Physical education teachers always have filthy personalities. They are either overweight women in tracksuits with a distaste for males and a predilection for activities such as juggling or measuring the fat percentage on your body, or well-cut men who want somewhere to showcase whatever skill they have with paralleles. In both cases they are frustrated people, although in the latter you're not given demeaning tasks.
Our new teacher isn't pigeon-holeable in either of those categories: I saw it from the start, her slim physique, a constantly gentle and accomodating look on her face, no wrinkles caused overtime by excessive shouting or forced grins (employed whenever another professor told you the infamous gym teacher joke for the thirtieth time that week). I wanted to test her, to see whether looks didn't deceive after all, so I dropped some general knowledge here and there, facts that no gym teacher is supposed to know.
“ Ok, did this class ever take Cooper's test? “ she asked whilst stretching.
“ No, but we once failed Turing's” I said, then rapidly turning to her to scan for any reactions.
She knew what I was talking about.
I thought “ You're not supposed to know that. I want to imagine you're just a drone, a robot that's programmed to teach us how to exercise, not a living, breathing human being that has other goals or ambitions in life”.
That was the first moment I felt embarrassed about physical education teachers, embarrassed like the first time I realized as a kid that the divine entity who gives you candy floss is actually a man, and quite a hideous one if you look closely.
Frustration had always been plain to see for me in those people, but it had always seemed like a shallow feeling, something that could be expressed without actually being felt, almost as though it were a part the principal made you play.
The new revelation hit me so hard I didn't realize that actually quite a lot of people, even with mediocre
One day someone told me: "Talk with doctor plague and you will find the truth". Words of peace and no violence came from his mouth. Plague Doctor said to me: "Everyone of us is one in the Logos and in the Spirit. One in a unique social democratic system of calculations. A sort of Orwellian Big Brother. The perfection is not discipline which is not made of shouts, snares and anxious pressures. The final end is not entangled in another one under its own rules. Grace transform discipline as a tool of love and listen". My quietness was getting rid of fatalistic chains and thought promptly: " I am falling in love with Plague Doctor, a funny human creature who heals indifferently soldiers and civilians of any race". A man with his passion in treating the plagues of the others to make them feel reliefs. And bravely accepted his human condition in front of the army's orders. An erroneous metamorphosis of his being - according to what he has told me- due to the tumor of his father and the lack of money. A soldier who has usually played with children using the medical gloves as little balloons, who has listened to the American soldiers, to the women and to the elders although they have never spoken his own language, who has preferred taking off any bulletproof vest to treat the injured better and professionally instead of taking a gun for shooting (and give satisfaction to the dirty interests of the class to the power: the "Illuminati"). Maybe Plague Doctor is a real hero. Think different from the usual soldiers. He concluded saying: "One day I should get married. Yes. I would like to get married with you because now I see again Life. No more fears(Quod dixi, dixi)." My heart set free and smile.
The knowledge is not a pathology, since that exists perpetually in its natural essence striving for an endless beginning. That fill in our blank mind with new knowledges that knit the social interaction with people. Spreading good ideas with who you know is a strategy to improve the conversation and the listening enriching your spirit to get it culturally dynamic. In his turning the earth will change color of his skin when the human beings abandon his narcissistic borders taking the way towards the inspirational SAPENTIA and the energetic BRAVE to express himself how the Demiurgo created him in his pure intuitions and in his healing feelings. Freedom of choice will kill our Oedipos Complex and our Shadows. Constructive dialogue is the tool for appreciating the life of each other as our Greek storyteller Aesop mentioned in one of his folktale "The snails and the RoseTree". Listen, Understand and Speak as Zarathustra did. Accept silently the love for each other. Think of self-control and spiritual balance: Caritas will be the ears of our superego, Love and Compassion will be the heart of our ego and Sexual impulses will be only the mere mouth of our Id, sane or insane that depends on the experience of human beings. It's time to turn the hourglass of our existence and count all the grains of the sand to find the incongruence and the human mistakes and redeem them. The ocean won't be only a distance but our witness in front of our peace. No walls and no turmoil get annihilated our nature. However, this time with new values and new ethic.
Every archetypical feeling flew back to the earth getting it happy and smiley as its volcanoes, its forests, its rivers, its lakes, its mountains, its oceans and its parks keep its engine alive.
Every kind of human emotions expression like theatre, movies, short novels, television and so on, came from him. In this aspect of knowledge he’s just the best and he was the first one. He was born at Stratford-upon-Avon. I was there about five years ago. I’ve visited his Memorial and his grave in the Trinity Church. Whenever someone gets in the Memorial, needs to spend at least two hours so that can see everything. It embraces a Theatre, a large and rich Library and a nice Art Gallery. Every year, from March to October happens a festival when his plays are performed in the Theatre. His name’s William Shakespeare. His parents were from the English medium social stratum and he had a very good instruction at High School. He went to London where he became an ordinary actor. However, he turned out to be the best playwright in the world. He came back soon to Stratford-upon-Avon and he became a very rich man. The Shakespeare’s true story is actually his own work. His personality is all personages created by himself and he was called "miryad-minded". Since 1590 till 1594 he wrote his first play, "Titus Andronicus". Every now and then he published several dramas without favorable issue. However, after that he wrote only masterpieces, like "Taming of the Shrew", "Love’s Labour’s Lose", "Romeo & Juliet", "Othello", "King Richard II"," A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, “The Merchant of Venice". Shakespeare’s apogee happened between 1597 - 1600. "King Henry IV", for instance, is a very nice comedy where Falstaff counterbalances the politician subject. He also wrote lots of important plays like "King Henry V", "The Merry Wives of Windsor", "Much Ado About Nothing", "Twelfth Night", "As you Like It", "Julius Caesar", "Hamlet", "King Lear", "Macbeth", "Coriolanus" and so on. His last phase happened from 1608 to 1613, when chose to write poetical themes, like "Pericles", "Cymbeline", "The Winter Tales" and "The Tempest". F[continua a leggere...]
In the fall of 1993, my daughter an I went to Scotland. It was the first trip to Europe for her and she would begin an English Course at Cambridge. So, we've decided to make useful the services of an England's Tour Operator so that her knowledges about English would be tested. It wasn't a good choice! The guide left us alone at Edinburgh's downtown about five hours. The weather was terrible: much rain, low temperature, big wind etc. But, fortunately, we were lucky! We were well wrapped up and her English saved our tour. We saw wonderful things. For instance, we visited the National Gallery where there was a nice Holbein's portraits exhibition. Another marvellous place we visited was the Castle Rock, in the medieval town. There, we also saw the Crown Square, Royal Mile, Castle Hill and so many areas of the Holyroodhouse. At night we've got an interesting folkloric show. At last, it wasn't too bad!
Certain cultural traditions have been passed on from generation to generation, with a progressively weaker grasp of why we adopted them in the first place. some were borne out of necessity, and said necessity ceased to be a long time ago, but we fetishized it long before we could come to our senses and we think they're somehow good and desirable in their own right. This phenomenon, known in the social sciences as 'peer pressure from people who are dead', is especially bothersome when it comes to food.
Wacky culinary traditions are more conspicuous when they come from far away, but my beef is with something more close to home, which always causes me to wince within smelling distance, or worse upon unforeseen gustatory encounter.
I'm talking, of course, about mustard.
I don't know what the purpose of mustard was in the beginning. All i know is that it's a seed, not a fruit. Fruits are delicious, and it's nature's devious scheme to get us to spread genes as far and wide as possible. Seeds do not take part in that plan. What I learned from biology class in high school is that seeds are supposed to be left the fuck alone.
So maybe it was some kind of promethean victory on our part. A massive middle finger to God. He had created the earth with a set of rules that we had twisted and shaped to our liking. We would look to the skies with a teaspoon in our hand and a badly concealed grimace, and scream at the top of our lungs: 'humanity has won, once again!' and proceed to consume the gross product of our defiance, like an invading soldier rapes an unattractive indigenous woman -purely out of principle.
I can totally get behind that. but what is the point today? We have proved time and time again that we can make nature our bitch if we want to. We can genetically engineer our food, and what mustard is is just a sloppy prototype of our later accomplishments.
But that middle-aged woman who works at the hotdog stand, with a constant shit-eating grin on her face,
Tell them that I am not home. Intransitively. If they demand an abject object, tell them that I am a rascal. If they demand complement, tell them that it was fixed in the catalyzer enzymes of my sordidness. If they nevertheless ask where I went, answer that I left aquaring Februaries of vagrancy my life away. I am not for the professors nor for their students, tiresome phone calls or false or true love declarations, for men stuned of emotions or women radiating of peacefulness, for children crying with hunger or crying out of pain, for their afflicted parents covered by the mantle of misfortune and re-covered by the canopy of misery, for bankers, scoundrels, saints, speculators, agitators, pacifists, beggars, lottery prizes, automobiles (of the year, of the month, of the day, of the hour or the minute), helpful friends or fearless enemies with affectations of friendships, for silver moonlights or elaborated drinks with the nectar of the Olimpo gods, for gentlemen, rotters, noblemen, or rascals like me, for the Pope, for the bishop, for the priest and for all the clergy, for Dalai Lama in his red-orange vestments and for the dalai mud dressed with moss green, for the ones crazy of passion or of madness itself, for the drunks, for the drunkards of ambitions and the sobers consumed by the flames of the burning waters of obligatory abstinence, for the most shameless whore or for the nuns covered from top to toe by the habit of charity, for ladies dis or for lords give, for princes, or for ragamuffins, for immaculate beings smelling sandal, or lazars exhaling in life the stenches of cadaveric decomposition. Tell "Mr." nobody that I am not home. Tell everybody, except Mrs. death.
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