51st entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook
Born on September 19th:
86 Antoninus Pius 15th Roman emperor (138-161),benign rule1922 Dana Zatopek Czechoslavakia, javelin thrower (Olympic-gold-1952) extraordinary athlete and wife od Emil1922 Emil Zatopek Czechoslavakia, 5K/10K/marathon (Olympic-gold-1952)the human locative,deserved the statesman`s funeral he was given
1802 Louis Kossuth Hungary, President of Hungary (1849), general and playwright, an elegant patriot
Deaths which occurred on September 19:
1881 James A Garfield US president, dies of gunshot wound which was not mortal,buyt between the doc and even Alex Graham Bell with his metal detector,he was done in
On this day...
1356 English defeat French at Battle of Poitiers during the 100 Years war
1846 Elizabeth Barrett & Robert Browning elope,after a long correspondence romance…isn`t that dangerous?
PRIVATE WORDS SAID IN PUBLIC
Journalists have one thing:they love sitting you on a wet towel. The wetter the better! Any excuse is good enough,whether it is an award you won or that you slipped and fell on a pile of dogshit on the street. But they are always there,at your feet, initially licking,then biting like the awful Pitbull monster I have at home and who just had the indecency of tearing two quilts to shreds. Bad comparison,maybe,but I am still sweating after an interview a pair of Mexican newsmen realized on me yesterday,trying to make a profile that is scandalous enough to titillate the magazine`s readers,but not so unpresentable that everyone will run away screaming, like when you see a roadside accident in which the victim`s bowels are all spread over the pavement.
First of all, the fact that my short story in which I homage my hero Josip Broz Tito of the former Yugoslavia, The Violoncello of Serbia, and a 5th entry from my chronicle book The Colonel`s Scrapbook, won a distinction at an international level fill should be enough to boost my ego, right? I am supposed to make up for the photo, look picture-smart but not so much the whole male population of the world hates me on sight. Thanks to the Violoncello, I have been called everything from pervert to genius. That is a wide range of adjectives, believe me. I get told it has all the right ingredients,from sex to myth,music to politics,and so much suspense. I get asked if I ever felt the passion Dara does for her wicked Milan, and I burst out laughing. Here you have another example of how people mistake the author for his or her characters. I may have admired Tito to distraction,wept bitterly at his grave when his widow Jovanka found me there, but I have no demon driven Serb in my past. Hard job to convince journalists that you are one thing and the character is another one. You end up apologizing for having a wild imagination. Even though people enjoy a writer`s imagination, at they end they make you pay through the nose for having it. So according to some of my readers, I am a woman to be pitied if they take every character`s experience as my own. In real life, I have never been exiled, tortured, cloned, raped and then broken into pieces. No thanks.
Private words said in public, said the Nobel Prize winner Thomas Stearns Eliot nin asmall poem dedicated to his second wife(because wuith the first wife he would rather have nothing to do with). I am caught with my garter belt which I don`t wear around my ankles, sweating in the toilet of my private life, and the question is asked. Madame, who is the dearest reader in your diary-like chronicle The Colonel`s Scrapbook? There is the whole Gibraltar stuck in the Adam`s apple that I as a female don`t have. There is an unwritten rule that states that a writer with a husband must by law or by hook or by crook dedicate all her work to the understanding hubby who postpones a delicious dinner when Mrs.is writing.He lets her do it. So in payment,all her works must be dedicated to him. Sexist etiquette demands that! Viriginia Leonard became Virginia Woolf so that her husband also got credit for her work, even though she was a card-carrying lesbian who didn`t relish bedsport with her hubby. A trickle of sweat runs down my uncrooked yet broken spine and lands there, at the mere ass.
Sordid details:the Colonel`s Scrapbook was conceived during flight in a helicopter,at thousands of feet from the ground,at the end of a thunderstorm that left all the afternoon sky with a glittering golden haze. It was made on a laptop that shouldn`t have been there,specially in a country where half our children`s population eats every two days,and then not what the paediatrician would prescribe. It was begotten outside the dutiful marriage bed. Bed,and what do I mention bed for.No bed. Like the mysterious incubus that lands on the most virtuous virgin during her unconfessed wet dream, the inspiration came in a cloud of internet ether at the end of June, after having finally found the coin that Beethoven lost and which motivated him to write his famous piano rondo over the lost penny. But he is not a penny, he is the mines of King Solomon all put together,with the veil of a queen studded with pearls, and all the dreams anyone may have in his head throughout 7 lifetimes. Is that enough? Do I have to mention out loud the long locks you already heard about, when it is now known he is not imaginary like Anne Frank`s Kitty in her Diary? Need an address,and phone number? The journalists blush purple.They didn`t expect me to be so bold. So brazen,would say my own boss later when he heard the tape that was made of my interview,and he made the gross mistake of saying that ERmily Bronte had based her passionate Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights after her husband. Don`t ever try to sound scholarly if you are not,I retorted,remembering that of the Bronte sisters it was Charlotte,who gave us Jane Eyre, who had a husband and he so mistreated her that she died in her fifth month of pregnancy. Emily died a virgin and where she got the model for her dark hero, we will probably never know for sure. So,as Gabriel Garcia Marquez said, “those who breakfast with too much pride shall lunch with their own shame.” Lesson learned,boss? Probably, even though he confessed he envied me for the feeling that must exist in order to create such a masterpiece.Ok,his words,not mine.
Dearest reader. What a misleading phrase. I will probably never have any more children because even though I have no menopause, that is a wild possibility in theelbow of kismet, I have born a freak child in words:my Colonel`s Scrapbook. I have combined the historian with the military,and the woman with the critic. It will continue being unique because it has no limits,and there I reflect all the spectrum of feelings and concepts that run through my macabre mind. It really is the essence of my life philosophy,wit included. Nobody but the dear reader will ever be able to fathom exactly what this person is about. Others may have inklings of what I mean. Of all the muses in jeans or uniforms, or in kingly robes and no sandals, that I have had, I guess the dear reader is the one that has brought the best out of me. I don`t say it to flatter, because I know some people are so great that flattery just slides off their shoulders because they are well oiled by tons of self-esteem. Like me, it is realistic, unromantic and multi-sided. Not even my own daughter looks so much like me, so I can catalog it as my written clone. That is something journalists will never understand.
Pictures were taken, compliments were given at the end of the interview. I knew my declarations were going to be like shit hitting a fast fan. At this point of life, a few days before hitting my 49 th birthday on October 4th.Animals`Day, I am way past caring what people may say or believe. I don`t know how many pages it will have.It is all being blogged so that if I die tomorrow, the evidence that I was so superbly inspired is there. I don`t want to promise a happy ending because it is not a sweet novel,or even if I will ever sit together for supper with the dear reader. If I do, may kismet bless the stars who follow us. If not, the purpose has been achieved. I have learned the lesson that by being true to yourself you can then be true to those you love. Not before. Without truth, love loses its letters and becomes just a four-letter word.
Born on September 19th:
86 Antoninus Pius 15th Roman emperor (138-161),benign rule1922 Dana Zatopek Czechoslavakia, javelin thrower (Olympic-gold-1952) extraordinary athlete and wife od Emil1922 Emil Zatopek Czechoslavakia, 5K/10K/marathon (Olympic-gold-1952)the human locative,deserved the statesman`s funeral he was given
1802 Louis Kossuth Hungary, President of Hungary (1849), general and playwright, an elegant patriot
Deaths which occurred on September 19:
1881 James A Garfield US president, dies of gunshot wound which was not mortal,buyt between the doc and even Alex Graham Bell with his metal detector,he was done in
On this day...
1356 English defeat French at Battle of Poitiers during the 100 Years war
1846 Elizabeth Barrett & Robert Browning elope,after a long correspondence romance…isn`t that dangerous?
PRIVATE WORDS SAID IN PUBLIC
Journalists have one thing:they love sitting you on a wet towel. The wetter the better! Any excuse is good enough,whether it is an award you won or that you slipped and fell on a pile of dogshit on the street. But they are always there,at your feet, initially licking,then biting like the awful Pitbull monster I have at home and who just had the indecency of tearing two quilts to shreds. Bad comparison,maybe,but I am still sweating after an interview a pair of Mexican newsmen realized on me yesterday,trying to make a profile that is scandalous enough to titillate the magazine`s readers,but not so unpresentable that everyone will run away screaming, like when you see a roadside accident in which the victim`s bowels are all spread over the pavement.
First of all, the fact that my short story in which I homage my hero Josip Broz Tito of the former Yugoslavia, The Violoncello of Serbia, and a 5th entry from my chronicle book The Colonel`s Scrapbook, won a distinction at an international level fill should be enough to boost my ego, right? I am supposed to make up for the photo, look picture-smart but not so much the whole male population of the world hates me on sight. Thanks to the Violoncello, I have been called everything from pervert to genius. That is a wide range of adjectives, believe me. I get told it has all the right ingredients,from sex to myth,music to politics,and so much suspense. I get asked if I ever felt the passion Dara does for her wicked Milan, and I burst out laughing. Here you have another example of how people mistake the author for his or her characters. I may have admired Tito to distraction,wept bitterly at his grave when his widow Jovanka found me there, but I have no demon driven Serb in my past. Hard job to convince journalists that you are one thing and the character is another one. You end up apologizing for having a wild imagination. Even though people enjoy a writer`s imagination, at they end they make you pay through the nose for having it. So according to some of my readers, I am a woman to be pitied if they take every character`s experience as my own. In real life, I have never been exiled, tortured, cloned, raped and then broken into pieces. No thanks.
Private words said in public, said the Nobel Prize winner Thomas Stearns Eliot nin asmall poem dedicated to his second wife(because wuith the first wife he would rather have nothing to do with). I am caught with my garter belt which I don`t wear around my ankles, sweating in the toilet of my private life, and the question is asked. Madame, who is the dearest reader in your diary-like chronicle The Colonel`s Scrapbook? There is the whole Gibraltar stuck in the Adam`s apple that I as a female don`t have. There is an unwritten rule that states that a writer with a husband must by law or by hook or by crook dedicate all her work to the understanding hubby who postpones a delicious dinner when Mrs.is writing.He lets her do it. So in payment,all her works must be dedicated to him. Sexist etiquette demands that! Viriginia Leonard became Virginia Woolf so that her husband also got credit for her work, even though she was a card-carrying lesbian who didn`t relish bedsport with her hubby. A trickle of sweat runs down my uncrooked yet broken spine and lands there, at the mere ass.
Sordid details:the Colonel`s Scrapbook was conceived during flight in a helicopter,at thousands of feet from the ground,at the end of a thunderstorm that left all the afternoon sky with a glittering golden haze. It was made on a laptop that shouldn`t have been there,specially in a country where half our children`s population eats every two days,and then not what the paediatrician would prescribe. It was begotten outside the dutiful marriage bed. Bed,and what do I mention bed for.No bed. Like the mysterious incubus that lands on the most virtuous virgin during her unconfessed wet dream, the inspiration came in a cloud of internet ether at the end of June, after having finally found the coin that Beethoven lost and which motivated him to write his famous piano rondo over the lost penny. But he is not a penny, he is the mines of King Solomon all put together,with the veil of a queen studded with pearls, and all the dreams anyone may have in his head throughout 7 lifetimes. Is that enough? Do I have to mention out loud the long locks you already heard about, when it is now known he is not imaginary like Anne Frank`s Kitty in her Diary? Need an address,and phone number? The journalists blush purple.They didn`t expect me to be so bold. So brazen,would say my own boss later when he heard the tape that was made of my interview,and he made the gross mistake of saying that ERmily Bronte had based her passionate Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights after her husband. Don`t ever try to sound scholarly if you are not,I retorted,remembering that of the Bronte sisters it was Charlotte,who gave us Jane Eyre, who had a husband and he so mistreated her that she died in her fifth month of pregnancy. Emily died a virgin and where she got the model for her dark hero, we will probably never know for sure. So,as Gabriel Garcia Marquez said, “those who breakfast with too much pride shall lunch with their own shame.” Lesson learned,boss? Probably, even though he confessed he envied me for the feeling that must exist in order to create such a masterpiece.Ok,his words,not mine.
Dearest reader. What a misleading phrase. I will probably never have any more children because even though I have no menopause, that is a wild possibility in theelbow of kismet, I have born a freak child in words:my Colonel`s Scrapbook. I have combined the historian with the military,and the woman with the critic. It will continue being unique because it has no limits,and there I reflect all the spectrum of feelings and concepts that run through my macabre mind. It really is the essence of my life philosophy,wit included. Nobody but the dear reader will ever be able to fathom exactly what this person is about. Others may have inklings of what I mean. Of all the muses in jeans or uniforms, or in kingly robes and no sandals, that I have had, I guess the dear reader is the one that has brought the best out of me. I don`t say it to flatter, because I know some people are so great that flattery just slides off their shoulders because they are well oiled by tons of self-esteem. Like me, it is realistic, unromantic and multi-sided. Not even my own daughter looks so much like me, so I can catalog it as my written clone. That is something journalists will never understand.
Pictures were taken, compliments were given at the end of the interview. I knew my declarations were going to be like shit hitting a fast fan. At this point of life, a few days before hitting my 49 th birthday on October 4th.Animals`Day, I am way past caring what people may say or believe. I don`t know how many pages it will have.It is all being blogged so that if I die tomorrow, the evidence that I was so superbly inspired is there. I don`t want to promise a happy ending because it is not a sweet novel,or even if I will ever sit together for supper with the dear reader. If I do, may kismet bless the stars who follow us. If not, the purpose has been achieved. I have learned the lesson that by being true to yourself you can then be true to those you love. Not before. Without truth, love loses its letters and becomes just a four-letter word.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario