Dear Neill,
The trouble with writers is that we tend to take detailed notes on everything—nothing is sacred, especially relationships. Remember I was a reporter. Neil, since we have wildly differing opinions as to what our relationship is/was, please find enclosed a copy of my journal entries to jog your memory. Perhaps you’ll see why I maintain we were never “just pals.”
You may have been frozen, in denial, ambivalent, or even apathetic (a loose cannon?), but I don’t think you’re as innocent, or platonic (scot-free?) as you insist you were (see late May/June entries).
If, after you read this, you still maintain we were never more than “pals,” well, then, there’s little else to say, is there? You’re not an honest man. I can only assume you were either trifling with my heart (an unforgivable transgression in my book) plundering me, you said? Manipulative? Or you have an abysmal memory (which we already know you have!).
If you really were in love with me and fell out of love, that would be a different matter—these things are out of our control— but you maintain we never crossed that line from pals to couple. Well, we did. You inferred you wanted to be with me on several occasions, never quite asking me outright. Saying you’ll take care of me the rest of my life, that I’ll never want for anything if I stay with you, etc. What was I to believe, I imagined it all?
You can hide the truth from yourself only for so long, but I promise you, it will come back to haunt you. Maybe this is the reason why all your relationships turn to ashes, maybe this is a samskara we’re to work on. Maybe this is our last chance.
You can hide the truth from yourself only for so long, but I promise you, it will come back to haunt you. Maybe this is the reason why all your relationships turn to ashes, maybe this is a samskara we’re to work on. Maybe this is our last chance.
You once said you were afraid to begin an intimate relationship, because all of your relationships turned to ashes, and you didn’t know why. You’d rather keep my friendship than eventually lose me as a lover. Well, you’re losing me as a friend for not being brave enough to risk being my lover! How’s that for turned tables? So choose. Either you’re in or you’re out. What will it be? Believe me, I’m not wearing my heart on my sleeve, I never was, I’ve just brutally honest, and chose not to play games—which is more than I can say of you. (Games bore me.)
I’ve put my life on hold because of you, because of the accident. Now, I want it back. I’m not interested in games of denial. Life’s too short, and too precious for that. For all that I’ve done for you, given you this past year, nothing can repay that gift of myself to you.
But I ask of you to be brutally honest with yourself, and to ask yourself if there’s anything more between us than friendship—as if your life depended on it (as it did last June). It’s a sad state of affairs, you haven’t even allowed yourself the chance to find out! Hey, I have some big doubts about you too, but at least I’m willing to gamble. Would you cut off your nose to spite you face, are you really willing to lose me forever because of fear or pigheaded pride, I wonder?
If you’re still in complete denial, maybe you’ll find this document interesting for other reasons. Understand why I’m so frozen. You always wanted me to write about you. Maybe you’re stuck on your rut, and me in mine: though they may run parallel, never the twain shall meet. Right? By the way, it angers me that you ask me to deny (“transform”) my feelings, erase them as if they never existed. Your denial is my suffering. There was reason enough for my expectations to develop.
If you’re still in complete denial, maybe you’ll find this document interesting for other reasons. Understand why I’m so frozen. You always wanted me to write about you. Maybe you’re stuck on your rut, and me in mine: though they may run parallel, never the twain shall meet. Right? By the way, it angers me that you ask me to deny (“transform”) my feelings, erase them as if they never existed. Your denial is my suffering. There was reason enough for my expectations to develop.
Yes, we’re in agreement that we have a rare, deep connection. You said something to the effect: if there really is a deep connection, people just don’t go around taking their possessions (and money) back… You seem to forget you’re the one who’s rejected me. Your words, not so neutral. Beware a woman scorned. When a fox is caught in a beartrap, it will gnaw off its paw to escape. I’m learning to walk on three-legs; don’t rub salt in the open flesh of a phantom limb—for maybe I only dreamed it all up after all.
Please note I begin this treatise with dream entries and finish with events, noting the dejá vús whenever possible. Many times I felt the dejá vú happening but didn’t note them down because there just wasn’t enough to go on—mixed synaesthesia. I did very little revision except for the post accident notes as there were times I was too out of it to write, and took annotated notes, knowing I’d have to write them up later for the insurance company. This journal rewriting wasn’t exactly easy—as I had to go back into time, enter and relive a year of intense suffering, but I felt it was the only way to reach you since you don’t always hear me.
Please note I begin this treatise with dream entries and finish with events, noting the dejá vús whenever possible. Many times I felt the dejá vú happening but didn’t note them down because there just wasn’t enough to go on—mixed synaesthesia. I did very little revision except for the post accident notes as there were times I was too out of it to write, and took annotated notes, knowing I’d have to write them up later for the insurance company. This journal rewriting wasn’t exactly easy—as I had to go back into time, enter and relive a year of intense suffering, but I felt it was the only way to reach you since you don’t always hear me.
April Fools' Day, 1998, Forestville
MO’S JOURNAL ENTRIES AND NOTES
DREAM LOG:
Dream Journal, Neil O'Neill 1996
MO’S JOURNAL ENTRIES AND NOTES
DREAM LOG:
Dream Journal, Neil O'Neill 1996
Journal, Loch Ness Monster
Journal, March madness of the mad wench
A FOOT ON EACH CONTINENT
OCCASIONAL POEM FOR NEIL
Journal, April FoolishnessJournal entry, Allen Ginsburg Memorial, Passover
Journal, Mayday memorials
Journal, Gemini June
Journal entry, Neil's Birthday
A POEM FOR NEIL O’NEILL’S BIRTHDAY
Journal, March madness of the mad wench
A FOOT ON EACH CONTINENT
OCCASIONAL POEM FOR NEIL
Journal, April FoolishnessJournal entry, Allen Ginsburg Memorial, Passover
Journal, Mayday memorials
Journal, Gemini June
Journal entry, Neil's Birthday
A POEM FOR NEIL O’NEILL’S BIRTHDAY
Journal entry, viewing the car
Journal entry, post-op
Journal notes: Dear Neil letters
6/29 continued....this was stuff I couldn't bear to revisit, let alone, render it readable, so it stays here, stet.
Neil was worried about the expenses. I repeated back to him what he told me Easter Monday morning, “I’ll take care of you, you’ll never want for anything.” It becomes like a marriage vow. For better or for worse, I will take care of you—to the best of my ability, I will do whatever it takes, Neil. Know that. We live on my meager savings. Tonight there was the benefit party for Neil at Kate O’Brien’s. Gary Mullan called to say it was a smashing event—that Neil should run for office! I only hope they raised enough for the July rent. (I asked the gods for $1500 to pay the bills; I secured $1000 from Verona.) We eventually got around $800. (Then there’s August rent to consider.) A severe blow: Neil won’t be in the play. Gary Mullan’s stepping in. They delayed the play another week. Maybe Neil will be able to step in during the 2nd half of the run. Daily his speech improves as the swelling goes down. His house is a mess. Daily I take on some little chore, clean one small section. I still can’t raise my left arm.
I had to move the car for street cleaning, a painful experience since I can’t turn the wheel when it’s parked. Though my strength is returning, my upper body is still weak from the surgery. I took the bandage off today, the dressing covering pustules. Here I was nagging Neil to take a bath and I was smelling my own rotted bandage. Old blood and carbolic acid. Today I showed Neil how to lean back in the tub so I could wash his hair… but then I got stuck in the tub and needed his help to get out, no H2O for buoyancy. It struck me that moment how dependent we are on each other to complete simple tasks to survive. A small metaphor encapsulating the larger metaphor. Each of us is alone, crippled without the other.
Both of us, independent souls to the extreme (we’ll gladly cut off our noses to spite our faces), forced to give in, to accept and work with the other. He rejected my offer to wash his hair, scrub his back, but had me comb and dry his hair, clean the blood out of his nose with q-tips. I had to remove my own bandage, it was supposed to come off yesterday and he wouldn’t do it. “Who’d take you to Emergency?” I was pretty annoyed he wouldn’t help me, so I did it myself. Asshole! A good thing too, it was infected. So much for interdependence. I helped him remove his forehead bandage. Then I realize he’s not an asshole, he’s just frightened, I’m the stronger one. When it comes to pain, women always are. We drove downtown, our first outing together, to do some banking. It took the two of us just to drive the car. Neil put the car in reverse and cranked the wheel for me (he couldn’t still see very well…) and I managed the clutch, gas and brakes, though my left knee’s still pretty unstable. He buys me a latte, but I can’t handle coffee yet. Still too adrenalined out. Still shaking from exertion. I need a nap.
Our days unfold into a pattern: he nags me to eat (I have trouble eating), to rest more, to slow down. I nag him to eat (an easy task), keep track of his medicines, massage him. It helps the pain. He’s a good patient, not demanding as Alison warned. Nor was he “pushing me around.” Why was she warning me? They haven’t spoken to each other since a spat on Friday. He said, “She’s just jealous. She had the chance.” She doesn’t know what my relationship with Neil is. (Neither do I.) His comment about jealousy brought it all back home: the unasked: are we having a relationship? All the mixed messages. This is not the time to press for an answer.
Ironically, for his birthday, I’d offered an afternoon at the Calistoga Spa, a massage, and salmon dinner, but he was being evasive and turned it down and took up Verona’s offer for lunch instead. (Boy, did we all pay dearly for that decision. Some karma!) I was really hurt, for he was pulling back (again). And look at what happened… I teased him because he turned down my offer, so now I’m feeding and massaging him for weeks on end, instead of giving him a simple afternoon’s straightforward gift of my time and energy. Then I wind up living here on an ongoing basis. Ironic.
He has no clue he’s getting the best of my attention. I like the person who I’m becoming around him, having to take care of him. If he wasn’t injured, it would be a very different thing. A part of me is tempted to lay it on the table, tell him he’s stumbling, the so-called dance we began at Easter is faltering to a standstill. That he needs to come to some resolution: either he wants me or he doesn’t. This ambivalence is poisonous. But then I try to be considerate, and think this is no time to lay down ultimatums. Later, when he’s on his feet…
Last night we talked about trust and betrayal—when to cut someone off, our tolerance levels… I told him my limits, but I envy his clarity at being able to say to someone: this is a warning… Meanwhile, I’ve not warned him of his own trespasses, but I am keeping score of slights. Like the time he made a date with me to go to the SF Film Fest, but then stayed with some woman in Gualala, leaving me hanging in the lurch. I was really upset, ready to cut him loose. But then we saw each other again… and again—and nothing’s any clearer. I’m tempted to cut my losses again. But somehow we work through it.
6/30 From my dreams I always knew I’d be living with Neil, but not like this… fixing a pureed dinner of carrots and chicken. (I make chicken soup from scratch to bring my grandmother back into the room). He loves my chicken soup, it reminds him of his mother’s. I have to strain it for he still can’t swallow well. A lump of food or a bone would spell disaster.
Journal, July heat
.
Journal entry, post-op
Journal notes: Dear Neil letters
6/29 continued....this was stuff I couldn't bear to revisit, let alone, render it readable, so it stays here, stet.
Neil was worried about the expenses. I repeated back to him what he told me Easter Monday morning, “I’ll take care of you, you’ll never want for anything.” It becomes like a marriage vow. For better or for worse, I will take care of you—to the best of my ability, I will do whatever it takes, Neil. Know that. We live on my meager savings. Tonight there was the benefit party for Neil at Kate O’Brien’s. Gary Mullan called to say it was a smashing event—that Neil should run for office! I only hope they raised enough for the July rent. (I asked the gods for $1500 to pay the bills; I secured $1000 from Verona.) We eventually got around $800. (Then there’s August rent to consider.) A severe blow: Neil won’t be in the play. Gary Mullan’s stepping in. They delayed the play another week. Maybe Neil will be able to step in during the 2nd half of the run. Daily his speech improves as the swelling goes down. His house is a mess. Daily I take on some little chore, clean one small section. I still can’t raise my left arm.
I had to move the car for street cleaning, a painful experience since I can’t turn the wheel when it’s parked. Though my strength is returning, my upper body is still weak from the surgery. I took the bandage off today, the dressing covering pustules. Here I was nagging Neil to take a bath and I was smelling my own rotted bandage. Old blood and carbolic acid. Today I showed Neil how to lean back in the tub so I could wash his hair… but then I got stuck in the tub and needed his help to get out, no H2O for buoyancy. It struck me that moment how dependent we are on each other to complete simple tasks to survive. A small metaphor encapsulating the larger metaphor. Each of us is alone, crippled without the other.
Both of us, independent souls to the extreme (we’ll gladly cut off our noses to spite our faces), forced to give in, to accept and work with the other. He rejected my offer to wash his hair, scrub his back, but had me comb and dry his hair, clean the blood out of his nose with q-tips. I had to remove my own bandage, it was supposed to come off yesterday and he wouldn’t do it. “Who’d take you to Emergency?” I was pretty annoyed he wouldn’t help me, so I did it myself. Asshole! A good thing too, it was infected. So much for interdependence. I helped him remove his forehead bandage. Then I realize he’s not an asshole, he’s just frightened, I’m the stronger one. When it comes to pain, women always are. We drove downtown, our first outing together, to do some banking. It took the two of us just to drive the car. Neil put the car in reverse and cranked the wheel for me (he couldn’t still see very well…) and I managed the clutch, gas and brakes, though my left knee’s still pretty unstable. He buys me a latte, but I can’t handle coffee yet. Still too adrenalined out. Still shaking from exertion. I need a nap.
Our days unfold into a pattern: he nags me to eat (I have trouble eating), to rest more, to slow down. I nag him to eat (an easy task), keep track of his medicines, massage him. It helps the pain. He’s a good patient, not demanding as Alison warned. Nor was he “pushing me around.” Why was she warning me? They haven’t spoken to each other since a spat on Friday. He said, “She’s just jealous. She had the chance.” She doesn’t know what my relationship with Neil is. (Neither do I.) His comment about jealousy brought it all back home: the unasked: are we having a relationship? All the mixed messages. This is not the time to press for an answer.
Ironically, for his birthday, I’d offered an afternoon at the Calistoga Spa, a massage, and salmon dinner, but he was being evasive and turned it down and took up Verona’s offer for lunch instead. (Boy, did we all pay dearly for that decision. Some karma!) I was really hurt, for he was pulling back (again). And look at what happened… I teased him because he turned down my offer, so now I’m feeding and massaging him for weeks on end, instead of giving him a simple afternoon’s straightforward gift of my time and energy. Then I wind up living here on an ongoing basis. Ironic.
He has no clue he’s getting the best of my attention. I like the person who I’m becoming around him, having to take care of him. If he wasn’t injured, it would be a very different thing. A part of me is tempted to lay it on the table, tell him he’s stumbling, the so-called dance we began at Easter is faltering to a standstill. That he needs to come to some resolution: either he wants me or he doesn’t. This ambivalence is poisonous. But then I try to be considerate, and think this is no time to lay down ultimatums. Later, when he’s on his feet…
Last night we talked about trust and betrayal—when to cut someone off, our tolerance levels… I told him my limits, but I envy his clarity at being able to say to someone: this is a warning… Meanwhile, I’ve not warned him of his own trespasses, but I am keeping score of slights. Like the time he made a date with me to go to the SF Film Fest, but then stayed with some woman in Gualala, leaving me hanging in the lurch. I was really upset, ready to cut him loose. But then we saw each other again… and again—and nothing’s any clearer. I’m tempted to cut my losses again. But somehow we work through it.
6/30 From my dreams I always knew I’d be living with Neil, but not like this… fixing a pureed dinner of carrots and chicken. (I make chicken soup from scratch to bring my grandmother back into the room). He loves my chicken soup, it reminds him of his mother’s. I have to strain it for he still can’t swallow well. A lump of food or a bone would spell disaster.
Journal, July heat
.
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