June 1998

The line between eroticism and masochism remains tenuous as I continue to grow into myself, my sex, my soul.
Confidence I lose. Romance I misplace. Gusto I spill and waste. Sanity I doubt. My creative womb is made of war. But I guess all universes are born out of such explosions.
I'm lucky and surrounded by love, love, love. I'm about to slip into an evening with Anna and Josh. Into jazz, banter, conversation, games, and laughter. We are adult-children! Our early twenties dedicated to building and situating ourselves somewhere amidst the standards and expectations we can't help but redefine. I am the one who catalogues the events and the unlikely occurrences, the promises, the developments. Collecting moments…
An older Russian woman strays from her friend at the bus stop and approaches me. She asks what time the bus is expected, and we end up conversing about so many things. She says she lived in Turkey for forty years and loved the country, but that she would not like to live there now because it has become overpopulated and the people are "too religious."
"It's too much," the Russian says in her accented English. "It's everywhere on the streets. Everywhere! Keep it in your homes."
I agree that religion should be a private thing- a personal exchange between a person and his God.
We talk also about the Shah of Iran. The friend joins us now and tells me that they both resented the Shah for divorcing his first wife for failing to bear him children. "We were romantics then," she admits, "and did not like him for it!"
Shammi asked me to read at a function in the city. It was to be a night of poetry and music. The energy was one of excitement and merriment at the bar. The patio was open. Music and people spilled out into the night. I saw gays, straights, Blacks, Pacific Islanders, Indians, Arabs, Whites… everyone commingling and beautiful. I got up on stage. The music- a blend of Middle Eastern infused with European beats- ceased. Everyone stood with drinks in their hands. Some were smoking from hookahs. I looked about the room, beyond the hot lights of the small stage, and began to read excerpts from the short story I have been writing.
Afterward, a young writer approached me. He had long light brown hair. White skin. He introduced himself as Ahimsa Timoteo Budhran.
A few days later we spoke by telephone.
Ahimsa is articulate, expressive. Tender and sensitive. His voice is deep and rich like a well- a well of lyrics. I trust him. As a writer I feel I know him. Our talks have so far been candid, tender, and lucid. He offers praise, support, boundless encouragement. He has overcome many harrowing obstacles in his own life.
It seems we have both remained true to the promises and boundaries we made lying in the dark the night we met.
I bought a car and for the first few days lived with the regrets of a wild animal that had allowed itself to be brutally domesticated.
Suddenly I am not taking the bus anymore. Suddenly no more depots, no more waiting, no more exchanges with other passengers.
Only the poetry of Kahlil Gibran could sooth me.
He knows he is loved. He steps out of the flame of self and revels in the cool of the isle of love. 
Sometimes it's hard for me to accept all this happiness. I place dents in the air as I move. Situated well amidst a hunger that is satiated by coincidence and magic.
Stratified emotions.
Always layers and tiers.
Towers.
Monuments.
Hanging gardens!