6/1 Met Neil at the TCI Awards ceremony with Verona and Herman. Chaotic. Neil got some TV coverage. I’ve no idea if the cameras were rolling when I read a poem, but it was live TV. I had an audience, even if only the others in the studio. Neil played a few tunes with a band wearing my green silk smoking jacket. It looked pretty good on camera from the waist up—as long as you didn’t see his tatty shorts. Some woman recognized Neil from last week’s Open Mike show, complimented him on his music. (She was all over him, I felt disgusted—I reacted by distancing myself from him). So it pays to get one’s face out there. A musician, Rich, said he recognized me from a party at Dennis Perón’s… in ’92? I tell him about the Dutch photographer, Jan Bogaerts, and how we met Brownie Mary. A big teddybear of a man, a bouncer hanging with the gayboys but yearns to be with a woman, or harbors chivalrous notions of love. “I know you!” we said simultaneously. In this life? or a past one? The depth, the stepping into, the kenning. Ah, the pan-global Celtic tribe.
We went over to Dylan’s Pub where I was introduced to Titch as “A fabulous poetess…” I’ll have to break him of the -ess part. We played ping-pong. N & V were quite good (he plays tennis too), but I was a disaster area. I kept smacking the ball to kingdom come. “Look at that shark fin come up when she plays,” he said, “a healthy, competitive streak.”
Neil was due at another party but Herman convinced him to come to Novato for a midnight swim and spend the night (it didn’t take much convincing), but the hot tub was cold. A sultry, steamy night. I made a bed on the floor and we slept in bathing suits, snuggling despite the heat, talking into the wee hours about his family, his first lover in the U.S., and how she betrayed him sleeping with an exlover. “You don’t do that to a Celtic man,” he explained, as if it explained anything. Neither of us could sleep. We never got any farther than Melissa’s neuroses—his mind was racing so—I gave him a massage. He moaned with sheer joy, asked me to do his feet again. Talk about being starved, when was the last time this man was touched by a woman? As my hair brushed his feet, I thought of Mary Magdelene’s hair—how Catholic men want the whore-Madonna. Which was I to be at that moment, chaste in my bathing suit, swaying at the feet of my future lover… who is afraid to make love to me?
6/2 I’ve got AV book looming over my head, editing paste up. I’m days behind, can’t seem to catch up—I’m distracted by Neil, but have nothing much to report. At Verona’s the other night, we slept on the living room floor, he drew a map of Scotland—his home town in relation to Paisley and Glasgow—on my naked back, his fingers tracing the firths, the islands—and the map began to blur from the hard pressure of cities, the feathery touch of inlets and rivers—the lover’s touch upon my back, but then, he pulled away—reluctantly, it seemed. What is wrong? He gathers my hand to his heart as we sleep, spoon-style, pulls me back into his arms as we each turn in tandem (like slowly orchestrated beached whales). One time his hand rested possessively on my hip—not a platonic gesture. I was certainly close enough to notice a hard-on, but I never detected one. Mornings he gathers me into his arms so completely, I feel I’ve come home, while in the night, his embraces are filled with reserve. It feels so natural for us to sleep together, and ironically, that’s a more intimate gesture than fucking—though neither of us sleeps too deeply, preoccupied with the newness of it, the potential. On the other hand, we’re never really been in a setting conducive to lovemaking: drunk at 4 AM in the back of my truck, mid-afternoon in the orchard with the tenants peeking on, in the middle of Verona’s living room floor, the odor of skunk clogging our nostrils.
Verona, Neil and I went over to the pool next morning and meditated until we were sunburned. Neil’s voice, so pure as he sang skyward the Vedic chants…jai ram… I recognize a few words: namaste, bodhisatva, mantra, om… Covering all bases, he threw in some Irish and Latin for good measure. Beannacht loive. Et cum spiri tu tuo. I felt like I was attached to the sky via a thread from the top of my head. I focused on love without attachment, on healing his heart and mine, the grief we’ve both suffered. As I floated in the pool I could hear his voice speaking inside me, our hearts beating in unison, sometimes in syncopation. A pulse in my womb like the clicking of an insect, was it a pulse or did my womb resonate with his heartbeat? So odd to hear the pulses aligning. I did not tell him his voice was inside my head for I do not know if it was real. Already my life has changed because of him (and his’ through mine?). The change could be seen as disruptive, we’re both attached to our own little rituals of living alone. This requires adjustment and negotiation for we’re always on the edge of survival. I know he is affected by me as I am by him, but he’s too busy holding onto memories, hurts. “My last great summer in California…” has become his mantra and he’s greedy for experiences to fill that nostalgia and I’m but one more memory. He’s a social butterfly; I’m not. His world is vast by comparison. He eventually does find the time for me, but I feel overwhelmed by the thought of his leaving in September.
We went out to breakfast, I’d misplaced my wallet, the morning’s grace undone. I’m frantic. He asks why. I confess to him my fear was a dichotomy: a fear of letting go and a fear of holding on. He says, “Everything you need is already inside of you.” And I thought how this man steadies me like no other ever could, for I am the skittish horse. Many’s the time when he’s pulled me into his arms and I’ve transformed, settled down. “Ach, look at how she’s settling in the noi!” he’d say.
6/9 Mon. Bolinas. A horrifically busy week, pasting up the AV book, meetings, preparing for Verona’s 6Oth birthday party, picking up food, chairs, cleaning Herman’s place (filthy) on Fri. I was quite grumpy for I had to work non-stop at breakneck speed to get everything ready for Saturday. I was still working when guests arrived, I found it hard to relax. Neil showed up at 5 PM, I felt a little distant for he hadn’t phoned in over a week, but as the evening wore on, we inevitably were drawn together like magnets. I try not to come so close, but I think neither of us can help it—like poor moths tricked by an artificial moon, plunging into the flame. Verona got quite drunk, wailing over her dead husband on the beach at sunset. As Neil sang and strummed, we took turns holding her. The evening was quite lovely. Crepuscular blue. Venus on the horizon. The party continued on back at the cabin till midnight with singing and storytelling. A jaunt to Smiley’s to see who’s playing, we danced a bit, then headed back to Herman’s cabin.
Neil was more than willing to spend the night (as I knew he would) but it was quite some time before he reached for me. I felt abandoned, thinking I was definitely going to bail, but by morning something shifted, and we were once again in each others arms, within the circle of love. A cozy morning. Herman and Verona returned early to Novato. It was late afternoon before we ventured into town for the Sun-Day festival, which was nearly over. It’s been a long time since I was last in Bolinas: merchants and locals asking where I’ve been, made me realize I too, was part of the landscape. Neil and Patrick hit it off as I knew they would, talking about Buddhism and the Tibetan Book of the Dead—I talked about my experiences with the dead, and the experiences with blue and green light. I usually keep quiet about this stuff, but it seemed OK. The said words like: enlightenment, astral projection. Neil and I keep learning about each other through our interactions with others. Yesterday he said, “I think Patrick fancies you.” I got quite upset because we’re just good friends. He backed down. Neil picks up on nuances, like that creep at the Nicasio bar. Usually I sidestep that riffraff. Like that guy Steve, at Smiley’s who asked me to take him home—I was shocked, I’ve known him for years, never giving him any encouragement! Must be something in the air.
Neil could be waffling, ready to bail, but I won’t let him be complacent. We went to RCA beach at sunset, and the personal stories began to surface: first sexual encounters, early relationships, wounds and battle scars. I asked, “How old were you when you lost your virginity?” He said, “That’s rather personal!” and laughed. He was 16, in London, it was something to get over with—not a great experience. We were in full confessional mode. Over dinner I told him about Herman’s approaching me, and how devastated and betrayed I felt. Neil raised the issue of incest, he saw it as a serious breech of trust. Yes. He kept probing and I realized my deep anger toward Herman is a direct result of that breech of trust. He was a father-figure, I was in mourning for the lost father. I was sad to be the one who shattered Neil’s picture of Herman. He said, “It’s karma.” He marvels at their libido: both interested in sex in their 60’s and 70’s! While Verona’s looking at other men, Herman sniffs around too, I don’t think either scores, but it’s not from lack of trying. Neil said “She fancies me too. It’s merely the flesh!” I wondered about the state of Neil’s libido.
I felt shy as he prepared for bed, it was as if he were a complete stranger, so I told him. He sad, “That’s because you’ve revealed something of yourself to me.” He crawled into bed next to me—it was different. Not late party flophouse crashing. This was more formal, a deliberate arrangement, I felt like Ryan’s daughter on her wedding night. We chose to lie next to each other. (There was another bed, the one we slept on last night.) He asked for a massage, and we slept naked in each other’s arms. A conscious choice, but still no sex. He nibbled on my neck, I shrieked and shuddered deliciously, the erotic pulse, like electricity. He said “I could feel that too.” When I asked him where his erogenous zones were, he said, “Dead.” (A warning!) But that didn’t stop us from touching the whole night long—holding, snuggling, cuddling takes on a whole new dimension when one is naked. Inexorably we are moving towards sex—though he still resists, I don’t force the issue. All in good time. For the relationship has deepened considerably in just 24 hours.
In the morning he exclaimed how long it’s been since he felt the loveliness of a woman’s naked back against his, and gave me a long massage, made me tea and toast. I was the bed sluggard. He massages me again (I think he just wants to explore my body), telling me about meditation and the chakras, touching them, then my 3rd eye, opening it just like that and I was gone—following him to the purple light, finding the stillness, the connection as he meditated beside me. Is his meditation the reason he holds back from a sexual relationship? Compatibility? I am truly open, perhaps for the first time in my life. Every day he surprises me, our perception of the other continues to grow. We agreed that there were no accidents, that we’re supposed to be together (at least for now) because we have some real work to do. I told him one of my roles was to be a sounding board, that he needed an observer to explore all realms of possibility. I keep getting snippets of dejá vús—not significant unto themselves, merely gateposts. He’s still curious about my dream of him, and I wouldn’t tell him. I said, “I didn’t want to force, or rush it. It has to evolve naturally. He let it go , but is anxious as to the nature of the information I’m withholding. But if he’s afraid to be my lover, how will he feel when I tell him he’s to be my husband? And of course, he could change the future, the outcome, by refusing to do anything—refusing to grow and stretch. In which case, we’ll be condemned to repeat this scenario in the next lifetime, or the next—until we get it right. I don’t want to scare him off. Last night, without meaning to, I said “I love you,” it just slipped out. He stumbled, but kept on talking, not sure if he’d heard, or imagined it. I had to laugh because he’s always saying revealing things to me under his breath. We are undressing each other emotionally, physically and spiritually. How erotic!
Today I slipped into the shower with him and we stood naked before each other—no blankets to hide behind. I scrubbed his back: he wanted more, more. I did his legs and chest, feeling a bit shy. He was less modest with me, more thorough, inspecting me with a practiced eye, liking what he saw. My breasts pointing at him—a dare to touch them as he bent to scrub my thighs and calves. I can’t say he rose to the challenge, but he definitely got a buzz. Here I was, standing naked before an O’Neill, reenacting an age-old story; our ancestors having done this before. As I put on cream, he watched my every move in such open admiration, I was glad to have breasts. He put his hands on my shoulders, leaned over and bit my neck again. I made him bite the other side for balance and he said it affected him too.
“Uncircumcised,” I blurted out of context, as we tried to get the boat engine to work. We ran through his lines; a defrocked Protestant. My grandmother would roll over in her grave! “A cuddle for a cup of tea?” he asked. Silly. But we do spend a lot of time in each other’s arms. He marveled how we’re so much alike. “Chatterboxes. It’s amazing we can stand each other, let alone spends days together.” He comments that my face is so Irish, saying his eyesight is so bad, that I’m probably much prettier that he thinks I am. I’m surprised, for I didn’t think he thought of me as pretty. He’s beginning to thaw, though at the car his kiss was closed-mouthed. I demanded another, he laughed knowingly and kissed me again before driving home. I stay another night in that bed, breathing in his scent.
6/13 Friday. Today I told Neil that I dreamt of him (and two other men) a year ago today (six months before I actually met him.) I told him about Paul Evans but hesitated over the details of Waldo Rojas—because we were lovers just like in the dream, and I didn’t want to give that away. Besides, they were both my lovers simultaneously changing back and forth within the dream. And though a year’s space of time separates them, I don’t like mixing my lovers. The phone rang and it was Waldo! (after a year of silence). His English has improved, he made me work so hard translating for him in Rotterdam. I spoke in stilted Spanish, he spoke in broken English. My first phone call from Paris…! Wow! And he never received most of my letters. Crossed communications. Were the fates playing tricks on us? If Waldo and I had more contact (and if he wasn’t married), would I have melded with Neil? I feel like saying, “Neil, do you want me or not, for another man is still in love with me after a year of not seeing me. Waldo’s off to Chile June 27, and will return mid-August. His letter kept falling off the bolster, demanding my attention, I merely shoved it behind the photos on the wall, thinking I have no photo of Waldo there with Neil and Paul. Since my relationship with Paul is platonic, he’s the one staring out at me each night, watching over me as I sleep. These past days I’ve had calls from the three most important men in my life, all three of which, I didn’t even know a year ago, except in the dream.
Neil still wants to know what the dreams are about, when I reminded him it was a year ago we “met” in dreams. This much I told him: Something would happen (I don’t know what) and I would be terribly afraid, and he would lead me out… I didn’t tell him what the fear was about… He’s too bogged down in his worries and depressed to be subjected to the dream ravings of an imperfect clairvoyant. How to tell someone who still talks about not having a spouse—that we’re just “great pals,” and the implied statement: “you’re not the one,” to tell him that in the dreams we’re two-years married and my fear was of the marriage itself—that I thought we’d made a big mistake, I was without hope, but I HAD to trust him, had to come back to him—there was only our naked selves to face. It wasn’t about feeling trapped in a marriage per se, but about truly committing myself to the man in a deeper way I’ve never experienced before. I was truly frightened. This was life and death.
Waldo kept pleading, “Speak English to me!” It wasn’t my Spanish failing me, but the improbability of him calling me, on this, of all days! Dear Waldo! He was obviously as affected by meeting me as I was with him. So, why these three men? What is the gift? I was offered three choices, it’s as if I was given the opportunity to sample the virtues of each man sequentially: Waldo, Paul, Neil. My year and a day will end tomorrow. Perhaps it’s time to reveal more of the dream to Neil, he’s asked three times now. I’d better make sure he’s sitting down. He’ll probably shit bricks if I tell him. Yet, he too put the call out to the universe—and got me—but he chooses to look at gift horses in the mouth…
I had given Neil little talking to earlier this afternoon saying, “You’re responsible for your own happiness (or suffering, as the case may be), because the material he’s fighting predates his father’s death. He also asked me to bolster him up to help him to get a job, clipping want ads, making sure he was getting his résumé out, etc. He got a nibble for satellite disc sales; he and Gary Mullan took their résumés to 12 restaurants, then worked on a monologue of Bobby Kennedy. He tells me he is grateful to me for the attention and care I’ve given him, but is afraid of becoming dependent on me and others, and so, gets depressed instead. I said, “It’s obvious you need a little push and support. If I thought this was going to be a lifelong problem, I’d have second thoughts about it—I can’t fix things. (Is it a life-long problem?) I warned him my time and energy was limited, I was happy to share some of it with him, but it can be used up! “Careful how you use me. The energy I give you, I take from my art.” I also told him any time he wanted me to stop sending him ads, say but the word… As long as it feels balanced, I’m OK—he pours energy into me too. So far, it’s not an unequal exchange.
We talked in-depth about meditation and spirituality. He reads snippets from a yoga journal, a realm I know nothing of—eastern spiritual philosophy—I’m resistant, due to all the crazy cults. But I’m not resistant to him (he walks past my defenses), I realize how important this is to him, he wants to share this world with me. Finding the center, the stillness within. Kundalini, and a word I don’t know: shaktipat? energy transference, he suspected it would happen between us (a warning?) and to not be surprised or startled by it. Yes, we both sense there’s something more between us than meets the eye. He sees it in the spiritual arena, I feel it in the emotional realm. I wished for a man who can meet me on all fronts, it looks like my wish was granted. I asked for someone who had his retirement together, who spoke English, who was attractive on the physical, spiritual, intellectual , emotional levels… If this is what it takes, I will open up to it. But he’s also a bit out of control at this time (he’s a mess!), there is cause for alarm, he is a soul in transition. I have a hard time comprehending his living in debt, on credit cards, manipulating money. The whole thing makes me uneasy, I must admit. Big red flags, bells and whistles: a possible financial and emotional gamble, a risk. Be careful.
6/18 Neil arrives late at Verona’s. I’m miffed at him for turning down my invite and accepting hers. What does that tell me? Herman tells me Neil wants poems for his birthday. I scribble something. He greets them but it’s quite some time before he says hello to me (but I am writing!).They pour champagne, I try to put away my negative feelings and foreboding. I desperately want to put a stop on this day, stop time. I don’t want it to go forward. I’m uneasy in my skin. I don’t want to go to lunch with them. I’m the party-pooper, antisocial as hell. Bad dreams this morning. The maja veil is over my mind: I can’t recall enough to know what it’s all about. I remember thinking that something really traumatic needed happen to bind us to each other. I stared idly at Neil’s picture when a vision came into my head. Something about an accident. Neil laying in the middle of the road. I chalk it up to aggression, I’m a bit pissed at him. Then felt guilty.
We drink a toast and get into their car. It was just broadsided in a hit-and-run. The fender squeaks. Neil hesitates, “Shall we go in my car?” he asks. Verona says, “No, no. Don’t be silly. It’s your birthday. I’ll drive.” Neil and I crawl into the back seat. I reach for my safety belt, it’s not all there. Neither is Neil’s. I figure, “Oh well!” We thaw and begin to flirt. The champagne’s gone straight to my head. It’s like it was Easter—the sexual tension rising. It’s still there! I’m elated. We test each other on British kings, We know more that Verona, and she’s English!
6/2 I’ve got AV book looming over my head, editing paste up. I’m days behind, can’t seem to catch up—I’m distracted by Neil, but have nothing much to report. At Verona’s the other night, we slept on the living room floor, he drew a map of Scotland—his home town in relation to Paisley and Glasgow—on my naked back, his fingers tracing the firths, the islands—and the map began to blur from the hard pressure of cities, the feathery touch of inlets and rivers—the lover’s touch upon my back, but then, he pulled away—reluctantly, it seemed. What is wrong? He gathers my hand to his heart as we sleep, spoon-style, pulls me back into his arms as we each turn in tandem (like slowly orchestrated beached whales). One time his hand rested possessively on my hip—not a platonic gesture. I was certainly close enough to notice a hard-on, but I never detected one. Mornings he gathers me into his arms so completely, I feel I’ve come home, while in the night, his embraces are filled with reserve. It feels so natural for us to sleep together, and ironically, that’s a more intimate gesture than fucking—though neither of us sleeps too deeply, preoccupied with the newness of it, the potential. On the other hand, we’re never really been in a setting conducive to lovemaking: drunk at 4 AM in the back of my truck, mid-afternoon in the orchard with the tenants peeking on, in the middle of Verona’s living room floor, the odor of skunk clogging our nostrils.
Verona, Neil and I went over to the pool next morning and meditated until we were sunburned. Neil’s voice, so pure as he sang skyward the Vedic chants…jai ram… I recognize a few words: namaste, bodhisatva, mantra, om… Covering all bases, he threw in some Irish and Latin for good measure. Beannacht loive. Et cum spiri tu tuo. I felt like I was attached to the sky via a thread from the top of my head. I focused on love without attachment, on healing his heart and mine, the grief we’ve both suffered. As I floated in the pool I could hear his voice speaking inside me, our hearts beating in unison, sometimes in syncopation. A pulse in my womb like the clicking of an insect, was it a pulse or did my womb resonate with his heartbeat? So odd to hear the pulses aligning. I did not tell him his voice was inside my head for I do not know if it was real. Already my life has changed because of him (and his’ through mine?). The change could be seen as disruptive, we’re both attached to our own little rituals of living alone. This requires adjustment and negotiation for we’re always on the edge of survival. I know he is affected by me as I am by him, but he’s too busy holding onto memories, hurts. “My last great summer in California…” has become his mantra and he’s greedy for experiences to fill that nostalgia and I’m but one more memory. He’s a social butterfly; I’m not. His world is vast by comparison. He eventually does find the time for me, but I feel overwhelmed by the thought of his leaving in September.
We went out to breakfast, I’d misplaced my wallet, the morning’s grace undone. I’m frantic. He asks why. I confess to him my fear was a dichotomy: a fear of letting go and a fear of holding on. He says, “Everything you need is already inside of you.” And I thought how this man steadies me like no other ever could, for I am the skittish horse. Many’s the time when he’s pulled me into his arms and I’ve transformed, settled down. “Ach, look at how she’s settling in the noi!” he’d say.
6/9 Mon. Bolinas. A horrifically busy week, pasting up the AV book, meetings, preparing for Verona’s 6Oth birthday party, picking up food, chairs, cleaning Herman’s place (filthy) on Fri. I was quite grumpy for I had to work non-stop at breakneck speed to get everything ready for Saturday. I was still working when guests arrived, I found it hard to relax. Neil showed up at 5 PM, I felt a little distant for he hadn’t phoned in over a week, but as the evening wore on, we inevitably were drawn together like magnets. I try not to come so close, but I think neither of us can help it—like poor moths tricked by an artificial moon, plunging into the flame. Verona got quite drunk, wailing over her dead husband on the beach at sunset. As Neil sang and strummed, we took turns holding her. The evening was quite lovely. Crepuscular blue. Venus on the horizon. The party continued on back at the cabin till midnight with singing and storytelling. A jaunt to Smiley’s to see who’s playing, we danced a bit, then headed back to Herman’s cabin.
Neil was more than willing to spend the night (as I knew he would) but it was quite some time before he reached for me. I felt abandoned, thinking I was definitely going to bail, but by morning something shifted, and we were once again in each others arms, within the circle of love. A cozy morning. Herman and Verona returned early to Novato. It was late afternoon before we ventured into town for the Sun-Day festival, which was nearly over. It’s been a long time since I was last in Bolinas: merchants and locals asking where I’ve been, made me realize I too, was part of the landscape. Neil and Patrick hit it off as I knew they would, talking about Buddhism and the Tibetan Book of the Dead—I talked about my experiences with the dead, and the experiences with blue and green light. I usually keep quiet about this stuff, but it seemed OK. The said words like: enlightenment, astral projection. Neil and I keep learning about each other through our interactions with others. Yesterday he said, “I think Patrick fancies you.” I got quite upset because we’re just good friends. He backed down. Neil picks up on nuances, like that creep at the Nicasio bar. Usually I sidestep that riffraff. Like that guy Steve, at Smiley’s who asked me to take him home—I was shocked, I’ve known him for years, never giving him any encouragement! Must be something in the air.
Neil could be waffling, ready to bail, but I won’t let him be complacent. We went to RCA beach at sunset, and the personal stories began to surface: first sexual encounters, early relationships, wounds and battle scars. I asked, “How old were you when you lost your virginity?” He said, “That’s rather personal!” and laughed. He was 16, in London, it was something to get over with—not a great experience. We were in full confessional mode. Over dinner I told him about Herman’s approaching me, and how devastated and betrayed I felt. Neil raised the issue of incest, he saw it as a serious breech of trust. Yes. He kept probing and I realized my deep anger toward Herman is a direct result of that breech of trust. He was a father-figure, I was in mourning for the lost father. I was sad to be the one who shattered Neil’s picture of Herman. He said, “It’s karma.” He marvels at their libido: both interested in sex in their 60’s and 70’s! While Verona’s looking at other men, Herman sniffs around too, I don’t think either scores, but it’s not from lack of trying. Neil said “She fancies me too. It’s merely the flesh!” I wondered about the state of Neil’s libido.
I felt shy as he prepared for bed, it was as if he were a complete stranger, so I told him. He sad, “That’s because you’ve revealed something of yourself to me.” He crawled into bed next to me—it was different. Not late party flophouse crashing. This was more formal, a deliberate arrangement, I felt like Ryan’s daughter on her wedding night. We chose to lie next to each other. (There was another bed, the one we slept on last night.) He asked for a massage, and we slept naked in each other’s arms. A conscious choice, but still no sex. He nibbled on my neck, I shrieked and shuddered deliciously, the erotic pulse, like electricity. He said “I could feel that too.” When I asked him where his erogenous zones were, he said, “Dead.” (A warning!) But that didn’t stop us from touching the whole night long—holding, snuggling, cuddling takes on a whole new dimension when one is naked. Inexorably we are moving towards sex—though he still resists, I don’t force the issue. All in good time. For the relationship has deepened considerably in just 24 hours.
In the morning he exclaimed how long it’s been since he felt the loveliness of a woman’s naked back against his, and gave me a long massage, made me tea and toast. I was the bed sluggard. He massages me again (I think he just wants to explore my body), telling me about meditation and the chakras, touching them, then my 3rd eye, opening it just like that and I was gone—following him to the purple light, finding the stillness, the connection as he meditated beside me. Is his meditation the reason he holds back from a sexual relationship? Compatibility? I am truly open, perhaps for the first time in my life. Every day he surprises me, our perception of the other continues to grow. We agreed that there were no accidents, that we’re supposed to be together (at least for now) because we have some real work to do. I told him one of my roles was to be a sounding board, that he needed an observer to explore all realms of possibility. I keep getting snippets of dejá vús—not significant unto themselves, merely gateposts. He’s still curious about my dream of him, and I wouldn’t tell him. I said, “I didn’t want to force, or rush it. It has to evolve naturally. He let it go , but is anxious as to the nature of the information I’m withholding. But if he’s afraid to be my lover, how will he feel when I tell him he’s to be my husband? And of course, he could change the future, the outcome, by refusing to do anything—refusing to grow and stretch. In which case, we’ll be condemned to repeat this scenario in the next lifetime, or the next—until we get it right. I don’t want to scare him off. Last night, without meaning to, I said “I love you,” it just slipped out. He stumbled, but kept on talking, not sure if he’d heard, or imagined it. I had to laugh because he’s always saying revealing things to me under his breath. We are undressing each other emotionally, physically and spiritually. How erotic!
Today I slipped into the shower with him and we stood naked before each other—no blankets to hide behind. I scrubbed his back: he wanted more, more. I did his legs and chest, feeling a bit shy. He was less modest with me, more thorough, inspecting me with a practiced eye, liking what he saw. My breasts pointing at him—a dare to touch them as he bent to scrub my thighs and calves. I can’t say he rose to the challenge, but he definitely got a buzz. Here I was, standing naked before an O’Neill, reenacting an age-old story; our ancestors having done this before. As I put on cream, he watched my every move in such open admiration, I was glad to have breasts. He put his hands on my shoulders, leaned over and bit my neck again. I made him bite the other side for balance and he said it affected him too.
“Uncircumcised,” I blurted out of context, as we tried to get the boat engine to work. We ran through his lines; a defrocked Protestant. My grandmother would roll over in her grave! “A cuddle for a cup of tea?” he asked. Silly. But we do spend a lot of time in each other’s arms. He marveled how we’re so much alike. “Chatterboxes. It’s amazing we can stand each other, let alone spends days together.” He comments that my face is so Irish, saying his eyesight is so bad, that I’m probably much prettier that he thinks I am. I’m surprised, for I didn’t think he thought of me as pretty. He’s beginning to thaw, though at the car his kiss was closed-mouthed. I demanded another, he laughed knowingly and kissed me again before driving home. I stay another night in that bed, breathing in his scent.
6/13 Friday. Today I told Neil that I dreamt of him (and two other men) a year ago today (six months before I actually met him.) I told him about Paul Evans but hesitated over the details of Waldo Rojas—because we were lovers just like in the dream, and I didn’t want to give that away. Besides, they were both my lovers simultaneously changing back and forth within the dream. And though a year’s space of time separates them, I don’t like mixing my lovers. The phone rang and it was Waldo! (after a year of silence). His English has improved, he made me work so hard translating for him in Rotterdam. I spoke in stilted Spanish, he spoke in broken English. My first phone call from Paris…! Wow! And he never received most of my letters. Crossed communications. Were the fates playing tricks on us? If Waldo and I had more contact (and if he wasn’t married), would I have melded with Neil? I feel like saying, “Neil, do you want me or not, for another man is still in love with me after a year of not seeing me. Waldo’s off to Chile June 27, and will return mid-August. His letter kept falling off the bolster, demanding my attention, I merely shoved it behind the photos on the wall, thinking I have no photo of Waldo there with Neil and Paul. Since my relationship with Paul is platonic, he’s the one staring out at me each night, watching over me as I sleep. These past days I’ve had calls from the three most important men in my life, all three of which, I didn’t even know a year ago, except in the dream.
Neil still wants to know what the dreams are about, when I reminded him it was a year ago we “met” in dreams. This much I told him: Something would happen (I don’t know what) and I would be terribly afraid, and he would lead me out… I didn’t tell him what the fear was about… He’s too bogged down in his worries and depressed to be subjected to the dream ravings of an imperfect clairvoyant. How to tell someone who still talks about not having a spouse—that we’re just “great pals,” and the implied statement: “you’re not the one,” to tell him that in the dreams we’re two-years married and my fear was of the marriage itself—that I thought we’d made a big mistake, I was without hope, but I HAD to trust him, had to come back to him—there was only our naked selves to face. It wasn’t about feeling trapped in a marriage per se, but about truly committing myself to the man in a deeper way I’ve never experienced before. I was truly frightened. This was life and death.
Waldo kept pleading, “Speak English to me!” It wasn’t my Spanish failing me, but the improbability of him calling me, on this, of all days! Dear Waldo! He was obviously as affected by meeting me as I was with him. So, why these three men? What is the gift? I was offered three choices, it’s as if I was given the opportunity to sample the virtues of each man sequentially: Waldo, Paul, Neil. My year and a day will end tomorrow. Perhaps it’s time to reveal more of the dream to Neil, he’s asked three times now. I’d better make sure he’s sitting down. He’ll probably shit bricks if I tell him. Yet, he too put the call out to the universe—and got me—but he chooses to look at gift horses in the mouth…
I had given Neil little talking to earlier this afternoon saying, “You’re responsible for your own happiness (or suffering, as the case may be), because the material he’s fighting predates his father’s death. He also asked me to bolster him up to help him to get a job, clipping want ads, making sure he was getting his résumé out, etc. He got a nibble for satellite disc sales; he and Gary Mullan took their résumés to 12 restaurants, then worked on a monologue of Bobby Kennedy. He tells me he is grateful to me for the attention and care I’ve given him, but is afraid of becoming dependent on me and others, and so, gets depressed instead. I said, “It’s obvious you need a little push and support. If I thought this was going to be a lifelong problem, I’d have second thoughts about it—I can’t fix things. (Is it a life-long problem?) I warned him my time and energy was limited, I was happy to share some of it with him, but it can be used up! “Careful how you use me. The energy I give you, I take from my art.” I also told him any time he wanted me to stop sending him ads, say but the word… As long as it feels balanced, I’m OK—he pours energy into me too. So far, it’s not an unequal exchange.
We talked in-depth about meditation and spirituality. He reads snippets from a yoga journal, a realm I know nothing of—eastern spiritual philosophy—I’m resistant, due to all the crazy cults. But I’m not resistant to him (he walks past my defenses), I realize how important this is to him, he wants to share this world with me. Finding the center, the stillness within. Kundalini, and a word I don’t know: shaktipat? energy transference, he suspected it would happen between us (a warning?) and to not be surprised or startled by it. Yes, we both sense there’s something more between us than meets the eye. He sees it in the spiritual arena, I feel it in the emotional realm. I wished for a man who can meet me on all fronts, it looks like my wish was granted. I asked for someone who had his retirement together, who spoke English, who was attractive on the physical, spiritual, intellectual , emotional levels… If this is what it takes, I will open up to it. But he’s also a bit out of control at this time (he’s a mess!), there is cause for alarm, he is a soul in transition. I have a hard time comprehending his living in debt, on credit cards, manipulating money. The whole thing makes me uneasy, I must admit. Big red flags, bells and whistles: a possible financial and emotional gamble, a risk. Be careful.
6/18 Neil arrives late at Verona’s. I’m miffed at him for turning down my invite and accepting hers. What does that tell me? Herman tells me Neil wants poems for his birthday. I scribble something. He greets them but it’s quite some time before he says hello to me (but I am writing!).They pour champagne, I try to put away my negative feelings and foreboding. I desperately want to put a stop on this day, stop time. I don’t want it to go forward. I’m uneasy in my skin. I don’t want to go to lunch with them. I’m the party-pooper, antisocial as hell. Bad dreams this morning. The maja veil is over my mind: I can’t recall enough to know what it’s all about. I remember thinking that something really traumatic needed happen to bind us to each other. I stared idly at Neil’s picture when a vision came into my head. Something about an accident. Neil laying in the middle of the road. I chalk it up to aggression, I’m a bit pissed at him. Then felt guilty.
We drink a toast and get into their car. It was just broadsided in a hit-and-run. The fender squeaks. Neil hesitates, “Shall we go in my car?” he asks. Verona says, “No, no. Don’t be silly. It’s your birthday. I’ll drive.” Neil and I crawl into the back seat. I reach for my safety belt, it’s not all there. Neither is Neil’s. I figure, “Oh well!” We thaw and begin to flirt. The champagne’s gone straight to my head. It’s like it was Easter—the sexual tension rising. It’s still there! I’m elated. We test each other on British kings, We know more that Verona, and she’s English!
(And then, the car accident in West Marin, that pivotable moment when your life changes completely.)
