41st entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook
August 18th
born
1904 Max Factor Jr CEO (Max Factor Cosmetics
1750 Antonio Salieri Italy, composer (Tatare)
1933 Roman Polanski director (Knife in the Water, Repulsion) 1934 Roberto Clemente pro baseball player (Pittsburgh Pirates) 1937 Robert Redford Calif, actor (Sting, Candidate, Natural, Great Gatsby)
Deaths which occurred on August 18:
1227 Genghis Khan Mongol conqueror, died
Events
1572 Margot de Valois marries against her will against Henri de Navarre,future king of France
LOVE`S LITTLE SUNFLOWERS
On a day like today, August 18th,but in 1572,one of the greatest mèsalliances of history took place. the 19 year old Marguerite married Henry de Bourbon, who had become King of Navarre on the death of his mother. The groom, a Huguenot, remained outside the church for much of the wedding. It was reported that during the ceremony, the bride and groom stared straight ahead, never looking at each other. Obviously ,they were not in love. Their bodies were being used by the state to try the impossible: gain peace and end the strife between Catholics and Protestants(Huguenots)in France. Just six days after the wedding, on Saint Bartholomew's Day, a massacre of Huguenots was conducted by Parisian mobs. Some of them had been feasting and dancing at Marguerite`s wedding. Even Genghis Khan,the great Mongol king and warlord, who had died inn a day like this, would have been nauseated to see innocent blood running down the gutters of Paris.
Weddings have always scared me.They sshare many things in common with burials. Does the interrment of love begin with a wedding? Not always ,if there is no love itself to begin with what are you going to kill and bury ?No body, no crime would say a corrupt cop.yesterday you and I were chatting about a king who loved his minion so much that the love they shared was the minion`s downfall and death. A violent death because the minion had been beheaded in front of the future king. I was asking you, if Frederick the Great would have lived in this age,with internet and webcams, would he have done something as touching as leaving his webcam connected so that his lover,connected elsewhere,could watch over his sleep? You said you wouldn`t do it,andldn`t do it either.My intimacy,my sleep,that stretch of time that belongs only to my dreams and nightmares and snoring if I ever get to admit I do it too, put into someone else`s lap and eyes? No my gentle sir. Love is one thing,another is the internet version of D Day with the Allies trampling into Normandie`s tender soil. No, even if you may shake your long hair`s dark locks in dismay, as Rod McKuen said I only own myself but all of me is mine! Not my sleep.It is my San Juan River, to be forever inviolate and unpolluted by the dirty Costaricans who want to navigate him and pollute him and turn him into a miserable strip of toxic mud. But it has been done, dearest. I know that it comes as a surprising,cloying, chioking,suffocating and hot wave of tenderness from the very quick of your body,from the center of your heart which bears no name yet. Imagine Hans Hermann von Katte, in jeans and smoking a cigarrette or taking a soothing draft of grapefruit juice,after he has finished chatting with his Frederick,realizes the king`s camera is still on and sees him sleeping there, probably without pajamas, recognizing each hair on his lover`s chest, seeing him sleeping peacefully as a lion cub. Marguerite de Valois would have never felt that for he husband Henri, whom she considered a tough and dumb oaf. Do feelings make sense?
There are sunflowers that bloom only on the skin of love. Moonflowers that sprout only on the tender vines of love`s tendrils. Exclusively on love`s nimble feet do the first footprints of spring come, and the last autumn leaves before the snow. Sometimes its whisper is heard in the strangest places and on the most common of nights. The problem is that if our ears and senses are not tuned to it, it may pass as a ghost sighs from the farthest corner of the old house, and we may never learn it was there until we let is slip by. One day we simply ask ourselves when did it all begin.Can you pinpoint a date, what your cat was doing at the moment you were aware that love had intoxicated you at last, or an arrangement of cumulunimbus clouds in the sky when you realized you were finally there? You know one day you stopped resisting, let yourself be conducted by the zephyr of roses you had never smelled before, while you discovered new senses you were not aware of using, and you got there unwittingly.
Moments make up the parure of love.It is not a huge empty sky gaping at the moon, dearest reader. Don`t ever let anyone fool you with that. Moments are pearls strung on that necklace you will wear in your memory, beads of luster and yearning never to be forgotten as long as you live. Joan Manuel Serrat knew it when he wrote Those Small Things. One believes they had been killed by time and absence,but their train had bought a round trip and they are back with us any moment. They pounce on you from behind the door of everydays,like a smart thief who knows it was your payday today. Your necklace of iriscent fire opals will always carry that first impression, the last smile,or the word you shouldn`t have said.
Margot de Valois went down in history as the woman who spent more time feeling infatuated,the bad thing turned out that it wasn`t always with the same person. She was a huntress of magic instants, a collector of kisses, with a basket of stolen embraces. She would say that if you wanted to kill a temptation you should give in finally.
One day,reaching into the blue pool depths of my oniric world, I shall find you slowly drifting in sleep, ether angels crowning your dark forehead, asleep. The webcam will not be necessary, nor a thousand roses or a dozen of silver bullets to pierce your heart with the gunpowder of limerence. By then hope will have brought you somewhere near the last angle of my broken left wrist,and I will only have to stretch my arm to touch you. Meanwhile, the ink flows out and spills bloodily over this page,which is that white battlefield on which the sub machinegun of my inspiration dances, ambushes,fights against its shadow and wrenches victory out of circumnstance`s hands. At the end, we are all victors.
One more page goes up into the blog, one more mail goes into your hands.Others see the words fly by as a parade of fireflies at midnight,andwonder so many things, compare the cards on their hands,and wonder how I got to find out so many of their secrets, how I heard too many of their sighs.
I was just watching into their webcam when they were sleeping,and as Archimedes put it so long ago,”Give me one site to lean on, and Iwill move the whole world”.
August 18th
born
1904 Max Factor Jr CEO (Max Factor Cosmetics
1750 Antonio Salieri Italy, composer (Tatare)
1933 Roman Polanski director (Knife in the Water, Repulsion) 1934 Roberto Clemente pro baseball player (Pittsburgh Pirates) 1937 Robert Redford Calif, actor (Sting, Candidate, Natural, Great Gatsby)
Deaths which occurred on August 18:
1227 Genghis Khan Mongol conqueror, died
Events
1572 Margot de Valois marries against her will against Henri de Navarre,future king of France
LOVE`S LITTLE SUNFLOWERS
On a day like today, August 18th,but in 1572,one of the greatest mèsalliances of history took place. the 19 year old Marguerite married Henry de Bourbon, who had become King of Navarre on the death of his mother. The groom, a Huguenot, remained outside the church for much of the wedding. It was reported that during the ceremony, the bride and groom stared straight ahead, never looking at each other. Obviously ,they were not in love. Their bodies were being used by the state to try the impossible: gain peace and end the strife between Catholics and Protestants(Huguenots)in France. Just six days after the wedding, on Saint Bartholomew's Day, a massacre of Huguenots was conducted by Parisian mobs. Some of them had been feasting and dancing at Marguerite`s wedding. Even Genghis Khan,the great Mongol king and warlord, who had died inn a day like this, would have been nauseated to see innocent blood running down the gutters of Paris.
Weddings have always scared me.They sshare many things in common with burials. Does the interrment of love begin with a wedding? Not always ,if there is no love itself to begin with what are you going to kill and bury ?No body, no crime would say a corrupt cop.yesterday you and I were chatting about a king who loved his minion so much that the love they shared was the minion`s downfall and death. A violent death because the minion had been beheaded in front of the future king. I was asking you, if Frederick the Great would have lived in this age,with internet and webcams, would he have done something as touching as leaving his webcam connected so that his lover,connected elsewhere,could watch over his sleep? You said you wouldn`t do it,andldn`t do it either.My intimacy,my sleep,that stretch of time that belongs only to my dreams and nightmares and snoring if I ever get to admit I do it too, put into someone else`s lap and eyes? No my gentle sir. Love is one thing,another is the internet version of D Day with the Allies trampling into Normandie`s tender soil. No, even if you may shake your long hair`s dark locks in dismay, as Rod McKuen said I only own myself but all of me is mine! Not my sleep.It is my San Juan River, to be forever inviolate and unpolluted by the dirty Costaricans who want to navigate him and pollute him and turn him into a miserable strip of toxic mud. But it has been done, dearest. I know that it comes as a surprising,cloying, chioking,suffocating and hot wave of tenderness from the very quick of your body,from the center of your heart which bears no name yet. Imagine Hans Hermann von Katte, in jeans and smoking a cigarrette or taking a soothing draft of grapefruit juice,after he has finished chatting with his Frederick,realizes the king`s camera is still on and sees him sleeping there, probably without pajamas, recognizing each hair on his lover`s chest, seeing him sleeping peacefully as a lion cub. Marguerite de Valois would have never felt that for he husband Henri, whom she considered a tough and dumb oaf. Do feelings make sense?
There are sunflowers that bloom only on the skin of love. Moonflowers that sprout only on the tender vines of love`s tendrils. Exclusively on love`s nimble feet do the first footprints of spring come, and the last autumn leaves before the snow. Sometimes its whisper is heard in the strangest places and on the most common of nights. The problem is that if our ears and senses are not tuned to it, it may pass as a ghost sighs from the farthest corner of the old house, and we may never learn it was there until we let is slip by. One day we simply ask ourselves when did it all begin.Can you pinpoint a date, what your cat was doing at the moment you were aware that love had intoxicated you at last, or an arrangement of cumulunimbus clouds in the sky when you realized you were finally there? You know one day you stopped resisting, let yourself be conducted by the zephyr of roses you had never smelled before, while you discovered new senses you were not aware of using, and you got there unwittingly.
Moments make up the parure of love.It is not a huge empty sky gaping at the moon, dearest reader. Don`t ever let anyone fool you with that. Moments are pearls strung on that necklace you will wear in your memory, beads of luster and yearning never to be forgotten as long as you live. Joan Manuel Serrat knew it when he wrote Those Small Things. One believes they had been killed by time and absence,but their train had bought a round trip and they are back with us any moment. They pounce on you from behind the door of everydays,like a smart thief who knows it was your payday today. Your necklace of iriscent fire opals will always carry that first impression, the last smile,or the word you shouldn`t have said.
Margot de Valois went down in history as the woman who spent more time feeling infatuated,the bad thing turned out that it wasn`t always with the same person. She was a huntress of magic instants, a collector of kisses, with a basket of stolen embraces. She would say that if you wanted to kill a temptation you should give in finally.
One day,reaching into the blue pool depths of my oniric world, I shall find you slowly drifting in sleep, ether angels crowning your dark forehead, asleep. The webcam will not be necessary, nor a thousand roses or a dozen of silver bullets to pierce your heart with the gunpowder of limerence. By then hope will have brought you somewhere near the last angle of my broken left wrist,and I will only have to stretch my arm to touch you. Meanwhile, the ink flows out and spills bloodily over this page,which is that white battlefield on which the sub machinegun of my inspiration dances, ambushes,fights against its shadow and wrenches victory out of circumnstance`s hands. At the end, we are all victors.
One more page goes up into the blog, one more mail goes into your hands.Others see the words fly by as a parade of fireflies at midnight,andwonder so many things, compare the cards on their hands,and wonder how I got to find out so many of their secrets, how I heard too many of their sighs.
I was just watching into their webcam when they were sleeping,and as Archimedes put it so long ago,”Give me one site to lean on, and Iwill move the whole world”.
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