Dear Sgt. Killroy:

We'’ve become so familiar with our regular exchange of letters that I’ll dispense with some basic courtesies in order to make an overpowering confession. There are times when I read your letters that a strong envy begins to rise from within and takes hold of me for hours. When it finally does subside, it leaves a strong dissatisfied taste with my life that lingers on for days.

In reading your exploits I'’ve often thought you lead the life I wish I had. It's a familiar feeling and one I've not had for a very long time. When I was young I often got in trouble for my dangerous exploits and tomboy ways. In truth, I was craving the enormous freedom and swaggering independence of all the boys I knew. This past week my envy surfaced intensely. It left me searching for an explanation as to why, of all my correspondents, I have such a reaction to you. What makes matters worse is that in spite of my reaction I'm very drawn to your letters. I return time and again to re-live those moments which may be insignificant to you, but bring me so much closer to where I wish I could be. In doing so I feel the little green monster grow within me without warning.

After much reflection, I've realized tonight that its not so much your life that I envy, but rather you. In other words, I wish more that I were a man like you living your life, than a woman like me living mine. As a woman's life goes I really do enjoy mine, but when comparing mine to yours, my life pales in comparison. When it began happening I asked myself if it might be a matter of “your grass being greener”.

Simply put, my life would be radically different if I were you, than most of the men I know. For one thing, I believe I wouldn'’t be enduring as much emotional pain as I have these past few days. My blog brother Eric, spoke of the feeling of helplessness one of my posts conveyed last week. In reading that I realized he put his finger on my wound… and it was a deep one, based on the level of pain I felt. I've been wanting to do something to strike back at those that harmed my loved ones in 2001 and caused fear to enter the hearts of my co-workers in 1993.

One thing’s for sure, if I were a man I definitely would’ve had the opportunity of making different choices. I definitely would have taken more risks and liberties than would be considered (by my standards) good for a woman. I'd probably be more like your brothers in arms stationed at the front and exacting justice for what was done to my beloved friends and city. There are times I so desperately want to be there.

But the truth is painfully obvious, I can never be there, I will never be you. So instead, I live vicariously through you... through your stories, your shared anecdotes, and your unexpressed heartfelt thoughts that linger silently between the lines and which often leap silently and eloquently off your page.

I wish I could go on those hikes with you and your men. I wish I could be a man like you, who rights the wrongs with much conviction and without hesitation. But I’m not. I am a woman. A woman constrained by the expectations and mores of society, who's restrained by height and muscle mass and trapped by my gender.

So instead of being there with you and your men, I will be here, waiting. Waiting and enduring nasty emails from women too weak of character to write openly and from men using their manhood to intimidate covertly. And while I wait, I’ll continue to wish and hope. Hope that through your strength and courage I'’ll somehow regain my own strength that was lost with the death of the incredible men in my life.

I'll simply wait... it's something that as a woman I am trained to do well. Being disempowered for now all I can do is wait. So I wait, for jealousy to rise once again, and with that I take a step toward a deeper and braver existence.

Thank you for sharing your journey with me and in so doing taking me on such wonderful adventures.
m/

My Immortal Love

On Men & Power

"A fondness for power is implanted, in most men, and it is natural to abuse it, when acquired."

-- Alexander Hamilton (The Farmer Refuted, 23 February 1775) - Founder of the NY Post - the oldest continuously published newspaper in the country.

A curse passed on

I;’ve been quiet for the last few days because it was easier.

It was easier not to sit in front of a blank screen and have the truth seep into my consciousness and torture my brain. Well, it seems that the more I tried to push things out of my consciousness, the more it would come to haunt me. As a result this past week has been nothing but torture. Torture from my son; torture by my house guests (Bro & Sister in Law - BIL & SIL), and self-torture from my subconscious dogging me constantly at my heals. All the while, struggling with not wanting to look at the truth, which I’'ve been trying so hard to deny or delay facing.

It all started by me reading this post on Bou’'s blog. It finally brought everything to before me, making it impossible for me to continue to avert or deny the truth any longer. As a result, I’ve finally realized that my son has taken after me in more ways than one. This past week, while getting phone calls at work from my SIL, BIL & son, all complaining about each other with stories on how they were torturing each other over my son's book reports, I told them I'd listen in through speaker phone and intervene when necessary. While trying to get my son to write 1 single book report, it was painfully apparent to me (as I listened to them silently) that my son processes information differently than most. Well, they all gave up on each other and I was faced with doing much damage control before my son starts school next Monday.

This morning, I finally cried UNCLE, as we lagged further behind on my son’s assigned summer reading/writing/book report schedule. There was nothing else I could do but finally google what the symptoms were for someone in his age group. I’'ve posted these below so you all can get an inkling of what I’m going through with him. He’s luckier than most though, I'’ve been trained in different methodologies that have enabled me to learn on my own once I was diagnosed with a mild form of dyslexia. I'’ve been using a few of these techniques with him for the math and it's worked great. Unfortunately where I fail and have no experience is in helping him with his hand writing. It’s not only illegible, to get him to write barely neatly is worse than pulling teeth and it has finally brought me to my knees. Below is part of an email I received from an expert, whom I contacted via their website, inquiring about classifying my son’s issues, has enlightened me quite a bit. Now I begin the work phase.

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The difficulties noted below are often associated with your son’s age group. A qualified diagnostician (see attached list for the centers in your area) can test your son to determine if he is truly experiencing one of the many forms of dyslexia, and to what extent.

- May be unable to follow multi-step directions or routines.
- May have poor "fine motor" coordination.
- Has difficulty spelling phonetically.
- Makes consistent reading and spelling errors in common words
- Relies on guessing and context.
- May have difficulty learning new vocabulary.
- May transpose number sequences and confuse arithmetic signs (+ - x / =).
- May have trouble remembering facts.
- May be slow to learn new skills; relies heavily on memorizing without understanding.
- May have difficulty planning, organizing and managing time, materials and tasks.
- Often uses an awkward pencil grip.

Finally, I read this today and it literally broke my heart because I remember being the one sitting at the kitchen table going through this myself:

"The frustration of children with dyslexia often centers on their inability to meet expectations. Their parents and teachers see a bright, enthusiastic child who is not learning to read and write correctly. Time and again, dyslexics and their parents hear, “He’s such a bright child; if only he would try harder.” Ironically, no one knows exactly how hard the dyslexic is trying."

I remember almost not being able to graduate 2nd in my class in high school because my Math teacher couldn't decipher how on earth I always got the right answers on my tests, yet I couldn't logically prove my work via complete algebraic and linear equations. It was only when my State Exams were challenged, and I had to go before their Exam Board and take the exam while 3 testers stood over me, that everyone realized something was wrong. One of the tester's asked me a few questions about my work after I completed doing a formula and asked me to solve the problem outloud. It was then they realized that not everything that was in my head made it on paper, and thus I was identified as possibly dyslexic. Further testing proved it, and I was able to keep my honor's/salutatorian status at graduation. The diagnosis was liberating in many ways, but this is when the experience with my curse first began to change.

Il m'aime...

This evening, I was brought back to a gentler time and a sweeter place that I often long to revisit. A time when the sound of crickets and soft lapping waves lulled me to sleep every night, and in the mornings, I'd be awakened by the calling of sweet song birds. Barely awake, I'd jump out of bed, and while still in my pajamas, and without even stopping to put on my shoes, I'd run barefoot out of the house and cross the road. Without slowing down I continued running full speed onto the beach all the way almost to the water’s edge. I was anxious to see if any of my make shift crab traps had caught anything the night before. To my amazement, and my mother’s horror, I would often arrive at breakfast with a bucketful of live crabs.

On nights like tonight, when I was restless or worried and thinking too much about all the unknown's in my life, I'd slowly walk across that same road to the beach, picking up a few wild flowers along the way, hoping that in my hand I’d have the right flower that would divine and secure my happy future.

I would usually sit in the same spot of sand, leaning my back on a low coconut tree that had grown sideways and in which someone had conveniently carved out a back rest. As I sat there, taking in the flower’s features, I'd pray to God in the sky for my heart's deepest desire to come true, and for a sign to somehow tell me to be patient for it was so. I'd sit there for what seemed like an eternity in a meditative trance, hoping that by staring at the flower I could pick the right moment for my destiny to unfold. I was afraid that one impetuous move or premature moment might wreak havoc with the rest of my life. At twelve, my future years loomed over me like a huge gray wall of water just waiting for the right moment to crash over me and begin the unbearably long sentence of living a life of discontented quietness and unfulfilled dreams that those around me seemed to live.

So I'’d sit and wait for the right time... the right moment to begin. Then, and only when I felt it was the right, divine moment, did my sweaty trembling hands begin the rituals as I whispered to God:
“Il m'aime... un peu, beaucoup, passionnément, a la folie, pas du tout” (He loves me... a little, a lot, passionately, madly,or not at all.) If I was successful during the first flower I’d stop then and there having achieved the fate I had wanted. If I didn’'t I'’d move on the next flower, holding it interminably longer than the first, all in an effort to manipulate the desired outcome.

No Matter

No matter where I go
No matter what I do
No mater what I see
my heart's still with you.

An amazingly fun & magical day

Whenever a vacation starts off on a crappy note, there's no where to go but up!

Day 2 was a good day in my book, but day 3 was even better. An amazingly fun & magical day, that's how I'd describe today. After only a few hours sleep (my inlaws who were sleeping in a seperate bedroom across from the living room/dining area, Could be heard snoring @ alarming decibels even through 2 sets of closed doors), I rejuvinated with an incredible breakfast at our hotel. By 9:30am we were inside Magic Kingdom heading out on a lovely short ferry ride for Disney's main land. Upon arriving we decided to take train tour to see what appealed to us most. Having identified the areas where we wanted visit & decided on the order we were off for a day of pleasure. Thanks to the incredible Tips & Ride Suggestions I got from Bou of Boudicca.mu.nu & VW of onehappydogspeaks.mu.nu I was able to tackle that park with a relaxed attitude & with ease.

We only stopped briefly for lunch (as the only fair was crappy food [fried food & ice cream] and I had to be mindful of my pre-arranged dinner date w/a very special, fun & handsome mystery man. But more on him later.

In all, we did not have to wait longer that 15min for any non-fast pass rides and only short wait times (around 30 min) for Fast Pass rides. 

We had such an amazing time that I decided we'd all get together to watch the parade & fireworks. It was fun & awesome.

To quote my son: "It was an amazing day! One I'll never forget!" Yes indeed.

Has my Muse gone?

It's been away for far too long

and has that which I hold dearly
my love for creativity.

I finished reading wincing at hearing myself read how awful the material was outloud. After a very long pause, her first words were, "“That’s it? That’s all you'’ve got?"” She said this in a somewhat weary voice that belied the disappointment and frustration she felt underneath her sweet southern Tennessee accent. Artists have very fragile and insecure egos, so she was very careful in walking the line between former teacher and creative mentor. I knew her well enough not to waste either of our time with excuses.

“"What else you got? Because I know you, you've probably been sitting down writing and trying to force yourself to come up with something, instead of painting or reading or doing something else that might free you up creatively.”" 

She was right. After the cyber attack that destroyed my pc and lost all my new poems, I got frustrated and stopped writing, my heart was no longer in it. The looming deadline was the only thing that forced me back onto a page.

“"Well, you better come up with somethin’, ‘cause your name is already in the program and you’re closing the show. Otherwise that silence you hear after your name is announced will be forever owned by you. It will resonate within you for years to come, and you'’ll never be able to take it back.”" [This is writer speak for disappointing the audience with a creative void. The punishment for such a sin is a deafening silence.]

So after hanging up the phone, I called the sitter and asked her to pick up my son so I could take a very long walk by the river. By the time I stopped and inspiration had struck, I had walked 6 miles. But in the process I found the first few lines for my poem and a back up plan. The theme I was assigned was ‘My Warring Muse’

After a dozen or so false starts, these are the first few lines that I’m finally content with:

Amor… te añoro.
Mi alma busca de nuevo conocer
la sublimidad que es tu ser.

Update: My translation is below
My Love... I long for you.
My soul is searching once again
to know the sublimity that is you.

I think I”ll have enough time to compose a poem. But if I don’t. I won’t be the first one to read a work in progress from a notebook. In the meantime, in the next post you can read my back up plan. A translation I wrote of a Pablo Neruda poem that speaks of the love/hate relationship writers have with their muses.

---------------------------------------------

SONETO LXVI

NO TE QUIERO sino porque te quiero
y de quererte a no quererte llego
y de esperarte cuando no te espero
pasa mi corazón del frío al fuego.

Te quiero sólo porque a ti te quiero,
te odio sin fin, y odiándote te ruego,
y la medida de mi amor viajero
es no verte y amarte como un ciego.

Tal vez consumirá la luz de enero,
su rayo cruel, mi corazón entero,
robándome la llave del sosiego.

En esta historia sólo yo me muero
y moriré de amor porque te quiero,
porque te quiero, amor, a sangre y fuego.

Beyond Repair

Beyond Repair


Your watch stopped five minutes after you did.
A year later I've brought it out its drawer
where your things languish in disrepair,
(eye shadow, cell phone and receipts,
a scarf to hide a head without hair),
placing it on my healthy wrist,
I'm forced to adjust its link and think,
unlike you, I have time before I leave.
Then I wait, hoping that with each stride I've taken,
with each beating of my pulse and hand that's shaken,
it will receive energy and be brought to life again.


This morning I awoke and saw there was no change,
shaking it in anger once again, I will it on.
Nervously I sit in a repair shop,
Giving anxious glances towards the back.
The attendant, finally returns it and
with an air of disappointment and despair,
confirms your watch is beyond repair.
"Somehow its coils and springs were tossed about,
pushing them all inside-out."
The fresh news of this affects me,
Pulling at my own heartstrings greatly.


I hurry home, dead watch in hand,
saddened by its passing
and sit in wonder, how you,
struggled for 5 years
against time & frame of mind
to wrench some seconds
with great might
hoping in the end
you wouldn't lose your fight.

~ me

To My Beloved Friends on 9/11

For Mike, Jack, Tony, Larry, Amy, Rick & Nancy who died in Tower 1 & 2 on 9/11:

You've been gone for some time now.
Your hugs and laughter are no more,
the memory of your smiles have faded away
and I miss you all the more.

Yes... I miss you.
More than words can ever say,
more than my letters can convey,
in every single way,
since the day you passed away,
I've missed you.