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HIS BLOG AND MINE By Helene Pilibosian Shall we turn to blogs, I asked, cybervision like a knapsack on my aging back? I'll write of the many countries that have weighed upon me, one taking my arms and another taking my legs another my taking my head. Altogether they've used my conscience for their bed. I spilled hope of dry afternoons on the child that was Turkey and changed its face to Syria. They are strangers to me now. The wet heat of Lebanon didn't dry my forehead and Armenia, who called as a mother or a temptress, lost my imagination. America was less perturbed, less humid with a message for a dime and half a dream during Eisenhower's term as he stopped my checkerboard ride with a passport of invitation. I traded all my spaces for a knob into its cyberworld and a marriage as a haven. ----- I spilled my American hopes of many afternoons on the pavements that wore my life. An Armenian daughter doesn't forget the name that gets her born, the long curls that were shorn. My Armenian name had a blueberry fame; my American name owned a tundra at least in dreams. She was not an American mother who thought I should put cream on my morning cereal, but the sun was not so sensitive that it crumbled then. North didn't go south when my friends were Mike or Melinda, preference for Hayk stated as phrases cloned again and again. But she had her way. Can the difference of names be met the way we two met and married? How do these branches tangle where two languages speak at once of places so disparate? Of course, heaven is leavening and pluck is luck. -- Helene Pilibosian is a former editor of The Armenian Mirror-Spectator and has published two books of her poetry: "Carvings from an Heirloom" and "At Quarter Past Reality" as well as "They Called Me Mustafa", a prose memoir she co-wrote with her father. These books are described on the Ohan Press web site at http://home.comcast.net/~hsarkiss.