November 1996

I've been debating a return to religion. A dialogue with God. But it confuses me. Is God homophobic? How will I know? So, I wait. I pray for others. When will I pray for myself?
I am sad today because writing seems so impossible. Creatively I feel dead. Maybe I should concentrate on other things. I don't want to do theater, though. It is an insane person's passion. A masochist. Homophobia, too, saddens me. Sex saddens me.

Walked to Yesterday's Books and bought "Linotte- The Early Diary Of Anais Nin, 1914-1920". It's charming.
Something worries me. It is shapeless and there's no word for it, but I fear it. I think it may be independence.

Went to a shabby strip bar in a dusty town with Eric and Jeff. A dark single-lane country road lined with endless orchards took us there. I had reservations about going although it was my idea. I was pleasantly surprised, though, the girls were attractive and friendly. Eric seemed frozen in thought over a paper due for one of his classes. I, on the other hand, had a great time, but I think I may need to tone down my sense of adventure a little. Haven't I had enough of trouble in life?
Went to a field trip in the city with my Zoology class. It was a tease because I couldn't take off on my own, though my lab partner Oswaldo and I procured a six-pack and drank it in Golden Gate Park once we were through at the museum. We gave a beer, cigarettes, and money to a homeless man who kept us unwanted company. I noticed a pigeon limping. Oswaldo caught her and we struggled for some time to untangle her feet that were caught in a string that was dirty and stubborn. Golden Gate Park was beautiful.
It's nice to lose myself in Anais Nin's diary.

I have made a resolution to stop questioning the past and the things I've done. All I know is that whatever has happened was a necessary part of making me the person I am. I've also decided to quit these silly insecurities, which I've brought with me into my twenties. It's time to set them free! And it doesn't feel unlikely that I can. On the contrary, it feels like the right thing. It is always an emotionally powerful moment to get in touch with a semblance of freedom.
I have also decided that the incompleteness I always feel is the writer in me who has not yet fully come out. But I know that he, or she, will.
I must go read now to fill this hole that school fails to fill.

Read Alice Walker's "Temple Of My Familiar". I love having Alice back in my life.
Had a nice conversation with Vic, a playwriting classmate. He wants to direct films and we talked about the uncertainty of life for an artist. He reached into his folder and gave me a photograph of me he took one afternoon after class. It is superimposed with an image of a tree. It's rather impressive, if I may say so myself. I thought that was nice of him.
Mom and I bonded. I helped her pick out some outfits from Macy's. We bought some tasty coffee.

Masturbation keeps me grounded. When I'm flustered with thoughts I take a break and am able to return to reading and studying with a cleared head. It also gives me a chance to be sexual, physically and mentally. Sometimes I even feel attractive again. My soul requires rehabilitation.

I have felt my mortality so strongly this year, and really feel that life is hard, if not cruel. I'm no victim but let's face it, life sucks at times! There's no way around it. All I know is that I don't want self-pity and self-reproach in my life anymore.

What's the point of all the "shoulds"? I feel a certain joy at having conquered some of my sorrow. Mind you, this is temporary, but as each moment progresses I try to string them together to make a lifetime of this feeling, this joy.

I greeted my playwriting instructor Michael on campus with a cheery, 'Hey!' He stopped and looked up, "I was just thinking about you… well, your play. How is it coming along?" I was deeply pleased.
Being a small town Modesto seems to provide many opportunities for chance meetings. I've run into Cliff twice now. The first time I was waiting for the bus when a car made a u-turn and pulled up to me. It was of course Cliff with his signature charming smile. He's generous that way. The ride home was somewhat awkward but I made small talk until Cliff informed me that he and his boyfriend were no longer together. He made an attempt to apologize for not having called and I stopped him. I can't stand excuses. I don't believe in them. Everyone's free to do as he wishes. I ask nothing. No one's obligated to me.
'If you're gonna apologies, you don't have to.'
"Well, I wanted you to know why I haven't called," Cliff began to explain.
'Look, I haven't invested any emotions in this. You don't have to. I'm not hurt.'
"So, it was strictly sexual?" Cliff joked.
We laughed, 'No, that's not what I meant.'
And all was well.
I saw him again some days later at Wal-Mart. I was with mother and Cliff with another man. I just gave Cliff a quick panicked wave and turned down another isle. Mom asked who that was. 'A teacher from school,' I lied. I must have been red, my face felt so hot.

Vivian, Rodney, and I went to The Bull Saturday night and I got drunk, of course! Broke the promise I had made to myself not to drink. You know, it's one thing when another person breaks a promise and disappoints me; it's quite another when I fail myself. Fooled around with a Latino boy in the shack behind the parking lot of the bar. If I could take it back I would, but Jose called yesterday. I did not answer the phone. It's very easy to build a reputation at The Bull. They can be real bitches. Gary was bartending and kept reaching over the line in which I stood and handing me beers. I did not have to wait. It was almost embarrassing.
I had Gary over for coffee the other afternoon having made it clear over the phone that nothing sexual would take place. He had understood. It was a nice time and a nice conversation.

I am fed up with my fear of contracting AIDS. It is almost irrational. Looms over us always. It has always been a part of my sexual life. I will never know what it's like to have sex without AIDS.

I've made myself another promise not to drink and not to smoke. Michael called me out of Playwriting to tell me that he's considering producing "Cabin Fever" next year at the college. Imagine that! Of course I'm afraid. It needs so much work. He will also select a handful of other scripts for production.
Give me hope, California. Give me direction. Give me back myself.

It's late and I'm tired but fulfilled. I worked on "Cabin Fever" all evening. The notebook in which the play started as a mere idea is now disastrous. Revision makes one feel godlike. And at the moment all the pain and self-reproach, moving here, all of it feels worthwhile. To see the words I have written come to life on stage would be a frightening, as well as an exciting experience.

I have a flighty mind that learns with difficulty. I would rather fantasize. I finally spoke with Jose, the boy I made out with in the shack. He goes to church and seems like a nice person, but I'm out of touch with romance. I cannot see myself with anyone at the moment.
I have discovered that I love Romantic paintings. Theodore Gericault's "The Raft Of The Medusa" haunts me. Henry Fuseli's "Amanda-Rezia And Huon Leaping Overboard" is amazing. I'd leap overboard with him also. Their embrace is worth the fall. I feel such a sense of security looking at the image, not fear, as you would expect. Casper David Friedrich's "Moon Rising Over The Sea" is calm, pensive, beautiful. At first glance I knew I wanted to be there.
I think I might've prospered in the Romantic Movement. What is there to move with or for today? We only move constantly from and away.
Another promise: Not to forget myself in Modesto nor leave it in haste.

There's a scene in "Cabin Fever" in which the fuse in the cabin blows- which means the stage lights would have to be killed- whereupon Alfonzo and Kyle kiss and engage in some flirtatious and suggestive dialogue. Michael thinks this scene is too much for Modesto and we may have to cut it. But I'm not sure how much of the very nature of the play I'm willing to sacrifice. Does being grateful to Michael for selecting my play mean also being passive? Will I be compromising a few lines or my entire integrity?
I drank tonight, but I'm almost there. I remember thinking how pot and alcohol were wrong for me when I was a teenager in Chicago and how much I suffered when I gave in to them.

Went to see the tide pools in Half Moon Bay with my Zoology class. The ocean is always a treat. The tide pools were like small underwater cities, so full of life and activity. Strange plants and animals, awesome colors and unnerving textures. All that life. The drive there was also spectacular- the sun and the rolling hills, an ostrich farm, rivers, bridges. I felt a joy that has been dormant for some time now. I felt alive. The past and the present collided and it is when these meet that I am always born. Came home to a message from Brandon, which reminded me that friendship will survive distance and character clashes. Faith has returned, though I realize that it will not always stay.

I love the intensity in a Japanese face.
At twenty-three I come to understand the teenager I was and how apt I was to be sad in a world that was always too big for me, with feelings that were my own but cumbersome, awkward, confusing. Occasionally I am still overcome with emotions that feel too big. The other evening I became suddenly overwhelmed by a sensation of joy, became teary, and had to see the sky at twilight, to stand underneath it and feel small again.

I'm in a room with my grandmother at the rest home she owns, Casa De Maria. Mom-Suzie and Jackie have been slaving away here for the last six years, just the two of them. Occasionally mom comes up to Marin to relieve them. But otherwise, it is a consuming venture. Mom-Suzie, herself in her sixties, takes care of the residents. She wakes them up, dresses them, lifts them out of bed, fixes their meals, washes their clothes, washes them! I am always in awe of her and her motivation. I'm not sure you could ever pay me enough.
Now it's late afternoon and the light that makes it through the blinds makes the room a soft pink. Mom-Suzie naps while I write. I feel like a child again. I need to expand my English vocabulary if I want to be able to say the things I want to say in my writing. And I need to surrender wholly to the idea that I am a writer.
I like aging. I like learning- to live and to write. I am still very sensitive, but I am not a victim. The last few months have been invaluable.
Something great has entered my life. I'm not saying it's God, but it is awareness. (To turn to God now after I have committed every sin in the book would be ridiculous!) I feel I am ready to let go of my small insecurities. I've known them for too long. They are no longer welcomed.
My great-grandmother has just come into the room and told me that I haven't enough light and am ruining my eyes. She asks me what kind of homework I am doing. I'm ashamed to tell her that what I am writing has nothing to do with school, that it is merely a pastime. She murmurs something about God and walks out soundlessly. I am sad for her feeling that time and the States have no home for her. She is that small village back in Iran, where she was born.
I think about Gary, but not in a schoolgirl kind of way. I miss that sometimes about myself. Being giddy about a boy. It added a little fun to an otherwise boring life. It was colorful, though painful. Maybe we outgrow these things when enough men have disappointed us. Don't argue. It's true. Was life meant to be shared with another person, anyway? Is commitment for everyone? Marriage is for another time and place, not us.
Gotta go. Danger! Mother's here.

Such artistic insecurity and anxiety. Out of all that talent out there how will I stand out? How?
I'm tempted to complain this morning, to lie down with my attractive nemesis, sadness. Instead I choose to drown in someone else's words and ideas. Another writer. Not think. Not wish for superhero abilities. It seems what I do is never enough for myself. I should have been up earlier. I should read more. I should write more. Study harder. Run. Get a job. Stop!
Nothing like a nice private walk. Walked to Yesterday's Books and bought "Maria Callas, The Woman Behind The Legend", "Conversations With Tennessee Williams", and "The Erotic Life Of Anais Nin". Picked little yellow flowers and placed them in a little blue bottle.
Night. Went to The Bull with Vivian. Shammi, Vivian's fabulous lesbian sister was there with a girlfriend. We danced. Gary gave me drinks all night long, but I feel inadequate still because he was being flirty with another dark-haired boy. I know. I know. I can't have my cake and eat it too. I tell him I don't want to have sex but get jealous when I see him being overly friendly with others. It's obvious that I need to settle the sex issue within myself. Soon.
Shammi was wonderful and congratulated me on my script. We talked briefly about film- her passion.