May 1997

Family is the double-edged sword I cannot swallow.

I'm in a hotel room in Reno, here with Rodney and his family. Rodney's on the fifth floor, getting his hair cut. His parents are gambling in the casino downstairs. Robert, his mentally handicapped older brother is here with me. I just helped him dry himself and dress. He likes and trusts me, and I like that very much. Though he's fast becoming restless, as am I. Where is everyone?
Rodney and I have had a lot of time to ourselves. Last night we had cocktails in the room before heading downtown, and made funny faces in the mirror. Suddenly I had felt very much in the moment, feeling that Rodney and I are just two more gay Assyrian young men out there in the world, trying to find our way in the haze. That it had all come down to us making funny faces in the mirror, drinking our miniature bottles of booze on the sidewalk, watching people, laughing, being silly, eating until we were ready to burst, speaking Assyrian!

"Third Rail" was loved. Michael thought it was superb and fluid, professional, and tightly written, well organized. Classmates approached me afterwards and shook my hand. What I felt was a hastily written resolution others lauded. I am very pleased.
Though the future remains uncertain. The immediate future. Whatever happens I know I will have those moments within and without which make life livable. I will be alright. It's time to begin work on the next project.

Garry at The Bull has had a mild stroke. We chatted. I made a point of staying by the bar to converse with him. He is wonderful. Friendship vies with eroticism.

Latest resolution: To lay low and avoid parties.

Funk comes and funk goes.

So I breathe out this funk and thrive on the beauty of now. Have decided to attend the pool party, after all. Maybe a margarita will be my tonic to relieve me of these mind-cluttering and petty worries, these minor inconveniences.

I'm on the plane to Chicago for the summer. I'm worried that in the process of not loving Brandon I will make him a monster. Get bored with him. Feel superior to him. Must keep a good head on my shoulders.
The long weekend in San Francisco with Vivian went well. We sat in Dolores Park, in the sun and the wind, sipped beer out of paper cups, and watched women dance feverishly to drums. It was all too romantic. I knew I belonged there. Dogs played freely all about us. Interaction occurs on many levels in San Francisco.
Vivian was tender. We walked everywhere. Vivian ran into tree branches and became caught, tripped a lot. There were moments when I was inwardly short with her, but remained outwardly sensitive. I'm sure the same is true for her.
Carnival in the Mission District was colorful, musical, festive. Dancers shook and vibrated wildly in colorful feathers. The crowd smiled collectively, moving to the music. In the sun. Vivian and I were so affectionate that I'm sure we must have looked like lovers. There were beautiful children everywhere. An old man passing by in the procession said to me, "Africa will live!" I agreed.
There were hours that Vivian and I spent in Shammi's white room with white drapes and white sheets, creating games, quoting people we know, laughing as if laughter took away the exhaustion. Though I think to a certain extent it did. Vivian scratched my back and arms, sent shivers through me. I tickled her until she cried out for a truce. We said that if we had our own Queendom we would punish criminals by tickling them. We were siblings.
It was discovered that I am quite protective over Vivian.
I saw Pebbles on Castro, the old hippie I met when Chuck and I went into the city. I bought a couple of fat joints from her. It seemed everyone knew her and waved to her as they walked by her stand of t-shirts and stickers, buttons and necklaces. She gave me a photocopied article about her battle with the courts to drop charges against her for marijuana possession. She claims that she uses pot for medicinal purposes. This seems to be a hot topic in San Francisco. Pebbles was very articulate and knowledgeable as she told me about the benefits of medicinal marijuana.
Vivian and I went to Harvey's, an attractive bar on 18th Street and Castro where I taught Viv to smoke a cigarette without getting smoke in other people's face. We laughed doing this. The people at the next table started conversing with us as most drunk people often do, and further obligated us when they bought a round of drinks and joined us at our table. They divided and conquered. The bi-sexual black man hit on Vivian and the dyke cornered me, and was a disappointment; a reminder that not everyone queer is witty and fun conversation. I held an eye on Vivian the entire time.
Later, Viv was to tell me the highlight of her conversation with the man who'd asked her what she was thinking about, and Vivian had honestly answered, "Oats."
Needless to say, from then on we were left alone.
That weekend I met two Persian lesbians through Shammi, and I spoke Farsi with them, which was grand. Hanging out with other gay and lesbian Iranians is a new frontier for me. An inspiring thing. I knew Iranian women who are gay existed but I never expected to meet them so casually and face to face.

Everything is wonderful.

I can smell the dust on my fingertips from having looked over old sketches and journals that I'd left here at my dad's. At the moment, being here again, it feels that all the struggles have been worth it. I've asked my brother Bell to keep an open mind in trying to accept my homosexuality. He said that although he does not agree with it he would in fact keep an open mind. Am I in heaven?