to baggage claim, talking easily, joking, laughing. Driving into the city I noticed how easy and comfortable things were between us, familiar and graceful- except for some private pangs...
He looked wonderful. I don't remember others at the sushi bar. All I remember is Tariq, his warm, languid eyes with soft lashes, into which I wanted to climb and stay hidden and safe forever. His sad eyes.
After dinner we stopped into Metro where we sat on the balcony and had drinks. I was confident that Tariq was present, with me, not in other worlds, escaping as he had in Columbus, alienating me, punishing us.
What is this ship doing in my heart, sinking as I write, while I fumble for the story that slips like mercury between my fingers? If I am not the captain who bravely traverses a tempestuous sea, a league of emotions, then who am I? The kelp? The barnacle? Or the glass face of a broken compass?
Mom asks if I'm all right as I write.
After drinks we walked across the street to Cafe Flore and met others. I did not bravely climb without a harness, bare fingers feeling the lateral face of each significant moment, paramount minutes with the love of my life, my first and last love, sorrowful and breathtaking sunset beyond peaks- Tariq. I remained at the foot of immediate moments, staring wistfully up at the distant peaks where I once proudly and defiantly stood.
Capturing Tariq is like trying to write legibly on a moving freight train... a hundred years ago! In the cattle car. Sentient cargo.
Tariq was tired now. As we walked up a steep sidewalk shrouded in mist he thanked me again for receiving him at the airport. 'Will you stop thanking me? I'm the one who's indebted to you for all the love you've shown me.' The words should have been soft, but felt abrasive. Each syllable had a benign face, and a sharp whiplike tail.
Madness. It comes in waves, lingers a few hot minutes, then retreats. I try to control it, wrestle with it as though it is a wild animal on the loose. But I am the wild animal. The madness is tame in comparison to me.
I said I wanted to see him once more to say goodbye, but inside I fell as many children in many directions, off a spinning carousel of insecurity. I wanted to forget the airport, his beautiful face, having eaten with him, his hands, and return to my small life in the corner of solitude, by a window of a dream, in the studio of imagination, and forget my longings, fresh as ever, a wound sparkling and sizzling. I love him still, but have no face for, no definition for, no place for this love in my life. So, I wander the outskirts of composure with this dying child in my arms, a child who takes a last breath for the both of us.
He asked what I had planned for the next day, and even though I had taken the day off to be with him, I lied and said I had to work.
A pause.
Changing light.
Passing cars.
Streets that were angled and dark.
'I want you to know that I want to give and receive this love- from you, from everyone- but feel impotent.'
He understood.
But is there a cure, when this is what I am?
"You know your limits. We could all learn from you."
I helped him into the lobby and we hugged goodbye. He felt insane in my arms. The moment ripped my roots out of the ground, flinging them into the distance.
On the drive home I cried quietly, the road before me becoming nebulous through the tears, inculcating myself for lacking a sense of direction, emotional equilibrium. I entered the house shaking, collecting myself as Jackie was still up. I knew I would not sleep, so I dressed and went for a midnight run. The empty streets were at points pitch black and I couldn't see where I was going. Occasionally the stark white headlights of a passing car aided me. I felt autumn leaves under my step but did not hear them because of the music. I don't recall thinking anything in particular; I was just concentrating on not falling into the abyss, lost and forgotten in the smoke and firewood scent that permeated the neighborhood.
That night was difficult. I was reminded of the pain I felt when I first returned from Columbus, the void, the ugliness, unable to appreciate anything. And I regretted having gone to the airport, having opened doors that should have remained locked. I cried myself to sleep and in the morning collected tissue from my bed. Any reminders from the night before I tore up and discarded: the piece of paper with his name and flight information, the receipt from dinner.
The mines had been set in the soil of my memory and all the next day scenes came back to kick me in the heart. I missed him and regretted lying to him about working.
Friday I was forced to confront my own shortcomings and demons. Jackie picked up on this vibe and steered clear of me. I tried to cheer up, went to the gym, did not eat, tried unsuccessfully to push the darkness back with my bare hands, promised to forgive him, slept with the telephone next to my bed. Dreamt that my father was sucking my dick!
In the morning I e-mailed him. Awaiting his call brought anticipation and color to the day, but he did not call. The day became unoriginal and I wondered how I survive this unchanging routine. Night peeled back my skin with its jagged teeth and juggled my heart in its claws. I sat in a dark room and planned my suicide, felt the coastal wind whip my body on the bridge. When I caught myself in the mirror I was shocked to discover a beautiful, young, vibrant man, but mad and dying.
And I'm frightened. There is just too much sadness in me, too many years, insecurities, crippling regret. The many questions crush me. The question mark hooks and asphyxiates me. I want to die, to stop thinking, to stop feeling, to stop reliving every single time I was lied to, made to feel unwanted, unloved, neglected, forgotten. I did not realize there was so much pain in me. Is it any wonder I am hindered in all aspects of life? I struggle to push, push, push on. I am a stone desperately wishing she were a bird.
He called and could sense I was not well, encouraged me to talk about my feelings- things I'd rather tie to heavy rocks and sink in the sea. I asked him to give me more time and distance, said that I felt rushed into seeing him when I was not actually ready, that it was still as painful to be with him as it was to be without him. He sounded forlorn, but said he understood, and made me promise to call him when things became too dark. He was worried and I apologetic. "I love you," he stressed. We hung up.
I turned out the light and fell into a space that was unfamiliar and inhospitable, wondering if I was petulantly acting out, unable to recognize what was good and right. I tried to sleep. An hour later my grandmother came into my room, "Emil, it's some man. Tariq. Will you talk to him?"
'Hello?'
"Emil."
'Yeah?'
"I need to see you," Tariq's voice said defiantly from another universe.
'OK.' We chuckled and made plans.
I suppose I have to face the bittersweet beat, spend another day with him knowing his words, no matter how tender, will rip into the silk walls of my makeshift cocoon and shred my nascent soul into thin strips that will blow haplessly in love's cold stratosphere. I want to breathe deeply and sigh with him, relax in his warm presence, rest on the love that exists and strives to redefine me, though I obstinately resist- the spooked wild horse that I am. God help me receive love.
Somewhere, despite the darkness that envelopes, the sun shines. Somewhere in the universe of my soul.
Last night I left a note on Jackie's pillow:

J, 
I hope you had a wonderful time in the city with your friends. 
I just wanted to let you know that I've hit a rough patch and that it will make me darker than usual for the days to come. Don't be alarmed. I'm fine. 
I just don't want to be a conundrum that you feel you have to unriddle. 
Love,
E

This morning I woke up to a response:

Even though I just got in at 2 a.m. I was glad to find your beautiful note. OK, like, this is all a big surprise to me. I know you're going through a rough time. I thank you for the note. It's very considerate/mature of you, especially as you experience the difficulty. Please, please, when you're ready know that I can lend an ear to the cause. Of course you'll be OK in due time. I just hope you don't spend more precious time than you need to on "it". 
Love you,
Me

I'm just trying to maintain a balance within the extreme temperatures of emotion and emotional healing. It is only life, a life that is teething and I am its chew thing! And if it's teething it can't be all that big, can it?
Tariq is the embodiment of the many threads of my million insecurities, all the moments in the earliest hours of my sexual and emotional development, the early experiences, false expectations, broken promises, all the nights I wistfully waited for 'him' to call, but he didn't. I have fostered all the failures within me, smuggled them into the present, and they have over time become a mythological creature that possesses an umbilical cord that originates in my womb.
There are no signs, no instructions, no guides in the safari of the soul, the desert landscape of the heart. I may go mad at any given moment, but I'm not willing to take a shortcut and miss the meaning. I have to face myself- whoever this self may have been, may be, may yet become. Just know that I refuse to lose!
And how lucky I am to have most of my insecurities laid out neatly before me so that I may identify them, attempt to annihilate them. It is truly remarkable how perfect all of it really is. It is heart-boggling! We have the rest of our lives...
I'm on Mount Tamalpais, here to celebrate my hundredth birthday. It's just after three in the afternoon and there isn't a person in sight, no cars passing on the winding road above. I'm sitting on the edge of a cliff, the sun is warm and welcoming, I can hear the Pacific Ocean roaring below, birds fly by in front of me. It's breathtaking. I can't believe I am here. The trees seem to be in the same mood as I. Quiet. I hiked for an hour along narrow dirt trails that would not allow clamorous thought, introspection. The silence simply demands serenity. My tears were warm like the sun, salty like the waves on the shore below. I could not escape the peace that was all around me, permeating my body, massaging my palpitating human heart. The wind spoke in my ear, whispered precious secrets, reminding me that I am indeed on top of the world, that I am and have everything, that my insecurities, sorrow, and pain are just as essential and beautiful as my health, my body, my sense of humor, my courage, my love, my instinct and intuition. That there is always an invisible balance to my life, to all life, which we cannot see, but must acknowledge. That I have not failed in this continuum of love and turmoil. That amidst the intellectual chaos there is spiritual order.
Now I've taken off my shirt. The sun kisses my body. The wind caresses my body.
I envy the animals that live here. I already miss certain details like I miss Tariq's certain details.
In comparison to love, to the universe, I am a corpuscle, a single blade of grass on the side of a mountain, a pebble with a human heart. Somewhere deep inside I know that there's more to my life than me, my needs, my struggle. That my biggest fears are the smallest mechanisms. Life does not begin or end with me. There are no finite interpretations to one's life and relationships. One lifetime is not enough. I may fall from the lips of comprehension but I am not an orphan in the womb of life. I am accounted for, though just a single cell.
So, I will fear, I will lash out, I will question, I will doubt, and I will regret, but these are my children. And though they may fail me, how can I not love them, their eyes so hopeful?
Just because I have no wings and hollow bones it doesn't mean I can't imagine flight! A large bird of prey glides past as I write this...
Night. Home. Though in my mind's landscape I am still up on the mountain, somewhere, experimenting with life from my seat at the precipice of interpretation, following a trail of words. I face the darkness that's alive and kicking inside me. I accept that the people we love are fallible and have permission to hurt us; that loving, tender, gentle Tariq may have abusive tendencies; and that his inability to commit to one person, one place, one thing does not make him a bad person. Tariq lives in limbo. He lives a life that is tortured. Everything is a dream, a possibility, an experiment, yet undefined. Palestine. The plot of land in Austin. All his friendships around the world. Everything is symbolic and symptomatic of his search, his hunger. Everything else pales in comparison to this search. Yes, even I.
And where am I going with this glimpse into the man who is my first love, but who was never quite real? I have decided that I cannot be one of Tariq's dreams, a rich possibility, land that he may or may not build, another friend in the world he may or may not visit.
I am now a centipede. Feet here, feet there. Love and pain. Pain and life.
Now Jackie is finished decorating the tree. Its flickering white lights flick funny moving shadows on the page. The words, the silences between the words, throw a different kind of shadow. Shadows of love and surrender, change and revolution, acceptance and tenderness. I feel, despite the pain, enriched, able to surmount the madness of goodbye.
I soak it all in. Nothing around me is wasted. I am a beautiful young man- passionate, intelligent, talented. I have loved and been loved. Loss cannot influence me. I influence loss, give it my light, make it laugh from the belly. Laughter lessens the heart's painful pangs. Pain sabotages laughter and halts its new song. This is not a war, but an inevitable, natural exchange. And I am not about to run from these new breaths of life that have been introduced to me. I may not understand the language of life, but my heart translates what is universal. Nothing is certain and I am thrown from Tariq's kisses to the wolves of solitude- endangered wolves in a disenchanted forest, drinking from a lake of wine, howling my name. I do not answer.
When I met Tariq more than a year ago I was a tree ready to be cut down, willing to be carved into a new shape, initiated. And no one will ever know. Even I don't know the whole story.
Walking with him the other day in Oakland felt like a different country. I had no possessions, no family, a face of my own, a home, and I had no need for these. We made love.
My heart is a letter, written with kisses, stamped with hope, carried by the wind to the open sea. I will love him for the rest of my life, well into death... Tariq.
Influenza of the heart is cured! Tariq is human again, flesh and fallible. The dream is extinguished like all delicate flames, like a sweet-scented candle.
I am not a wall, an impasse, but a gate that is always open to those who wish to arrive and those who choose to depart.
Some want to live life. I want life to live me!
Now my grandmother and I dance around the living room, laughing at ourselves. Then we chat reflectively, pausing regularly. She wonders aloud if there's something medically wrong with Jackie, then searches my face for clues, but I turn subtly to the dangling ornaments on the tree- a dazzling theme of pearl white and gold, and say, 'She's just bored and depressed.' Not entirely a lie.
And all the while- seasons, traffic, oceans, empires... Life's whisper and cuss.
Fear is nothing but a paper boat fashioned by an innocent child, gently lowered to the cool surface of a gushing stream where it is carried away, light and hapless, away, away.
Fold fear into a paper airplane, throw it to the wind so that it may fly away, crashing into other places.
Now I drink a martini. Flickering white light penetrates the martini, making the two luscious olives glisten beautifully. Glass distortions. Revolving reflections. A heart with streets smelling of rain and swelling with anticipation. The past a cabaret. Love murdered. Love resurrected. Bury your face in my silhouette and taste my shadow. Dance in my storm. Fall. Streets littered with associations. A village. A drum in my mouth. An olive soaked in gin.
All I wanted was to let him go, with my own heart still innocent in love. I feel I have accomplished this.
Twice he has said I am too hard on myself.
Yes, I push myself.
All avenues meet at one circle- all lights flickering toward the same destination, so that my heart beats with one purpose only.
All my life I have migrated from one setting to another, one world to another. The chasms were deep. No bridges existed. I traveled by night through valleys, across borders, breaking laws, smuggling, running. Now, finally everything feels connected, intertwined. Family, friends, law, work, hurt, greed, money, love, science. Gay vied with straight. Music with silence. Laughter with tears. Male with female. Up with down. But no more. These supposed contradictions now occupy the same space, possess equal significance. Life is a dream that has become real. I fasten all my lives together and fasten myself to them so that we move together.
I'll never write about that last night with Tariq, our whispers, the tender things we admitted; of my quiet tears, his arms, his eyes. I'd go crazy.
Customers say I should be on TV. I say I should be in love.
Eupnea. Letting life lead this romantic dance in an unromantic era.
Even to feel unloved is an aspect of love.
Let all emotions live side by side, in peace, in you.
Spending the night with Tariq exorcised him, the image and ideal of him, out of my consciousness. I am freed of him. I felt there was everything to feel- ecstasy, sadness, strength, heartbreak, jealousy, protectiveness, alienation, solidarity, brotherhood, arousal, attraction, loss. Forgiveness. I am finished with it.
I remain an open window, though broken, my edges jagged, dangerous, open to everything, prepared for any surprise, any disappointment. I lay my new body down before life's kiss, flames, and blades. Passion cuts me down to bite-size pieces so that the smallest moments may consume me. I am delicious. No one may have me again, not so freely and intimately. For now, for a long time to come. Alone I can be anyone, anywhere. Free to laugh, free to sway to the music whose diaphanous body leads mine in a room thrown in shadows, where life bleeds around me, light explodes, walls melt. The past becomes hysterical, its various moments- whimsically linked- crashing, no longer demanding polarized talents of me, dictating that I loath and love.
When there is no God become God. Where there is no love begin love. Don't succumb to the joke, surrender to laughter. Don't rely on friends, depend on friendship. Don't seek power, cultivate strength to accept your weaknesses. And martinis. In December.

November 2000

Celebrating.
Every dream- unexplored, unturned- is a stone in the heart. What secret am I missing that might make life sweeter?
Last night was possibly the zenith of my social retreat, dimming the lights, drinking gin and tonics, listening to Swing Out Sister, writing, letting the night open me up like a cactus flower whose petals ripple like blood with vibrant colors... in the winter of love.
Even in distance there is deep intimacy, space in which I lie nascent but no longer dreaming, hopefully, of him- he, whose people I wept for because I loved him, loved everything, hating myself for loving so much so many things, so easily... the ghosts of summer.
I'm completely disconnected from others, electronically and otherwise. The psychic connection remains undisputed; its channels ebbing, reverberating, echoing musically. Friends must know I ponder them, need them, love them- so much so that I protect them from myself.
The Iranian songstress Googoosh has risen from the dead. While so many of us fled Iran, she stayed behind because I suppose the love for her country was so immense. In the sixties and seventies Googoosh was already an icon, a trendsetter, constantly changing her look, singing in Farsi, Turkish, French, Spanish, English, thus bridging Iran to the West. Every Iranian admires her, though for years no one knew what became of her. There were rumors that she was forced to marry a mullah. Turns out she's lived a normal, quiet life in a small apartment in Tehran all these years, rarely venturing out in public, let alone singing. We are in disbelief that she has been permitted out of the country and is touring once again!
They say her voice is as pristine as ever, though she hasn't sung in twenty years; that her stage presence is deeply moving, almost a religious experience; that the emotional experience isn't limited to the audience alone, but that Googoosh herself weeps openly as she sings.
By the time mom and I arrived in San Jose and parked at the stadium we both had to pee, but as usual we were early and doors hadn't yet opened. From the parking lot we could see a small corner bar. I looked at mom who doesn't drink, 'Should we try it? Maybe have a drink while we're at it?'
To my surprise she said enthusiastically, "Sure. Why not?"
It was a dark, dingy, little place. Two men were seated at the bar, being served by a large Latino bartender. Mexican music played on the jukebox. Lockers lined one wall to the right. There was a small empty dance floor in the middle of the room. A rainbow flag. Mom and I were in a gay bar. Together!
I took a seat at the bar while mom went to the restroom. I chuckled and explained to the heavyset bartender what had just happened and he laughed. Mom came back and ordered a coffee. I ordered a gin and tonic.
Richard turned out to be a gracious bartender, introducing the two men at the bar, who stood up and shook our hands. We chatted for some time. Richard even served me a drink on the house.
"Why did he do that?" mom asked suspiciously after Richard walked away.
'I don't know. He's being nice.'
"But at the owner's expense?" she muttered disapprovingly, then added, "What a nice man."
Driving to Modesto in the dark I turned to mom, 'Can you believe we just saw Googoosh in concert?'
The chiaroscuro of Googoosh's voice- now booming, now gentle, now strong, now sweet and nostalgic- reverberated in my head for days.
Last night I dreamt that I woke from a nightmare and crawled into my father's arms, and we slept naked against each other. The nightmare continued around us, darkness enveloping the bed, but we slept in peace.
White sheets. Red wine. The moon peaks into my room. I have impregnated the moon with my song of solitude and celebration. She is rounded, full, shamelessly voluptuous. I have been daydreaming at night.
Jackie and I went to Japan Center in the city for sushi. It was a perfect night. We agreed that good food makes us instantly happy and laughed about this, as did the man sitting next to us at the bar. The sushi boats glided past, a convoy of raw colors and textures, which we took into our mouths, tasting life, beer, laughter. Even the Japanese host who brought us a pot of jasmine tea acknowledged our mirth, himself smiling widely. The lights, Japanese pop music- which made me tap my foot- fish, water flickering with reflections, Jackie's thick hair pulled back, her wide eyes swallowing the scene...
Afterwards we went to Martuni's, the piano bar, where we enjoyed sugary martinis and watched people, chatted frivolously. We were like two teenagers, not aunt and nephew. In the car, on asphalt waves home, the city flickering and fading in the background of her smile, Jackie said, "You know, the whole time we were out I didn't think about Novato, mom, or the business."
When mom and I had been in the empty parking lot of the arena in San Jose she asked me to look up a phone number in her address book. Flipping casually through the small pages I suddenly happened on Tariq's name, which caught me off-guard, as I had not anticipated it. Next to his name, in my mother's handwriting, was my name. Tariq. Emil. Had she actually allowed herself to speculate about us? Did she in fact acknowledge our relationship in her own private, painful way?
While mom stood smoking outside the car, I sat transfixed, recalling the smallest details of summer- cracks in sidewalks to the cafe, the quiet front gardens along interstices, heavy doors with small stained glass windows, the way the Midwestern sun felt so familiar and a patch of grass, the remote moments, retracing the traipsing footsteps of someone else, a person much younger, more naive, more trusting.
Summer changed me inside and out, upside down.
It's cold out, windy. Dry leaves rustle. I listen to signature sounds of yet another passing autumn. Someone has built a fire; the streets are hazy and aromatic. Mom is making chicken soup. I hold dear the gift of recollection, thinking of an insouciant childhood in Iran, with two parents, a big brother- now a dream. Was it real?
Autumn.
In my soul.
Rustling.
Soup.
Smoke from chimneys.
Wrapped in down comforter.
Sighing.
Wine.
Fire.
Laughter with family.
Watching rain fall.
Returning from daydreams smiling.
In autumn.
In love with life again.
Morning. I'm dressed for work. I can hear mom pulling open and closing drawers in the next room. Empty wineglass. I dreamt that I was running on Chicago streets in my underwear at night. Then I was in Columbus, again at night, at a street festival. There were women on motorcycles whose engines revved, boomed. But Tariq wasn't there. He was out of town. I separated from the people I knew and ran through crowds of men who still occupied the now emptying streets. Streetlights flickered. Someone set off fireworks whose sparks showered me. I covered my head. Cracks. Howls. Hisses. Then I was in Palestine. It was now day. I stood at an open window and looked out, saw a young mother and her two sons. It was my mother, my brother, and I. White houses covered nearby hills. There were no bombs, but there was no peace either. Then I saw him.
The moon is astonishing tonight. I pull open the curtains and let its metallic light stream into my room. I'm twenty-seven, less apt to dream of unlikely things, less hopeful, just a little more resigned. Tonight I won't struggle against circumstances. Sorrow is as vital as the moon, as steady, as cyclical. My silver sadness. Round and circumambient. Waning. Waxing.
I close my bedroom door to this stone temple, and blue. A chill outside. Perfection. Autumn unleashes my appetite, but I do not abuse the privilege. I'm exhausted. My life feels like a tasteless fruit- not one, but an orchard, acres of it. A bad crop. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but I can't help but feel I am not good enough, that I made a mistake somewhere, that I do not belong.
I'm never satisfied. There's always something missing, but I'm too afraid to place my ear to the wall of this fear and hear its murmur, its sordid soliloquies. Afraid to discover my true self, my animal, angry, natural self.
Maybe there's nothing there at all, after all, but hollow silence.
It would be selfish to kill myself, anticlimactic to prematurely end this game and never know the outcome. I should continue to fool myself and awaken again.
Is it crazy that I'm at Metro, a bar in the city, writing by candlelight? Will I seem strange? Do I care? The man sitting near me just inquired if I'm writing a novel.
We laughed artificially. Before I could answer he asked, "Or is that your diary?" Then he offered some of his calamari, which he was enjoying with a female companion.
After drinking three gin and tonics with him I dropped my diary off at the car and walked to another bar where I befriended Beth- a warm southern gal with fiery red hair that encompassed her entire upper body. She introduced her companion Harley- a quiet man, a teacher. I took them to Martuni's where we ordered martinis, and when Beth and I talked seriously Harley became more sullen. I suggested we go to The Mint for Karaoke. I sang. Beth sang. Harley, being shy, did not sing.
Eventually we parted, driving in different directions on tortuous San Francisco avenues, parting forever, returning to our respective lives.
I understand that not every experience in life will be a pleasant one. The most logical thing for an otherwise illogical, emotional being is to accept life's many faces- the benign, as well as the inhospitable.
It's difficult to pinpoint exactly what brought me here, identify the person who inspired the present. I cannot recall his face, her heart. In the most ordinary moments of everyday life I am still surprised to discover it was I who ventured blindly to Columbus and played blindly the mellifluous instrument of love. He was an innocent child, lovely but wild. Abrupt. Inexperienced. Dissonant. Tone-deaf. But pristine. Lovely. Just lovely.
And where is the moon all the while we strive, while we fight, while we fool ourselves and each other with so much hysteria? Where is the ocean while we lie to ourselves and each other? Where is the beauty and wonder, the lava, the ebbing liquid and remarkable molecule as we cheat ourselves and on each other?
Will all this dissonance resolve itself, not just in me, in my lifetime, but within the very folds and waves of a wider universe? Will our indignation find a peaceful place to rest itself, its laurels, and inspire someone, something fantastic?
Living truthfully, painfully, beautifully. And I'm not even doing anything remarkable. I'm a waiter. My world is small.
A candle. The vents exhale. The humming heat lulls and relaxes me. Days darken early but this wintery departure of natural light doesn't weigh heavy on my heart. I make the most of it.
I worry about common things- our lack of medical and dental benefits, our overall financial insecurity. I worry about mom and feel ineffectual as son. What if something catastrophic happens? We continue to live in a dysfunctional time whose enormous axles crush our bones and hopes. What will become of us?
I don't want to see things as they are. Not tonight. I don't want to stand on the razor edge looking over the vast darkness of doubt, a valley of ugly truths, freefalling into black folds of a desert, unheard, unnoticed, forgotten. I resent this social system. In which I live. To which I contribute.
Weeks pass like speeding vessels along arbitrary tracks, traversing a spectrum of scenes: deserts, mountains, tunnels, wide open spaces. Moods. Colors. Temperatures. Feelings of all nationalities. Countenances of many an ethnicity.
I am an octopus. Three hearts. All pumping. All reeling. All breaking. The numerous colors I change into and out of in a single day blur the distinguishing borders of time, crawling along the ocean's floor, feeling my environment, tasting it with my body, refusing to surface.
I go to St. James and keep my grandmother company, eat with her, watch television with her, play cards with her.
So much is happening in the world as we speak- deaths and rebirths, celebrations and divorces, so many people. I feel them in my bones. Every moment feels as though a storm is coming.
The immigration attorney tells me that I am not helpless, that I am still in control of the game by having taken initiative. I chuckle and drive through downtown San Francisco listening to Sade. I come home and retreat into my high-ceilinged den- this diary- turning on the fans, dimming the lights, circulating the otherwise stagnant air of a life without purpose, recording the wishes and colorful moments that are made of silk and tulle, beneath which lies further meaning, the skin of life, the beauty and eroticism of poetry.
To naturalize...
The bridge calls me again.
On Tuesday I will take mom to the city again where she will be sworn in as a U.S. citizen. She sighs that finally, again, she has a home, a country.
The soul speaks to the persona, beseeches the persona: Emil, I honor you. I am honored to live this life as you, in you, with you... I depend on you.
Perhaps the depth in which I presently drown is actually the height of my existence. Maybe I'll never be happier.
I stand before a mirror and promise frightened, bewildered brown eyes that everything will be all right, that he is not alone as he thinks. I beg him to stop worrying, become indignant and stress that I will not live in fear, in doubt. 'For a few days, at least,' I whisper. He lowers his brown eyes, thinks about it a minute, wonders if he can, looks up again, 'OK.'
When I open my wings the wind seems to stir and meet them.
When I bend in fear to shadows they envelop my body, swallow my flesh and drink my blood.
When I cast a pebble of doubt into the waters of my self the surface surprises me and does not shatter, but ripples melodically.
I am not afraid. Emil is. I am not worried about a single thing. Emil does the worrying. I accept life and welcome death. It is Emil- the persona, the son, the waiter, the student, the body and mind, who resists and struggles. I can fathom anything. I have already been. I created myself and begin every day from a well of fire and experience, in a body without musculature, cavities, without identity and limitations. I am nature and soul. I am and I am not. Words cannot explain me. It is Emil who struggles to describe me, contain me. He is my child. I adore him. I admire him. And I look after him.
Night. Window cracked open. Starless thoughts. The neighbor's voice. Otherwise quiet streets. Hills, like silent giants crouched in the night. Dream! I urge my body. Don't just carry on. Dream. Poeticize. Go mad. Drink and be drunk. Taste terrible bitter life. Sweeten it with all your will. Spill it everywhere and share it.
Every turn an opportunity to touch someone else and enchant yourself. Mean every word. Touch each mood. Walk barefoot in the hot sands of anger, slip on the cool pebbles of serenity, swim in the tumult of laughter, drown in rare guffaws, choke on love and tears. Pause at unlikely moments and places, and wonder if you can go on another second. Continue, not out of sheer passion, but basic biological instinct. Be on the brink of another madness. One wilder than before. Booming.
There are three days left of this self-imposed retreat from loved ones. Three days to revel in mystery, solitude, and soliloquies- these intangible moments that I do not have to justify to anyone. Absence of friendship and dependence has resulted in loyalty to my diary, upon which only natural light falls.
Still, I can't help passion drowning in deeper waters. I imagine a life devoid of petty concerns- a life gingerly made of miraculous blocks placed conveniently in heavenly order: wonderful friends, a fulfilling career, creative bursts, health, a home, and a zany dog!
Last night I dreamt of passionate kisses, many lovers. I was passionately kissing my brother.
I've been meaning to ask my mother something, but she has a way of flashing impenetrable colors of warning that force me to swallow my love, my curiosity, my own body, and I retreat.
I eat very little. I want to feel empty, light, lightheaded. I want to know patience. Practice grace. It makes me sick to see people devour a meal. A full stomach. An empty soul devoid of light and virtue.
My grandmother and I are watching television, and as much as I cherish her she challenges me, upsets me, is inadvertently hurtful. Her initial high of my being published has worn off and she has little reason to respect me. She appreciates ambition, stature, money, the acquisition of property and homes. Typical immigrant mentality. I am a disappointment because I do not meet the Assyrian standard, and while I scoff at this standard a part of me feels bruised. Embarrassed. Now she covers the pastries and yawns, states that she's going to bed, but sinks back a while longer and admires the flowers on the mantle, which she's picked from her bountiful garden. Gardens bring her profound joy.
Now she rises with effort from her chair. May the night be good to her.
Alone again. What shall we talk about? The transgendered moon? Masturbation? Dreams? George Sand? Shall we sit in silence and listen to the house breathe and cough, its bones cracking? I'm lying on the floor writing, my heart against the ground. A kind of truce. Not stepping on it, but in communion with it, breathing with it, naked and vulnerable with it. Defenses down. I am here. In a future I did not dream. In a life I never wished for.
Life is a beast that does not protect her offspring. She has no maternal instincts. One is spit out from one moment to the next in a string of coincidences until an entire lifetime has flashed itself into obscurity, and no one remembers you- a single speck traveling on the wagging tail of a universe that's barking, shitting, and yet to which we attribute so much significance because we refuse to believe that we are simply parasites in its fur, on its behind. So, enjoy the ride on the ass of life. Make something of your daily haul. Feel more than your environment ever encourages you to feel. Open your heart. Spend less money and more time. You are a miracle that'll never be fully acknowledged. Acknowledge yourself. And each other.
Marvel at the beauty, the sumptuousness, the craftsmanship of every moment, of each layer upon layer upon layer...
What a waste to only live on the terrible surface, succumbing only to hunger, anger, war, betrayal, politics, disease, religion, money. What a waste to live with your back to the majestic scene, to nature, a breathtaking moment in time, a sunset, a striking woman, a moving piece of music and history, only to turn around when it is too late and the moment is gone. And you are too old, your senses frayed.
Life is an open field through which I run wildly, kicking, braying, forgetting inhibition, advice, prior knowledge.
Mom's swearing in ceremony was today. She said it was a gorgeous day for her even though it rained. We arrived at Moscone Center in downtown San Francisco, parked in a garage, and started by foot toward our destination. I asked to see mom's papers, which she dug out of her purse and handed to me. I froze in my tracks. Mom looked at me incredulously. I chuckled and looked at my watch. 'We're supposed to be at Masonic Center, not Moscone Center. Come on, we'll take a taxi.'
Moments later we are being whisked away through a madness of rain, cars, pedestrians, and traffic lights. Mom smiles, "I haven't been in a taxi since Iran." I smile too, pleased with her childlike response.
When we arrive at our proper destination mom is ushered to the main floor, and I upstairs to the visitors' gallery. The female judge who performs the ceremony is likable enough, but I do not stand for her or the flag. Mom is now officially a U.S. citizen, and I her foreign son.
Again we caught a taxi in the downpour, and I looked out the foggy window at beautiful San Francisco with the sense that I will never feel entirely at home here, no matter how many friends I make, no matter how many years I lose here. I will always have one vagrant foot elsewhere, across the globe, on the eroding soil of a past in Iran.
I took my grandmother to Modesto to visit family. Nostalgia and curiosity provoked me and I ended up at The Brave Bull. I wanted to find Rodney, see him, talk to him, and within minutes of arriving at the bar in he walked! He saw me and smiled, walked over. We kissed and hugged. "I've been reading your diary on the internet. A straight Assyrian friend told me about it. She loves it and wants to meet you," he said. I ordered drinks and we talked for some time, catching up. Two years ago Rodney would have drunk himself into a stupor, but tonight he switched to soda after two beers. For the first time Rodney spoke of his father's abuse, tearfully showing the scars from the time his father threw him into a window.
Sexuality.
Identity.
Evolution.
Waves.
Breath.
Death.
In the morning I open this notebook and painstakingly paint each sand grain a more vibrant color than it actually is. The page crinkles under the moisture of words.
Fireflies.
Wild horses.
Waterfalls.
A lone tree.
I happened to be driving past Stephanie's grandmother's house when a car pulled up, Sally in the passenger seat. I made a U-turn. Sally struggled to get out of the car. I walked up and extended my hand, which surprised the old woman. "Give me a hug!" she ordered playfully. "I love you," she said into my shoulder and we squeezed each other. A woman I did not know came out of the house, "It's not often that Sally gets to hug someone so cute!" Sally seemed older, slower, weaker. She immediately commented on my weight loss, invited me in, but I said I had to go.
May the rest of her days be as kind to her as she's been to me...
I'm ready. Ready for the rest of this life. This thing. This flapping of mythical wings. This mythical creature traversing stained glass pages of a broken book. I'm ready. Ready as fiction. Charged as fantasy. Revved as erotica.
Soul.
Searches.
Solitude.
Score (musical.)
Not salvation.
Salivation.
I have to go to Berkeley and read Lion's Courtesan again at a reading for Male Lust. I don't want to read that story that was written so long ago, by what now seems like someone else...

October 2000

A drink of water. Autumn sun on my arm. A leaf flying at the windshield. Jackie's smile. Tariq's voice. Mom's little surprises. A hush. A wish.
In line at the drugstore I scrutinize the cashier. It is evident that she is weary and annoyed. Her hands are small and bony and she wears glasses. There is sorrow in her brown eyes. She has an accent I can't make out. When I'm face to face with her I say something light, encouraging. She smiles. She looks around, leans forward and whispers that she's only got eight more months of this work, that her son will soon graduate college, that she's working only to put him through school. 'I admire you,' I say before the automatic sliding doors swoosh open and we disappear from each other's life.
Tomorrow is the reading for Male Lust at Good Vibrations, the sex toy shop in the Mission. I always get so nervous before reading, but once I'm up in front of people I become very calm, natural.
There's been another attack on Gaza. I worry about Tariq.
I bring a box of donuts to anatomy class, which puts a smile on the early morning faces of classmates.
Things are a mess in the world, not just the Arab world, but right here, and perhaps America is the biggest mess of them all.
This morning I took mom to the farmer's market in the city. Here in the open air market mom came completely to life, seemed totally at home, perhaps as she'd been in similar markets in Iran, as a young mother, picking the perfect pomegranates, the freshest eggplant, haggling. My mother, who changes before my eyes into a hundred women, always a surprise and a mystery.
Night is a swarthy lover with starry eyes gazing into mine. Hypnotic. Wine. Laughter in a violent world. Love in a loveless time. With you...
The date with David? He was an hour late, didn't offer to pay for dinner, gave me a blowjob he did not finish.
Came home to a package from Alyson Books- two crisp shiny copies of Revolutionary Voices!
David e-mails the day after the date. In the e-mail he is sincere and thoughtful.
Wael looks surprised when I show up at his door, joking that he had expected me to cancel. We strolled in the cool Oakland air to a nearby restaurant and for the first time I felt closer to Wael, enjoyed him more, understood him. He, too, seemed more open, talking more freely about himself. He said I looked different but couldn't quite place his finger on it. We talked a little about Tariq, politics, and life in general.
On the drive back to Marin I again felt the severity of solitude- the black highway, multitudinous lights flickering across the bay, lives and deaths intermingling in the near-distance under the pseudonym: San Francisco.
My run in the rain, off the beaten path, was serene and picturesque, and when the clouds let up new colors without names emerged, sunrays falling delicately on the surrounding hills and their dramatic folds.
Nothing about a person you've just met is real. We step up to each other gingerly, in tailored replicas of our real, disheveled selves.
Tariq, I love you.
Everyone I've ever known is somewhere in the world- loving, living, dreaming. Something grand connects us all and I feel them in my own veins as I live every single moment as if it's the second to last, touch everything as if my hands are about to be cut off.
My grandmother tells me to keep growing my hair out so I can wear it up. I look at her funny, 'That's not what an Assyrian grandmother is supposed to say!' We laugh.
At work I overheard more than one table discussing Israel and the Palestinians.
Tariq writes that he's been drunk with a Palestinian friend and I'm glad to know he's not alone, but with a kindred spirit, commiserating.
If I believe that religion is for mad people then why do I find myself praying for peace?
The moon is amazing tonight. I'm in bed and have left my window wide open so that its rust-colored rays may enter my room and softly kiss my naked, changing body, abate the palpitations of my flesh, which longs for hands, lips. I ought to be making love, not sleeping alone, my youth being wasted. I'm bursting with love and energy, my body burning.
It's not clear yet what it is I'm supposed to learn from Tariq. It's hard to believe my sense of trust could be so easily diminished. I'm full of mistrust, have become a wave that retreats, then returns timidly, cautiously, but crashes- drowning in the foaming confusion of my own enthusiasm. Everything exhausts me. Everyone overwhelms me.
It is morning in San Francisco and although I'm supposed to be in anatomy class I am here at Cafe Flore, sitting outside. I just couldn't imagine myself sitting in a sterile room, among sleepy eyes, assaulted by our over-enthusiastic instructor's rantings about nerves- wearing on my own! So, I sped past the Sir Francis Drake exit, continued on 101 with other vehicles, crossed Golden Gate, the city sunny and welcoming.
Bassam's party was lovely and he was the consummate host- serving a new dish at the buffet table, mixing drinks, hugs, smiles, introductions. Moe brought flowers. Wael, a bottle of wine. I gave Bassam a signed copy of Revolutionary Voices.
Heba ran up to me with grapes in her hand sporting a wide, bright-eyed smile, announcing that ever since we first met she'd wanted to feed me grapes because of my deceptively Roman profile. She sat with me a while and for the first time we talked about her love life. I listened with all my senses, absorbing her sentences. Love is a tactile conversation. Tariq's name came up and Heba asked if it was alright to talk about him. 'Of course,' I answered with a smile. She told me about their humorous deep-sea fishing excursion in Santa Barbara recently. Tariq deep-sea fishing? I couldn't picture it. But evidently it had happened.
Laura, slender, looking as though she were from the nineteen-twenties stopped by with a plate of food and for the first time we spoke openly, intimately. I said, 'Only you could dye your hair black from red and still look fiery!' She smiled and explained that she has reached a certain level of peace with the world, attained her master's in theology, and feels closer to God. Her dark eyes emanated warmth, vitality. I broke the surface further with, 'I want you to know that although Shammi and I are close she doesn't talk about the details of your relationship or breakup.' She touched my knee with her free hand and smiled, "It means a lot to me that you said that." Her high cheekbones, her long neck, her warm Lebanese eyes... She asked how I was doing. I said that love changed me, explaining that upon my return from Columbus I quit smoking, began to eat better and started exercising. This really moved her and she actually choked up a bit. In the end we decided that we would remain vulnerable and open to life, sensitive without suffering.
Later in the night everyone gathered round the table of food and cakes and champagne was served. Laura announced that she would like to make a toast and this she did, emotionally and eloquently. She even made a point of turning around and smiling at me.
Moe remained stationary most of the evening because of the pain and painkillers. He was in a terrible car accident that seems to have changed him somehow. He seemed older, more humble. I sat with him, gently rubbing his aching back. He admitted that a year ago he was loud and obnoxious and apologized. "You're sweet, Emil," he said softly.
We talked a little of the accident, which he barely remembers, and of his many nebulous days in the hospital where feeding tubes sustained his battered body. He said the first time he looked at himself in the mirror he had been repulsed by the reflection, how dirty he was, amazed that friends who had kept vigil had touched him, kissed him.
When Wael, Moe, and I left the party Moe began to shiver violently. He regretted having overstayed and tired himself. The persistent shivering made his broken ribs ache more. He winced and moaned in pain. When we were in the car Wael cranked the heat. Moe asked Wael to hold his hand.
The next afternoon I am in the city, on a large empty stage at Harvey Milk Institute, reading from Revolutionary Voices. Alone.
David e-mails.
Yesterday I received a sad e-mail from Tariq asking me for at least one word just to know I am alive and well. I wrote an hour-long response, which in the end I deleted. Loving him from here, from the corners of my life, from the mouth of my heart is something that I cherish and shirk from. Letting him go hurts. Accepting him hurts. So, I exercise- the other extreme of my emotional pain: physical highs!
I vacillate between many contradictions within a single moment. The unease reshapes me.
Wine by the fire with Jackie and grandmother. I miss Tariq like I am the logs burning in the fire, like the wine swirling in the glass, like the blackness of night beyond the windows. But no one needs to know, after all fire is supposed to burn, wine is expected to intoxicate, night is meant for longing.
Mom and I woke up early and drove to San Francisco in the dark, sipping hot coffee out of paper cups with white plastic lids. I listened to music, talking little. Mom smoked and was chipper, but nervous. She clutched the three-dollar bridge toll, which I had asked her to put away, it was too soon.
In fact, we were leaving the house too early, but I didn't say anything, knowing this was an important day for mom. I respected her wishes, no matter how neurotic.
We arrived at the INS office, room 45, waiting area A, at seven; her appointment was at eight-forty. We took a seat by the window, beyond which the city was still shrouded in darkness. We were the first two people in the hideous room with no pictures, no plants, no magazines. Only dirty white walls. A door with a peep hole and a combination lock.
I opened my book, crossed my legs, and began to read. Mom asked if she should review her answers. I said no, to just sit back and try to relax; I had tested her some days before and her answers had been, without exaggeration perfect!
Soon the sun was rising as others began to shuffle sheepishly into the spiritless room. I noted that everyone, mom included, was apologetic- as if they had no right to place their dirty foreign feet on sacred American floors. This made me indignant, so I met their eyes, smiled openly at them, laughed with mom in an attempt to dissipate the tension in the air, which made the already oppressive space more intolerable.
I continued reading the anthology Ahimsa had sent me. Poems by Arab writers. Beautiful poems. I read them achingly. I turned occasionally to the one dirty window, stained by last year's rains, and looked out on the surrounding rooftops. This scene seemed to lull me a little. I returned to the book, turned the page, and discovered a poem appropriately titled Rooftops.
Of course mom passed the citizenship test. She came out beaming; not only had she overcome her insecurities, the young officer had been polite, she said, respectful, efficient. We stepped buoyantly out onto the morning street that was now bustling with people, cars, activity. Mom could not stop smiling. She was shining and the exuberance made her skin flush.
Back in Marin we sat on the patio of a restaurant on the water and I silently pondered Home, Happiness, being American, everything mercurial, and wondered what is to become of us contemporary Assyrians...
My grandmother is visibly overworked, so I suggested we go to the farmers' market in the city. We set out in a drizzle, I played a Turkish CD, and my wonderful grandmother danced playfully and comically in the passenger seat. The city was wet and overcast, but bustling and alive. Scents of fresh fruits, vegetables, and fish wafted in the air, along with sounds of cars and people. Flocks of pigeons circled overhead. A young woman tried passing me a flier and asked, "Are you a San Francisco voter?" I answered reflexively, 'No. I can't vote.' She tilted her head to one side, smiled sympathetically, "Oh, that's OK." She chuckled awkwardly. Suddenly I was reminded just how powerless I am and the feeling surged in me all afternoon. By evening I was flat out depressed. I tried to write, as always grappling in the dark for words like backs of chairs, stubbing my toe on nebulous phrases, blindly feeling for textures. I cried for many reasons, for many people, specifically for my queer friends- Martin, Grant, Moe, Tariq, Heba, Bassam, all of whom have been unfairly made to feel inferior in life, when they should have been nurtured, celebrated.
It makes me crazy, and fear I'm nearing a nervous breakdown.
Many lonely places have taken me in over the years, many rainy evenings such as this one have kissed me, many mysteries have baffled me, but none as extreme as now, here. I have the house to myself and look out the window at the wet yard, glistening in the last light. Music fills the entire house, my head, knocking words about. I've fixed myself a gin and tonic, extra lime.
So, here I am living out the best years of my life, a most precious time, sweet years in a comfortable, middle-class American home, with my wonderful family of three zany, strong women. What am I to do with all these memories, this panoply of loving moments? How am I to capture them?
Jackie looked stunning stepping out of the house in a red dress, smiling, radiating. I can't help but feel protective. My grandmother and I played cards, which always puts her in a good mood. Of course she always wins. We play the same game every time, the one she learned many years ago in the village. She insists that the way I shuffle the cards puts them back in the order they were. 'Mom-Suzie, leya!' (That's impossible!) We laugh.
She is an impossibly impatient woman, my grandmother. Years of an abusive marriage and struggle have made her neurotic about action and work. She has a hard time resting, relaxing. A dirty dish cannot sit for long on the table before us. It will drive her crazy. Jackie gets annoyed about this habit and they argue about it. A lot!
I savor everything, every minute detail- stepping in and out spaces, walking, hearing shrill birds in branches, drinking a glass of water, expressions on faces, the slightest flinch. Life is delicious. I eat it slowly, taste every small bite. It's not only life I find amazing, but my health and freedom, that I am able to move about physically, with total access to many simple, even luxurious amenities. I could get dressed now and drive across a bridge into the city, singing, have a drink, make a friend, have an experience of any nature!
This acuteness frightens me. Everything breaks open, splits into many different directions. It is a strange and amazing time. Everything is at risk.
I'll never have a lasting romantic relationship. I feel it. I know it. I'm not made to be with one person. I'll never be happy... like others can be. It's difficult to explain.
I also know that I'll never feel at home here in Marin, or perhaps anywhere. I am the recurring Assyrian guest in the diaspora of earth's borderless imagination. A sigh at night... in blue orchard- this ink, this diary.
Lying on the rug, under the table around which my mother, aunt, and grandmother converse, joke, and laugh. I could remain here, in this commonplace moment forever. Under each everyday occurrence a river of gold flows, taking with it my youth, my freedom, my family. It's hard to imagine that our time here together will pass, and without warning end. I place my lips tenderly against each second, breathing in the passing perfume, the departing music, the temporary warmth.