Birthdates which occurred on your SELECTED date of September 21:
1415 Frederick III Innsbruck Austria, German Emperor (1440-1493) 1452 Girolamo Savonarola Florentine monk/preacher/reformer
1866 H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells Bromley, England (War of the Worlds) 1874 Gustav Holst Cheltenham, England, composer (Planets)
1947 Stephen King suspense writer (Shining, Kujo )
Deaths which occurred on September 21:
1327 Edward II king of England (1307-1327), dies at 43,after his own wife Isabella ordered his death by getting a red hot iron rod pushed "there" as revenge for all the slights he made her
1956 Anastasio Somoza Nicaraguan dictator, assassinated by Rigoberto Lopez
1415 Frederick III Innsbruck Austria, German Emperor (1440-1493) 1452 Girolamo Savonarola Florentine monk/preacher/reformer
1866 H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells Bromley, England (War of the Worlds) 1874 Gustav Holst Cheltenham, England, composer (Planets)
1947 Stephen King suspense writer (Shining, Kujo )
Deaths which occurred on September 21:
1327 Edward II king of England (1307-1327), dies at 43,after his own wife Isabella ordered his death by getting a red hot iron rod pushed "there" as revenge for all the slights he made her
1956 Anastasio Somoza Nicaraguan dictator, assassinated by Rigoberto Lopez
1957 Haakon VII king of Norway, dies, Olaf succeeds him
1974 Jacqueline Susann author (Valley of the Dolls), dies at 53 of cancer
1348 Jews in Zurich Switzerland are accused of poisoning wells 1451 Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa orders Jews of Holland to wear a badge 1776 Great fire in NY 1780 Benedict Arnold gives British Major Andr‚ plans to West Point52d entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook
September 21st
Birthdates which occurred on your SELECTED date of September 21:
1415 Frederick III Innsbruck Austria, German Emperor (1440-1493) 1452 Girolamo Savonarola Florentine monk/preacher/reformer
1866 H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells Bromley, England (War of the Worlds) 1874 Gustav Holst Cheltenham, England, composer (Planets)
1947 Stephen King suspense writer (Shining, Kujo
Deaths which occurred on September 21:
1327 Edward II king of England (1307-1327), dies at 43
1956 Anastasio Somoza Nicaraguan dictator, assassinated by Roliberto Lopez 1957 Haakon VII king of Norway, dies, Olaf succeeds him
1974 Jacqueline Susann author (Valley of the Dolls), dies at 53 of cancer
1348 Jews in Zurich Switzerland are accused of poisoning wells 1451 Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa orders Jews of Holland to wear a badge 1776 Great fire in NY 1780 Benedict Arnold gives British Major Andr‚ plans to West Point
Some time ago, I was watching the Disney Channel and by chance I saw an animated film about a tiny mouse who does everything he can to be reunited with his loved ones. The theme song of the cartoon movie was sung by James Ingram and Linda Ronstadt, and it was titled “Somewhere Out There.” It was on the hit parade list for son long and I partially learned the lyrics. Funny, I memorize lyrics of syrupy songs but that doesn`t mean I wallow in romantic honey most of the time. Sorry, dearest reader, not that kind of fly specimen for me. But is funny that now, that I am cut off from you due to a net failure, and I cannot even mail this entry to you just after I finish it(like a steaming tortilla out of the clay dish where it was made, or nan in your country)like I usually do before blogging it, that I should be remembering that corny cartoon story and the song. Being cut off from you,even when it is a temporary thing for which I cannot blame a hectic schedule or anything else, onlymakes me aware of the fact that there is like an unwritten and invisible umbilical cord going from me to you. The consumer of 12 coca-colas simply didn`t take a sip of one today. Now I know what drunkards feel when they get delirium tremens or blue devils whipping their tails. The Impatient Patience, said a guerrilla leader turned into a capitalist frog here in Nicaragua.
It is not that I believe you will never be again there for me, no sir. It is a gentler anguish, a more iridescent anxiety that still has no name, although I promise I will work harder to give it a name. Preferrably in French, which is the language of my dreams and my even, unparalleled digestion. It is just the fact that you have become one of the nicest habits of my unadorned days, and just the fact of being able to reach out for the keyboard and finding you there makes the corners of my mouth turn up automatically. Nothing, not thiamine, not any drug, not a shot of poteen for the Irish, can equal a normal dosage of you, with your dark locks and in any color you choose to wear, because for my envy you look good in all of them. If you could market your power, the stimulus you give hormones, you could sell it as a pill and be a rich man so fast you wouldn`t know what hit you. I know somehow you will always be there for me, as I will always belong to you although I may have refused to say it until now. It is not a fatidic sense of loss. But when you shower everyday, you feel sticky and yucky the day you don`t do it. More or less, that is the sensation I have while I sit here writing, in a sad PC that misses the spark of the internet. I could bet on it and win a wager that at this moment you have nothing else in your mind but me. I have become your lifeblood through the ether of wireless communications, and there goes my spark flying, swimming through the Caribbean, pulling a monkey`s tail at Gibraltar, diving through the Mediterranean Sea, barely missing a warhead over Israel, watching the blueness of the Caspian Sea, evaporating slightly over Iran so I won`t be asked to cover my head and bow my forehead, and I land there in your lap. But I am already there to meet the me that you have concocted in your everyday dreams, so my spark and your memory of me fuse into someone more resistant, a bit more gentle and completely more unique than the I who is writing at this moment on the keyboard here.
I will never forget when I was studying at the university, we read the confessions of the Scots beauty who believed herself a witch, Isobel Gowdie. This lady was burned at the stake by orders of the witch hunters in Inverness. Before being roasted alive, the enchanting sorceress confessed that the worst feeling she had experimented while she was into deviltry was a sense of loss, of feeling cut off from what she considered to be God`s grace. Not being able to speak with god was what drove her like crazy to seek reconciliation with the church. Well, in my case, not being religious, I can still understand the sensation Isobel Gowdie mentioned. I am into it right now. My oxygen supply has been cut. I still have something like helium in my brain, and I repeat to myself like a mantra all the things we have said to each other. My hopes are full of Noble gases, and if I want,I can ignite the phosphorescent glow of hope inside me. I am like the beam of a lighthouse ready to guide myself into your presence. I have the certainty of being with you again. But that period in between, that is the fix. I have to fill it with something,and I am groping at words and impressions in order to continue existing.Who said the shortest distance between two points is a straight line? They forgot to say it was the hardest path too. Makes sense, doesn`t it? It has to. Forgetfulness is not an alternative in any case. I could make such an Herculean effort to try to forget you that what I will do is bury you deeply into my longing.
Nicolàs Guillèn,black Cuban poet, once put it so well in his short poem in which he mentions there is no connection at the moment he wants to send a communication to Paris,where his beloved is. Pas de pneumatique. And that was so long ago that he could have never believed Internet would exist. He died in the year the world web was made, pas de pneumatique, Nicolàs.
I don`t want to have symptoms of withdrawal because no matter what I am not giving you up. They may sound poetic,for all I know. But I won`t have them. I will only have fleeting dreams that will leave me more agitated, almost nightmares in which you fall into a lotus pond and I become a frog to fish you out. Missing someone is a curious science,but it is also an art. It has nuances that don`t appear in color guides, and shades that still have no name. Pining can be turned into a monument by a virtuoso,and it can sound better than the Mephistowaltz by Liszt played by Philippe Entremont. I only know one thing:I am missing you and that is the end of the line.
1974 Jacqueline Susann author (Valley of the Dolls), dies at 53 of cancer
1348 Jews in Zurich Switzerland are accused of poisoning wells 1451 Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa orders Jews of Holland to wear a badge 1776 Great fire in NY 1780 Benedict Arnold gives British Major Andr‚ plans to West Point52d entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook
September 21st
Birthdates which occurred on your SELECTED date of September 21:
1415 Frederick III Innsbruck Austria, German Emperor (1440-1493) 1452 Girolamo Savonarola Florentine monk/preacher/reformer
1866 H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells Bromley, England (War of the Worlds) 1874 Gustav Holst Cheltenham, England, composer (Planets)
1947 Stephen King suspense writer (Shining, Kujo
Deaths which occurred on September 21:
1327 Edward II king of England (1307-1327), dies at 43
1956 Anastasio Somoza Nicaraguan dictator, assassinated by Roliberto Lopez 1957 Haakon VII king of Norway, dies, Olaf succeeds him
1974 Jacqueline Susann author (Valley of the Dolls), dies at 53 of cancer
1348 Jews in Zurich Switzerland are accused of poisoning wells 1451 Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa orders Jews of Holland to wear a badge 1776 Great fire in NY 1780 Benedict Arnold gives British Major Andr‚ plans to West Point
Some time ago, I was watching the Disney Channel and by chance I saw an animated film about a tiny mouse who does everything he can to be reunited with his loved ones. The theme song of the cartoon movie was sung by James Ingram and Linda Ronstadt, and it was titled “Somewhere Out There.” It was on the hit parade list for son long and I partially learned the lyrics. Funny, I memorize lyrics of syrupy songs but that doesn`t mean I wallow in romantic honey most of the time. Sorry, dearest reader, not that kind of fly specimen for me. But is funny that now, that I am cut off from you due to a net failure, and I cannot even mail this entry to you just after I finish it(like a steaming tortilla out of the clay dish where it was made, or nan in your country)like I usually do before blogging it, that I should be remembering that corny cartoon story and the song. Being cut off from you,even when it is a temporary thing for which I cannot blame a hectic schedule or anything else, onlymakes me aware of the fact that there is like an unwritten and invisible umbilical cord going from me to you. The consumer of 12 coca-colas simply didn`t take a sip of one today. Now I know what drunkards feel when they get delirium tremens or blue devils whipping their tails. The Impatient Patience, said a guerrilla leader turned into a capitalist frog here in Nicaragua.
It is not that I believe you will never be again there for me, no sir. It is a gentler anguish, a more iridescent anxiety that still has no name, although I promise I will work harder to give it a name. Preferrably in French, which is the language of my dreams and my even, unparalleled digestion. It is just the fact that you have become one of the nicest habits of my unadorned days, and just the fact of being able to reach out for the keyboard and finding you there makes the corners of my mouth turn up automatically. Nothing, not thiamine, not any drug, not a shot of poteen for the Irish, can equal a normal dosage of you, with your dark locks and in any color you choose to wear, because for my envy you look good in all of them. If you could market your power, the stimulus you give hormones, you could sell it as a pill and be a rich man so fast you wouldn`t know what hit you. I know somehow you will always be there for me, as I will always belong to you although I may have refused to say it until now. It is not a fatidic sense of loss. But when you shower everyday, you feel sticky and yucky the day you don`t do it. More or less, that is the sensation I have while I sit here writing, in a sad PC that misses the spark of the internet. I could bet on it and win a wager that at this moment you have nothing else in your mind but me. I have become your lifeblood through the ether of wireless communications, and there goes my spark flying, swimming through the Caribbean, pulling a monkey`s tail at Gibraltar, diving through the Mediterranean Sea, barely missing a warhead over Israel, watching the blueness of the Caspian Sea, evaporating slightly over Iran so I won`t be asked to cover my head and bow my forehead, and I land there in your lap. But I am already there to meet the me that you have concocted in your everyday dreams, so my spark and your memory of me fuse into someone more resistant, a bit more gentle and completely more unique than the I who is writing at this moment on the keyboard here.
I will never forget when I was studying at the university, we read the confessions of the Scots beauty who believed herself a witch, Isobel Gowdie. This lady was burned at the stake by orders of the witch hunters in Inverness. Before being roasted alive, the enchanting sorceress confessed that the worst feeling she had experimented while she was into deviltry was a sense of loss, of feeling cut off from what she considered to be God`s grace. Not being able to speak with god was what drove her like crazy to seek reconciliation with the church. Well, in my case, not being religious, I can still understand the sensation Isobel Gowdie mentioned. I am into it right now. My oxygen supply has been cut. I still have something like helium in my brain, and I repeat to myself like a mantra all the things we have said to each other. My hopes are full of Noble gases, and if I want,I can ignite the phosphorescent glow of hope inside me. I am like the beam of a lighthouse ready to guide myself into your presence. I have the certainty of being with you again. But that period in between, that is the fix. I have to fill it with something,and I am groping at words and impressions in order to continue existing.Who said the shortest distance between two points is a straight line? They forgot to say it was the hardest path too. Makes sense, doesn`t it? It has to. Forgetfulness is not an alternative in any case. I could make such an Herculean effort to try to forget you that what I will do is bury you deeply into my longing.
Nicolàs Guillèn,black Cuban poet, once put it so well in his short poem in which he mentions there is no connection at the moment he wants to send a communication to Paris,where his beloved is. Pas de pneumatique. And that was so long ago that he could have never believed Internet would exist. He died in the year the world web was made, pas de pneumatique, Nicolàs.
I don`t want to have symptoms of withdrawal because no matter what I am not giving you up. They may sound poetic,for all I know. But I won`t have them. I will only have fleeting dreams that will leave me more agitated, almost nightmares in which you fall into a lotus pond and I become a frog to fish you out. Missing someone is a curious science,but it is also an art. It has nuances that don`t appear in color guides, and shades that still have no name. Pining can be turned into a monument by a virtuoso,and it can sound better than the Mephistowaltz by Liszt played by Philippe Entremont. I only know one thing:I am missing you and that is the end of the line.
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