April 1997

It is morning, cold and windy, and I worry about my Button Quails that are in a cage outside.
Last night my restlessness was somewhat alleviated when Kim picked me up and I had someone to interact with, react to. I became alive and charming. Still, an air of boredom followed me since it had earlier permeated my body. We met Vivian and her sister Shammi at Diva. I noted that Shammi is very lesbian-sexy! If I were a woman I would melt for her. Her hair is cropped short and highlighted in places in bold yellow streaks. Her skin is swarthy and her smile brilliant and wickedly charming. Her eyes are penetrating and beautifully Assyrian, Arab, of a place that has not existed for some time. Her sense of humor is genuine and successful.
Mom's calling for me to make Turkish coffee and put on tea so that we may have a few minutes together. She loves it when I fix the coffee and serve it. I think it entertains her for the fifteen minutes that it all takes. I suppose it's all she's got, really. These minutes when she's successfully drawn me out of my room where she complains I spend far too much time reading, writing…
Just finished packing for my trip to L.A. with Vivian, Kim, and Jennifer who insisted I go with them even though for days I complained about my finances! Nothing like packing to remind one just how old and outdated one's clothes are. But I tried to remain chipper, put on disco, and carried on. Holes in sleeves, snags in shirts, faded socks, twisted seams, stories in fabric of places I may or may not have been. So, diary, are you coming with me?

Alone and with you I feel the warmth of the wine, the joy of being in Los Angeles. I feel like a child who has snuck away, mischievous, the moment palpable around him, emotions new and exciting inside him. The drive down in Kim's convertible was great fun. I wore one of Kim's diaphanous scarves and sunglasses. We smoked, talked, laughed. The coast darkened as we neared L.A. The ocean a vast black wall to our right. One thing is for certain- well, two: sleep and this imagined and sublime kiss.

It's good to see Eli. The last time I saw her was two years ago when she visited Chicago from her native country, Norway. It's hard to imagine that we went to high school together for a year and that we've kept in touch all this time through letters, so many letters. Now Eli lives here in L.A. with her boyfriend Jim and is studying film editing. I'm truly proud of her, and a little envious as she has always done the right thing.
At breakfast I joked, 'Have I aged?'
"You look the same," Eli answered in her usual unaffected Scandinavian way.
In the afternoon Vivian, Kim, and I hopped into the convertible once more and headed into West Hollywood, sunny, open, and gay. We had cocktails at a gay bar on Santa Monica Boulevard where Vivian entertained us with her usual delightful and hilarious stories, gestures, and facial expressions. The French doors of the bar opened right onto the sidewalk where we gazed passersby, the vodka tonics we sipped making us now lightheaded and giddy.
I suddenly spotted a man who looked faintly familiar, and said, 'Was that the guy from "Caroline in the City"?'
The girls encouraged me to find out. I hesitated a moment but Kim and Vivian were adamant. So, I got up and followed. I found it ironic that years before I had met his current costar Lea Thompson in the shop where I worked in Chicago.
I approached the actor who strolled with four other handsome men and called out, 'Excuse me, excuse me.'
They turned in unison.
'I'm sorry to stop you like this, but aren't you the fellow from the show?'
Now all five men grinned, their faces shining in the Southern California sun.
"Yes, I am," smiled the blond actor.
'I just want to tell you you're very funny. You're just great! You really do steal the show,' I found myself spouting off easily, comfortably.
Now the actor removed his sunglasses, extended his hand, and asked my name.
'Emil. Emil Keliane,' I said cheerily as we shook hands. I turned to the other men and said hi.
"I'm Malcolm Gets. Thank you," said the actor warmly. And that was it. We parted, all of us still smiling, free, somehow connected.

Saturday. Back in Modesto.
We were walking along Venice Beach enjoying the sun one early afternoon, browsing through the many small shops there, when a staff member from the show "Ellen" gave us tickets to the taping that was to take place that very afternoon. Not having any particular plans for the rest of that day the three of us looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, hopped into Kim's convertible and headed to Disney Studios.
While we waited outside in a line made of a variety of people, and many lesbians, the actors who portray Ellen's parents happened to walk by. I instinctively began applauding them as I have a love and a respect for actors and artists, and soon the others in line did the same. The two gracious actors nodded their heads humbly and waved at us.
Kim, Vivian, and I were seated in the front row where our excitement inside the studio began to gather momentum. We smiled at each other, spoke very little, and simply took in the set, the lights, the cameras, and the few crewmembers who buzzed about preparing for the taping.
Once all the audience members were seated, an unseen DJ played funk music and introduced each actor who took the set dancingly. We applauded and howled. There was the kind of energy in the studio that was definitely charged and contagious.
Ellen made a short speech in which she thanked her crew and cast for a wonderful season to which this was to be the last episode.
Now Ellen accepted questions and comments from the studio audience. I was quite content just observing when Kim nudged me, urging me to, "Say something. You love Ellen."
I raised my hand. Ellen turned to me and pointed, "Yes, over here."
I found myself speaking out loud, 'I think I speak for everyone when I say that you guys are so funny and talented. Just fabulous. We love you.'
The audience applauded in agreement.
"Thank you," Ellen said, then asked, "What is your name?"
'Emil.'
"Well, Emil seems to be the spokesperson for our audience tonight," Ellen quipped. There was laughter. The other cast members seemed tickled. Ellen and I went back and forth for a bit; she asked where I am visiting from. When I mentioned that I consider Chicago my home Jeremy Piven mouthed to me that he loves Chicago. We gave each other the thumbs up.
The taping itself was a mesmerizing experience. Every scene was shot twice, the second take invariably the more dazzling one, funnier, better. The actors seemed to hit every note perfectly. The crew moved quickly, efficiently. It was awe-inspiring.
In between set changes we were entertained by a lanky emcee who told really bad jokes and performed great tricks. During one particular lull the emcee announced that he was now holding a dance contest, and would pick three random contestants from the audience. We cheered and stamped our feet. The unseen DJ again played some dance tunes and the seats began to rock.
Two boisterous young women were called down by the emcee where they joined him in front of the audience.
"And the third contestant isss… Emil, our spokesperson!" screamed the emcee.
Shyly, reluctantly I stood up and walked to the front.
"The person who dances with the most effort wins," declared the emcee.
I remember looking over at Vivian and cracking up. Vivian and Kim remained in their seats with their mouths hanging wide open, disbelieving as I that this was actually happening.
Suddenly The Village People's "YMCA" aired on every speaker and we began to dance. I looked directly into the audience, extended my arms out, snapped my fingers, and shook my toosh. Two cute gay guys smiled in my direction from the blur and boom of the studio audience.
When I looked over at the emcee and the other dancers I realized that all three were engaged in a dance that was led by the emcee. I, too, tried to dance as they were but was suddenly overcome by an instinct to move into other directions. I found myself dancing away from them, moving rhythmically to the left, shaking my shoulders at the spectators who now laughed uproariously and seemed to scream! Of course, their response fueled my own enthusiasm and when I spotted the steps that led up through the hundreds of seats I took them. Next thing I knew I was propelled upward by the heated applause and the howling that almost drowned the music, shimmying up the steps. Now the audience was almost frantic. Having reached the very top I threw my arms up in the air, turned around, shook my butt one last time, and began to head down again to join the others. And as soon as I did the music stopped. It was perfect!
Vivian said later that the lesbians behind her were chanting, "Go, Emil! Go, Emil!" Kim said she couldn't believe her eyes, that the next thing she knew I was all over the studio, and that it was all very surreal for her.
The emcee, a young, goofy, and handsome man, picked up his microphone and began the judging process. He held his hand over one of the girls' head. The audience applauded, as did I. Then he did the same with the other young woman. The audience had a similar response. And lastly, he said, "And Emil…"
Here, the entire place was actually roaring, the floor reverberated with applause. The emcee extended his cheek to be kissed by the girls, and when he turned to shake my hand I, too, placed a kiss on his cheek.
When I went back to my seat the wonderful lesbians sitting next to me shook my hand, "Good job!"
During the rest of the taping various crewmembers would look up at me and wink, or smile. It was very warm and humorous.
I noticed that Jeremy Piven kept staring at Vivian who seemed oblivious to his many glances. Later, we laughed about this.
Once the filming was over and we were walking out of the studio that was now quiet and emptying, one of the ushers turned to me and said, "You stole the show." I thanked him. An elderly woman also complemented me on my "performance".
Kim and Vivian were charged. I was in a daze.
The very next morning we were waiting for a table at a West Hollywood restaurant and stood outside on the sidewalk smoking and talking when a small dear woman came out of the restaurant and walked right up to me.
"Are you Emil?" she asked.
I did not recognize her and wondered how she knew me, but answered, 'Yes, I am.'
"You were great last night!" she said. I then made the connection that perhaps she was one of the audience members.
I thanked her warmly and asked her name.
"My name is Ellen, too," she said, "I'm one of the writers on the show."
My friends and I looked at each other in disbelief that this wonderful woman would have taken the time to come outside and tell me all this. I hugged her.
She said that fun stuff happened all the time during rehearsals and tapings but, "never anything like that."
It was all drastically magical.
When I called Chuck in Chicago and told him this story he said that I am blessed with a "circus life!"

One evening I got to hang out with Eli and Jim alone. We had dinner, sipped wine, and became increasingly nostalgic talking about mutual friends back in Chicago. Eli suddenly got up from the dinner table and ran into another room and fetched a box of old photographs. We spent hours rummaging through old pictures from the start of our friendship, when we were still only teenagers. There was Maggie, Lisa, Brandon, Marcelo, Rachel, Bryan, Gay Pride on Halsted Street, St. Gregory high school, everything! So many memories of what seemed like moments ago, not years.
Last night I went to The Brave Bull with Jennifer, a classmate from Playwriting. Gary was bartending and was as sweet as always. Ran into other friends and acquaintances, but wanted mostly to see Shammi who was in town from San Francisco. She is more than sexy. I think I'm in love with her! The surprise of surprises was when I walked into a different part of the bar and discovered Shammi and Jennifer, who is "straight", making out. We brought the party back to my house since mom was up in Marin to work at the family rest home. Incredible, Shammi and Jennifer spent the night together and left before I woke up. I, on the other hand, masturbated mutually with Eno, a guy I know from the college. He's not terribly attractive but has a certain undeniable charm about him. I enjoyed watching him take his pants off. His orgasm was quite noisy, heartfelt. His entire body shook. He wanted to go further but I did not. And when he wanted to spend the night, cuddle, and caress, I wanted nothing but escape. I cannot go through these tender gestures with mere strangers. I save them for the one I will love. And I know Eno, he can do this with anyone. I wanted nothing more than to be alone, to sleep alone.

What was I thinking? How could I so blindly chain myself and call the chain "mother"?

Why am I often unhappy? It must be the smoking and drinking, this unhealthy diet, and all the immature people in my life. It's time to get on the one-day-at-a-time regimen. It is all in my hands, and I'm reaching.

My loneliness drives me into desperate friendships that aren't good for me. Rodney is back from San Francisco. He couldn't make a go of it there and I could tell he was ashamed. I tried to make him feel better about having tried to start a life there, but he was drunk. I feel a peculiar bond with Rodney that I have never had with anyone else. I am brutally honest with him and it seems that we have a mutual respect for each other. I'm glad he's back.
Becoming Americanized as I have has induced a split in my personality that to this day is in conflict with my Assyrian upbringing.
I'd like to believe that in this world there are no "foreigners", that we are all inhabitants of the same, singular planet. I know deep in my heart that borders are just an illusion, though we insist on them.
I want freedom. For others and myself.
I want gay marriage to be legalized.
I want to be able to go back to Iran and say a proper goodbye to it, to see my cousins, particularly the ones who were born after we left.
I want to be able to provide for my parents, retire them, give back to them for everything they have given up for us.
I want each word in the English language to stick and never leave me.
I want to relearn Farsi and write letters to my maternal grandfather who lives in Tehran, showing my love.
I wonder just how many times the word "want" appears in my journal.

On the laborious bike ride home against the wind I made up songs and poems in my head. Something about a lover who never makes promises, just does things. And soon I wanted to be that kind of person. No talk. No promises. No more resolutions. Just action!
One night in Chicago, Melisa called and said, "Meet me outside."
We sat on the hood of my Caprice, in the humidity, under the light of the street lamp and talked of the future. I was obsessed with the future. The future is illusive and dangerous and frightening, but it is a reality no one can avoid. I just wanted to know that I'd be O.K., taken care of, self-sufficient, content even. I am still terrified of the future. I'm afraid of loneliness, of old age, of money, and of violence.
Patience. Love. And I must be understanding of my family's shortcomings.

There is an Iranian boy at the college I talk to sometimes. We formed a friendship at the computer lab this afternoon when we worked side by side on our assignments. I speak broken Farsi with him and when I cuss he dies laughing. He says my Farsi is formal. I remember another Iranian kid in Tehran saying the same thing, that I spoke like textbooks. Mehrdad is his name, the literal translation of which means- the sun gave. Given by the sun. He wears his hair long in a ponytail and has huge almond-shaped brown eyes. They are warm and friendly, smiling. He is just twenty-one years old. His mother is Assyrian and his father Persian. Mehrdad has only been in the States for one year and speaks English beautifully with a charming Iranian accent. It seemed that everything he told me this afternoon surprised me, about which we laughed a great deal.
I saw Eno on campus. It wasn't uncomfortable. We only waved and smiled.
While riding my bike in the sun I became certain that I would never reach a finish in my pursuits for the perfect life. Sure, I'm better as a person than I used to be, stronger. But it seems that self-improvement is perpetual. I have a lot of work, yet. When it comes to living there's forever room for renovation, rehabilitation.
I own this fear I possess of making decisions. In the process of losing my inhibitions I am cautious not to lose my compassion and thoughtfulness.
I tried to write an ending to "Third Rail" and even became emotional doing so, pacing the room, speaking out loud the lines even as I wrote them, but I was very much conscious the whole time that mom was in the house somewhere and this halted my creativity. I need space, privacy, meditation, patience, forgiveness, and courage just to write a line, or two. It's just not that easy for me. I must have a sense of adventure in writing.

Noon. The day is a warm clear suburban heaven. Love hasn't found me but the inevitable thought has- that if I were more ambitious or smarter I would have more security and comfort in life, more hope. Money! I may be broke but I am not broken, yet!
At a friend's barbeque I drink margueritas and am shocked to find I am again socializing with people I swore I would not see anymore. And I am struck by a certain sorrow for a while, and finally an angry compromise. Always settling for less because I feel I do not belong, belong, belong.
Dad called the other afternoon and the entire thing was anticlimactic. Sometimes it's like I'm thrown into a life raft with a complete stranger, a man whose language I do not speak.
I had a dream in which there were baby pythons everywhere, in houseplants, on bookshelves, even moving inside pictures and paintings on the wall. The snakes were for the most part tame, except one, which bit me. Always snakes in my dreams.

Addictions persist. Luckily creative ideas persist also.

I miss Anais. I know that I must resume reading The Diaries again when I can afford them. It's hard to admit, but I know that my own diary becomes exciting while I am reading Anais Nin. She inspires me.

Dr. Elam pulled me aside in U.S. History, looked at me with those warm smiling eyes of his, and said that I'm very bright but probably prefer to party than to study! He smiled at me knowingly, but without judgment. A beautiful man, Dr. Elam. White beard, round spectacles, wavy gray hair that falls to his shoulders. Dedicated to teaching, to informing, to giving us chunks of U.S. history that were otherwise left out of our textbooks in high school.
'Sometimes I just feel like dropping out and writing plays on the road,' I confessed to him.
"At least get your bachelor's first," he advised tenderly.
He then told me about one of his own daughters who struggles with formal education and whose interests and passions lie elsewhere.

I had a dream that Barbra Streisand and I were walking along a Manhattan avenue. We never spoke and simply walked arm in arm, in silence.
In another dream I stood alongside myself in the future. I was older and stood looking into a mirror, wearing only a navy blue towel around my waist. I was not a diarist in the dream, in the future, but a cartoonist!

I spent an erotic afternoon in the park exchanging ideas and stories with Scott, a straight acquaintance. His long brown hair fell lightly about his face, his imperfect nose charming. Old tall trees rose about us. Nearby the Greek stage remained empty and silent, as did the many narrow isles of seats. Across the street charming A-frame houses, quiet now in the Evanstonian afternoon. Here Scott and I discussed the politics of sex and our own desire to overcome our shame. We both agreed that everyone has as much right to free and protected sex as to filtered water. That sex for sport, when performed with honesty and responsibility, does not render a person unemotional or unintelligent. Men and women alike have a right to define their own pleasures and needs, and how to fulfill them. I enjoy Scott because I feel that as a heterosexual male he does not live and have sex as though he were oppressed or the oppressor. He is liberated and on the grass where we sat talking he admitted he enjoys the act of giving women pleasure without pretense or false promises. He said that often the women he sleeps with own their sexuality and do not care to become attached just to shirk the shame of spontaneity. I knew what he meant by this as I myself have struggled for years with this shame, this need to associate sex with love so that it will mean something more, something noble. Growing up gay in Iran and being Assyrian I assumed that wanting men meant that I was like women, if not a "woman" myself, and I adopted her sentiments, her guilt, as well as the same pressures regarding relationships.
Later that afternoon I thought of Karen and her sexual plight and pleasures, and called her. I told her about my conversation with Scott in the hopes of setting the two of them up. But Karen was not interested and said she was only into, not her husband, but "the love of my life"- a gorgeous Bay Area man.
'I guess I wanted to live vicariously through you,' I found myself realizing.
"That's exactly it," Karen exclaimed, "But I didn't want to say it."
'Darling, you know you can say anything to me,' I said, almost pleadingly.
She said, "You want to impress him by bringing him a woman."
Mom received a letter from Iran. Since our move to the States my cousin has had a daughter who recently celebrated her eleventh birthday. Eleven?! Has it been that long? In pictures that were included with the handwritten letter little Leona posed proudly in front of her cake, smiling sweetly into the lens. And as I looked at these distant snapshots I wondered if this Assyrian little girl ever wonders about us, her many cousins who moved away long before she was even conceived. Does she ask many questions about us? Does she dream to come here as I did when I was even smaller than she? I want to reach out to her even now. I want to meet her and be with her, tickle and kiss her, talk with her, walk the fading streets of Urmia with her. Tell her great stories of frivolous Americans! This is one of those moments when memories and feelings of Iran crash and mix in America making my heart beat strangely, as if there are two hearts in my chest.
It's raining now. It's been months since the last rain. I love the sound of water rushing through the gutters in the eaves. The loud clink and clank of water and metal. The sounds tonight are comforting. I feel like an infant who is reunited with the heartbeat of his mother, in the womb.

The rice is on the stove, the chicken on the grill, laundry, and homework. My attention is all over the place. I think of mom and all those years when she was much younger and raising her two little boys, keeping a home, being a wife to a man she did not know or love. It all makes me crazy.

A Japanese fabric designer is inspired by the sun. How it gives us light and shadows. This the designer mimics in pleats. There is so much art everywhere in the world. So much imagination and creative productivity. Trial and error. Accidental discoveries. Successes! I want so much to be a part of it.
Art, a communication of souls. The reconciliation of men.

Each time I walk away from people I take with me doubt. It's as if I were collecting everyone else's insecurities and taking them with me. Carrying their weight in my belly.
Had a fantastic dream in which I was aboard a space shuttle, which took off with great force. We made it safely into space.
I'm on an unhealthy kick. A binge mindset. I want to drink, drink, drink, drink! It's very sad, and it scares me. But it's what I want. Is there an alcoholic inherent in me?
My dilemma seems to be a lack of balance. If I were more focused, dedicated, hardworking I would allow myself the pleasure of intoxication and frivolity. I am experiencing shame concerning Saturday night.
I feel that my life's going nowhere while time itself is at full speed ahead, leaving me older and bitter, aware of my flagrant misadventures.
Lovely receptions at parties do not fill the hole in my life. Kisses and merriment do not make impending decisions go away. The magic of love does not make disappear the realities of responsibility.

My wardrobe bores me.
Sex bores me.
I am failing each societal category.
I find sexy the man who isn't.
I will never write a novel.
Thank God for lesbians!
Poetry…

I've just had a pleasurable orgasm.
Spent the day drinking on campus with Rodney. When he got sick I nursed him in the restroom. The whole thing was humorous.
Mom-Suzie called the other afternoon saying that she wants mom and I to move up to Marin, so that she may rent out this house and make ends meet. But she's worried about mom's reaction and doesn't bring it up with her. So, the responsibility has been handed down to me for the time being.
As I worked on "Third Rail" this afternoon I found that Philip opened up to me a little more. As a character I got some hints as to who he is and where he will go in the play. Philip is difficult for me to figure out as he is a white heterosexual male. Together in a room we'd be silent. Cutting good lines out of the play is painful.
As I move through life I look about me and see many traps, which ironically I have set for myself. I see also that I've been quite cunning in this. My extremes are exhausting.

My play is a tempest of jet ink and red pen markings!
Nothing like a reality check in a conversation with my aunt Jackie who advises me to place my creative passions on the back burner and pursue something lucrative, like medicine, computers, engineering!
The only e-mail I receive from Marcelo is a forward, a petition. Nothing emotional. Nothing personal. Sometimes I can't help but question my ties. Where's the experience in friends who are totally like us? And where's the pleasure in those who aren't?

Alcoholic tendencies get the better of me. Even as we speak I'm failing. Thought Modesto would save me from myself. I was naïve. I was mistaken. Will I win over the temptation tomorrow?

Instead of completing "Third Rail" I partied. Masked my fatigue and disappointment with pot and alcohol. God, why do I feel as though I missed my train? That it's too late for me. That I've been left behind. That life and success wait for other young men and women who deserve them more than I do.

I'm smoking like I don't love myself.

The nausea I am experiencing is not from the alcohol and the bad pot that was sprinkled with hash. This sickness is from another uneventful night in the horrid little town of Riverbank with friends I thought I had sworn off. I spent the night mostly outside under the moon and the stars beating myself up for subjecting myself to such mediocrity. Where was the charm, the warm conversation, the wine, laughter? And why was I hanging out with guys that got so drunk and so needlessly angry they pulled the car to the side of the dark desolate road and tackled a lone innocent mailbox? Somehow in an attempt to improve my life I have run into chaos, feeling stuck within a wheel that's out of control, trying to inwardly salvage scraps of a stronger self, flashes of an industrious self. But I know it is myself who robs me of productivity. It is the addict who switches decisions and conclusions in the night, somewhere between sobriety and intoxication, between power and weakness. I break my own rules, challenging myself. It is not Modesto that's at fault, it is not Chicago to be blamed for corrupting me, swaying my convictions. It is me, me, me! Not dad, not mom, not lack of space and money, not heterosexuality and brutality, not America, not Iran, not AIDS, not anyone. But me. I am as of now and officially taking responsibility for all my shortcomings. I am starting to think that "trying" is an illusion, a distraction. What I have so far kept nebulous I am finally ready to admit to and be rid of.
I had a dream a few nights ago that some men, children, and women were exiled from society- driven from the civilized world into a marsh, a forest. I was one of these outcasts. Dispossessed we sought shelter in this vast and wild landscape. I climbed a tree that swayed precariously. Below an alligator charged at someone. I thought the tree would betray me and break. Soon we were surrounded by all sorts of wild animals. A giraffe nipped at my foot, demanded attention. I kicked it as the tree swung dangerously about.

Without this inherent sense of drama I would not be able to write. I left because I suddenly could not stand to be in Michael's living room, with others, and in this town. I left to save my individuality. I grabbed my bag and simply walked out. I heard Michael ask Stephanie where I was going. On the bike ride home I promised myself never to compare myself to Michael again. I have so much more talent, potential, energy! I left because I feel finished there. I left because there are beliefs I hold fervently. I feel such rage, but know I have to remain patient with Modesto, with mom, with school, with society, with myself.
It's got to be a control issue. I can't change my parents' mind about homosexuality and how it applies to me, so I make it a point to try and win others over, to correct them, to enlighten them. And most chronically to make them like me.
The impossibility of my mother ever transcending her phobia gives me an upper hand I'd rather not have. To know she lacks the intelligence, and original thought. I will always carry the wish for my mother's acceptance with me. Why should it be hardship that makes us stronger and not felicity? I think of countless teenagers that suffer needlessly because of homophobia. I think of Grace's brother who committed suicide needlessly.