Journal entry, 4/13/98 Easter

4/13/1998 And so I called Neil who sounded a bit guarded but he’s been that way since my departure. It surprised me to learn that he’s been spending some time focusing on my dilemma—taxes and depression, admitting that he had reneged on those promises to help. A breakthrough. So his nos can become yesses. It was a wretched morning for me as I’ve been so depressed the past few weeks that I’ve been nearly dysfunctional. He told me to bring my taxes with me to meet him at the ashram, which I did.

I’m in such a fragile state, that the ashram was a calming refuge, but I couldn’t stop the weeping. He said to bring something of value to leave at the chair of the guru, so I left a silk painting, I had given the others to Wendy and Alison–as it was their birthdays. I wrote my wishes on a prayer stick, Finely sliced wood, one wish was to have a loving relationship and family. Also a prayer for strength and the resolve to grow through this trying time, to put my taxes behind me, to put to bed my grief over my parents and their death. To send to put it into the suffering of these past five years. I also prayed for a career, at least for guidance and for help.

My rock-bottom status—I’ve given up all hope and have lost the will to be a warrior. He took me to the altar of the statue of Laxmi bedecked with flowers in the breezeway. Should I have left my painting of flowers with him or with the guru? I left my prayer stick with him. What happens to the prayer sticks? Do they burn them? And my art? Do they burn it too? give it away? It’s like leaving a child behind. That just further increases my feeling of abandonment.

At the bookstore, the clerks exclaimed over my pieces. I had asked for a bag large enough for them. A lot of unexpected feedback positive. I flamed red, my face was hot—an unexpected source of praise.

Funny, when I was in the main meditation hall, I could feel energy rising from the top of my head but was it split into two directions. Later I realized one thread veered towards Laxmi, and the other towards the guru. As we first enter the meditation hall, he took my hand, holding it firmly, full of strength. And I again had that feeling of connection. The aha! moment. I belong here. Many hugs and weeping.

But by the time we got to the picnic, it was very late in the afternoon, The picnic was loads of fun. Vito, Jane Ayles, and Bob were there as well as Wendy’s family. Larry Spears and Naomi Gibson with their kids. Naomi left for Scotland as her grandmother had died—three deaths since the New Year’s. Tomas the intern was a little red-eyed as he’s on the night shift rotatuon at Highland Hospital but we had a rousing game of rounders which is a free-form softball with the kids.

As we headed back I began to sink into a depression again. How much of this is due to a profound lack of sleep? Tom and I chitchatted on the couch. I tried to to nap. Neil was talking to Jane Bark. We went to Pasand for dinner and had lamb for Easter.

We came home and Tom napped before going to work at midnight. Neil and I poured our souls out to each other and meditating for 20 minutes. The energy centered and rose in my crown and my feet began to buzz. They haven’t done that since I’ve left, I’ve missed that connection, literally. Neil said that sometimes that happens to people their feet open up, but it’s not common. Why, I wonder, I’ve always like to be barefoot, I suspect, to feel the energy flow through me.

As to what it is, scientifically speaking, I’d say it’s like the magnetic fields an acupuncturist stimulates. Nerve pathways which transmit electronic impulses. Whether or not I believe in all of this is moot as it’s happening to me. I’ve experienced it before but it was never quite so intense. I can see why people get all hooked on it, and of course I’m suspicious of that stuff too. But the life I’ve been living is no longer meaningful so, I’ve nothing to lose by it.

Neil says so many things I wonder if I can recall much of it except by paraphrase. Namely that I was on the verge of opening up, letting the shaktipat in, and he said I’d see how and why it changed my life. The spiritual community exists for a reason. I’m not a believer.  Vito said that I should do kitchen seva, etc. that’s his thing, to do dishes, but I reject this. I do enough dishes at home. Thank you very much.. Why is it that men are willing to do dishes at the ashram but not at home? Talk about double standard.

We talked a lot about the sources of my depression. Neil wants me to go to counseling—we share the same symptoms. I feel I’ve been depressed for a while, but I find it curious that he’s not willing to go to a counselor to see if his is a clinical depression. I know what the source of mine is, my parents deaths and the unresolved problems around them.

I played mirror for him and I said it doesn’t matter how you do it, just as long as you do it. He’s chosen the path of meditation and it’s helped him enormously via spiritual growth, but bottom line, he is still depressed. Why I don’t hear from him, besides the fact that he’s overwhelmed and or busy, is because he continues to be depressed. We talk about or despair, how the thought of suicide becomes evocative and unacceptable at the same time, the point being that the despair leads us to that place.

Earlier on, I had talk to him about how it was his responsibility to mine joy in his life, not someone else’s job. Strange to hear my own words back on his lips. Was I following him or maybe he was following me—we were on the same path.

We made ready for bed he said tonight is special mean we get to sleep together, but just this once and I become icy with anger, lying there, too tired to leave, having taken an allergy pill and a muscle relaxant at the same time. I spit out, you say that like I’m going to attack you? This is your decision. You call the shots. You defined the relationship. When he asked why I couldn’t just let it go and be friends. I said why are you so attached to nullifying thismrelationship thing because this is how it began, how we started. I don’t know when nor how it shifted into friendship with you but somewhere it did after the accident. I’ve been trying to hack away at it to no avail. because you keep giving me mixed signals.

I said part of the reason for my depression is the separation and I’m in grief over you as well. Boy did he deny that one, saying no no no no it’s about your parents, old issues, it’s not about me. I have nothing to do with it. Oh, then, denial is it. He was hurt that he was being attacked for being honest, saying we had three or four big episodes dealing with this, I thought we were clear. I reminded him again he was dictating the shape of things. He said something about my choosing the path of suffering and anger and hurt by being blocked. When I didn’t have to, as if I’d had a choice.

I can resolve to cut off all relationships with him, I’ve done it before, but I am not sure it’s the right path because I only feel right when I’m beside him. I had no answer, the anger dissipated as quickly as it came but I was glacial. His touch disarmed me and I rolled into his arms saying thank you for this evening. I get trapped in my own anger. Remember when I told you I had the hardest lesson was patience?

He said, you become stranger when you’re angry, you’re unrecognizable. I don’t think he said a beast or an animal. But funny how anger wounds you. You mean it for others, but it hurts you more, he said, falling asleep. He stroked my face. I contemplated that maybe he really doesn’t love me. He’s not in denial, or dishonest. Maybe something really did slough off. maybe he’s just a gadfly.

On the other hand, his depression and lack of desire have a lot to do with it. What is the best path to take? We were in contact all night long, mammalian warmth, creature comfort. I dreamed of finding a rubber on his desk and freaked only to discover it wasn’t opened. Still, it upset me because it was all out there on the table—literally. For me, or another woman I don’t have a clue.

Another tidbit—maybe we’re just dreaming up this moment during our long talks. I told him accident unhinged me and made a hole in my psyche and he was inside my head. He said I am you, there is no division. We are all one. I said I am afraid I am a fraud, and  he said, we all feel that way inside.

Journal entry, 4/7/98, continued, my mother’s marriage certificate, tax woes

4/7/1998  I fell asleep sometime after 8 PM and awoke at 10:30 with the TV blaring, some lame squawk show, so I turned off the lights and went back to sleep—only to awaken again at 6:30 in the morning. I dozed until 7:30 AM, my first full night’s sleep since I left Niel’s place in February. For lent I gave up sleep? I don’t think so. I awoke with erotic thoughts of Neil and wondering if I jumped his bones if that would’ve made any difference, or would he have rejected me anyway?

Yesterday my mother‘s marriage certificate arrived in the mail and I had to laugh, she told me they were married sometime in February or March 1952, this after telling me I was born at eight months, or I was a love child. But the date was June 29th! Practically July—and I was born in November. Talk about being on the way. I was not an eight-month baby but a five-month baby. Right? She said I was the only child she carried full-term most likely because I was conceived in March. Whose wedding Was it, I wonder?

Neil called, wanting to know about Walt Whitman! and I gave some pointers on what to look for: free verse, his was the first truly American poetic form, etc. Then he asked me if I I plan to file my taxes and we got into an imbroglio—I become sullen and quiet. 

He prods me, asking if I choose to pack around this pain and suffering. I accuse him of abandoning me, not making the time to help me. I felt betrayed, and that he didn’t listen to me. What I needed was someone to physically walk me through the process, to hold my hand. He said he would as soon as school was out, but this year he wouldn’t be able to help me at all. I’m angry because he didn’t help me when he said he would, and now there was no time for me. I am not a high priority. How He worked his way out of that promise saying he’d help me, when all he did was to drive me to Office Depot to pick up some files and ledgers. That’s not supporting me,  or is it going over the process so I understand what I’m supposed to be doing.

Journal entry, 4/7/98 reprise and regret

4/7/98  By now I must assume that he has gotten all my little notes, about Wendy’s the Easter party, my aunt Jane’s travel stuff. He’s leaving at the end of June for Scotland and going on a retreat in the Catskills for 10 days for the ashram. Whatever. It’s hard for me to accept that the ashram stuff is actually good for him, I think it makes him compartmentalize things even more. He maintains that its kept him whole. That’s debatable.

And of course there’s my missive. I’ve never let someone into my journal like that before, so it’s a big risk. He will hopefully see another side of me that isn’t readily available and perhaps be more understanding. Or not. Trouble is, he’s not much of a reader. Will he even bother to read it? I think so, but retention is a whole other matter. It’s a lively enough read, and it’s all about him—you know, the actor ego—so maybe.

Journal entry, 4/6/98 continued, home again

4/6 continued… Home again, not because I want to be here, but because I can’t stand what has happened to us, and so waiting around for Neil is pure torture. I get into a lather too easily, and I was sleepy coming home, partially because the alcohol, too much Guinness and champagne during the course of the evening, and partially because of depression coming on, having found his wishlist what he wants—a wife and kids—thinking what’s wrong with me? I feel marginalized, I am still not convinced he doesn’t love me though he is icy, but we’re both a little cool towards each other.

I left a copy of my journal notes to August 8 I left a quick note saying I thought he’d be interested in reading my notes to jog his memory that we were never merely pals, before the accident. I said I understood if someone falls in love and then out of love again, that’s another story. But to say that there was never anything there? He has done me a most grevious wrong and I don’t know anything that can right it.

Journal entry, 4/6/98, continued, Actors can’t commit

4/6 continued.... Bedtime roulette—since Gary Mullan was staying over on the couch after the Bay Area Theater Circle Critic’s Award, Neil and I slept together, chaste, but still we snuggled. He didn’t move away, but there’s a gulf between us. I slept in for the first time in ages. It seems like I can only sleep in at Neil‘s. Will this never stop?

Neil got up at five to take Gary to the airport, and then onto the ashram. So I’m here, but not quite alone. Tom Harrell, the intern, is here too for the month and as we go through our rather public trials and tribulations, I really wish Tom wasn’t here. He’s moved in, and I’m not really welcome. That’s not really true as Neil said this house loves you and you were always welcome here. Odd because he’s moved things around and I feel displaced as if the things themselves represented the familiar placeholders for something more than time and memory.

But, now he’s away at school and I haven’t a clue as to the long range plan. If I’m to leave, I should do it soon as traffic is horrendous in the afternoon.

I’m invited to Easter at Wendy Worsley’s. Maybe I should be satisfied with just that, be friends from afar, friends from a distance across the room.

As we drove across the Bay Bridge last night, Neil said it was really good to see the gang—his family—again, that he missed them and didn’t realize it. I was pretty reserved yesterday, feeling ambivalent after Sunday, though my cousin Sinead said you guys were in each others’s hip pockets. Maybe so, but I suspect we are both a bit frozen and I don’t see any thaw, we are both on our guard.

At Kate O’Brien’s I told Wendy about leaving Neil, but she said she already knew. I said that I was sorry for having kidnapped him on Sunday evening, but it was the first time we’ve had a normal interaction since I had left. She said, we must hope and pray for it. I also told Neil’s actor friend, Matt Klein, and he said, actors? They never can commit. Matt’s castmates, John Anderson and Alex were saying, awww what a nice guy Neil is, and here I am, thinking, what a jerk.

Journal entry, 4/6/98 Bay Area Theater Critic’s Circle Award

4/6/98 I was ambivalent about going to the Bay Area Theater Critic’s Circle Awards at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. I doubt that Neil would’ve understood if I didn’t show up. Was I so important? It’s just that I don’t like being part of the dog-and-pony show. Frank McGuinness’s play, Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme racked in the awards. Naomi Gibson won Best Director for the season’s run, and Sons won Best Ensemble, that’s everybody, the entire cast. Wow. Gary Mullan flew up from LA, he was Neil‘s understudy, and took over the part after Neil’s accident.

Nearly everybody in the cast was at the event, except for Seamus who was in New York. It was great to see the old gang again. Someone said it was like doing the show all over again, that same feeling of camaraderie. At the awards, Larry Spears, Naomi’s husband, said, though we are a new theater group, we are here to stay.  

We all went out to Kate O’Brien‘s Pub afterwards. After all, this is where the play was originally staged. They put Naomi on the bar and she gave a speech, I can’t remember what all was said for the Guinness and the champagne were flowing. She gave another incoherent speech on a stool, and an Aran Islander, too drunk to stand, interrupted her every word.

We had a fabulous rooting squad, lots of us showed up, people whose names I didn’t even know, but I remember their faces. Some woman named Patricia remembered my name, so though we were injured, I must’ve made an impression. She asked if I was part of the Exit Theater group and I said no. Maybe it was a Verona connection? No. It didn’t matter. We drank to the stars.

Larry? Or someone at hired a stretch limousine and we all piled in taking turns cruising around the block. Going nowhere, other than in circles. Perne in a gyre. Such ridiculous fun. We told Gary that he was going to be next at the Oscars, and so he picks up the bar tab. 

I got a chance to talk with Gary’s girlfriend, whom he is thinking of leaving. I liked her. And I said to Gary, you must choose. Either you want your freedom, or you’re committed. I expected him to leave her, but he’s sticking it out. I’ve got to admire him for that. When I told him about my imbroglio with Neil, having left him on Ash Wednesday—thinking I never see him again, and yet here we are. He said these things have a way of working themselves out. I’m not so sure.

Journal entry, 4/5/98 Palm Sunday

4/5/98 Palm Sunday. Neil came to mass in Nicasio.We went over to the Druid’s Hall for the annual church brunch. We took a hike up the hill above the church. He was reciting Malvolio’s lines for the play. We walked down to the old school house, stopping into the Rancho to say hi to Danny the bartender who bought us two beers, and then we had dinner at Sinead’s, it was family day to the max. He was about to leave around 5 PM with a little arm twisting he stayed for dinner.

On top of the hill we goofed around. He got me into an interesting hold, bending me back into his arms and up into the air not once, but three times so it look like we were doing the tango. Maybe we were, only there was no music. Suggestive much? I don’t know, I’m feeling a bit cold towards him.

I don’t know where we are going, but at the top of the hill we had a good time. We lay in one another’s arms, facing skyward until the dampness of the grass caught our attention. The long slow body contact, holding hands as he recited his lines, I didn’t know what to think. What are we, Victorians? Entire novels have been written about this kind of foreplay. Some eye contact, but beyond the superficial glance, I don’t read anything into it at this point because I’ve been there before.

As we came down the hill he said that he was there for me—whatever that means. Is it merely my coldness or is the spark really gone? He asked me to transform my love, have I done so or is it merely a form of denial?

Later I drew the runes and asked if it was over, and instead, I got strength. So I asked again and I got separation, but reversed, followed by the great awakening. All three cycles represent self -change, and terminations equal new beginnings. What am I to make of this? At first I thought it was completely negative reading as in yes it’s over, but upon closer inspection more meets the eye, though I harbor little hope.

In the bar I got pretty blitzed on one beer and I refused to give him his cues unless he gave me a wee kitty. He offered his cheek instead, and I said, no you got to kiss me on the lips, and so he kissed his finger and then touched my lips after meowing like a kitty. So I didn’t exactly win my point.

He may honestly have not remembered our dalliances last year before the accident. I didn’t give him my notes yet but I did give him the poems, which he read. I’m also on my period so I’m a bit more bitchy in general. We are more scrappy, but it’s definitely a new phase. He made a few references to last Palm Sunday about dragging me across the field like Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man. I said you’re too late, you had your chance. He was also admiring my ankles after mass, I had low heels on. The only form of touching allow these days is wrestling but the very fact that we are wrestling is an improvement over the past few months.

It was good to revisit the past in public, so we could not fulminate or get lost in endless arguments. It was safe ground. The real question—do we still like each other? That’s obvious. We still like body contact too. I told him I’d never be anything but who I already am, and he told me to shush and calm down. I said and you wouldn’t want it any other way. He agreed.

And there’s still more distance between us, separate paths but I need to get going on the lawsuit stuff and I need to not be estranged from him. But we have to resolve this business so we can move onto the next level, whatever that is. I do feel that we are growing apart but our lives are so intertwined.

I told him how difficult it was that he never listened to me or remembered what I said. I hate having to say I told you so, but I’ve been doing it a lot lately. Last semester was a pretty trying time for me. We hugged and he said he felt something of his old self returning. It’s been a long dark passage for both of us. I’m still a little mad at him so I am less willing to trade small favors. I am still smarting from Alison’s remark about my wearing my heart on my sleeve. Oh, so it’s that old game, is it? Does she still hold a torch for him somewhere beneath all that calm exterior? I picked Neil a thistle from the top of the hill. A thorn in each other’s side.

Journal notes: Dear Neil letter

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 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. 

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.

April Fools' Day, 1998, Forestville

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, i

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, i

They say silence is golden but

King Midas and the alchemists

eventually learned it was leaden.

Perhaps seeking the gift of eloquence,

I climbed the grey tower to the rampart,

bent over backwards to kiss a stone

beneath an impossibly blue sky,

became the curve of an unstrung bow,

my lips brushing cold, mossy stone,

above the rusted bars dripping with dew

through which the dizzying ground

and nervous grass rushed up to meet me,

as if afraid of losing contact with the birds

and long-lost kin from across the sea.

Like the priest at mass as we kissed Jesus’s feet,

the keeper wiped the stone with a white kerchief.

Trees murmured and the stream sang of ancestors.

They say Cormac McCarty (a distant relation),

 who had a way with words, persuaded the Queen

to keep his castle lands.

She thought his blarney an Irish treasure.

They say the stone was Jacob’s Dream,

or a fragment of the Lía Fail, that screamed

when the rightful king touched it,

or the Stone of Scone beneath her throne.

For the chieftain’s son I made a cape of finest silk

wrought with rainbow hues and golden knotwork.

The bowstring, an aeolian harp on these distant shores

west of Tír na n-Óg, the land of youth,

where I tended his wounds on the battlefield,

The Golden Gate cradled us, we were rich

but barbed arrows pierced us with sharper words.

Like the Queen, I prefer the chatter of silvered tongues

to that of silence; ours’ grow tarnished with disuse.

But no matter how far I bend to break this impasse

his silence speaks more than words ever could.

Ides of March 1998

different poem, same title—not sure which came first

variant

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, ii

—For Neil O’Neill. 

Queen Medbh said to Cú Chullain: 

Each one of us will die naked and alone, 

on a battlefield not of our own choosing.

Seeking the end of eloquence,

I climbed the grey tower to lie on the rampart.

Canted back, I was the sinewy curve of a longbow 

hemmed by iron bars dripping with dew,

my hips arched to the sky’s sublime mouth—

The dizzying ground and nervous grasses flew 

up to greet me, as if afraid of losing contact with birds

and other long-lost kin from across the sea— 

Trees and stream murmured to cloud ascendancy

as the world spun topsy-turvy past my crown.

Five hundred years of lips brushing stone and air!

They say the McCarthy, who had his way with words,

wooed the First Elizabeth to keep his castle lands. 

She proclaimed his tongue a treasure, and wishing favor, 

others made pilgrimage to kiss the stone for luck.

They say his ancestor saved a bean sídhe from drowning.

She cast a spell of the honeyed tongue upon the stone.

They say it was a fragment of the ancient Lía Fáil, 

they say it was the very pillow of Jacob’s Dream,

they say it was the Stone of Destiny that roared with ecstasy 

when Érin’s true kings were crowned at Hy Tara.

Some say it’s the same Stone of Scone beneath her throne, 

but it fell silent, a thousand years in enemy hands.

Like an alterboy at the mass where we kissed Christ’s feet,

the footman wiped the stone as if linen could cleanse 

the rock wearied by five centuries of lips’ mute testament.

For the chieftain’s son I conceived a cloak of finest silk,

a crest wrought with golden knotwork and rainbow strands:

below three stars, the severed hand of the ancestor

who won a kingdom in a race by throwing his limb to shore. 

Not content with Érin, Niáll’s scion sent the Stone to Alba,

to crown a brother, but his tongue bested him: a cleft truce sworn 

on Patrick’s staff: trapped in a pyre, he drowned in a vat of ale.

Destiny found us on more distant shores west of Tír Eoghain,

in Tír Tairngire, the Promised Land of Brendan the Navigator, 

where the salmon of wisdom swam wild in the Golden Gate,

where I tended the Uí Niáll’s wounds on new battlefields, 

where I fed this son of Ulster champion tales of Cú Chulainn, 

claimed by both sides, who died chained to that dolmen, 

and how it wept when Tír na n-Óg took him in.

Born with a gilded tongue, my chieftain’s son 

had no need of kissing stones. He made a nest in my ear, 

charmed my soul, then flew off with the wild geese—

red-handed fear reigned inside a heart of stone—

leaving a hunger of words to hatch in my mouth.

Like the alien Queen, I prefer silvered-tongued chatter 

to tacit silence: our tongues grow tarnished, no matter 

how far back I bend to kiss that stone, his silence 

drowns more than this battlefield of words. 

Ides of March - St. Patrick’s Day, 1998

this seems to be the final version

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, iii

                            —For Neil O’Neill

Queen Medbh said to Cú Chullain: 

Each one of us will die naked and alone, 

on a battlefield not of our own choosing.

Seeking the end of eloquence,
I climbed the grey tower to lie on the rampart.
Canted back, I was the sinewy curve of a longbow
hemmed by iron bars dripping with dew,
my hips arched to the sky’s sublime mouth—
The dizzying ground and nervous grasses flew
up to greet me, as if afraid of losing contact with birds
and other long-lost kin from across the sea—
Trees and stream murmured to cloud ascendancy
as the world spun topsy-turvy past my crown.
Five hundred years of lips brushing stone and air!
They say the McCarthy, who had his way with words,
wooed the First Elizabeth to keep his castle lands.
She proclaimed his tongue a treasure, and wishing favor,
others made pilgrimage to kiss the stone for luck.
They say his ancestor saved a bean sídhe from drowning.
She cast a spell of the honeyed tongue upon the stone.
They say it was a fragment of the ancient Lía Fáil,
they say it was the very pillow of Jacob’s Dream,
they say it was the Stone of Destiny that roared with ecstasy
when Érin’s true kings were crowned at Hy Tara.
Some say it’s the same Stone of Scone beneath her throne,
but it fell silent, a thousand years in enemy hands.
Like an alterboy at the mass where we kissed Christ’s feet,
the footman wiped the stone as if linen could cleanse
the rock wearied by five centuries of lips’ mute testament.

Ides of March - St. Patrick’s Day, 1998

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, iii

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK

                            —For Neil O’Neill

Queen Medbh said to Cú Chullain: 

Each one of us will die naked and alone, 

on a battlefield not of our own choosing.

Seeking the end of eloquence,
I climbed the grey tower to lie on the rampart.
Canted back, I was the sinewy curve of a longbow
hemmed by iron bars dripping with dew,
my hips arched to the sky’s sublime mouth—
The dizzying ground and nervous grasses flew
up to greet me, as if afraid of losing contact with birds
and other long-lost kin from across the sea—
Trees and stream murmured to cloud ascendancy
as the world spun topsy-turvy past my crown.
Five hundred years of lips brushing stone and air!
They say the McCarthy, who had his way with words,
wooed the First Elizabeth to keep his castle lands.
She proclaimed his tongue a treasure, and wishing favor,
others made pilgrimage to kiss the stone for luck.
They say his ancestor saved a bean sídhe from drowning.
She cast a spell of the honeyed tongue upon the stone.
They say it was a fragment of the ancient Lía Fáil,
they say it was the very pillow of Jacob’s Dream,
they say it was the Stone of Destiny that roared with ecstasy
when Érin’s true kings were crowned at Hy Tara.
Some say it’s the same Stone of Scone beneath her throne,
but it fell silent, a thousand years in enemy hands.
Like an alterboy at the mass where we kissed Christ’s feet,
the footman wiped the stone as if linen could cleanse
the rock wearied by five centuries of lips’ mute testament.

Ides of March - St. Patrick’s Day, 1998



variant 1

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, i
—For Neil O’Neill. 
Queen Medbh said to Cú Chullain: 
Each one of us will die naked and alone, 
on a battlefield not of our own choosing.

Seeking the end of eloquence,
I climbed the grey tower to lie on the rampart.
Canted back, I was the sinewy curve of a longbow 
hemmed by iron bars dripping with dew,
my hips arched to the sky’s sublime mouth—
The dizzying ground and nervous grasses flew 
up to greet me, as if afraid of losing contact with birds
and other long-lost kin from across the sea— 
Trees and stream murmured to cloud ascendancy
as the world spun topsy-turvy past my crown.
Five hundred years of lips brushing stone and air!
They say the McCarthy, who had his way with words,
wooed the First Elizabeth to keep his castle lands. 
She proclaimed his tongue a treasure, and wishing favor, 
others made pilgrimage to kiss the stone for luck.
They say his ancestor saved a bean sídhe from drowning.
She cast a spell of the honeyed tongue upon the stone.
They say it was a fragment of the ancient Lía Fáil, 
they say it was the very pillow of Jacob’s Dream,
they say it was the Stone of Destiny that roared with ecstasy 
when Érin’s true kings were crowned at Hy Tara.
Some say it’s the same Stone of Scone beneath her throne, 
but it fell silent, a thousand years in enemy hands.
Like an alterboy at the mass where we kissed Christ’s feet,
the footman wiped the stone as if linen could cleanse 
the rock wearied by five centuries of lips’ mute testament.

For the chieftain’s son I conceived a cloak of finest silk,
a crest wrought with golden knotwork and rainbow strands:
below three stars, the severed hand of the ancestor
who won a kingdom in a race by throwing his limb to shore. 
Not content with Érin, Niáll’s scion sent the Stone to Alba,
to crown a brother, but his tongue bested him: a cleft truce sworn 
on Patrick’s staff: trapped in a pyre, he drowned in a vat of ale.
Destiny found us on more distant shores west of Tír Eoghain,
in Tír Tairngire, the Promised Land of Brendan the Navigator, 
where the salmon of wisdom swam wild in the Golden Gate,
where I tended the Uí Niáll’s wounds on new battlefields, 
where I fed this son of Ulster champion tales of Cú Chulainn, 
claimed by both sides, who died chained to that dolmen, 
and how it wept when Tír na n-Óg took him in.
Born with a gilded tongue, my chieftain’s son 
had no need of kissing stones. He made a nest in my ear, 
charmed my soul, then flew off with the wild geese—
red-handed fear reigned inside a heart of stone—
leaving a hunger of words to hatch in my mouth.
Like the alien Queen, I prefer silvered-tongued chatter 
to tacit silence: our tongues grow tarnished, no matter 
how far back I bend to kiss that stone, his silence 
drowns more than this battlefield of words. 

Ides of March - St. Patrick’s Day, 1998



different poem, same title—not sure which came first

TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, i

They say silence is golden but

King Midas and the alchemists

eventually learned it was leaden.

Perhaps seeking the gift of eloquence,

I climbed the grey tower to the rampart,

bent over backwards to kiss a stone

beneath an impossibly blue sky,

became the curve of an unstrung bow,

my lips brushing cold, mossy stone,

above the rusted bars dripping with dew

through which the dizzying ground

and nervous grass rushed up to meet me,

as if afraid of losing contact with the birds

and long-lost kin from across the sea.

Like the priest at mass as we kissed Jesus’s feet,

the keeper wiped the stone with a white kerchief.

Trees murmured and the stream sang of ancestors.

They say Cormac McCarty (a distant relation),

 who had a way with words, persuaded the Queen

to keep his castle lands.

She thought his blarney an Irish treasure.

They say the stone was Jacob’s Dream,

or a fragment of the Lía Fail, that screamed

when the rightful king touched it,

or the Stone of Scone beneath her throne.

For the chieftain’s son I made a cape of finest silk

wrought with rainbow hues and golden knotwork.

The bowstring, an aeolian harp on these distant shores

west of Tír na n-Óg, the land of youth,

where I tended his wounds on the battlefield,

The Golden Gate cradled us, we were rich

but barbed arrows pierced us with sharper words.

Like the Queen, I prefer the chatter of silvered tongues

to that of silence; ours’ grow tarnished with disuse.

But no matter how far I bend to break this impasse

his silence speaks more than words ever could.

Ides of March 1998

Journal entry: Ides of March

Journal entry: Ides of March

Weeks go by, the silence of the coffined words – words unsaid. It’s been over three weeks since I left Neil‘s place. On Monday, last, I sent him a card and a poem, Leaving Casablanca, and here it is, Sunday, and still no word. Ides of March.

I awaken too early these days because of words unsaid, unspoken, and so I write long letters that will probably never be sent. Yes, I ran away, but it takes two people to not communicate. Silence is a form of communication too. Silence may be golden, but I prefer the silvered tongue any day.

I’ve had a busy three weeks, I’m teaching four days a week and have been suffering back pain as a result. Also, we did two huge silk banners for the Alexander Valley School spaghetti feed and art auction—under extreme deadline. And the silk banners sold last Saturday for $375 and $500 each respectively. I think I earned my feed, so to speak.

I also re-painted Neil‘s Celtic silk piece because the colors faded after fixing the dye, and the gold gutta flaked off. It’s taken some time to repair the damage, but I was able to add writing in both Irish and ogham. I try not to dwell on grief, I try to turn it into something creative, but sometimes grief threatens to overwhelm me. Still, I make art. I finished a small pastel of Niel’s cloak. I had started the drawing in January, working in old sketches, and giving the piece more color in depth.

I’ve been re-organizing my art supplies, doing what I can between bouts of back pain. I am on day number three, or is it four— of intense headaches so I can’t do much of anything for a while. Not reading. Not even art.

I’ve been studying Irish, I even made a found a poem using Irish phrases from Focal an Lae, and other Internet printouts, no internet in Forestville. I also had done some research for phrases to write on Neil‘s cape cum silk banner. I added two cartouches, a coat of arms, and a salmon feeding on the hazelnuts of wisdom, the writing on the intricate border adds a mysterious touch. Glamour. Magic.

Micaela came over Friday night and I was feeling particularly low but we got a good visit in. She stayed overnight, and then went on up to see her father in Mendocino. I almost went with her but began to panic about driving any distance with another person. This accident has left a lot of scarring. Getting into a car with others will never be the same.

She’s going through menopause at 45. Seems too soon, but she does look haggard and drawn thin as if something were eating her up, consuming her, intensifying its grip as the years go by. Part of it is her past, and like all of us, she can’t quell the hurts and burdens of childhood. Guilt, mixed alliances, and fear of the father.

She’s doing art again. I am so grateful. She always was such a fantastic artist. She told me a story of how, when we where children, we were drawing horses and she announced hers was way better than mine. My aunts glowered at her, saying something to her, and she still felt guilty for it, for being mean and petty. I said, you probably did draw a better horse than me. I was envious of your horses. 

And then Micaela said that my aunts were trying to protect me because they loved me, something I was completely oblivious of. So, the reason why she remembered the story was because for the first time in years, she drew a horse in pastels, and thought of me. It was good seeing her and reaffirming the self in the self of another friend.

Another pearl she left me with was that she always admired my independence, and how I refused to cave in when pressure was put upon me to conform, to become a meek little lady. That I was incorrigible and incorruptible in my belief system, and that I had paid a steep price for it. But no one ever attempted to understand me, or to figure out what was going inside my head. That I was so alone in my loveliness. 

I think of what she hates in herself is the way she does cave in, and conform to men’s needs. What she hates in herself, she sees herself as timid and weak, when she clearly is not. If only she could believe. But maybe her art is a way back to the core of self.

FOUND POEMS FROM THE IRISH: (A WOMAN’S LAMENT)

FOUND POEMS FROM THE IRISH:

(A WOMAN’S LAMENT)

I composed a poem on the bottom of the sea:

It’s only a story of a story. An old one, at that.

You know how it ends.
I saw him once in a vision.
And it was then I knew.

I remember him standing in the white heather.

He was my hero, my lively lad,

Skin as white as snow.

Eyes, bright moons,

Arm in arm with the sun.

A shaft of sunlight fell on him.

Like windows opening on the sky.

Out of the ordinary—that quicksilver moment.

Both old and young, we were caught between two times.

What’s destiny to me? Not a honeymoon.

The walls of the otherworld are listening.

Oh love of my heart,

Can you not sing of this life?

From sunset to sun up,

He’d make a nest in your ear.

We had the current and wind with us,

We had the sun and moon with us,

But he said naught of dew nor rain.

We were waiting for spring

But the bottom fell out of the sky.

When we made a knot with our tongues,

We couldn’t untie with our teeth.

Grá. Oh pulse of my heart. Love.

I dropped that word on the ground.
And it shattered like a vessel.

He’s taken the music from the world.

There wasn’t a word left for me.

The music of the sun on the sea and land—

The birds are singing

The daftness of our words

In the face of the wind.

The three drops of a wife:

the drop of blood,

the milk of tears

the milk of sweat.

I have no cause to stay.

He’s a rock of a man, hard

and deaf as stone.

He has not rent, nor concern nor sorrow.

He wants both the hide and its price.

A man hears only what he wants to hear.

Not: You’re my music.

Not: I love you.

It’s not possible to serve two shores.

There are always longer horns on the cattle overseas.

Clear out of my net.

I have plenty else to do.

The sea was rough today.

No fair mouthings (sweet talk).

No bird music—

I had spoken harshly to him.

The heat wilted the flowers.

My garden’s a wilderness again.

No herbs nor healing against death.

The puca’s pissed on the berries.

Don’t let me hear another word!

God’s tears in the web of the little wild ox (spider)

And my mother’s fingers gulping rosary beads.

clocha paidrín.

The tide is ebbing.

The sun’s slipping under.

There’s always a bitter blade of wind.

He never said goodbye to me.

It’s not worth the wait now

(for) a place beyond death.

This world’s closing in on me.

Pray for my sake.

3/9/98

LEAVING CASABLANCA

LEAVING CASABLANCA

                 With thanks to W.C.W. & to Bogey, of course.

                For Neil. The play’s the thing!

1. This is just to say that on leaving

Casablanca with bags and baggage packed—

everything in black and white—I was

a wounded child: an angry rain of bullets

tracking me, words gunning me down

the runway; I was too ashamed to open-

ly bleed beneath the lights. Fearing

the sniper, exile and abandonment,

I sought asylum in the shadowlands

because at Casablanca, I couldn’t see

to speak in a foreign tongue, nor sink

my eyeteeth into equivocal languages.

I mistook the lover for the sniper;

couldn’t see the hostage within.

2.  Now, the woman is ready to bite

the bullet, board the next plane,

soulcage in hand, but needs a visa,

permission to land, for another chance

to round up the usual samskaras,

hoping Bogey’ll recite the right lines.

But she’s never been to the City of Light.

How’ll she play a part she doesn’t know?

A requiem of gray stones in her mouth.

As time goes by, she finds she, too,

doesn’t know the words to the song.

Instead of tickling ivories, they play it solo:

Forgive me. They were so sweet,

so silent, so cold…

3/3/98

in self-imposed exile in Forestville 

“Gilding the Lily, Willy, Chilly”

This piece was once adorned in red hot chili peppers, it was for Sonoma State Art from the Heart auction. It did not sell. Nor did it age well. What you can’t see is that I used silver oil pastel to gild the lily. And of course, the title was based upon that rather bad pun. Maybe I should’ve said geld the lily. This piece was somewhat of a collaboration. I was up against deadline and couldn’t come up with anything. So I went to my neighbor, George Howell’s cabin and we came up with this ridiculous idea. It sure was fun and we giggled immensely. Maybe that was worth the price of admission. Ya had to be there. To be fair, I was still recovering from that horrid car accident in June and I may have been taking a break from Neil. I was his primary caregiver and I try to make a break of it a couple of times. But we needed each other to get through the dailiness and so I stayed. I found this piece of art in a cardboard mailer in August 2023. A bit of a shocker, really. I think I will pull the drawing off the board, easier to store that way. nota bene I seem to have three valentines posted for 1998. Clearly there are some wrong dates involved. Hopefully I will be able to untangle it at a future date.

SONG OF THE HUMPBACK WHALE

SONG OF THE HUMPBACK WHALE

In the sea-pastured dreams
where the stars fell from grace,
they are destined to crawl from the sea floor 

at daybreak, searching for a way back home

to the night sky where a whale's eye 

roams the universe in search of self,
twittering and singing, squealing and sighing
in a raspberry-lipped sotto voice 

of diminishing dreams.
Leave the future behind, and then what?
The echo, in the depths, the melody, 

lost among the rocks and tidal surges.
The whale's heart is large enough to hold me—
Imagine that kind of love.
Imagine becoming the heart of the whale.

Who traverses dreams of the night 

with such ease that the countries of the universe 

will rise again like distant islands 

under the boat, joining words to song, 

and song to the mind of the universe?

Why can't I come back to land? asks the whale.
What sheep dreamed of entering the sea
in search of fodder, only to grow fins
leaving Jason's golden fleece behind 

on the opposite shore for mankind 

to find and plunder another kind of wealth 

on the beaches of California?
What of the lost migratory routes 

and the coming extinction
when you will not see again 

the eye of the whale rising like the moon 

in the pond of forgiveness?

1/28/1998 

10/15/2015

Fur Heart Valentine for Art form the Heart (art)

Watercolor and collage. I painted two images of hearts onto heavy morilla board then I sliced them into strips (one vertical, one horizontal) and then painstakingly wove them together. I did a series of woven paintings after a trip to Guatemala in the mid -1980s. Most are gone, sold to strangers at the annual Art form the Heart art auction fundraiser at Sonoma State University. I made a color xerox of this one. so, it's a collograph of a painted collage.

I lined the two woven heart pockets with rabbit fur. There are candy hearts and ribbons and and even a slender pencil. You never know what people will buy at the auction... One pieces that I submitted I thought no one would buy, there were fierce bidding wars on it. Other pieces that I thought would appeal, no one wanted. This little jezebel was left behind. I guess whimsical fur lined hearts didn't appeal.  January, 1998? or 1988?

Landscape with Salmon: pastel valentine (art) 1998

A pastel valentine to Neil, 1998