Tras haber creado mi anterior blog cecilmundo varias personas, muchos de ellos mis alumnos, me sugirieron que creara una secciòn dentro de cecilmundo para publicar mis obras de docencia de idiomas. Dado que la cantidad de documentos de explicaciones, ejercicios y exàmenes de inglès son muy numerosos porque tengo màs de 30 años del ejercicio de la docencia, preferì estrenar blog con mis alumnos a como ellos realmente merecen. En este blog planetcecil no solo iràn mis documentos didàcticos de inglès, sino tambièn la producciòn literaria de varios alumnos que se destacan en las letras. Tambièn darè oportunidad a aquellos que tienen excelentes obras pero que no han logrado publicarlas ya que en mi paìs Nicaragua todo se mueve por la marrana polìtica, y si una no pertenece a determinado partido no verà jamàs publicado su opus. Tambièn tenemos la desgracia de contar con seudoeditores quienes al no conocer verdaderamente de literatura se convierten en mercenarios de la imprenta solo para llenarse ellos mismo de dinero y fama a costillas de los escritores. Todos aquellos que deseen participar en este blog, denlo de antemano por suyo. Aunque lleve mi nombre en un arranque de egolatrìa, yo soy sencillamente vuestra servidora.Cecilia

Las alas de la educación

Las alas de la educación
La educación es un viaje sin final.

La lección de física

La lección de física
Casi aprendida

jueves, 26 de junio de 2008

There must be an angel

On the 26th day of June finally the people of Madagascar finally became independent from France,1960.Their last queen Ranavalona III had died in exile in Algeria after the French had deposed her. Libertè, egalitè and fraternitè? Please don`t tickle me-
In 1483 Richard III usurps the English throne, nephews died in the Tower of London.So do tyrants reign.

I used to sing along when Annie Lennox of the Eurhythmics sang the hit There Must Be an Angel that`s playing with my heart I always ended a up like a bundle of monkeys in one single bag emitting peals of laughter. My good old days when I moonlighted as a night DJ at the radio Station La Cachorra(The Lion Cub). During the day I was a serious, aloof army officer. At night my combat boots came off, bare feet on the refrigerated carpet of the radio cabin, jacket off, pants rolled up to the knee, a pitcher of ice cold tea or Coca cola there so I could sip slowly. Sometimes I was alone, others with the expert radio veteran Richard. Touch and Go, by Emerson Lake and Palmer, the Tarzan Boy by Baltimore. But Annie Lennox`s Angel would make me laugh. It wasn`t possible. The hard Marxist I was, unbelieving in love although engaged for a second time in my life(a good try, it ended in disaster because the guy was left waiting at the altar for a bride who refused to come), I laughed until her stomach hurt. So you get the picture ,right, folks? Angels, good story, sexless beauties who didn`t come into anyone`s heart to play with strings that don`t exist..Come on people, the heart is not my mother`s magic mandolin!
Many years later an Islamic buddy told me that if dogs live in a household angels stay out, only cats are the lighting rod for angels to hit and enter, as if ringing a doorbell to someone`s soul. But Marxists do not have souls. We believe in matter. Souls have nothing to do with us.
Yesterday I leaned over my laptop during flight and knocked somewhere. A little yellow light indicated an angel was coming out of the thunderstorm. Transparent, eerie, half unknown, half memorized from ages before, when I was not I and he was not himself, into the computer`s small silvery screen. Technology targeting a sprite. There he is. Joy spreads like an epidemic into my bloodstream. Worse than the cholera which killed Peter Ilitch Tchaikovsky after he worte his 6th Symphony.
My addictive adrenaline speeds up and beats its march. I am again in what I want to call a state of grace. A trance. An invasion of glee, that happiness only known to angels, takes over my skin. Can the others, drowsing during the trip, smell it like a dog scents fear? He`s there, so much there my pores open and my pupils dance like the Mevlevi dervishes that prayed for the sultan during the Ottoman empir`s time.
My body cells remember him from time before age was age and history was only a dream in a future bubble of gas. A crazy amalgam of light and shadow, half fedayeen and half air sprite. I don`t want to say incubus, it may stain the mirage, the delibab made of hair and bone and silky sinew that he is. Never like a male version of the Walkirie, not quite a psychopomp to accompany me across the Styx into deadly oblivion. But there. The sky is gray and gold, in a hue that I wish I had in a dress with a veil to wear over my tiger-streaked hair. There is a dry storm. The lighting flashes run over our chopper. Any one of these thunderbolts hits us and we are gone into pieces, the laughing atoms of Democritus of Abdera.
Angels that dive under your skin have their own language, people. Take my word for it.
They extricate confessions about sins you never knew you had lived through, they push you to the outer limits of joy then to drop you into the deepest and darkest pits of despair. Only to set you back on your feet again, and when you think you can walk straight again, they sweep in like a cloud of Australian bats just to carry you on a never-ending ride on a roller
coaster where being jubilant means the next second you might as well be in tears. Someone said I could even resist tear gas, and not cry. But no heart has ever dared to say no to them.
Getting back to Annie Lennox`s song about an angel playing with her heart, I try to understand what feeling she was trying to express. I hate understanding it now. I rebel. My feistiness comes afloat. I shall not be governed by something as this awful drive that lands me in an angel`s scintillating lap. Diriangèn`s wild blood churns in my veins, like when this chieftain refused to obey the Spaniards and after drinking some corn rum, preferred to set himself on fire rather than submit. Still on fire, he jumped off a cliff so that the Spaniards could not find his body and desecrate it, and legends say he became a grand jaguar after his death. I, his proud direct descendant, stretch my feet before me and gaze into the sky. The billowing clouds look so soft, like the eiderdown in which my mother would put me when I was a baby. Cumulus clouds. Why do I always remember these small scientific trivia when I am confused? Is it a way to keep a grip on solid, stark reality when my imagination wants to go skipping over froth and boulder, creating its own sea inside my body, wearing a fog hat made of smiles I never knew I had, melting down the heavy glaciers of my skeptic smirk, letting the pheromones out from their Alcatraz escape-proof clink?
I know I ask too many questions. I probably have the answers buried beneath layers of my bone marrow, or between my temples. I would probably say that I welcome a cingulotomy, the feared lobotomy that supposedly avoided unwelcome thoughts and violent attitudes.because being invaded by an angel may feel like the Allies coming full force into Normandie on D Day on June 6th,1944. I feel like Richard III`s nephews in the Tower. But I have touched the marchpane-smelling skin of an angel, even when atheists don`t believe in them. There must be an angel who`s playing with the heart I still don`t want to know anything about.

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