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

sábado, 8 de noviembre de 2008

The parting at dusk

70 th entry for The Colonel`s Scrapbook
Birthdates November 08:
1656 Sir Edmond Halley 1st to calculate comet's orbit (Halley's Comet),wore some of the funniest wigs in history
1883 Sir Arnold Bax London, Ireland, composer (Farewell My Youth, Cornish Rhapsody), how the English love to claim him
1900 Margaret Mitchell writer (Gone With the Wind), until she was gone under a taxi `s wheels who killed her
1864 Abraham Lincoln elected to his 2nd term as President, this time he didn’t enter the White House through the backyard
1978 Carlos Fonseca Amador, founder of Frente Sandinista of Nicaragua ,is killed in Zinica, suspected someone from inside the organization got him removed from the way


Usually we bang into a Wall of China somewhere along our path from birth to grave. At times we aren’t even aware of it happening, and we question ourselves why things are the way the turn out to be. Often, life,or nature, or kismet, has a way of showing us that we are in the way of something that has been fated for us. We take so many things for granted in life, and we want to dominate that beautiful but indomitable steed that is destiny, we want to feel masters of something. I started this book by a fortunate accident, in the most unusual of circumstances. I wanted something epistolary, perhaps because I have been shaped by different diaries of famous people. I also admire the French general Pierre Choderlos de Laclos `masterpiece The Dangerous Liaisons, written in a superb epistolary style and that is the reason why Laclos is considered the father of modern psychological novel. The day this scrapbook was begun, everything seemed to be as airborne as myself. I conjured angels even though I was aware I was using a lion figment of my cat imagination, and there goes my phrase again. I needed a muse, I had one on hand, what for who knows because many times we remember the work but not who was the one who begot it on us. Creation tends to be such a selfish act. But nobody wants to be called selfish so we invent or compose the most saccharine motivations in order for things to contain the necessary element of romance, we know it sells so well…. Writing is such a very selfish act of creation, we alone struggle at the keyboard, while those who don`t understand the demanding and spoiled devils that inhabit our imagination, ask themselves how callous or evil we can be. Dinners get cold, phones ring around us, letters go unanswered. The gravitational pull is there. We cannot escape, we are moons dancing around the Earth of our ideas, and it is very complicated to explain all the time. Can we fall one day into our own Earth, splat ,the moon falling on top of a continent. Have you ever dreamt of moons all floating around heaven, in different stages of their transformation? I often have that dream. Well we are all those moons, at our different stages in life. So the big thing about having a muse can be, to put it flatly, something very optional. More or less happens like the hen who can lay an egg cackling with satisfaction because the rooster humped her, but the hens at the farms where they produce eggs at industrial level, they can go without the gentleman cock. Bluntly, sorry, but some writers work like that. The angel is optional, like the nuts in the brownies that anyways taste delicious with or without them.
To tell the truth, I hate having to say that. But one thing brings another dancing in, and
Suddenly I join Hèctor Berlioz with his last but not first impression of Henrietta Smithson, the woman for whom he wrote the Symphonie Fantastique. What didn`t he do to conquer her? Brush a star with his fingertips, sigh like zephyr had gotten into his lungs? So I am left teetering over the edge, peeking into the abyss where I thought a crystal blue lake existed, only to find it is a huge gaping hole that yawns indifference shadows into my eyes. It had to happen, you may say. Buckets of ice cold water do fall from balconies. On our backs, which is the worse thing that can happen. We scream, drenched in our own waters of disappointment. Ha, told you so, whispers a small minion on that top corner of our eyelid, swinging contentedly with a seemingly innocuous smile on the small silver swing of our reactions. Again, I remember the phrase the Viscount Valmont tells his desperate and lovesick Madame de Volanges in Laclos` masterpiece. It is beyond my control. It is beyond my control. It always hurts to hear that. But it awakens us to our realities. Sometimes it is about time that we come out from our cotton candy cumulus clouds full of empty rain. The jolt is fantastic. The first question comes out, WHY? We feel frustrated, like when a glass blower in Murano sees the bottle he `s working on popping off.
So I will resort to using a piece of logic from one of my favourite authors and rulers: Suleyman the Magnificent, the best the Ottoman dynasty ever produced. The muse always acts like a nanny, loving mother or wet nurse. She guides the baby the author is with his first paces, step by step. She kisses the hurt knee ok, holds your hand, gives you a nudge. Follows you, smiles so dazzlingly sometimes you think you are falling in love. The spark may be there. But she knows sooner or later you have to try your own engine.
See if it works. So one day, with a wistful expression on her face, she lets you go on your own. She may even administer a well needed slap on the ass, or on the face. You may cry for a while, but suddenly you discover your own two feet and your own motor is the one who is running your steady step. Blessed laws by Newton, holy inertia. You have gone on your own, nobody will stop you now. The transition may be painful. Sooner or later you will express your thanks, maybe not now. So the muse sees her kid walking away slowly, may wave, shed a subrepticious tear. It is the turning point in your life, a road not taken in your works, and may Robert Frost forgive me for overusing the title of his best-know poem. The hinge of circumstances has opened.
You go your way. The rest comes by itself, although the first steps out of the fearful wheelchair are faltering.
It is hard to let go, hard to say onto victory always as Che Guevara said. But all greetings bring the farewells inside. They are pregnant with possibilities of parting. We may weep, when nobody sees us because we are so proud. We make futile promises.
We know we will not fulfil them, but they help to oil the knot of a final goodbye that we want to convert into a see you later.
The hardest thing to do in life is to give the last kiss, shake hands and turn around to face the horizon and start walking, alone. Believe me it is hard, heart wrenching. But still we do it. We subreptitiously let out a diamond tear when Jerry packs his stuff into a bandanna, pokes a stick into the satchel, hangs it over his shoulder and says goodbye to Tom. We would rather be dead than admit that farewells are full of thorns. So we don`t look back…until maybe we are at a safe distance, when the memories overtake us, we give a last glimpse like Lot`s wife and our yearning becomes a pillar of salt inside our heart. Hasta la vista baby, said jokingly beefcake Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator II. Now I understand, and I still don`t want to chuckle. Saying thank you is necessary, even if the torn heart still bleeds inside.

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