March 1992

Santi called last night with a job for me: to type out his notes out of the books he's reading for graduate school. When I told mom about this she told me not to go to his house, that he might try something. I wanted to tell her, 'I wish!'

I'm indulging in self-pity and depression. I don't like myself. I think that others don't like me either. It's all in me. I need to work on this. God, don't let me destroy myself. Please! I'm not sure I know what's happening to me. Who can I talk to?

Lisa, Marcelo, and I were bored so we went to Marcelo's dad's house and videotaped me stripping to music. I came down the staircase wearing only a black g-string, a black cap, and black boots. We laughed so much!

I would've hung myself today. I even wrote the note. I don't know. Unhappy. I hate myself for hating myself. And I've yet to meet a gay man I would want to have a relationship with, they all repulse me in one way or another. Why can't I go through life normally? I'm so sick of myself, my writing, this journal. I feel I can't talk to anyone about any of this. Fuck it. I don't want to explain. It's none of your business. Talked to J.C. who is cute, Assyrian, and gay. I met him through people at No Exit Café. He says that his brother is one of the well-known Assyrian singers.

Split a hit with Lisa.

Fight at home. It's become natural. We bring it out of each other. Cousins had to intervene. Broke the telephone stand. Said stupid things. Spent the night at Lisa and Rachel's.

Called home. 'Hi. I won't be home tonight.' "O.k." Click!

Desiree says straight people who go to gay bars, as if we're a sideshow, disgust her! She says they are disrespectful, that otherwise they stigmatize and ostracize us. A straight man hit on her at a gay bar and was rude about it. When she went to the restroom the same man was belligerent with her friend Frank. Frank is disenchanted with the gay community itself. He thinks gay men are too promiscuous. That gay men don't care about one another. He says they act as if AIDS does not exist. I admit that I've been careless myself. For a while I thought about getting infected so I would die. Damn it, we have to stop it.

Woke up at Lisa and Rachel's where we made breakfast and sang, being the musical ones that we are. Always harmonizing. I dream of people in my sleep and they call the very next day. But I feel alone. If I had a gun I'd shoot myself. Why do I even keep this journal? There's no one to blame for the way I feel. It's me. I cause others and myself pain. I'm not who I want to be. Inspired. Good. Motivated. Dreams. Fantasies. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.

Even through this madness I think I'm growing. I must apologize for my outburst last night. I admire people who have nothing and can manage to stay happy. I've decided to surround myself with strong people that will nurture me. I'm going to have a talk with dad. What more have I got to lose? Emil, live! Live well! Bryan has told Lisa that he thinks I'm intense, that when I'm troubled I'm very into it, and when I love something I love it with passion. Bell and I are really close right now. I can't explain the love I feel for him, my brother. This is something we've never had before. Yet, he never tells me how he feels. It's odd, but I like the mystery. He's the one person I know in the world who doesn't feel the need to spill his heart and soul out. We are totally different people. I do hope that racism and homophobia go away. Is that silly? I can hope for anything I want; there are no rules in my journal.

Lisa complains that Bryan doesn't want her. Bryan pulls me aside and takes me to the building next door to Lisa and Rachel's. The building is lovely, gothic, full of voices. He says it used to be a hotel. We take the old elevator to the thirteenth floor and climb out onto the fire escape. It is beautiful. Bryan asks me to sing, smiles like a child. He plays the piano and we've been rehearsing a song we're going to perform at No Exit. There's something strange about Bryan, our connection.

At No Exit I reach for a spoon, pull out a long one. 'Why do I always do this? Where are the normal spoons?' I ask the man behind the counter who is tall and has a dramatic mustache. "In the first slot," he answers. 'Thank you,' I say smiling. "I've tried to tell you before," he says, "but you never hear me." He throws his hands up in the air. "It goes right past you," he makes a whistling sound, then continues, "I thought you were making a statement. You know, student-artist!" The waitress laughs with us. Last night I saw a Pakistani couple arguing on our street. They had suitcases. I parked my car, went inside, and wrote. I wrote a short story about an Iranian couple. The husband picks up his wife from the airport, she'd gone to visit relatives in another state. The wife isn't happy to be back. She recalls the day she left her country, her home, her people. She knows the stresses of adjusting to a new life in a new country have stolen her husband's love, that her marriage is falling apart. But the story ends with hope. What does it mean to be inspired? What does it mean to write, to draw? All the papers are just going to end up decaying in an old box in some basement somewhere. But it does mean something. It means something to me. It all means that I'm alive and living. Things I know that I forget: 1. I love my parents. 2. My brother Bell and I have become friends and I love him dearly. 3. I am (somewhat) an adult. 4. I can sing. 5. I am creative. 6. Politics exist. 7. I'm intelligent. 8. I can speak English. I remember when we first moved to the States I couldn't speak the language. I lived in a cage and prayed to be able to speak like others. Within six months I was fluent. I was only ten, a sponge. I wish, though, that I hadn't forgotten how to read and write in Assyrian and Farsi.

I wish I had pot. I'd smoke so much and get so high and spend stoned time by myself. No one to share anything with, and nothing would be judged or put down. That's it. I'm keeping it all in. People just don't understand!

Santi and I went to Marcelo's to discuss the work I'm going to be doing for him. Marcelo's going to help me. Santi kept telling me how hot I am. He asked me if I'm well hung. He touched me, rubbed my crotch. I wanted him. It felt good to be sexual with him finally. I almost got to see his penis but Marcelo came downstairs. In the car Santi seemed quiet and said, "We shouldn't do anything. We're friends." I only said that what happened is natural and not to get too deep about it.

I had sex with Rachel tonight. We've both been horny. We had planned to just mess around but things went farther. It was good sex. But what about her herpes?

We all went to No Exit and crammed into a booth. I looked at Bryan for comfort but he was preoccupied and seemed as nervous as hell. He went outside for air. At one point I joined him. We decided that we had rehearsed as much as we could and would do the best we could. It was after all only open mic, not the Grammies. The emcee called Bryan up and he played a piano solo, but cut it short. Then he spoke into the microphone, "Now Emil Keliane will join me." The place was crowded as hell. Smoky. Noisy. I got up on stage, adjusted the microphone so that my back was turned to the audience. Everyone laughed. Someone called, "Nice butt!" I turned back, 'Yeah, I'm slightly nervous.' Suddenly everyone was quiet and listening. I sang. I missed a note but had fun with it. When we were finished after the one song people applauded and we went to sit down. Craig, the emcee got up to the microphone and asked if I'd ever sung before an audience. I spoke from where we were sitting in the crowded booth and said that I'd done "Godspell" in high school. "Then get back up here!" he said cheerily. Marcelo was there and had performed in "Godspell" years before I had, so I asked him to join me. We sang "All For The Best" and were funny. The whole café was snapping and stomping in accompaniment. It was a blast! But I felt bad for Bryan because Marcelo and I stole the show.

Someone told me I have great stage presence. Something in me comes alive up there. I love the stage. But I feel like something has died, that Bryan and I will not see each other as much now that we have no rehearsals.

All of it is so silly. Everything. The move to America, the suicidal thoughts, the sexual experiences, the drugs, the friendships, the ongoing struggle with my homosexuality, all of it! There are no major things happening to move me forward. Sure, I'm alive but there are no paychecks, no report cards to mark my existence. I want someone to see me, to want me, to fuck me, and to love me.

I don't belong in this world.

Sometimes I think I turn nothing into something.

Came home at four in the morning. Dad was walking out of the apartment. He didn't yell, but was quite upset. He had tears in his eyes. I apologized sincerely.

Marcelo and I worked on Santi's notes, but were too horny so we went to an adult bookstore on Broadway. We cruised the booths. It was creepy, but exciting. I don't know how I feel about these things. Marcelo says it's the same as picking somebody up at a bar. I say at a bar there is at least some conversation. I didn't have sex with anyone.