March 1997

If I keep writing my life's not been a waste. All experiences, people, and places become a part of a story, connected.

Adrienne Rich writes: "If it is dangerous for me to walk home late of an evening from the library because I am a woman and can be raped, how self-possessed, how exuberant can I feel as I sit working in that library? How much of my working energy is drained by the subliminal knowledge that, as a woman, I test my physical right to exist each time I go out alone?"
I too live with a similar insecurity, in anticipation of some kind of assault because I am gay. This is my theme in life this time around, though I will strive to achieve what is naturally mine- a safe place in this world. I am not a victim!

What I want and my actions are polarized. Perhaps we will smoke hash tonight.

"Nurture" by Daniel Diamond:
My mother said,
"Well, I hear you're taking voice lessons.
I want to hear you sing something."

"I can't," I said
"My teacher told me not to. He said
it was too soon. I shouldn't do it
until I really know it will be good."

"Will you really be able to sing
or is he just telling you that,"
she said. "Aren't you getting too
old to develop a good singing voice?
I don't know," she said, "I'm just asking."

Whatever I can say to myself
will do no good. THE MOTHER implied
I'd fail. I feel like a failure
already.

I can relate only all too well to this poem. This is why I don't tell my own mother my hopes and dreams anymore. She only shoots them down. I don't resent her for it, though I think I could've been made a stronger person by her. So, I resolve not to allow others to define my destiny. I will be my own person, move into my own skin.
The sky is wide. My eyes follow it but never quite catch up to it. The clouds are wispy today. I feel eternity. It's curious that we should send satellites into the limitless void of the universe while remaining limited in matters of love and compassion. What about the universe of sexuality? Union? Partnership? Look at the sky, it is as wide as you and I.

I find the world threatening. Intimidating. I want to hide from it. But where? Another planet?
Why can't I just spend my days under the sun reading, writing? I suspect there will come a day when I'll have to "grow up" and become "a man". (Shiver.)
My relationships here have become static and passionless. Where is the intensity and adventure in them? Are they in the alcoholic interstices and the pot? I have reached the point of divorce again and intentionally magnify their faults and defects. This is how I move forward.

I have a feeling that I'll never become an acclaimed writer, that one has to be a genius in order to accomplish this. But there is no way I am giving up! I will keep trying, writing, growing.
Otherwise the days pass slowly. My attempts at school are mediocre at best. This causes me an immense sense of dissatisfaction with myself. Psychologically I am failing to keep out of the rut of self-reproach. Even my body causes me distress. Like a woman I catch dissatisfied glances in the mirror or a window. I feel passive, lazy. But I am not making any more resolutions. I only taunt myself with hard work and discipline, of what could be if I were to focus more. But this only discourages me further. Must change my outlook quick!
It is strange to read and cry in this room while mother's voice reaches us from the living room, asking if I want a cup of Turkish coffee, or dinner, or to go for a walk with her. I have just finished reading the anthology "The Violet Quill". The book finishes with a series of correspondence between Andrew Holleran and Robert Ferro, just before Ferro died.
Ferro writes: "Have been reading Wilde myself- De Profundis. It's a shock to find him without, for once, his sense of humor. I think it was his real disgrace- not the trial and prison, etc.- but that treatise on gloom and sadness. He should never have admitted that he was wrong. Because, of course, he wasn't. What will life do to us, if it did that to him?"
I am privately falling apart in this room of books and secrets, imagining all that I don't yet know, injustices, joys, life. I will not be sad in dying. I will be sad in dying unpublished.

Why aren't I an intellectual? Why aren't I scholarly? Why did I allow myself to be washed over by all the frivolities of the American after-hours? But I must carry on, work harder than most. Not give up. Give in. Give a damn. I will continue.

I'm hiding out. No desire to see Eric who wants to go drinking. I'm hiding out with "Muses From Chaos And Ash"- a book of quotes and thoughts by creative men and women who live with HIV and AIDS, some living, some already gone. And I'm failing to see the significance of this disease. Shouldn't our wishes alone keep us alive? Talent should sustain us, shield us artists, but on the contrary it makes us more vulnerable, sensitive. Yet, all the while art immortalizes the artist.
I am consumed by my envy for Vivian and her intelligence, her uncanny ability to retain information. How I wish I had her mind, my talent.
Rob tells me in a telephone conversation how much he's learned about homosexuality just by knowing me, and that I have broken his stereotypes and fears regarding gays. How simply beautiful this sounds. I thank him for being breakable, willing, human, kind.

"Muses From Chaos And Ash" validates my own fears and hopes regarding art, creativity, and AIDS. The chapter titled "Immediacy and Time" asks: "Does the artist's perceptions and feelings about time change after testing HIV-positive? Is there an acceleration of thought and productivity? Does the artist feel more compelled to produce? Does he worry there will never be enough time to get everything done?"
When I last got tested for HIV I secretly wished for the virus so that it would compel me to create, to work harder, perhaps write faster, more. That it would enhance this already existing sense of immediacy within myself. No hour in a day should be wasted.
Fear of AIDS has halted my exploration of sexuality.
Falling, falling, fast falling.
Falling, falling, fast falling.

From my bed I can see a tiny spider under the windowsill. It's got a beautiful yellow and black design on its body. Just tiny. It's been there for three nights now. Isn't it hungry? Isn't it thirsty? Isn't it lonely?

I am overwhelmed by all things. Decisions of reformation. Resolutions. Hard things. Sharp things. Perplexing things. I must find my willpower. My independence from addiction. I must overcome. Where to begin? Fulfilling promises to the self is like having to build a pyramid. Alone!

Berkeley with friends was an escape from The Valley. There was laughter and like most trips our wounds started to surface due to fatigue. Mom has left for Marin and I am alone now and wounded. Lonely. Very lonely. I hate it. It seems I can't be with others and I can't be alone. I am afraid of my illusions- that I won't recognize them, and that I won't notice they are destroying my life, my future, future. It's so quiet here. I hate the silence that now enhances each creak and pop of the house. Telegraph in Berkeley was a trendy overkill. My senses pant. This is starting to feel like a full-blown funk. Maybe reading will alleviate this pain without a source.

Torturing my confidence with expectations. The alchemy of funk. No outlet. No inspiration. God, I hate this town. I hate my weaknesses, my susceptibility, my emotions. I hate my thoughts and will never have what I want because I am easily distracted, bored, and overwhelmed. I will become the person I always feared becoming: Ordinary! I tried to write a poem but I am stunted. Halted. Muted. Halted. Stunted. Muted.

For Playwriting we met at Michael's house, all of us sprawled out on the sofa and the floor of his small cozy living room. "Third Rail" was read and I felt the changes and revisions sounded believable. Afterward, there was a great discussion regarding Philip and George's intentions, convictions, and motivations. Questions that were intended for me were intercepted by other students. The atmosphere in Michael's house was now heated, passionate. All I could do was sit, watch in wonder, and listen intently. Michael asked the other young writers provocative questions about my characters and winked at me while they fought over answering them.
My female protagonist is George- Southern, large, colorful, and flirtatious. I've had to change some of her lines because they were too reminiscent of a Tennessee Williams character. Her truths and artifice are often one and the same. Her independence lies in her inconsistencies and contradictions. I believe she lies when she states that she never knew her biological father. I suspect that he molested her for many years and finally abandoned the family. When she observes the train tracks below, at the apron of the stage, she whispers, "Look how the tracks slither into the tunnel." She is sultry, sexualized, and depends on her sexuality to gain whatever she wants and needs.
Michael wanted to know why Philip would bother with George if he'd resolved to commit suicide. Who knows what Philip is thinking? Obviously he's not of sound mind and perhaps welcomes this distraction out of desperation and indecision. People's desires and resolutions are multi-dimensional and mercurial, aren't they?
Dan, a fellow playwright, wanted more hints as to why Philip is intent on killing himself. I disagree. Obviously Philip is a deeply troubled man, and I feel this is all we need to know about him. Suicide here is another fixture, fact. Who cares why? Why did he choose the college he attended? The woman he married? These decisions remain in the past. "Third Rail" is a one-act in the moment. It can only move forward.
Others think that Philip is underdeveloped while George steals the show, that Philip needs more lines, more presence. Again I disagree. Philip is the color in the background of the fabric bringing forth the pattern, punctuating the rhythm and explosive color of George. She is the floral foreground.
I hesitate to write the ending for fear of it being trite, sounding as if it were written in haste and creative desperation.
In the morning I ride my bike past the orchards. They are quiet and unoccupied and allow me to think and meditate on all things, including George and Philip. I think of them often.

I ride through the chill, the sun exploding. The almond orchards move around me, falling into many directions at once. The colors are vivid. They are still with me even hours later.
Mom stalks a fly with her swatter. Whack! Summer's coming. Our cups of Turkish coffee remain on the table, turned over and drying, our fortunes developing. Man has managed to drag meaning even out of mud. We wait.

Vivian took a moment out of her frantic studying to join me on the front steps of the school library. We sat in the sun and felt in the moment. Vivian threw her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, then she opened them.
"Emil, you're so wonderful. You are truly a great human being. I seriously don't know what I would've done had I not known you this semester. I want to take a moment and tell you."
'Thank you for seeing the good in me.'
Michael held class on his front lawn today. And there, on my back, underneath tree branches and wide sky, I felt most alive. And I held on. I gripped for dear life as it passed me by. Every moment turning away, away, away. An hour on the grass with fellow writers reading, laughing, picking little mushrooms out of the grass blades and throwing them at each other, pulling leg hairs.
Green is wasted on money!

Spring break. Social setting with many friends and acquaintances at the park with bongos, drums, and opium. Great laughter. Intoxication. Hearty hugs from boys and girls alike!
While shopping Stephanie asked what I have planned for Easter.
'My mom's trying to drag me to church,' I replied.
"I hope my mom doesn't try to," she said worriedly.
A nearby shopper gave us a dirty look. We giggled.
I feel ancient blood streaming inside me. I feel Assyrian. One-hundred percent Assyrian.

It's early afternoon and I'm going insane. Am I writing to create or to fight this fear I have of living an ordinary life? Do I still want greatness? What are my motives?
I feel ugly today, fat, stupid, useless.
Went to the park. No book. No pad. No pen. Just the grass. Watched enormous cities made of clouds pass overhead. This was my escape.