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

martes, 15 de julio de 2008

Mes faux Pas

20th entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook
July 15th

Born July 15th
1606 Rembrandt van Rijn in Leiden, Netherlands, painter (Night Watch),one of the greatest artists of all time

1815 Napoleon Bonaparte captured alter the Battle of Waterloo. He should have called in sick to work because he had a rather embarrassing problem
1893 Commodore Perry arrives in Japan, and with the occidentalization of Japan came so many problems
1869 Margarine is patented in Paris, for use by French Navy, so they wouldn´t have to eat rancid butter, yuck!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoops should I have said that?

One of my most sentimental experiences that I have had during my 48 years of existence was when I met Marengo. Yes, the famous horse who belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte, and who was abandoned by Le Pètit Gèneral when Lord Wellington simply kicked his hemorrhoid-ridden ass during the Battle of Waterloo. I have always loved animals, and hated Napoleon, although my dad used to think it was a sacrilege to hate the man who created the Legion D`Honneur, the system of prefectures in France and had the gall to put a pope in his place. Ok, so I finally arrived at the British Army Museum during a visit to London in the early 80s. I was still a young exchange student in Paris, and I was visiting London. In I went and under heavy glass, there he was. Or what was kept from his skeleton, because two of his hooves had already been transformed into snuffboxes. Marengo was a sturdy Arab, imported from Egypt, who Napoleon Bonaparte had named after one of his famous battles in Italy. When Bonaparte had to go and meet his fate at the Battle of Waterloo, he was in no good shape. And he had bleeding hemorrhoids. He would face Lord Wellington on his steed Copenhaguen. Anyways the Corsican went on to get royally beaten, and when he fled he left a disoriented Marengo on the battlefield. The horse was captured by the English and taken as a war trophy to England, where he was lionized, adored and well-fed. Marengo first appeared on display in 1823 or 1824 in the Waterloo Rooms in Pall Mall. Later Marengo was put out to stud, something I am sure he enjoyed as much as eating... After the horse's death in 1831, its skeleton was sent to London Hospital to be articulated. Its hide, with its distinctive "N" brand, was lost. The skeleton went on display at the RUSI museum. One of its hooves was incorporated into the Guards' Officer's Mess at Buckingham Palace, another hoof had been lost and supposedly converted into a snuffbox. I started musing over how man has always sacrificed animals for his benefit, and Marengo was one more. Hot, silent tears began dropping from my eyes. My friend Julia was embarrassed. A security guard came to ask me what was the matter, he probably thought I was drunk or high on some kind of dangerous drug, you know those brown people for elsewhere always have some kind of sick problem. What was I supposed to say?
I explained that I was an animal lover and for me it was barbaric to have the poor horse`s skeleton there. I am sure he regarded me as some kind of freak who should only be taken out on a leash, of course the leash being held by someone who was white.
One of my greatest faux pas was in Strasbourg in 1981. My percussion professor,Jean Batigne, had decided to parade this purple lion in front of one of his best friends, the German composer Karl-Heinz Stockhaussen. Dearest of mine, I swear to any god including Marx, that it was not because he was German. I never believed he should be considered as a composer. This was the guy who made “electronic music” but it sounded more like the explosion at a firecracker factory in China. Batigne said he would kill me if I didn `t go dressed to the nines to the Palais de Congrès, where the concert would take place. In order not to run into conflict, I obeyed. I couldn`t even fall asleep during the concert because of all the noise going on. I had not eaten so there was a crouching tiger and a not-so-hidden dragon fighting between each other in my stomach. Batigne was probably appalled that I had arrived in my typical Nicaraguan folk attire, with colored ribbons in my braids, the epitome of Nicaraguan identity. So grabbing me by the hand, Batigne almost dragged me
To where Stockhaussen was holding court. I had never seen a more pathetic and uglier man than this one, and he had the most horrible teeth I had ever seen in a smile. I thought, there should be a law drafted and passed by means of which this guy ought to be forbidden to smile. Batigne raved about the beauties of a Nicaragua he had never even seen in his drunken nightmares full of delirium tremens and blue devils. Then the German asked me if I like his music. Shit. I started sweating oil, so I just said,”No sir. I hate your music and all the decadence it stands for. When a factory burned down in my native Managua, the combination of firemen chopping down doors, the water falling from the hoses and the people screaming sounded more like music than what you have ever played in your entire life. And I find your teeth frightening, so would you please close your mouth?” had I really said that. Unlocked door of my heart,yes. All the Al-sa-tiens (because they pronounce like that) were gaping upon me in horror, wondering why this little sale indienne(dirty Indian) had had the effrontery to say that to a German(for them kissing cousin of God, because after the 1871`s Franco Prussian War they had been Germans, and then they had been scraped out of Germany`s rotten and defeated stomach after World War I, so everyone called them the Regurgitated Ones). Stockhaussen blanched for a second, then flashed his frightful smile again and said, ”Refreshing, my darling! It is the first time that someone has the sincerity and nerve to tell me the truth while all the rest just genuflect. Refreshing!” Batigne looked as if he was going to toss the dinner he hadn`t yet consumed and probably wouldn`t because he would have his mouth busy apologizing for my words later. I had said it, finally, I was speaking my mind. What should I have said? What should I have done, join the marching army of liars and hypocrites that populate this world and first tell you how fantastic you are and ten days later they slam the door in your face because they never liked you in first place?
When I went to the Vatican, I was one of the millions of people who go with eyes gaping wide open. The one thing that breaks the harmony of all you see is that ridiculous clownish uniform the Swiss Guards wear. You see them everywhere, although they are the smallest army in the world. Pope Julius II, the patron of Michelangelo, was the one to form the first Swiss Guards, and he must have loved it for he was a connoisseur of male beauty. I slow ly approached a small altar studded with precious stones and was about to touch it when a Swiss Guard grabbed my wrist. “Look, neither Cantinflas nor Harold Lloyd nor Fernandel ever had to wear that striped clown pajama you are wearing to make anyone laugh, but I have the full right to touch any altar here because the gold that shines here was stolen from my people in America. So cut the out the batshit and let me be, because I am as a descendant from Diriangèn the true owner of all this that was extricated through death and domination from my ancestors. ”The guy could not believe his ears, and worse that it was growled to him in perfect Italian. Should I have stayed quiet? Truths are truths no matter who feels shocked. Truth will always come spilling out like an avalanche, sooner or later, unable to be contained. Some may say that I always put my foot in my mouth, and I may agree with them. But I have never been called a hypocrite in my life, and in this modern world that is a record.
Yet, the most tender of all encounters for me is the one I had in a department store in Paris, when I saw a sexy old lady buying stockings on sale. I had not noticed her and it was my uncle who saw her first. He hissed in my ear,”There she is.Mrs.Gandhi.” I looked up and saw her there, simply dressed as any ordinary housewife. My heart literally jumped out of my mouth and landed at her feet. I walked up to her and introduced myself. I was so nervous. I had idolized this lady since I was a little girl. The woman smiled at me and started asking me questions, then when I answered some of them she quoted Rubèn Darìo and Salomon de la Selva, two of our best Nicaraguan poets. I was fascinated. I told her how much I admired her,and she smiled while a sudden sadness reflected in her eyes.”You have no idea how hard it is being me, but it is the only choice I have been given and I am trying to make the most I can of it. I am not admired by everyone, you know.” “I pity those who don`t realize how great you are, Ma àm because someday they will find out and I hope it won`t be too late,”I said. Those words, I wasn`t even fully aware of saying them, and how they turned out to be prophetic. On October 31st of 1984 Mrs. Gandhi was assassinated by her Sihk bodyguard. It isn`t until so many years after her death that many have realized how admirable she was. I never forgot her.I was back in my country when I got the news of her magnicide. Her death impacted me so much that after I homaged her with the making of a documentary, I got so sick from malaria that I nearly died. Perhaps my words will haunt me until I die,and even after. Should I have said anything else?

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