Writing through trauma with Carolyn Holbrook

           Poet, mend thyself —Carolyn Holbrook

I find myself missing John Oliver Simon more and more these days. I find myself saving up things to tell him though he’s been gone nearly 5 years, since before Covid. It makes me realize anew the importance of living life fully and in the present tense. It’s pointless saving up for a rainy day. 1. Because we are in a prolonged mega drought. And 2. But the drought of the soul is a desert indeed. It’s so easy to elevate someone to mythic status especially when they’re gone, said Joan Baez, a savior is a nuisance to live with at home. 

I recently extricated myself from an abusive relationship of 21 years. I don’t miss the poor attempts at gaslighting, but sometimes I miss the man. He was great fun at parties, the singer always at the center of attention, but that was also the problem. There was little room for me. And eventually it was easier just to fall into the pattern rather than buck the system. So I gave pieces of myself away. No one else to blame. I let it happen. But at least I had a room of my own and my writing sustained me.

Ironic, it was at John’s memorial, when I was asked to sing/read a poem I had written to John long ago, Horseflesh, with music composed by Jorge Luján, and I could see the jealous rage in Neil‘s eyes—perhaps because he felt I didn’t love him like that. And truth be known, he was right, I didn’t love him like that. Not anymore. He had squandered what little love we had long ago, with indifference. I was living in a vacuum.

Ironic too, in that my poem also triggered jealousy in John’s latest lover,  So much so, that a stranger came up to me to tell me how Susan hated me. The stranger said, watch your back. I decided to make friends with Susan, instead. I also couldn’t help but think that relationship was 40 years ago. There is no logic when it comes to range and jealousy. The heart feels what it feels.

RIP Vito Orlando

 I have not taken the time to properly mourn the death of an old friend. One of the fallouts when you break up with someone, is that you lose a whole circle of friends. Vito was part of my support system for nearly 22 years. And then, because I felt I couldn’t revisit my friends for fear that Neil would find me, I hid out, laying low since that cataclysmic blowup that left me unhomed in September of 2018. Then the pandemic. Diana died soon after, we were unable to mourn. Shiva died durimg the pandemic. We were unable to mourn. Then Vito, I was unable to mourn. When I left Neil, I left everything behind. My known world, my friends. A death of sorts to a significant part of my life. Vito was one of those casualties of failed relationships. But every time I drive down 580 towards the Richmond Bridge, I have imaginary conversations with Vito. The one-way conversation begins at the Center Street offramp where Costco is, and ends at the Richmond toll booth. Mostly I wish him love. Life is like that, I told him. I was not invited to the memorial service. This photo was stolen from my ex’s wall.

After the fall

Last day of the Celtic year, While moving boxes of medieval Celtic books to the garage,  rather than do a header, I took a spectacular backflip and skidded down the front steps, trying to protect my knee. I sort of rode it out on my back and tailbone, surfing like a skateboard champ. I have a bloody nick on the front of my tibia and a foot long bruise, clearly I also landed on my shinbone as well. Then I flipped over like a fish to give the other side of my body equal exposure. 

And then, later in the day, I got  clobbered by a demented box of art supplies stashed on the highest shelf of the closet. I took the brunt of it on my left arm, not once, but twice. The second time, a crate of Xmas stuff leapt off the shelf and smashed my right arm. Since I was officially bleeding from long scrapes on both arms, I just gave up. I think those boxes were going for the jugular and carotid. Or maybe my head. I said, sheesh! Third time’s a charm. 

Don’t disturb the closet ghosts on Samhain. Needless to say, I didn’t get much moving done. Some days are like that. There will be hell to pay tomorrow. I may have landed on my back but now I also have a big bruise on the front of my shin. I must’ve flipped like a cat, mid-air. All those years on horse, and donkeyback have taught me how to fall. No tailbones were involved, but it hurts to slouch in the lumbar zone. And sitting in a chair or a car seat is uncomfortable. My arms are sumo buff and bruised. When I go down for the count, I do it with verve and style. But I hurt in some very odd places.

My life for the past 20 years...

My life for the past 20 years, as I've known it, has come to a drastic end. A man, unable to deal with his past, depression, rage, has decided that I'm part and parcel of the problem. I need to go. Kicked out like a dog after 20 years of service. With not even a bone, let alone, severance pay. I, who have sacrificed and subsumed so much of my own life for his needs, I who have struggled to keep him afloat, to keep him clothed and fed, to keep his house a home, but all that was swept under the rug at the end of August. In a manic rage, he lost all semblance of humanity or compassion. Since Labor Day, I've been giving away, and rehoming my things, letting it all go—and living between friends' houses, sometimes sleeping rough in my car or on couches. Since then, I've lived a nomadic life hanging out by the side of the road, or in parking lots. Volunteering at the senior center. I thought this relationship was until Death do us part. I had made a promise to God that if he lived after the car accident in June of 1997, I would stick it out to the very end, no matter what. For months, we didn't know if he had brain damage, the injury was so severe, I didn't know about the ingrained depression until much later. It was hidden behind a wall of injury. Nor did I see the actor's classic narcissism dressed in dazzling bipolar raiments. I've not yet written about this separation. I've been too numb, in shock. I found out the bitter details from his friend Yehiel, that he wants to step out. See someone else. No one on the horizon though. Just grief waving her skeletal hand, saying, Come hither. Come hither. So much for the saying, if you love someone, let them go. Kick her to the curb instead.
 

BROKEN ARGUMENT haiku

He said: I will break
you. Too late, I am shattered
well beyond repair.

But I'm the willow
resilient stems weeping
on the farthest shore.

I spend the morning
writing of Paul's last concert.
We knew all the words.

Now I've none at all
Summer fog filled with useless
tears, laden with anguish.

His apology
like spitting in the ocean.
Sky mirrors my thoughts.

White bridge, a life-line
shrouded shore of no return.
Barricaded heart.

An act of selfless
preservation, or fear?
Run from the enemy.

Who says: I will break
you, expecting no resistance?
The picket line crossed.

I have no words left.
No tears to soften the heart,
this final trespass.

8/14-16/17

Headed to Vancouver (music video, photos)

Hey, Elegwen Ó Maoileóin, we're in Enumclaw (Scottish Games are over) and we're headed north, any cheap places/couches to stay in Vancouver? Gigs to visit/ tomorrow, etc? Neil O'Neill wants to go to the Jimi Hendrix Museum this afternoon, then we're more or less open after that for gigs and whatnot.

Jammin at Elegwen’s

Throwback Thursday, me, all squinty-eyed the Tartan Ball, 2008, Floyd Busbee photo

Tartan Day Ball, 2008. Floyd Busby photo. Partying like rock stars.  Ironic, I view the world (and read) through my left eye, take photos with my right eye (it's a lazy bugger, I have a squandering eye)—and in photos my left eye is always the squinty one, working for two. And, no I didn't even need glasses then! I did have a "lazy" eye as a kid, but didn't wear a patch. Arrr! I think it has something to do with how our brains process information. I'm right handed but left-eyed. Dyslexic trait? Also left-footed . But I can switch-hit at baseball. Right eye information processed by left brain; left eye information processed by right brain. My eye teeth are all in a tangle too.

Queen Mary Scottish Games

We were featured at the 17th annual Queen Mary Scottish Games in Long Beach last weekend—our first time both performing and participating. It was a pleasant shock to run into so many old acquaintances there—including someone who read this blog—other than the spambots. They have turned me off to the point where I thought about deleting the entire blog just to get rid of them. They're worse than whale lice.

Now, I am under the profound illusion that there are 11 people in the world who are remotely aware that I even post a blog. But those 11 people don't actually read the blog— they're all those cute little postage stamp icons on the right column below the archives. Spambots don't count as they clearly don't have an aesthetic bone in their cyberbodies—though they are rather inventive at spelling/punctuation variations of Viagra and penis. Someday I'll make a list.

So imagine my surprise when one festival goer who is a fan of Neil O"Neill, Celtic Troubadour, said he'd actually been reading my blog. He showered me with compliments. Words like "talent," and "wisdom" were bandied about. My mouth gathered a profundity of flies (apparently Sarah Silverman had been seriously smutting down across the channel at the TEDTalks—a few disgruntled TED goers jumped ship—er conference hall—who came over to slum on the Queen Mary and maybe to look up men's kilts. You know those little cosmetic mirrors glued to the tops of their shoes?)

Anyway, all this to say that I've turned the comments section back on beneath most of the blog posts that I had previously blocked due to the literary spambots who write me lovenotes in such strange broken English. I found a new section that allows me to post a captcha and I no longer allow Anonymous posts—hopefully that will keep the thundering herds of spambots at bay. Hopefully. And with that, I might actually return to the blog arena again.

What my sole soul reader did say is that my blog was hard to follow in that there is no apparent order. That comes from my many writing hats. Maybe I should consider splitting the blog into several sections, or create different blogs. but it's hard enough just to keep one blog alive.

Should I pull all the poetry & post it in one blog? Post all the old newspaper articles in another blog and then create a separate Marin memoir blog? Problem is, the categories are all so fluid and they do inform who I am. I have never been good at separating my art genres. Is there a way to also thematically arrange the posts—other than by post date? Moving them means I lose the comments, BTW, and I do deem any genuine comments more precious than gold and Viagra. Any suggestions?

Wifi woes continued

6/26 We have very little web access and it's crochety when I can get online...I can load an email and even if I'm bumped off the net, at least I can read it later.

6/30 Don't always get a signal here!!! At least the sky's not spitting. We were on Byers Street, Glasgow, old barber shops...took pix for Joe.

We're off to Wales tomorrow, NON and David are off to the retreat and me to the slopes of Snodonia...

I will write as much as I can before signal drops out...lucky I can read fast. Summer here is like winter in SF!!! sitting in a field waving my laptop around for a signal between showers is not my idea fo summer so I'm green with envy over the idea of warm beaches.

I will send this before signal drops.

I'm in GB until July 23 if we don't extend our stay.

Scotland notes, seeking WiFi on the Solstice

6/20 I can't believe I am in Scotland, sitting in a meadow near the ruins of Johnstone Castle, where Chopin once played...it's nearly 9 PM and the sun still hasn't set, the sky is spitting, I'm freezing but it's the only place where I can get wifi reception!

If the council houses weren't in the way, I could look right across the Clyde Valley & Clyde River and see Ben Lomond. I bet there's snow on it.

There's an Arctic wind blowing. Good thing I brought my fleece jacket! Alas, I didn't bring my longjohns or cords, and I will regret it I think...jeans not as warm.

When we flew over Tahoe, the sky was thick with smoke, is California burning??? We left in the midst of a record heat wave and arrived to near winter conditions.

People here are very gossipy I've noted...they are eyeing me susppiciously as I communicate on my laptop from the field, literally... I have to send this now just in case transmission ends. (Neil’s mum is scandalized that I choose to sit outside and write on my laptop. It doesn’t bode well.

Neil’s uncontrollable rage

12/23 no year given. Possibly 2002. It was undated, and with a whole bunch of other notes on plays, I was studying and taking notes for writing plays.

Neil‘s rage is becoming unpredictable; any time, I don’t second-guess his wishes and needs, or if I question his presumptions, he flies into a rage where the usual outcome is that I need to move out, or, am evicted. 

I cannot reach him when he gets this way; it is an explosive, unpredictable rage. There is no rationale behind his statements, but he says, in essence, that I’m not offering support, therefore I don’t care for him. 

His methodology is becoming pathological. He doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t give me the larger picture and expects me to know what is going on. He sees no value in my time choices, or that I might have other plans. He assumes that I should guess his needs and clear everything in order to meet them when clearly, if the tables were turned, he’d not be offering me any support, and certainly not unconditional support. 

Why is he always so angry with me? He doesn’t see the cause-and-effect. Every time it happens I retreat more and more. Soon there will be nothing left but ambivalence. His unpredictable rage leaves me shaking and scared. It’s as damaging as physical violence. There’s a pathology present, and I don’t think I can handle this any longer, because it’s increasing in frequency and happening over things that don’t warrant this kind of behavioral reaction. 

The world never sees this side of Neil. The Jekyll hidden behind the jolly façade. Today’s episode revolved around a tooth extraction. He didn’t ask me to drive him, I had to ask him if he needed a ride, as I was going to run a few errands, get a printer for his classroom, etc. While he was in surgery, he exploded and blamed me for not anticipating his needs. He wants me to sit and wait in the waiting room rather than to come back in an hour. The rage was palpable. 

He’s created a series of complex responses, and a tight defense from which there is no winning the argument. If he had said, I want you to sit and wait for me in the waiting room, then I could’ve brought something to do, and made other plans with the printer. Since there was a possibility of work attached to this contact, now I look bad for not showing up on time. 

His needs are always greater than mine. That is the message I’m getting. I tried to reach him before he went in, that he needs to tell me, and that I can’t second-guess the minutia. If I had an asked him if he needed a ride, what would he have done then? 

I’m living with a madman, and I don’t know if I can deal with it any longer. He is scraped raw, and his methodology is to blow up when he feels I’ve slighted him. The thing is, it’s not rational. He deliberately inflicts pain in a retaliatory manner. Reason is not at all present. 

I try hard not to use the accusative language, to be calm and reasonable. But he’s off and running. I never threatened him with leaving, etc., I try to stay within the moment and deal or resolve the problem present problem, but it’s no use. He is unreachable. I tried to tell him that I needed a little more information from him. 

I think part of the problem is that he doesn’t anticipate his own needs and he is angry because he perceives that I don’t “support” him in a time of need. I am trying to take care of other business whenever I can. 

The drama conflict has a similar MO to that of alcoholism. I kept asking him if he needed help, if he needed me to come in, and if he had only answered me, I would have offered full support unquestionably but because I asked, instead of assumed I’d be going in with him, it pushed his buttons. 

Again, it comes down to his not telling me his needs or expectations, and my having to second-guess them. Having to second-guess his needs is similar to the role of a child coping with alcoholic parents. He should be able to calmly and nicely articulate his needs. 

Instead, he uses it as a platform to show his rage. Of course, he blamed me for it, another trait. I’m always to blame for his rage for his lack of clarity, or ability to ask or articulate his needs. This pushes a button on his danger scale. I should not be in this position of coping, or having to second-guess his needs. 

He is amazingly self-absorbed and can’t seem to see that his behavior is questionable, at best. Too easy for him to make me the scapegoat. Gaslighting. He has built it up in his mind a series of false cases. He says that I’m not supportive that I abandon him when things get tough, which I’ve never done. I’ve been amazingly present for him. My crime is that I won’t be manipulated, nor will I take this abusive behavior.

Added 12/24/2023 After a few of these psychotic episodes, I told him that he ever threatened me with eviction again that I would leave. In 2001, right after 911, I was scheduled to go to the Azores with my aunt and cousin. He completely lost it even though I told him I was going. He wouldn’t even say goodbye to me, nor go with me to the airport. I found a postcard that referred to it.  I think we had another big episode in 2015. And when he did it again big time, in 2018, I left. It took me nearly 20 years to reach the melting point.

I found some other notes as well, which may have come out of this experience.

I was treated badly, I lived rent free, though I was paying $200 a month. The cycle is like a knife. Betrayal, inner burn internal war. Finances, school. I was five points of pressure. My wantoness, that totally doesn’t make sense. I was never a wanton woman. lol.

More notes: stress I started looking outside the self. My list included these thoughts. We need to apologize to each other, you need to apologize for your actions. You need to find a way to cope with stress that works. Take your brain chemistry seriously. Take your meds. Write a mood journal for one month. Things I can say (positive language vs. accusative language): I’ve noticed you’re under less stress when you sleep and eat well. You’ve created this stress in your own mind and you’re making it your reality. You’re not making it easy for me to help you. If I wasn’t here to help, you would have lost your job. You keep thinking negative thoughts. You have to learn to deal with your anger. Get stress under control, not quitting, not getting rid of it completely. Stop bullying me. It’s domestic abuse. Threatening to evict me in retaliation is not rational. If he wants to be successful at his job, he has to find a way to deal with stress. Breath, meditation, Meditation – lithium? Low energy over the weekend meaning he was out of meds. He thinks that the ashram and meditation will replace his meds. He needs to mellow out. He has control issues. He’s afraid to relax. He doesn’t trust that things will work out, or that the universe is conspiring against him. Anger is unresolved desire. What if at work every few weeks, the boss said you’re fired, then changed his mind. That’s what I’m living under. 

Thespians on the Town

 Clearly, we've left the pub. Or the theatre. Or both. Or not. Thespians, all. Irish, at that. Either we're in San Francisco, at ACT, or in Piedmont—ca. Xmas 2002.

Kate said: that is me in the back row after a game of pool!

I don't remember a game of pool... Who is taking the photo? Lucy Faulknor?

Clearly, we're all introverts, shy as wallflowers, as well. 

Johnny Mac and Kate Perry both moved back to Ireland. 
We lost touch with Joe Hakik and Owen Murphy.

 
Back row, left: Joe Hakik, Owen Murphy, Kate Perry, Maureen Hurley,
front row: Neil O'Neill, Johnny Mac

added 4/2016

Fartist retort while waiting in line to score tickets to see Dylan

Neil, a prodigious fartist, was thinking he could rip off a quick fart while standing in line while waiting for Dylan, but the guy behind him overheard, and complained loudly to his teenybopper girl girlfriend, What's that smell? Neil turns and says, Hey my asshole maybe prolific, but it knows when to keep its mouth shut. The young guy responds with a punky, Oh yeah? Neil says, No shit! Thinking there might be a brawl in line, I said, And yeah, he can't keep the other gobshite shut either. Neil said, I know when to open my gob. I retorted, He'd talk the legs off a chair, vaccinated with the gramophone needle he was, and now he's just a cheapsnake, meaning cheapskate. The young guy, perhaps defending his oblivious girlfriend's honor, is way in over his head, can't make heads or tails of any of it. We laugh, the line shuffles forward, dissipating the problem.

10 /13/2001

You profess to believe in love....

You profess to believe in love,

and on the intellectual level, perhaps you do.

But there’s scant evidence 

that you practice it on the ordinary, daily level.

Whereas I practice a more plebian love, 
but don’t talk about it

because it remains too painful a subject. 
I’m too sensitized to it.

When you came back from the retreat, 
you confessed to love me,

affirming what I already knew 
from the beginning.

You were like a card shark 
laying one card face up on the table,

hedging your bets even as you spoke.

(I can hear you denying it even now, Indian giver.)

However, my steadfastness (call it love) 
has suffered the severe erosion

of 2 and a half years of the shabby baggage 
of your insistent denial

which has taken a deep toll 
on even the ordinary affection between friends.

The real test of love is in the doing,
the practice, if you will.

But you’ve done little to change your modus operandi.

The business of denial remains central 
to the protocol of your idea of love.

The irony is that you’ve remained stuck 
in an adolescent state of mind

unable to step back to the next level 
to see the paradox that contains your love.

That’s why I don’t want to talk about love to you. 
It’s become an oxymoron.

You’re so well fortified,
having had decades to armor yourself,

there’s little room for change 
or growth in this state of denial.

I am acutely aware of the difference between 
how you treat me and how you treat others. 

Can you imagine being in my shoes for a moment

having to endure living with someone 
in such a profound state of denial

that I despair there will ever be a thaw? 

That there’s so little to hold onto?

But I do believe in the power of love 

to the extent that there is room for change. 

That love saves lives. 

Question is, do you want to be saved?

2/3/00

Welcoming the new Millennium

It’s been so long since I’ve written, nearly 2 years since the accident. The above entry says it all, and here I am, suffering from a back spasm extraordinaire. It’s leveling me as I attempt to sit at the computer. Every stab of pain brings new curses to Verona who is probably out celebrating big-time, unaware of the massive havoc she has created in our lives. 

I’m watching the New Year’s Eve celebrations the world round. All the cities going crazy, the Kremlin, London, Paris, everything bathed under fireworks, and if I suddenly turn my head or move my leg, sharp spasms have me screaming in pain. 

It really isn’t the end of the millennium until next year, or six years ago, if Dionysius the monk was right. But as far as time reckoning goes, there was no year zero. Romans hadn’t yet gotten the concept from the Arabs. Will people go nuts next year, the true millennium? But it is the end of the century. 

I can’t believe I’m living through the turn-of-the-century and I am home alone. Neil‘s in Ontario LA with his Syddha group chanting into the millennium. Don’t get me wrong, I was invited, it just didn’t even remotely appeal to me, and now my back has made me a prisoner of the couch. I am in so much pain that I slept most of the day. Nothing really works. I’ve tried everything. I haven’t yet resorted to Vicodin, but whiskey wine and grass—thank you cousin Eddie— are each used in turn with ibuprofen. 

I was working at the Bancroft Hotel on the 28th when this malady struck, I was catering a pre-millennial party. It was pure torture. They had silly games and I was the tally person as well as the bartender. The most significant items of the millennium where the Gutenberg press the invention of penicillin, the cure for polio, the Magna Carta, and Einstein‘s theory of relativity—were voted in by some 200 customers. Susie Thompson, former kindergarten teacher recognized me from Roseland School in Santa Rosa. Small world. It’s amazing. 

It’s 20 seconds to midnight in Rio, first city with in the Western Hemisphere. Five seconds to 0. The year 2000 has arrived in the western hemisphere. They bring flowers down to the sea, sprinkle champagne onto the waves. Dancing in the sea, millions of Brazilians. Where is Zoravia Bettoil, I wonder. At another party I catered, a man I danced with at one of Zoravia’s parties, the Brazilian Consul, recognized me. LaManja, goddess of the sea. They bathe in the sea, bathe themselves with champagne, dressed in white. 

How many of us are linked by CNN? The Dalai Lama says we must enjoy the new day, the holy day in India. I have in my journal and uncashed check for $25,000. Having won the lawsuit at the end of the millennium, a birthday present of sorts. A rocky gift, a rocky holiday season. 

I can’t say I’ve had a good season. Neil‘s been all over the map with his incompletes. One minute, it’s running off to Mexico with friends for Thanksgiving, then at the last minute he cancels, saying he’ll work with me catering, then he runs off to Ontario to be obsessive-compulsive with his friends at the Sydda yoga retreat. Imagine hosting 5000 spiritual yuppies, or wanna be yuppies for Christmas, then flying back on the 25th, but he was all over the map, saying he wanted to spend it with me, but then he went off to Dennis and Donna Klein’s party and I was not invited. So, Christmas Eve I went off to mass and who pulled up, but Neil? Wanting to please too many people, including himself, thus losing me. 

As more capital cities fall beneath the artificial boundaries of time, at the Washington monument singers ask for Abraham, Martin, and John. And in Newfoundland, the oldest city in North America, some  supposedly settled 1000 years ago by Vikings, but they count in English. Midnight in the new world. Caracas, Venezuela, but in Chicago there’s a Noah’s Ark of people from every country, nation, and protectorate, some 3500 gather for midnight supper.

I eat leftover for food from the catering job, thankful for the food I eat that requires no preparation other than a microwave. I have 2 glasses of wine, but it has no effect on me, I am well beyond the effects of alcohol— from the pain.

Vatican skies, to see the world from a satellite, fireworks blanket the world over as the space station turns through space, with all those countries below, lit from within, while countless reruns from the first radio and TV programs broadcasting on the other side of the Andromeda galaxy. We galloped across 25 time zones with CNN, broadcasting across the galaxy, 38 years ago, John Glenn orbited in space.

What were the monks and the laity doing a thousand years ago? I watch reruns of man’s walk on the moon, our greatest technological achievement. A thousand years ago, they all huddled together to await the apocalypse. Billy Graham preaches about heaven and strife on earth. 

It’s four hours to midnight in California and LAX is all but closed. The busiest airport in the world is a ghost town.There was no YK2 virus, it was a mad hoax, no terrible crashes. No planes fell out of the sky. Going strictly by the Gregorian calendar, two lone travelers enroute to Sidney. It’s already New Year’s Day there, Malibu Linda wired me to say the celebrations were fantastic. Flights are empty, what flights are scheduled, that is. 

Could the monks have imagined us walking on the moon? The fireworks surely would’ve seemed like apocalyptic events. Overhead helicopters remind me that Oakland is a police state on par with that dystopian film, Blade Runner.

The big ball on Times Square is made of Waterford Crystal, 1070 pounds of Irish lead crystal. Times Square is closed for the mobs. Yeltsin stepped down today, I wonder about my Russian friends. I remember New Year’s Eve in the Ukraine, strangers in Father Christmas masks kissing me in Cherkassy Square. Oleg telling me it will bring you much good luck. The Thames fireworks, arevisible from space, the Eiffel tower is a touch of light. Egypt lights up at pyramids and 6000 years of civilization. 2000 doves take flight in Bethlehem, despite Ramadan. 

So many of us never imagined ourselves being here for the millennium. Pinsky said, here’s to memory. In New Orleans, a coffin for the millennium, the Big Easy. Some 2 million gather to watch the Times Square ball drop, a tradition started 91 years ago. And dancers at the temple of Sacsayhuaman in Cuzco, Peru, bring in the old ways. I get reports from ex-pats via Glasgow, someone said Dublin went mad. I wonder how things are doing in Dublin? Pyrotechnics visible from space. 

I light candles between spasms while holding a Vicodin raft into the next century. In Berlin twins born on either side of midnight, a millennium apart. Imagine that. A millennium and a day apart. Like in the fairytales. The final act, is dreams of the sun, ethereal music by Michael Jarre in Egypt, seven millenniums of civilization, the sun strikes the pyramids and Giza. What are mankind’s 12 attributes given by the sun? 

I drink scotch bottled nearly 20 years ago. The bottle of Lagavulain says it’s 16 years old, but we’ve had it for at least five years. Highland peat and smoky odor. I don’t like it but I hurt so much. PBS takes me to Greece, the Byzantine Empire, alive and well, a thousand years later. Kiev is celebrating a millennia of Christianity. I’ve stood in those churches, seen the Byzantine heart unfold amid the incense, and the food divided among the blessed. Holy monks reenacting the last supper in Leningrad. 

First light falls on the shores of Samoa, Will Durst brings in the Dawn. New millennium. No sunrise on the temple of Poseidon in Athens. Thalatta, thalatta, the sea, the sea. I feel an intense relief to see the celebration that’s not Christian. Doric columns risen before the Christ dominated the Western World, Europe, and Asia. Welcome 2000.

Omagh Bombing part 3

He sleeps, depression stilling the heart, better than digitalis. I keep flowers to paint the tongue of the eye. Bris mo chroidhe, to break the heart, at the chance of happiness, shrapnel in the heart: self defeat at the hands of pessimism and confessionals, as if one's deepest fears were indeed the truth.

"O'Neil, a name more in pride than to be called Cesar." – Sir George Carew Elizabeth's foreman, foundered in a Munster bog.

Brave Hugh who fought with my ancestors at the battle of Kinsale in 1604, the Earl of Tyrone and Sean the Proud living beyond the Pale, tormenting Elizabeth.

The wild Rose is the one that has no thorns, but it has no need to draw blood to color its petals. What can ease our tribal pain? Disappearance and death is our inheritance. Europe absorbed the Flight of the Earls. What tongue survives the O'Neills of Seville ? Don Juan, or Sean. Unconscious tally stick carried into exile, into battle, about the necks of our ancestors.

So much pain suffered at the hands of a culture older than Greece or Rome, vanished without a trace. English legislation and diseased potatoes banished a tongue. Say the syllables of your own name in the ancestral tongue. See how it caresses you like a lover? But to use it as a weapon against the oppression—that's the final rub.

Greet me in the old tongue, if you can. In the lost syllables of an ancient order, and the rogue words for which the English could find no substitute, no sychophant. Say glamour, say tawny, say iron, keep the old tongue alive in my mouth, sweet kisses devouring speech that even the cock gives voice to in the night, not of the denial of love, surely one of the unwritten sins, but of loves speech, the integrity of whose tongue in my mouth?

OMAGH BOMBING

OMAGH BOMBING

Am I a traitor to my race,
I drink Scots whisky.

and contemplate the half-life of The Troubles 

when the Plantation of Ulster's shame grew.

And the bones in that rough field 

sprouted another generation of hatred. 

We read about Omah in the papers

how the bombs dissected limbs of the innocent
and rearranged them into Daliesque clocks 

dripping from hedgerows and curbs. 

The Afghans have a saying:

I have never known sorrow, 

no it is a field I have inherited,
and I till it anew.

Meanwhile the disappeared in Africa 

have settled home into the earth's bosom,
without a trace. No witnesses. Meanwhile,
in the Gulf, we retaliate, I learn from the news,
a new word, preemptive, as in preemptive strike.

Death is death is death. Are we at war again?

And Omagh. Neil frets, his cousins 

will surely know some of the dead. 

I went to buy film at that shopping center, he said. 

This man who shares my food 

broke down and cried. As I held him, 

I told him tonight that I loved him. 

And already he's making plans of escape, 

as if love were a grenade 

waiting to rearrange the heart.

Today is my grandmother's birthday. 

She, who kept alive the fire within me,

Kindled the holy flame within me 

so that I would bear witness. 

The grand design continues to work
through you, she said.

I grab a book from the shelf, 

John Montague's Rough Field 

because I like the title and it reminds me 

of Seamus Heaney's collection, The Field. 

A good Irish read, I thought. That's the ticket.

Except Omagh crept from the pages.

After near nearly 30 years, we are 

recycling the violence that is Ulster.
She who kept the flame alive within me, 

a decade gone, to Tír na nÓg, or Hy Breasil,

or whereever the dead go to congregate. 

Ulster, the amber coating my glass, uisge beatha,
a Kabbalah of whispered secrets & peat fires. 

Omagh Bombing (prose) part 1

Omagh Bombing

20 August, my grandmother's birthday.

As if a traitor to my race, I drink scotch whisky, the half-life of the Troubles, when the Plantation, and Ulster's shame, grew restive, and the bones sewn in that rough field, sprouted another generation of hatred.

As we read about Omagh and how the bombs dissected the limits of innocent children into Daliesque clocks dripping from hedgerows and curbs. The Afghans have a saying: I have never known so much sorrow. Now it is a field I have inherited, and I till it.

Meanwhile the bodies of the dead in Africa settled home into the earth's bosom. We retaliate. I learn from the news the meaning of pre-emptive strike. Are we at war again?

 And Omagh. Neil frets. His cousins surely know some of the dead. I went to buy film at that shopping center, one survivor said. This O'Neill who shares my food, I told him tonight that I love him and already he is making plans of escape, as if love were a grenade, ready to rearrange the heart.

Today is my grandmother's birthday. She, who kept alive the fire in me, kindled like the holy flame of Rome within me so that I would bear witness.

The grand design continues to work through me, and at random, I grab a book from the shelf, John Montegue's Rough Field, because I liked the title and it reminded me of Seamus Heaney's The Field. A good Irish read, I thought, except Omagh crept in from the pages anew after 30 years, recycling the violence that is Ulster.

She, who kept the flame alive within me, a decade gone, Tír na nÓg, or to Hy Breasil, or whatever the place where the dead congregate.

The amber coating of uisce beatha and the whispering secrets of extinguish peat fires. Neil is fresh back from the Highlands, but he bade me promise that if he died soon, to carry his ashes to Iona, Colum Cille's Isle.

Neil's middle name is Columba, but no doves rested on his breast, Neil's namesake. A name that spans the father's and the clan's name. Neil's name repeats itself, a starter in history, a chieftain son, born in Scotland because St. Columba turned his back on Ireland.

Neil's father worked the land of his ancestors, Tír Eoghan, Tyrone, Omagh and Strabawn. Where does one poem get begin and another in? Neil chastises me for not writing. This past year have I been in purgatory for loving an O'Neill? But as Montague says, one must begin at home.

Violence blossoms in Africa, and Ireland, and now the Sudan and Afghanistan. What fields have we inherited beneath this vast sky? The worst bombing in 30 years. Kate Perry email us a chain letter condemning the violence.

A friend once misheard the word violence and thought of violins playing. I saw gangsters toting violin cases.

The Rough Field, an garbh achaidh. Should I be drinking Bushmills? A Protestant whiskey? Hugh O'Neill sleep sound in his bed.

Lamb dearg abu, the knife slipped and my left hand, red with the blood. The Red Hand of Ulster? I crossed myself, out of habit and think of the poetry plumping in the garden end Tyge buried in John's name. The Catholic slur. I learned well at my grandmother's knee. She gave me the Cailleach's skeleton one Halloween, Samhain and burned the candles.

My grandmother dabbing uisce beatha behind her ears like a rare Arabian perfume.

Journal entry, 5/13 back in Santa Rosa

5/13/1998 I’m back again in Santa Rosa after a sojourn at Neil’s place since Easter. My God how the time has flown. It all began with me sobbing over the phone at Easter, we were talking about taxes and I came undone. I was supposed to go to Wendy’s Easter party, and to possibly meet up with Neil beforehand. We were still on pretty shaky ground ourselves, which didn’t help matters any. And I was feeling so very fragile.

Neil said to bring my taxes down with me and so I did. Tom Harrell was living with Neil and finishing up his fourth your internship at Highland Hospital, so we didn’t have a lot of privacy. Tom’s hours are varied between three shifts. Poor guy. And so I worked on my 97 taxes, and actually accomplished my goal by April 15. Then I begin working on my back taxes and finishing up on my Higham family school book, when Neil had to go to Monterey for a gig. 

Meanwhile I went to Sinead’s and then home again feeling like this trip up north was all wrong, and I didn’t know why. He was looking so forward to it. Tuesday he called me early from Monterey. I called him that afternoon at home but he had been hospitalized for a duodenal ulcer that hemorrhaged. So I turned right around again and drove right back down to Neil’s I didn’t even spend one night at home.

Journal entry, ulcer, 4/21 - 4/26

4/21/1998 I’ve been uneasy about Neil being in Asilomar, it turns out for a good reason. On Sunday he passed out at the ocean and when he came to, he thought he had food poisoning so he took himself to the hospital. It was a duodenal ulcer and he nearly bled to death, they said I was feeling more and more depressed as I headed north and I didn’t really know why. I guess I sensed something was amiss. He’s on the phone with a classmate, Jill, gory details. Tom Harrell, the doctor/boarder, walked in the door it looks like he had a rough day in the emergency room. Neil talks about his classes and I’ve heard the story before. It is the first warm day, spring has arrived and it’s a bit sticky. Scent of lemon blossoms hangs in the air.

4/22/1998 Neil sleeps. Wendy called to ask how he was doing. He was so shaky and gray yesterday evening when I arrived. Shaky on his feet. We held each other for sometime. I gave him a light massage but his skin hung to him, clammy. He probably lost a quart of blood, and is anemic. I remember seeing how sweaty he was the other day, and I thought it odd. And that sweetish, almost fetid odor that emanated from him. When he fell asleep on the couch, he was sleeping oddly, and I thought something was wrong. Did he have a stroke?

4/26 A second night on the couch for him, and of course I can’t sleep. 7 AM. Nightmares of vultures landing on the infield. Too many consultants between me and the pitcher anyway. I had to throw a fit in order to see who the pitcher was, let alone, see the ball. When the vulture landed between us, ending the game, it began to feed on itself for it was dead, or dying, plucking it’s skin like a doppelgänger devouring itself, beak first.