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, 24 de julio de 2008

25 the entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook

1783 Simòn Bolivar freed 6 Latin American republics from Spanish rule in South America, but once offered the sovereignty of Central America on a silver tray to the Spaniards.He was sterile, made his lover Colonel Manuela Saènz miserable with his temper tantrums and when he died spewing out hi lungs he said it had not been worth it because these countries cannot be governed.Boy, was he right! 1802 Alexandre Dumas sr. France, author (3 Musketeers)I love his books as much as his recipes, excellent cook and very sensuous man
1842 Ambrose Bierce Ohio, writer (Nuggets & Dust), who used to tell us to keep eyes wide open before you marry and half closed after you wed
1880 Ernest Bloch Geneva, Switzerland, composer (MacBeth) Jewish excellence made music1895 Robert Graves England, poet/historical novelist (I, Claudius), what a pen he had! 1898 Amelia Earhartfirst woman pilot to fly as only she could, disappeared into the wild blue yonder
1900 Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald pampered little snit of a lawyer`s brat, aborted her own child, henpecked Scott and was a royal nuisance to have around, was 1st wife of F Scott

Deaths which occurred on July 24:
1862 Martin Van Buren 8th president of the United States, dies in Kinderhook NY, wonder if he entered hell speaking Dutch and carrying a harp
1704 Great Britain takes Gibraltar from Spain, like snatching candy from a toddler
1847 Brigham Young & his Mormon followers arrive at Salt Lake City, UT, ready to have the license for lechery by establishing the Great American Harem

Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso Simply with a guitar

Being a solid Marxist in the grand meaning of the word, I refuse to believe in reincarnation. But it took the touch of my hand over the guitar that belonged to the national hero Cabrerita, who was the singing lark of the National Defending Army of the Sovereignty led by Augusto C.Sandino…and my skin began to crawl happily. I cannot bear to let it go. Trusted to me as a relic of national patrimony, I selfishly want it for myself. My logic says it is for my people to enjoy it, seeing it on display. But I want to remember the musician I once was, and play it myself although I know I am no Narciso Yepes, and never was anything like him ever. But why can a guitar make me feel so happy and confused at the same time?
I have always been very outspoken against sentimental clatfart. My stomach is not built for those pyramids of sugar, Sphynxes of honey and Eiffel Towers of caramel. Forget that I read Suleyman the Magnificent, or Guillaume D`Aquitaine, or my own beloved Rubèn Darìo. I have also read The Prince by Miachiavelli, and put into practice some of his advice. But I also read Saint Exupèry`s Little Prince and cried behind the door afterwards. I was about 8 years old.
Whoever I was before getting into my mom`s belly as her daughter, I was elsewhere and I was someone else. That is my recurrent fantasy, but belief may be there or not. Dearest reader, who knows my foibles as he learned a Western alphabet too, I was here long ago. I refuse to believe in the original deluge, although I love James Weldon Johnson `s The Creation so much that I included it in one of my short stories, Aymè. I`m lonely, I`ll make myself a world. If you really get down to thinking about the subject, where did god get the raw material for so many souls if we have one apiece? Couldn`t he or she have done some recycling? Or some inserts? Look, I am trying to find an explanation of why I have this déjà vu feeling every time I see you, knowing we could have met in another life as human and his owner cat, as husband and wife, or as mother and child? Were you then Babar the Tiger, sitting down to write his Baburnama, so that now I can be writing these chronicles ever since that day we said hello? Better still, are you in some way writing through me? Silently Korkut, one of the best musicians that Turkey gave the world, notwithstanding that he was Sultan Selim I `s older brother, comes barefoot to my side and sits with a lute-like instrument in his hands. He is right here to my right hand, and though I don`t see his small beard, he`s there.He is a sandalwood presence in my computer room. He slowly tunes up and whispers a few funny secrets into my ear, musicians sharing tips.
I have to confess I do miss sometimes my piano keyboard, or my mother`s guitar. I was much better at the keyboard than at the guitar, I even got to play Liszt and Chopin. I miss having my Manx cat Xingo jump on the keys of the Wurlitzer piano I had. I listen to the music I have composed and a little rivulet of nostalgia runs down my broken spine. But Edgar Allan Poe`s Raven says to me nevermore.
This computer keyboard has also been good to me, my cherished reader, and I have no intention of leaving it for something that won`t give me satisfaction. With writing,I made myself a name. In writing I am no longer the blue freak on the red bike, I am the purple lion.And I question myself if my feistiness came from a stray hair given to me by Queen Nzhinga of Ndongo and Matamba, or if my love for philosophy may have been inherited from Marcus Aurelius the philosopher emperor of Rome. Was I there as a seedling of the future when my ancestress Inez Pirez de Castro got exhumed to be crowned post mortem by her eternally infatuated spouse Peter the Severe? Did I smell the fire devouring his hair when my ancestor Diriangèn did himself in to avoid the Spaniards capturing him alive?
The answers will forever evade the certainty of my existence. It only took a guitar to wake me up from my artistic slumber. I have an angel faced monster walking down the path of my vertebrae up into my brain. The music is there. It just takes my hand to raise the imaginary baton of the ages, to make the world play all its instruments for us. But never forget it: the essential perfection of Joaquìn Rodrigo`s Concerto de Aranjuez, like all these words in this entry, began with a single guitar.

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