HISTORY

Dear Husband and I went to Saint Augustine from Wednesday until Easter Sunday to celebrate our one year anniversary; we made it there at midnight on Wednesday and passed out at the hotel soon after putting our clothes away and showering.

The weather was perfect, a balmy 72 to 73 degrees with a chilly breeze and not a cloud in the sky; it was almost as if the city had made itself pretty just for us. Oh the beauty of the Spanish moss, the towering oaks, the warming sun, the blooming flowers and the damn pollen that had my throat closing, my eyes running and me sneezing my brain out of my nose…sigh.

I love history…I may not love history the same way DH loves it but it doesn’t make my love any less real. My love of history is based on the romantic notion of all that has been sacrificed by those who came before us and the old rules, the old charm, the manners, the ridiculous customs, the restrictions, the fashion, the gentlemen and ladies, the quest for honor, the appreciation of duty above all and that crossed eyed (now considered silly) selflessness of those who went to battle eager to do what was right.

The city was founded in 1565 and it used to belong to the Spanish and the Catholic Church of course, which pretty much ravaged the area with its convert-or-die agenda that the church is famous for. No fuzzy, warm feelings for those back in the days Catholics who ruled with an iron fist and an eagerness to slit throats, hang or burn all in the name of Jesus. Matanzas Bay (or Matanzas River) which is neither a river nor a bay, but an inlet or estuary was called that charming name “Matanzas” meaning Slaughter or massacre because of all the French Huguenots or Protestants that were slaughtered by charming man that was Pedro Menendez de Aviles who held a mass (the first ever catholic mass in the U.S.) and then went off all filled with Christian passion and self-righteousness to kill a bunch of non Catholics and then slaughtered 300 more or so because of heresy. You gotta love the beautiful things done in the name of Christ.

We walked the streets in our trolley super corny in our red trains and hanging cameras and enjoyed the city with its old walls, the Castillo de San Marcos, the Flagler….everything and the old Victorian houses. I have an obsession with Victorian Houses, they make me sigh, shiver, crave, and long for hoop skirts, bonnets, parasols and horse drawn carriages. I have my computer filled with pictures of Victorian Houses from when I visited Connecticut, Maryland, and South Carolina, my short stint in Massachusetts and now from Saint Augustine. I think is ironic that I dislike Florida for its lack of history, for its newness, for its terracotta shingle roofs and the anal retentive landscape where every bush, flower and stone is separated with mathematical accuracy and yet Saint Augustine is THE oldest city in the United States.

I love being surrounded by history; it makes me feel…I don’t know... I can’t describe it, it’s a combination of the hibbie jibbies and wonder, wonder that I have walked the same cobblestone roads as someone did 200 years before, touched the same walls, maybe felt the same feelings. When we were at the Castillo de San Marcos we walked the barracks and saw in the wall the carvings of some soldier that had wanted to make his mark, he left his initials E.H. Hancock, December 1884. It makes one wonder, what happened to E.H. Hancock? What did he look like? Did he live much longer? Did he die in the fort? Did he perish of the yellow fever that later that century killed a third of the town’s population? Did he fall in love? Did he marry? Was he happy?

Old buildings, history, soldiers and the 1800s always make me feel melancholy. Don’t know why but that is always the case. At first I am always excited to see the places and once I’m there I feel a little sad for what was and is no longer. It’s weird but I miss those long dead strangers as if they were friends I haven’t seen in a while. This makes me believe even more in reincarnation! Well Saint Augustine was beautiful, it made me like a little more this crazy State of Florida that I have never been a fan of, it made me even more firm in my believe that the Catholic Church has always been fucked up and probably always will be.

As I take a look at the pictures of the houses, the old streets, the old city entrance that is still standing I can’t help but wonder architectonically speaking what kind of legacy are we leaving behind? The world is filled with beautiful buildings full of history, pain, blood and tears and what exactly have we built?

Don’t get me wrong, I like leaving in this age where I don’t need a chaperone to walk the streets and I won’t be burned as a witch if I don’t the like the church. I rather like this age where I won’t succumb to a fever but can simply pop an antibiotic and the fact that the streets are paved and not heaped with horseshit. Why then is it that it all seems so much more heroic, more romantic back then?

WALK FOR ALS!!

Since I was bitching that I was blocked, woe is me, what am I to do and all that bullshit, I decided to write about one of the most amazing men I have ever met and kill two birds with one stone, if he doesn’t inspire me, nothing will and that way I bring attention to my little circle of readers to ALS.

I will be forever humbled by my former boss; he is currently suffering from ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis) better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease and has remained determined, sweet, humorous and more than anything hopeful. Hopeful that if maybe not for him, but for those who will get sick in the future there will be a cure of this terminal, debilitating and simply horrible disease.

To learn more: http://www.alsa.org/

I met MM when I was twenty years old and miserable. I was working at McDonald's, my ass kept getting bigger because I had to eat two of my daily meals at work and I was getting spider veins on my legs from standing on my feet for 10 hours a day. He was like a knight in shining armor. His wife loved my mom who worked with her, cleaning her house and talking care of her elderly parents and knowing how badly I hated my job she had put the little bug on her husband’s head to hire me as a trainee appraiser since he was losing one in the office.

I was given the opportunity to interview and I showed up, greasy and nervous to the office. If I had known what I know now of him I wouldn’t have been nervous at all, but since I didn’t know him I was shaking, wishing this could be true and I could work in an office, with working air conditioning, away from oil burns and more importantly where there was a chair.

He took me in under the wings of his company and kept me there for as long as he could. I have never met a man like him and I don’t think I ever will. MM is the smartest man in my acquaintance, he has a big heart, a willingness to help others, an amazing sense of humor, an even temper, awesome stories to share and treated each and every one of us like family. He used to brag about me to his friends and colleagues about how smart I was and how good my English was even though I had only been in the country for a few years.

I spent five years almost six working for him and they were unforgettable years full of laughter and praise, full of working late when we procrastinated because we spent a too long lunch hour talking about Scotland and smuggling him coffee that his lovely wife didn’t want him drinking. When MM got diagnosed we were so utterly ignorant about the disease that we didn’t even worry. It wasn’t until the time started passing and he started losing weight that I went online to research. “Terminal” is a word no one ever wants to hear, but no matter where I went that’s what it said. ALS is a terminal disease. We, the people that worked for him, his family, friends, everyone was heartbroken. Why, how could this happen to a man like him? I’ve had years to digest it and still refuse to believe it.

Each year in March we March, we walk to raise money, awareness and to spend some sunny time with friends and family who need something to hold onto, who for that one moment can look at the horrible disease with something else than fear and dread and with maybe a little bit of hope. Hope that a cure will be found, hope that a reason behind the disease will be discovered, and hope that when the time comes they won’t be alone.

There are no survivors in this walk, there are no brave people telling their story. It’s not like cancer which at times thankfully can be overcome. There are just people facing their death and still unwilling to give up.

If that is not inspiring I don’t know what is.

So tomorrow at 9 am I will be along with MM and his family and friends and we’ll walk and talk and catch up with the ones we haven’t seen since the last walk and ignore the reason why we are there and concentrate only on MM and be happy that maybe tomorrow there’ll be a cure.

BLOCKED

That phrase always sounded too conceited to apply to me. I don’t consider myself a writer even though that’s how Dear Husband describes my profession, as if I made money of it or something. I cannot stop categorizing it, when he brings it up I usually answer to people’s questioning glances with a self conscious shrug or explain that I am a “frustrated writer” or a “wannabe writer” or “would like to publish in the future”.

I have yet to stand up and say “I am a writer”. What I always say is: “I want to be a writer”. I always feel such jealousy when watching the SAG Awards (Screen Actors Guild) and the actors stand there and say “I’m an Actor”. Not because I have wanted to be an actor, what I envy is their total confidence in their place in life, such confidence in their profession. They say it with such ease, with such relish, with such a lack of self-consciousness, because they know they are actors.

I wish I could do the same, shake someone’s hand and say I am a writer, not only for the privilege of having published work but also when moments like this hit me I can say, “Oh, sorry I am suffering from writer’s block” and then I can pick up some destroying addiction or bad habit, or start acting crazy like some tortured artist soul and start drinking absinth and doing opium.

I do not have the privilege of that. I cannot say I have writer’s block. I have wannabe writer’s block. That’s what I am suffering from. I don’t know if is the way this year started, with death and legal drama, or maybe is just adjusting to married life, full of you do the laundry, no you do its, or maybe is simply that I am blocked and I need to acknowledge it.

I have NEVER been blocked before; writing has always been like a painful release for me. It has always been an escape just like reading and shopping is. Some people clean, some others work out, I read, or write or shop, it is scary to find myself without one of my outlets. I have always been able to turn to it when I am feeling overwhelmed by emotions, when my head and chest are like a pressure cooker and putting stuff in paper releases all that contained steam. It is almost like peeing when you are so damn close to peeing your pants, and then you sit and finally let go and the relief is delicious and painful and so good it makes your eyes tear up a little and your skin break in goose bumps and you let go a heartfelt "aaaaahhhhhh"

Maybe that’s what is happening, my life is pretty normal at the moment. Work is going well, Dear Husband and I are getting along and happy as always, Zoey isn’t misbehaving and aside from a scary moment of Max taking a kitty bath on my glass of drinking water life has been pleasantly uneventful.

Maybe mild emotions are not enough for writing, maybe ecstasy, sheer happiness, utter misery, and overwhelming confusion is the only way to inspiration. Maybe sharp flavors are needed for a recipe of witty words on paper.

After doing some research (my answer to everything) I found most bloggers suffering from the same malady were feeling what I was feeling, a complete and total lack of something interesting to say, nothing to add, nothing to elaborate on. I guess we are in the same team; we are of the school of thought that unless you have something interesting to say you might as well just keep quiet.

At the moment I am happy, content, comfortable and relaxed. If it takes writer’s block to retain this feeling then I am willing to go through it for a while.