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

miércoles, 20 de agosto de 2008

Uniform or shroud



August 19th and 20th, 42 entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook


1631 John Dryden 1st poet laureate of England (Absalom & Achitophel) metaphysical poet, taught me a truth or two1946 Bill Clinton 42nd US President. (Former Little Rock Attorney),so sexy,so womanizing and so nice
1871 Orville Wright aviator ,one of the two siblings who taught us how far we could fly1881 Georges Enesco (or Enescu) Romania, composer (Romanian Rhapsodies)
died
14 -BC- Octavian [Augustus] Roman general and first emperor, dies at 48 1493 Frederick III Innsbruck Austria, German Emperor (1440-1493) , he was a headache even onto himself1929 Sergei P Diaghilev Russia, dance master (Imperial Ballet), dies at 57,after having ruined Vaslav Nijinsky`s life

Events
1099 Crusaders beat Saracens in Battle of Ascalon ,all this bloodshed in the name of god…!1263 King James I of Aragon censors Hebrew writings, so enlightened he thought he was

Birthdates which occurred on your SELECTED date of August 20:
1778 Bernardo O'Higgins won independence for Chile,but didn`t quitemake him happy
1890 H.P. Lovecraft US, Gothic novelist (At the Mountains of Madness)he sure had more grip on reality than our tragedies have
1921 Jacqueline Susann Phila Pa, author (Valley of the Dolls)wonderful novelist
1931 Don King boxing promoter, shocking hairstyle…he doubledeals boxers,then has the decency to get his hair to stand on end ,appalled at what he did!
1944 Rajiv Gandhi PM of India (1984-1991 )his vanity killed him,he saw the lady with the bouquet and tought,”another female in heat over me”POP went the bomb

Deaths
1940 Leon Trotsky icepicked by Ramon Mercader after having had a rambunctious affair with his host Frida Kahlo



THE VERDICT OH HISTORY

Today I just wanted to homage George Enesco,Romanian composer whose Romanian Rhapsody number one sends me flying through the most Olympic clouds of glee. I wanted to say, thank you George, for all the happiness your pentagram has given me and continues to give me, for the race of incense in my bloodstream when I hear your music, for the understanding what I feel when I evoke all that your country means in history. Judged by cerebralists as a minor talent, Georges Enesco only gets adjectives above outstanding from his fans and myself heading the parade.
But life sometimes gets twisted around our ankles by circumstances you would have never imagined in your wildest dreams or worst nightmares. You were going in one direction and all the monkeys of Gibraltar fall on you as a horde full of hair? Why are we always emitting verdicts? History emits her own verdicts to judge you after the worms have eaten the ones who were judged, or the ashes were sprayed around, or the body never appeared. But we also sentence to our indifference, wear the judge`s wig of our anger, or the robe of our prejudice when we emit judgements about others.
Who gives us that right may end up being a good question, an as the loudmouth that I am, I certainly feel I should wriggle my little finger around in the festering sore.
What are the parameters for a verdict? What evidence has to be brought to the ones doing the judging? Are we loudmouths at loss?I know for some other things we are,walking bombs on the verge of detonation all the time. Spilling shards of smiles, debris of toxic enthusiasm that may bring down the wall of indifference. Not afraid of exclaiming and wailing in public even if our picture-perfect makeup may smudge.
Our adrenaline runs wild as we hang from trees as the monkeys at the Mombacho volcano do, while others wonder what got into our heads. No matter how many addresses we may have in our mailbox, we walk alone along the thinnest thread the moon has spun with its own shade. We may admit we are not sure what we may desire at the moment,but that doesn`t make us weak or puny. We descend into hell, helped by Virgil or maybe bearded Empedocles of Agrigento as when he went into the crater of Mount Etna, knowing we may not come back alive from our questioning. We get rebuked, told to be quiet, being gushy isn`t chic, you know…
Of course you know. But does the wound continue or not to bleed, gaping open, just because you hurt?
We are fit to be judged always ahead of time, or at the precise moment when we least expected it. Leon Davidovich Bronski,best known as Trotsky, knew that Stalin would never let him go scot-free, but the judgement was passed onto him not on a silver tray but by the icepick piercing his head but never his thoughts on a day like today. Did he expect that so soon in that way?He never gave an inkling about knowing. Like Trostky, we get punished for thinking. Being thinkers is our capital sin and we must pay through the nose. We get chastised for carrying our hearts in our fist, when not on the sleeve, so we learn to go emotionally sleeveless from then on. We delete things from the hard disk of our feelings,memories or notions. Or learn to stay away from those who consider us a hand grenade about to blow up their pants`pocket, a definition which might include the whole world for all we know. Are we ready for that?Is that the outer limit for alienation, or for self-reliance ? I remember reading s tale by Virginia Woolf, Solid Objects. I still strongly suspect I was the only one in the classroom full of spoiled brats that really understood it. For saying I liked it, I was judged as crazy. As absurd as being judged for overbold when there is no nudity or bad words in a blog but the same ones who criticize you promote promiscuity,perverts and other unsavoury things..as long as they are done by whites who sport names like sexchick or d and p. Double standards always prevail as long as the one in the judge`s robe has blond hair.

I don`t know if this entry is a rite of passage. When stars multiply and have a baby on your epaulets champagne should be the celebration, and pictures for the newspapers,and look at the freak purple lion, a woman in Roman sandals. At least the church to which I don`t belong simply won`t burn me as a witch for cross-dressing(that was one of the accusations against Joan of Arc). Every uniform is a shroud, because you can get buried in it with all the medals you got on your way into the grave. Have you ever realized that whenever a man wears a tuxedo, something very awful awaits for him? He may marry, or become a dignitary, or be thrown into the expensive anti-ecological casket in order to be buried. Yes it was T.S. Eliot, my perennial favourite, who wrote “there is no end to so much sadness spilling…”Well, there is no end to so much doubt spilling over the sleeves of a gala uniform. Can a general kill a writer, or can they cohabit in the same body as Pierre Choderlos de Laclos did?
I push away the goblet of champagne, not because I reject Dom Perignon`s wonderful invention. I refuse to drink poison, in the full sense of the word. Nevermore,chimes the raven from Poe`s poem into my ear that only wants to hear Enesco`s music. I am shooting at the clouds of a horizon, bringing them down for not holding rainfall for me. Along with them, bleeding a haze of sleet, may fall fake angels sighted while the helicopter was still airborne and I tried to be religious for the last ridiculous time in my life. Pain?No, sir, only a spreading, iridescent numbness along the place wher my crystal heart used to live. It fills up slowly with some kind of noble gas, lighter than xenon but brighter than neon. Ethereal, I breathe free of charge. No matter what happens, whatever kismet may have for me, I am non-guilty. A rivulet of bitterness has passed from my hazel irises onto a smile. My shoulders which are to wear such a burden of glitter instinctively shrug. Solid objects, dear readers. To paraphrase Mrs. Woolf. No ether. No storm. No disconnection from the real world. No hope beyond silliness or giddiness over a plan that is not in the left pocket above my heart òf my uniform. The choice is made. In the new version of the fairy tale the princess won`t marry the frog, although she was tempted to do so and live in a faraway tower full of desert dust washing his clothes. To conclude this folk tale, because it is not a rosy ending fairy tale, she took him to her cook and… Later on, she ate at succulent dish of frog`s legs for lunch. And as Hannah and Barbera said at the end of Tiny Toons, that`s all for now, folks! Because the day of judgement could arrive any minute,and I don`t want to get caught with my gun down when the Bogeyman starts to waltz.