79th entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook
Birthdates for December 14:
1363 John Van [Jean C] Gerson French theologist ,deemed by many top have been nuts beyond control
Birthdates for December 14:
1363 John Van [Jean C] Gerson French theologist ,deemed by many top have been nuts beyond control
1503 Nostradamus [Michel de Nostre-Dam] FrenchJewish medic,chef,astrologer/prophet
1546 Tycho Brahe Knudstrup Denmark, astronomer (Golden nose) ,so beloved by kings
1553 Henri IV the Bourbon king of Navarra (Henri III)/France,the best king France ever had,a vert Gallant who adored ladies and his signing of the Edict of Nantes cost him his life
Deaths which occurred on December 14:
0872 Adrian II Italian Pope (867-72)/last married pope, dies at about 80 but not exercising his marital rights as legend has it
1077 Agnes of Poitou German empress/wife of emperor Henry III, dies, a domineering shrew if there was one,and it surprises me she was buried in Saint Peter`s Basilica1136 Harald IV "Gylle Krist", king of Norway, murdered after having his eyes poked out ,sooner or later it was bound to happen because his daddy sired too many bastards, lesson to be learned about never trusting half siblings I tell my kid
1542 James V king of Scotland (1513-42), dies at 30 after being told his wife had given birth to the future Mary Queen of Scots
1591 Juan de la Cruz [de Yepes] Spanish Carmelet/poet/saint, dies, lovely poetry,too bad he wrote for the church
1754 Mahmud I sultan of Turkey, dies at 58 , probably sick and tired of fouling himself up1760 Kacic Miosic Croatian poet (Razgovar Ugodni Naroda Slovinskoga), dies ,don’t miss reading him1788 Carl Phillip Emanuel Bach German composer, dies at 74,although not as good as his daddy,has a few great pages to his name
1788 Carlos III King of Naples/Spain (1759-88), dies at 72 ,after having told his dumb successor and son Carlos IV not be be such a blind ass and stupid cuckold
1591 Juan de la Cruz [de Yepes] Spanish Carmelet/poet/saint, dies, lovely poetry,too bad he wrote for the church
1754 Mahmud I sultan of Turkey, dies at 58 , probably sick and tired of fouling himself up1760 Kacic Miosic Croatian poet (Razgovar Ugodni Naroda Slovinskoga), dies ,don’t miss reading him1788 Carl Phillip Emanuel Bach German composer, dies at 74,although not as good as his daddy,has a few great pages to his name
1788 Carlos III King of Naples/Spain (1759-88), dies at 72 ,after having told his dumb successor and son Carlos IV not be be such a blind ass and stupid cuckold
1799 George Washington 1st President USA (1789-97), dies at Mount Vernon VA, at 67,from a throat infection, doctors really helped him to die sooner
1861 Albert prince consort of England & husband of Queen Victoria, dies at 42 after he discovers their heir has been partouzing like crazy,see?Prudery does kill
1862 George Dashiell Bayard Union Brigadier-General, dies at 27,such young generals in the Civil War, did they know what they were doing? No wonder Americans are so damned afraid of having a war on their own territory so they export it to Vietnam or Iraq
1984 Vicente Aleixandre Spanish poet (Historia del corazón), dies at 86,wow. I sure loved his erotic poetry but never his looks
Events
1490 Anna of Bretagne marries by proxy Maximilian of Austria ,but this marriage was bound to never be consummated because they never got in bed, later she successively married two French onion-smelling kings but didn`t manage to keep her Bretagne independent, poor lady she died trying, love her for that
1861 Albert prince consort of England & husband of Queen Victoria, dies at 42 after he discovers their heir has been partouzing like crazy,see?Prudery does kill
1862 George Dashiell Bayard Union Brigadier-General, dies at 27,such young generals in the Civil War, did they know what they were doing? No wonder Americans are so damned afraid of having a war on their own territory so they export it to Vietnam or Iraq
1984 Vicente Aleixandre Spanish poet (Historia del corazón), dies at 86,wow. I sure loved his erotic poetry but never his looks
Events
1490 Anna of Bretagne marries by proxy Maximilian of Austria ,but this marriage was bound to never be consummated because they never got in bed, later she successively married two French onion-smelling kings but didn`t manage to keep her Bretagne independent, poor lady she died trying, love her for that
1575 Polish Parliament selects István Báthory as king of Poland,fast way for a plebeian to become king ,since then many horses in Poland are called Bathory, wonder why?
1977 Egypt & Israel representatives gather in Cairo for 1st formal peace conference, but that doesn`t mean they weren`t staring daggers at each other as Arabs and Jews still do nowadays
THE QUIRKS WHICH WE DISABLED NEVER ADMIT IN PUBLIC
Whether I like it or not, I am a disabled person. Mind you,I sport no outward deformity nor ugly scar anywhere on my body, but if you take an x ray of me, a full bodied scan, you will probably sit down to cry or ask yourself how this me still walks and laughs and has no pains. Along with the fractures, the shrapnels ,the bullets which were never pried out-out of cowardice, laziness or simple medical impossibility-come the foibles, the quirks we never confess related to our injuries. Funny, .something which never entered my body was a sense of bitterness, or self pity. Never was I one to wallow in that venomous syrup. as many do. Covered up to my nose with a sheet in bed while I had malaria in 1984 after Indira Gandhi was killed, I read a quote again that I had forgotten,and made it my motto. It was about DH Lawrence saying that a bird can freeze to death in the midst of a snowstorm but you will never see him feel self pity. Of course, Hollywood later used that quote on the cheap movie GI Jane starring a shaved but still alluring Demi Moore, which somehow made me laugh because gringos have always had so much self-pity after their War of Secession that they had made up their mind never to fight on their own territory and they rather export their war. Of course, now their generals are older, not like the youngsters who mismanaged the Civil War and thus even ended up being killed by accident by their own troops(like Stonewall Jackson,although not precisely a youngster,still acted like a stupid teenager).
The least of my accidents happened not during war but during the battle of overcoming my strange adolescence. In March of 1974, my mom was driving her cream Rebault bug with me next to the driver`s seat, and in the back seat was the quirky, unstable,greedy and quarrelsome woman who was my mom`s younger sister. Suddenly this harpy started opulling my mom`s hair over a whim and my mom drove smack into the back of a bus,by Lindavista,western end of Managua. The impact was such that a handle got into my left knee,opening my skin. Three stitches given at the Velez Paiz hospital, I was left with a small outward scar. I still hate it when someone by accident brushes my knee.I feel a jolt of electricity, which means the nerves never mended well. If you want to anger me, pose your hand over my left knee, as if you are trying to rudely seduce me. The sock in your face won`t be delayed. Involuntary reaction, sorry, dear. I have hated by brown-garbed, old dyke of an aunt since then and every time I have had the torture of having to see her, all my chagrin and anger well up inside me and spill over. It is a gut feeling of hatred you may never understand. I blame her for the subtle marring of my left knee, and although now the scar is imperceptible, the old rancor still stirs and spits out violently. I thought I was unique in my reaction.
No sir. In 1983 I was drafted into the army against my will. My boss had scrunched up hands because during the insurrectional struggle, a contact bomb was held too long. He could barely sign with his hand, and he was so painfully self-conscious of this crippled condition of his hands. When I started working I was advised to never stare at his hands, something which I obeyed 99 percent of time. But curiosity is a cat which lives inside all of us. One day he lunched at his desk and immediately fell asleep. The linen napkin was on his lap, but his poor hands were uncovered. Nobody else was in the office. I had been working with him for over a year,and things had eased a lot since the first time we met. I slowly tiptoed around him, his feet were on the desk beside the plates he had lunched from. I took off the dirty napkin and put in on his desk. There were The Hands. He was snoring ,two pearls of crystal sweat forming on top of his forehead,and two others atop his Hitleresque mustache. Slowly, ever so perceptibly, I took one of his hands softly into mine. I perused it quietly while I thought of the pain he must have felt. The year before, I had been bitten by a snake on my left foot. I held his hand tightly in mine as if I could erase any vestige of pain he had ever felt. It was at that moment that I felt I had finally accepted him as a person. I took the other hand from his lap. Almost without moving he opened one eye and a small smile formed on his mouth. He knew that I felt he was awaking, but didn`t scold me or push me away. He was enjoying my inspection. But he gave no evidence of being aware that I was inspecting him. He obviously didn`t feel threatened. I laid both hands back into his lap, and brushed his forehead with my left hand. I tiptoed out of the huge office and went to my desk. I was confused, and in awe. I started a new translation, because the one I had finished had been left by me on his desk on my way out. He awoke half an hour later to find me busily translating the other documents. He walked over to me and patted my head in a fatherly manner. I looked up at his eyes and smiled. Here it was what had been missing.
How to explain the igniting of that magical but real spark of empathy, the arrow of recognition, the embryo of tenderness? It wasn`t anything we could put a name on. From that day on, we would quietly work in silent harmony, safe in each other`s presence. Not a single word was uttered by any of us about my inspection.
Time always has a way of levelling things. In 1984,while climbing onto a helicopter during a combat mission in Jalapa, in the northern part of our country,I was shot in the left knee, the small 22 caliber bullet entering from behind. I was not aware of the entry of this projectile. My best friend was on the helicopter too as a translator, so he took off an old bandanna and wrapped it around my wounded knee as a tourniquet while we could land back in Managua and get me to the military hospital. Once there, a Cuban medic saw to my wound. I was bandaged and put under observation. It wasn`t until I was allowed to go out to the emergency reception room on a wheelchair that my blood-stained, sleepless and shaking best friend was finally sent home to bathe, change and sleep. Three days later, with a small bandage, I went back to work
I was ready to leave at 7 pm, already worn and with red eyes from so much translating, that the boss came to my desk. He told me I never slept naps, so he would never be able to catch me unaware. He asked me to take off the wound`s dressing because he wanted to see. I couldn`t stop laughing. He softly took off the bandage, lifted me long Indian skirt(I hadn`t worn pants yet again) and after he had inspected the wound, put the bandage back on with butterfly wings on his hands almost. He was satisfied I was healing well. .He told me that he had died a little when he had been told I had been shot.
Then added,”Try to never get hit again. Every time something happens to you, it will hurt more on me than on your own flesh.” He accompanied me to the gate, lending his arm for I was still limping a bit, and saw me get into my mom`s cream Renault, this time driven by our faithful driver-messenger and gardener Alberto.
Suffering, specially physical pain, has a way of bonding people as we may never suspect. The wound behind my knee was sealed with time, and is now invisible. I wear my miniskirts without any problem. But I still don`t like anyone to touch my knee. It is a sudden electrical response. The bullet would be followed by shrapnels in 1986,along my spine. A broken spine would be due for 1985,and my wrists would both have to be reconstructed in 1986 after a freak truck crash. In 2003 I landed in a wheel chair and stayed there for several months before I could walk again. It wasn`t until then that I realized how much respect we should give disabled people, dearest of readers. You really do have to walk a mile in someone else`s shoes in order to know what they really feel.
1977 Egypt & Israel representatives gather in Cairo for 1st formal peace conference, but that doesn`t mean they weren`t staring daggers at each other as Arabs and Jews still do nowadays
THE QUIRKS WHICH WE DISABLED NEVER ADMIT IN PUBLIC
Whether I like it or not, I am a disabled person. Mind you,I sport no outward deformity nor ugly scar anywhere on my body, but if you take an x ray of me, a full bodied scan, you will probably sit down to cry or ask yourself how this me still walks and laughs and has no pains. Along with the fractures, the shrapnels ,the bullets which were never pried out-out of cowardice, laziness or simple medical impossibility-come the foibles, the quirks we never confess related to our injuries. Funny, .something which never entered my body was a sense of bitterness, or self pity. Never was I one to wallow in that venomous syrup. as many do. Covered up to my nose with a sheet in bed while I had malaria in 1984 after Indira Gandhi was killed, I read a quote again that I had forgotten,and made it my motto. It was about DH Lawrence saying that a bird can freeze to death in the midst of a snowstorm but you will never see him feel self pity. Of course, Hollywood later used that quote on the cheap movie GI Jane starring a shaved but still alluring Demi Moore, which somehow made me laugh because gringos have always had so much self-pity after their War of Secession that they had made up their mind never to fight on their own territory and they rather export their war. Of course, now their generals are older, not like the youngsters who mismanaged the Civil War and thus even ended up being killed by accident by their own troops(like Stonewall Jackson,although not precisely a youngster,still acted like a stupid teenager).
The least of my accidents happened not during war but during the battle of overcoming my strange adolescence. In March of 1974, my mom was driving her cream Rebault bug with me next to the driver`s seat, and in the back seat was the quirky, unstable,greedy and quarrelsome woman who was my mom`s younger sister. Suddenly this harpy started opulling my mom`s hair over a whim and my mom drove smack into the back of a bus,by Lindavista,western end of Managua. The impact was such that a handle got into my left knee,opening my skin. Three stitches given at the Velez Paiz hospital, I was left with a small outward scar. I still hate it when someone by accident brushes my knee.I feel a jolt of electricity, which means the nerves never mended well. If you want to anger me, pose your hand over my left knee, as if you are trying to rudely seduce me. The sock in your face won`t be delayed. Involuntary reaction, sorry, dear. I have hated by brown-garbed, old dyke of an aunt since then and every time I have had the torture of having to see her, all my chagrin and anger well up inside me and spill over. It is a gut feeling of hatred you may never understand. I blame her for the subtle marring of my left knee, and although now the scar is imperceptible, the old rancor still stirs and spits out violently. I thought I was unique in my reaction.
No sir. In 1983 I was drafted into the army against my will. My boss had scrunched up hands because during the insurrectional struggle, a contact bomb was held too long. He could barely sign with his hand, and he was so painfully self-conscious of this crippled condition of his hands. When I started working I was advised to never stare at his hands, something which I obeyed 99 percent of time. But curiosity is a cat which lives inside all of us. One day he lunched at his desk and immediately fell asleep. The linen napkin was on his lap, but his poor hands were uncovered. Nobody else was in the office. I had been working with him for over a year,and things had eased a lot since the first time we met. I slowly tiptoed around him, his feet were on the desk beside the plates he had lunched from. I took off the dirty napkin and put in on his desk. There were The Hands. He was snoring ,two pearls of crystal sweat forming on top of his forehead,and two others atop his Hitleresque mustache. Slowly, ever so perceptibly, I took one of his hands softly into mine. I perused it quietly while I thought of the pain he must have felt. The year before, I had been bitten by a snake on my left foot. I held his hand tightly in mine as if I could erase any vestige of pain he had ever felt. It was at that moment that I felt I had finally accepted him as a person. I took the other hand from his lap. Almost without moving he opened one eye and a small smile formed on his mouth. He knew that I felt he was awaking, but didn`t scold me or push me away. He was enjoying my inspection. But he gave no evidence of being aware that I was inspecting him. He obviously didn`t feel threatened. I laid both hands back into his lap, and brushed his forehead with my left hand. I tiptoed out of the huge office and went to my desk. I was confused, and in awe. I started a new translation, because the one I had finished had been left by me on his desk on my way out. He awoke half an hour later to find me busily translating the other documents. He walked over to me and patted my head in a fatherly manner. I looked up at his eyes and smiled. Here it was what had been missing.
How to explain the igniting of that magical but real spark of empathy, the arrow of recognition, the embryo of tenderness? It wasn`t anything we could put a name on. From that day on, we would quietly work in silent harmony, safe in each other`s presence. Not a single word was uttered by any of us about my inspection.
Time always has a way of levelling things. In 1984,while climbing onto a helicopter during a combat mission in Jalapa, in the northern part of our country,I was shot in the left knee, the small 22 caliber bullet entering from behind. I was not aware of the entry of this projectile. My best friend was on the helicopter too as a translator, so he took off an old bandanna and wrapped it around my wounded knee as a tourniquet while we could land back in Managua and get me to the military hospital. Once there, a Cuban medic saw to my wound. I was bandaged and put under observation. It wasn`t until I was allowed to go out to the emergency reception room on a wheelchair that my blood-stained, sleepless and shaking best friend was finally sent home to bathe, change and sleep. Three days later, with a small bandage, I went back to work
I was ready to leave at 7 pm, already worn and with red eyes from so much translating, that the boss came to my desk. He told me I never slept naps, so he would never be able to catch me unaware. He asked me to take off the wound`s dressing because he wanted to see. I couldn`t stop laughing. He softly took off the bandage, lifted me long Indian skirt(I hadn`t worn pants yet again) and after he had inspected the wound, put the bandage back on with butterfly wings on his hands almost. He was satisfied I was healing well. .He told me that he had died a little when he had been told I had been shot.
Then added,”Try to never get hit again. Every time something happens to you, it will hurt more on me than on your own flesh.” He accompanied me to the gate, lending his arm for I was still limping a bit, and saw me get into my mom`s cream Renault, this time driven by our faithful driver-messenger and gardener Alberto.
Suffering, specially physical pain, has a way of bonding people as we may never suspect. The wound behind my knee was sealed with time, and is now invisible. I wear my miniskirts without any problem. But I still don`t like anyone to touch my knee. It is a sudden electrical response. The bullet would be followed by shrapnels in 1986,along my spine. A broken spine would be due for 1985,and my wrists would both have to be reconstructed in 1986 after a freak truck crash. In 2003 I landed in a wheel chair and stayed there for several months before I could walk again. It wasn`t until then that I realized how much respect we should give disabled people, dearest of readers. You really do have to walk a mile in someone else`s shoes in order to know what they really feel.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario