2023-05-14

 

TERESA DE JESÚS LA GRAN SEDUCTORA

 

Tiempo de pandemias tiempo de vendimios la guadaña de la muerte blanden sobre nuestras cabezas lloramos a los muertos por los rincones se escucha en el jardín las estropas del Miserere. El grito de Resurrección anoche en la catedral vacía de Cristo Salvador apagó la salmodia del Miserere.

Un diacono con coleta y voz alegre que se disparaba hacia la cúpula repitió tres veces Xristos vaskriese y el coro atronó po  istini vaskriese (resucitó el Señor en verdaderamente resucitó) mi mente hoy de la gan pascua rusa vuela haciauna de las ciudades de Castilla más hermosas Alba de Tormes, iba tras las huellas de la Santa.

Ya he dicho que soy teresiano sin cambalaches ni hagiografías. Modestia aparte, “Teresa la judía conversa” es mi mejor libro publicado que tuvo un precedente en “Lloviendo rosas”, otra carmelita, donde hago honores a Teresa de Lisieux.

Los claveles castellanos florecieron en la dulce Normandía. Sigo escuchando en medio de tanta mortandad el grito de resurrección.

Alba de Tormes es como un pequeño Lisieux escondido entre los carrizos de un afluente del Duero que aquí al bañar al castillo y al abrazar la muralla en rodeo de ballesta adquiere proporciones amazónicas. Paisaje de égloga ribera del Tormes parece que escucho a Garcilaso recitar sus sonetos.

El alcázar proyecta la sombra del linaje más esclarecido de España la casa de Alba. Los duques fueron los protectores de la reformadora del Carmelo. Don Fadrique de Toledo el victorioso de Mullberg la cruz y la espada batalló contra la herejía el gran capitán de los tercios que se batió por la catolicidad.

Todavía queda algún cañón en lo alto de la rampa que asistieron a las batallas de don Fernando Álvarez de Toledo contra Guillermo de Orange…

España mi natura Italia mi ventura y Flandes mi sepultura.

Sobre este montón de ruinas se acumula toda la valentía de los Tercios viejos de la infantería española. Todavía al oír el nombre del soldado en Bélgica se echan a temblar y las madres  bruselenses asustan a sus criaturas diciendo que viene el Duque de Alba.

La casa de Alba siempre considerada la prosapia de la quintaesencia. Más aun, Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo y su hijo Fernando eran Mendozas, rama de marranos y de cristianos nuevos, a la sombra del don Pedro de Mendoza el cardenal de España. En mi libro “Teresa la judía conversa” me columpio a lo largo de los capítulos sobre el tema que ha de tenerse muy en cuenta al erigirse en mentores de la Contrarreforma dieron pábulo al auge de la orden carmelitana descalza.

Lo que más me impresionó fue la psicología de la santa abulense. Debió de ser una mujer muy seductora, guapa, castiza, sus confesores se prendaban de su talle, sobre todo el padre Gracián, que confesaba a la Santa, y ella los envolvía con su mano izquierda y sus cartas y les daba largas. Ya hemos dicho que el cristianismo no es un problema de bragas y braguetas… corramos un tupido velo. Gracián colgó los hábitos y se hizo luterano. El confesor de la santa al que tanto quería era un converso.

Intrepidez y coraje arrestos de una mujer de temple muy castellana. Sólo de Cristo estaba enamorada. Y este amor la dio fuerzas a recorrerse media España en un carro del país, con sus monjitas con las que iba a fundar conventos en Segovia en Beas en Sevilla en Málaga, en Malagón en Burgos en Toledo creo que fueron diecisiete como las diecisiete autonomías. Caminos embarrados, malas posadas, calores y fríos viajando por trochas y sendas de herraduras. Monjitas se echaban el velo y trataban de guardar recato y coro y cantar las horas aguantando las inclemencias del tiempo o las intemperancias de arrieros borrachos, soldados de leva que venían licenciados de las guerras de Europa y mendigos contrahechos.

Pero allí estaba Juan de Ovalle, recio mozo arriero, un albense con su tralla para espantarles... no molesten vuesas mercedes a la madre superiora.

Este Ovalle era un hidalgo con gotera al cual la Madre le causó tanta impresión que opta por dejar a la mujer y a los hijos para unirse a la comitiva fundadora como mayordomo y protector. ¿Estaba platónicamente enamorado de la monja fundadora?

Esta fémina a la cual quieren algunos consideran la primera liberadora de la mujer no le hacía ascos a nada, ni nada se le ponía por delante.

Hubo de habérselas con el Santo Oficio y con los parásitos y moscones de clérigos de misa y olla que la asediaban con sus supuestos misticismos.

El Libro de la Fundacioneses una historia de pleitos, decepciones y traiciones.

Había heredado de su padre Pedro Sánchez (estuvo procesado por la Inquisición de Toledo) el conocimiento de la Ley Vieja.

 El judaísmo de Teresa que era muy devota del Casto José y del rey David se compendiaba  en frases del libro de Job: “somos carne de dolor”. Sufrir y padecer eds el destino. Dios elige para el sufrimiento a los que ama.

Ello vuelve a esta santa profundamente humana. Sus libros son imperfectos a veces incomprensibles y farragosos trufados de arcaísmos. Revelan alguna dolencia del alma que en los que han reparado algún psiquiatra. Mujer limpia de corazón algo enamoradiza. Una virgen del Señor pero con los pies en la tierra, lista y perspicaz al propio tiempo profundamente atractiva y sensual que conocía bien a las mujeres y a la condición humana. Hubo de lidiar en las controversias entre los del Paño y la Mitigación vieja polémica entre tradicionalistas y liberales del panorama político español.

Por eso cuidaba con tanto celo su parva. Al cura de Becedas le quitó a su barragana y a su sobrina Beatriz hija de su hermana Juana le rescató de las garras de unos amoríos con un hombre casado y la metió en las carmelitas de Salamanca. Beatriz de Jesús nombre con el que profesó moriría en Paris en olor de santidad. Ella junto a la madre Ana de Jesús estableció el primer “palomarcico” como llamaba la Madre Teresa a sus fundaciones en Francia. El Carmelo sería en el país vecino una orden poderosa, gloria de la iglesia. Santa Teresita su hija espiritual más preclara sigue haciendo muchos milagros y desde el cielo intercede por la pobre humanidad. Teresa de Jesús gozaba de uno de los mayores dones del Espíritu Santo que es la introspección de conciencias; era taumaturga. En su proceso de canonización fue declarada santa en 1621 se demostró la resurrección de un niño que había fallecido al caerse de una tapia.

Ha sido acusada de andariega, visionaria y arrobadiza por sus detractores. Andariega sí lo fue toda su vida, no paraba, aunque ella decía tener vocación de ermitaña metida en su celda rezando o escribiendo.

Fue declarada patrona de los escritores españoles que celebramos su fiesta los 15 de octubre.

En sus apariciones y diálogos con el esposo… Teresa de Jesús soy Jesús de Teresa le dijo el Esposo hay que tener la mentalidad de la época.

Cuesta entender que tuviesen una base objetiva tales transportes pero es el pan con que hay que heñir a toda la mística. Más que apariciones visionarias la Santa lo que tuvo fueron iluminaciones que recabó después de un trato muy largo con el Altísimo. Fue una hembra de oración y eso la convertiría en mujer fuerte. Sn embargo, entre la virtud y el vicio existe poca diferencia. Muchos historiadores se preguntan por qué Magdalena de la Cruz aquella monja cordobesa que tenía visiones y realizaba prodigios acabó en la hoguera mientras Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada subiría a los altares. De Pinillos a Escobar poco va, dicen por mi tierra.

MES DE MAYO MES DE MARIA SU TUUM PRAESIDIUM CONFUGIMUS SANCTA DEI GENITRIX NE DESPITIAS IN NECESITATIBUS SUPICATIONES NOSTRAS SED A PERICULIS CUNCTIS LIBERA NOS SEMPER VIRGO GLORIOSA ET BENEDICTA

 

A LA IMAGEN DE MARÍA AUXILIADORA DEL COLEGIO SALESIANO DE MAJADAHONDA



Oh maría auxiliadora madre mía, consuelo del mortal,

en el colegio nuevo

brisas y cantares

el largo sonido del tren

que corre entre pinares

mayo rojo de amapolas

y gualda de retamas

divina aurora

celestial pastora

prosternado ante tu trono

ruega por mis hijo los ausentes y presentes

desviando la mirada de mis pecados

en andas te portamos

circulo mágico de la nueva casa

y nuevo jardín de Maria

griterío de voces puras

bajo el escrutinio de monjas humildes

Virgen bendice los campos

y a estas vidas en flor

cuyo destino Tú conoces

protegeos

blindares protección

bajo el calor de tu manto

auxilium christianorum

reina de los párvulos

maestra y guía de las escuelas

mirada dulce


silencio alto


 

13 DE ABRIL. SAN HERMENEGILDO. HAY QUE APRENDERSE LA LISTA DE LOS REYES GODOS


San Hermengildo. Me aprendo la lista de los reyes godos y está vacío el trono de los Reyes Católicos. Vuelvo con añoranza a los pupitres de mi infancia y visualizo aquel cuadro olvidado de mi libro de historia y a san Hermenegildo alargando mansamente su cuello a la toza para ser decapitado por el verdugo Sisberto. Entonces creíamos que fue mandado asesinar por su padre Leovigildo que era un buen rey, que sometió a los vascos y a los godos de Septimania y expulsó a los bizantinos, pero tuvo la mancha de la muerte de su hijo fue exclusivamente por motivos religiosos.

 Hermenegildo gobernador de Sevilla se negó a recibir la comunión arriana la noche de Pascua. Que murió mártir católico. Pero como dicen los ingleses “there is more than meets the eye”. San Isidoro tacha a Hermenegildo de rebelde, Juan Bricelano le llama miserable y Gregorio de Tours “mal hijo”. Sólo el papa le hace una eulogía en la proclamación de las actas de su martirio. Es san Gregorio Magno. Fue canonizado por Sixto IV el de la capilla con mil años de retraso y Felipe II le proclama abogado de la monarquía española. Habrá entonces que distinguir el Hermenegildo mito del Hermenegildo de carne y hueso. A los hagiógrafos puede que se les fuera la mano al pintar con tan vivos colores a este santo. Por primera vez se ve la influencia y la injerencia del Vaticano en España. 

Los hispano romanos estaban divididos por la religión: arrianos y católicos. ¿Qué diferenciaba al arrianismo una oscura herejía de origen alejandrino y de la que se sabe bastante poco pero que abrazaron los godos al renunciar al paganismo y a la religión de Wotan y Thor del catolicismo legal? Peregrinas disquisiciones bizantinas. Ambas creencias eran trinitarias y eucarísticas. Los unos prestaban pleitesía espiritual al patriarca de Alejandría y al de Constantinopla los otros al obispo de Roma. Detrás de estas diferencias late una lucha por el poder y la hegemonía. Leovigildo un hombre practico buscaba la unidad religiosa que encontró en el arrianismo. Sin embargo, en ca el herrero cuchillo de palo que dicen por mi lugar. Su corte toledana era un avispero de rencillas por incompatibilidad de caracteres entre su segunda mujer Gosvinda que no podía ver a su nuera Inunda, esposa de Hermenegildo.

El rey de los godos que hasta entonces había sido elegido por el pueblo declara la monarquía hereditaria en la persona de su hijo Leovigildo al que envía a Sevilla como “comes”. Las rencillas no existían sólo entre la suegra y la nuera, sino que también minaban las relaciones entre Recaredo y su hermano Hermenegildo. Quien en Hispalis proclama la independencia.

Su padre Leovigildo acude con un ejército que cerca la ciudad. El sublevado se rinde y es llevado preso mediante halagos a Tarragona. En un capitel historiador de Oseto (Alcalá de Guadaira) se encuentra una referencia histórica que da noticia de las luchas entre Hermenegildo y su padre. La historia que resta es de todos conocidos. A la muerte de san Hermenegildo el 13 de abril de 586 es ungido rey su hermano Recaredo quien abjura públicamente del arrianismo y abraza el catolicismo como la religión oficial del país.

A Recaredo nadie le pidió cuentas por la muerte de su hermano. Este rey que luego fue cruel y algo inhumano no tuvo un Cid ni un juramento de Santa Gadea. La adopción del catolicismo no fue una garantía de unidad de los escindidos visigodos.

Desde entonces se achaca al morbo visigótico-la envidia- los males de España que son el banderismo y la desunión. A aquella monarquía le quedaba no más de un siglo de vida desde Recaredo hasta don rodrigo el felón, desde 586 hasta el 711 cuando el moro entra en España.

Entre medias reinaron los siguientes: Liuva II, Viterico, Gundemaro, Siebuto (el que echó a los judíos), Recaredo II, Swintila, sisenando, Chintila, Tulga, Chindasvinto, Recesvinto, Wamba, Ervigio, Egica, Witiza, Don Rodrigo que murió en Viseo devorado por una serpiente por do más pecado hjabía ya le roen, ya le roen, y enterrado vivo. La historia hizo justicia. Aprendan la lección los felones.

 

9 de mayo día de la victoria


En conmemoración de la victoria de la Unión Soviética en la segunda guerra mundial, el 9 de mayo de 1945 cuando se rindió Berlín después de una de las batallas más cruentas y heroicas por ambos bandos contendientes de la historia el pueblo ruso rinde memoria a sus caídos. Que fueron cerca de treinta millones.

La población moscovita se echa a la calle luciendo muchos una escarapela o cinta de rayas amarillas y negras. Es la cruz de san jorge. El negro simboliza a los muertos y los lutos y el amarillo el fuego y el humo.

Los rusos denominan a esta solemne fecha pobeda dien o día de la victoria. Personalmente, me gusta lucir en el ojal la cruz de san Jorge como tributo de admiración al heroísmo, la abnegación, el temple artístico y la bondad del pueblo ruso y su cultura que me inspira un cierto optimismo y es una estrella polar que nos guía a muchos españoles en esta noche de crisis.

Cuando Europa y nuestra patria parece haber perdido el norte nos queda el consuelo de leer a Chejov, escuchar los coros de Mussorgsky o la incomparable polifonía de la divina liturgia eslava o presenciar por la web el desfile de la plaza roja cuando los aviones de combate parecen casi perforar en vuelo rasante la cúpula de san Basilio, o marcan el paso los abanderados de los insignes regimientos precediendo al estruendo de los tanques cuyos relejes hacen gemir los adoquines del pavimento de la famosa plaza. Rusia es fuerte gracias a dios y heroica por más que el hecho les siga desagradando a muchos de mis colegas para los que propalar mentiras y calumnias contra Putin parece formar parte del afrecho del pesebre con que los ceban y untan ciertos plutócratas sectarios. Europa y España dan risa.

A lo mejor quien sabe tienen que venir a rescatarnos los rusos de las garras de la tiranía de este capitalismo del pensamiento único, los corretajes financieros, los ukases de Bruselas o las veleidades de los bancos como ya hicieron hace tres cuartos de siglo.

El pueblo de la resurrección tiene un carácter mesiánico que como san Cristóbal carga a sus espaldas con los pecados del mundo.

Mi enhorabuena a los jóvenes que sueñan en el futuro, y mis duelos por los que vertieron su sangre en la guerra patria y mis deseos de que el Arcángel san Miguel no deje de su mano y lo tenga bajo sus alas al presidente Putin que ayer fue proclamado presidente para un nuevo mandato. Vladimir es no ya meramente un gran político sino uno de los grandes hombres de estado, uno de los pocos, yo creo que el único, que hay hoy en el mundo. Dobre dien. Que pasen un buen día.



 

17 de diciembre de 2001

I read York and dreamed of the three turrets.

To my mind came names of the norman bishops and cannons 32 of the chapter under the mandate of the dean.

A seat in the choir to sing matins with precentor.

There was the crypt of st. Stephen its massive piers built in 1154 by Roger of Point-l-Evêque.

Bernard of Clairvaux imposed the archibishops pallium in a time of great conflict among the Sees on Cantorbery and York for the primacy and cowing and resentement towards Rome.

Eboracum was my destiny. for me it was more than a city. It is an estate of mind.

Remember Wilberfoss. My rides to Micklegate.

In Saint Marys by York cathedral my child was christened on Saint Peters Day 1970.

The temple is also dedicated to that saint.

I feel remorse and sadness for that dream, but my love must be hanging somewhere from the peak of a pinnacle or absconding underneath the abraxas of the chapiters framing the majestic perpendicular walls.

That time was a symbol. The fullfilling of prophecy.

I will see you again Suzanne and Helen when reencarnate.

Abbeys, minster, old stones and parapets remain meanwhile for my console.

I adore the crucifix in the nave of the south transept.

The English gothic two styles, decorate and perpendicular, but one soul. The cathedral was built by Eddius Stephanus, biographer of St. Wilfrid in 669, that was the year of its consecration, a wooden church.

In the aisle was crowned William the conqueror in 1066 after the battle of Hastings, the year of ninth centenary I arrived in England and I remeber the postcards and stamps and all memorabilia.

Normans and Danes, the different tribes.

I fancied the lovely Vrigin and child in sculptured stone, Santa Maria. Archibishops Holgate of the reformation in 1554 ordered the decapitation of the resemblances, sacrilegous act.

There I felt the pressence of St. Anselm, the mystic explanator of Divinity, the first of the great theologician and you have to bear in mind that York was the craddle of the cistercian. He was an abbot, pilgfrims came to venerate the shrine of William of York whose body distilled a most salutiferous oil and performed many wonders and cures.

This cathedral is a big dream plastered in the scultured of same details of the canopied seats in the chapter house. Monster and angels in the misericordias .

The arch of the porch built by Anthony Bek Bishop of Durham. Doncaster Hatfield and the broom plant or planta ginista. Neville cross and the black death and Leonor de Castilla.

It is a soothing vision os bays and archivolts. Boothambar where I rented my first house and had an argument with the chap of the real state. it was a difficult time but also a miracles. God writes straight with wrong lines.

In the dream of York embarked fought the gales aboard Saint Nicholaścorbel and I arrived shipwrecket to the shores of of northern England my life kind of sinking.

The primrose stone slab depicting the Maternity was hacked away by the clastomania of certain archibishop bowing to Luther. His name was Holgate, chairman at the primacy 1545-1554. Now have the clastic fragments of that beauty in the byzantine style.

The interior brings serenity, peace of mind, and also awe. The feeling is overwhelming. No one can see other spectacle of the same majesty as the Window called of the Five Sisters. Stained glass and dog tooth and herring bone ornaments and decorations.

Gables and pinnacles and my life hangling down from the spear of one of the pinneals in crestery.

There are triforiunms and clerestories. Siant Niochoplas saving the three pueri from the seas brings a croziert and a baculum.

I saw the burning cross in the illuminated skies of York. A finger was risging to the heavens in a motion of acceptance under the trumpeted shaped vaults.

Oh my god that simmetry meaning highness and adoration


28 de enero de 2002

I had the flu and got to drink a bottle of Ponche.

By the skin of a teeth I escaped. There was that guy threateing eyes so you came here and you are a stranger. Behave yourself dont touch the buttocks of the ladies.

The ladies nowdays go to the pub with mandragora complex. Queens of the behive drones their victims men have become idlers and loafers in the sinister sight of the draconide. The drip stone of the porch bay windows music of the soul I confess that in the beginning was my end.

The question is which side are you in? The question is not the Press but success. Look you for stories that are more constructive in character. Why dont you write more abad what it is right in América?

The handling of news publish and be damned the untouchable essence of american democracy conservative for them deletereous and destructive to other that is the secret formula.

30 de noviembre de 2002

Hoy san Andrés y recurro como Amiel, agostado el filón de la inspiración, al mundo lineal y cuadriculado de esos diarios que uno se propone acometer sin que se materialicen los buenos propósitos.

Un año y diez días han transcurrido desde que abrí este archivo. En verdad, no creo que lo conseguiría pero he dejado de fumar y de beber, a resultas de una crisis en la que no hago más que pensar en la muerte y en la que se me demuestra lo baldío de mi existencia.

No se puede decir que haya tenido mucha suerte con la literatura siendo yo por otro lado un decoto factor del cultivo de las eminencias literarias pero los tiros iban por un lado y los estampidos por otro y así no hay manera.

He adoptado también otra resolución la de adelgazar, que no es manca a efectos de mi bulimia pero quisiera darle al psiquiatra con una canto en los dientes.

MJ dice que cada vez anda más inclinado, que me va a comprar unos tirantes para sujetar esa espalda ladeada a los efectos de una cifosis que comenzará como tantas y tantas cosas en la infancia o en la adolescencia. Es cierto cada vez me parece que estoy más vencido.

El Cero y el infinito” en versión de Eugenia Serrano Balnayá (tomé copas con ella en el Gijón) todos tenemos un poco de Rucbachof. Todos estamos condenados a muerte. he aquí el poder profetico o mesiánico del hecho literario. Rubachof pudiera ser también Gorbachof. Los creadores de la invención ellos se lo guisan y ellos se lo comen. Dinamitaron el comunismo desde dentro y ahora nos encontramos en el Efecto Falena que no es otro que el de la mariposa. Cuando vieron que ya había cumplido su misión en Rusia cambiaron de senda. Hubieron de pasar por cerca de cincuenta millones de cadáveres. El comunismo tuvo que ver con la Apocalipsis a consecuencia con las guerras que desencadenara pero en esa misma dirección de una forma más deletérea e intensa fue la revolución acontecida en 1989. Como todas las revoluciones tendrá su efecto estrambote. tendrá que haber muertos. Hoy san Andrés la nieve en los pies. Justo a un años vista de que me salvase por los pelos. Mala cosa el beber.

La dictadura libertaria que estamos viviendo es también una mascarada.

Ay de los vencidos. Pobres de aquellos a los que la historia hunde en el polvo.

Me sigo acomodando a vivir en una campana de silencio. La muerte de Rubachof está descrita de una manera genial. Al cabo de los interrogatorios sólo deseaba una cosa dormir y soñar en la Arlova. La muerte no es más que dormir. Es el letrero que impera en el cementerio de Paris donde están enterrado Robespierre y sus cofrades. Quizás sea como entrar en una especie de sentido oceánico, unidos todos a la totalidad del ser divino.

Hoy sabado conduje hasta Majadahonda compreé unas pastillas. Hacía viento pero se estaba bien al solillo

3 de diciembre de 2002

La soledad es un pájaro de fuego que crece mar adentro. Posría sentar sus reales en el centro asturiano, por ejemplo, que está en la calle Farmacia. Desolación pero ya pusieron las iluminaciones en las calles madrileñas. De regreso al conducir vuelvo a sentir vértigos.

También puede que la batalla con la báscula la tenga que dar por perdidas.

¿A qué escribir si no tengo nadie que me lea? Santos dice que le gusta lo que escribo en un estilo medianamente pasable. Toco los temas que nadie se atreve.

Tendría que salir a dar mi paseo diario pero me disuade el viento favonio que pega con fuerzas.

Ahora mis noches son mejores, las duermo de un tirón aunque tenga que alzarme a mear varias veces. Jesús omnipotente, ten piedad de este pobre pecador que ha hecho resolución de no fumar y de no beber pero que está anquilosado en un taedium vitae como nunca en su vida.

Cansancio y agotamiento. Veo pocas perspectivas como no sea el ir tirando. Mi mujer dice que me siento todas las mañanas en el sofá a aguardar a la pelona.

Nos pìde el ayuntamiento de Oviedo las tasas atrasadas por el el renault y suman casi quinientos euros. Tienen que sacar de las gabelas para financiar los costosos premios principe de Asturias. No hay que abrir al cartero que ya no es de antemano heraldo de las buenas noticias sino un vulgar recaudador de las contribuciones más impensadas. El estado de las autonomías cobra por todo. Hasta por respirar. Tienes que escribir al desgaire, escribir sea acaso un acto venial para el cual no se exige tanta preparación como acostumbras.

¿Seguirá adelante el diario? No hagas jotter. Batete el cuero con la sabana en blanco del ordenador sin preparación en sucio, ni trabajos a maquina. Tienes que perderles el respeto a las Nueve Musas. No es lo mismo decirlo que hacerlo. Hombre ya. Y si no emborronas a qué te podrías dedicar, yo me pregunto. Has de resignarte a vivir contra las cuerdas y a llevar una existencia anodina, no eres más que un prejubilado.










17 de noviembre de 2001

Afternoon of heavy metal grey skies, I think November is a beautiful month of crops loaded with fruit, in this arva acorns when the oaks exhibit their garlands over the hills, where the ambry of Nature conceals the chalice of the seeds; there was an accident in motor way: a blue car turned down left inside civil guards seemed to panic derouting traffic, must have been people trapped underneath, the Valley of the Cross packed, mass inside the big basílica, the mine excavating the mountains in scoop of piety and perpetual memory, tunnel of greatness, hundreds at the mass for our leaders, XXVI anniversary and LXIV respectively, we are getting old. There was a great liturgy preached by an abbot in full gait, the benedictines know how to perform all movements counted and every thing here is symbol, has something to do with a bimilenary history, the steps, the signs. At consecration lights went off and the whole cathedral was in darkness. Only the great and impressive crucifix leading the altar remained illuminated under the big sabbaoth depicting the triumphant procession of saints and martyrs stepping the cuppula.

I have gone this year after three of absence, and I found the same people: patriots going in a big ship travelling without a rudder in an empty course heading for disaster. We feel exile in our lands, strange to our people. The chief gone, we are left with the gestures and the big panoply, uniforms showing off, and tomorrow I know the headlines in the papers: “Less people attending Mass for Franco and José Antonio. A bunch of nostalgics”

But a young girl in clue shirts and the badge of yoke and arrows over her lap was handing out leaflets shouting out: “We are not the past, we are the future, we belong to the eternal Spain”

I dońt know. They put all of us on a barrel of dynamite for a lag explosion. All is under control but in spite of all I have not done so bad.

At the entrance of the church Security scanned all the people who went to gain access. It is the first time I have seen such an scrutiny at the door of a catholic temple, but beforehand they were bomb threats. I walked down. The interior of this cathedral reminds of a cellar of a cave. We go through the tunnel of time. The lines are symetrical, austere and imposing. There are no glass windows. The building was made inside of a mountain, removing the insides of mother earth.

I arrived home at last after the influence tried to cure a catarrh with punch typical business as usual and the thread of reason is subtley cut off by Erifos he wants my perdition but it is part of me and not easy as it seems to get rid of his ventures and strategy.

25 de diciembre de 2002

Sigue el miedo al vacío. Llevo sin encender el ordenador más de dos semanas. Una aflicción interna, el dolor de costado y la despondencia de saber que todo cuanto haga será inane me aleja de la tarea que ha sido razón y norma de mi vida, pero fue una noche buena bien pasada con mi madre, mis hijos, mi mujer mi hermano Fernando y Fuencisla. Mi madre la salió un grano en una pierna y creo que era un cancer, la han tenido que hacer un injerto, fijate un granín cuando sale con mala leche. Temo a la nada, al vacío. Los cvadaveres se mojan más en los cementerios en estas noches de lluvia y ese solo pensamiento me hace acurrurcarme junto a la almohada en espera de que la muerte me sea esquiva. No soy lo que se dice un valiente a tal respecto. El papa de Roma no es más que un ansia consolidada de poder. Sigue impartiendo bendiciones desde su carretón y sonriendo con una sonrisa enigmática cuando se le aclama. Estoy confuso, apenas puedo poner en solfa mis pensamientos pero al menos he podido vencer una resistencia inaudita que dura ya demasiado tiempo. Y ahora me voy a comer. Anduve esta mañana las dos praderas y ya me roe un poco el gusanillo. Es angustia vital lo que siento. Nada más. Tú no te rindas.

EDUARDO EL CONFESOR PRIMER REY DE INGLATERRA CORONADO

 

13 de octubre SAN EDUARDO DE INGLATERRA

 

 

 

EDWARD THE CONFESSOR

 By Antonio PARRA-GALINDO:-

 When I went to England for the second time in October 1966, the whole country was in celebration and ephemeredes of the founder of English monarchy, Edward III the Confessor.

 I arrived late to the school where I was supposed to teach Spanish in two secondary schools one was run by the state and the other was catholic an it was first there I me the philistine Paul Preston; he was my pupil in the sixth form a sort of very thick bloke but very conceited as an assistant four days late. I nearly got the sack.

The headmaster was mad for my lack of punctuality. Oh boy these Spaniards always siesta drinking sangria, thinking of sex, eating olives and oil and riding donkeys. Hull up north by the Humber was the dullest town an inhospitable of my whole life. What a grotty place! Also I starved.

 The grant I received from the Government was insufficient: if I paid the rent, I did not eat, and if I ate I was always in arrears with my grudging landlady who was an old bird who spend all her days looking through the windows panes at the traffic of Beverley road very scarce on those days. All her meagre pension went, as she was an animal lover and member of the Society of cat lovers, and feeding seven cats one of them was a civet cat big and fat it was castrated, randy sort of devil who went courting and womanizing in the freezing January nights and got involved in fights with rival males, received scratches and one love-quarrel left him one-eyed.

 It seems that the poor eunuch was the favourite. Its name was Persha and she talked to it as it the poor fleecy feline was her baby.

Miss Simpson was lonely and quiet very thin and grudging she left written notes and posted them underneath the threshold door. Always complaining of the misdemeanour of tenants.

 One day she passed away. I think she starved herself. Her budget was much in fags, and little in solid food, I think she only ate biscuits. We had to find other abodes. The house was close on her decease.

 She had lung cancer and heard her suspicious cough many a night downstairs. The England I encountered had nothing to do with the old merry England I dreamt ad learnt in books: cathedrals, cottages, nice pubs and songs, Shakespeare.

 There was no cathedral in Hull a town which had been destroyed by the Luftwaffe bombers during the blitz: the harbour was horrid and still in ruins. I never have been in such grotty places. Hull held the record for the ugliest women of the world and most horripilate tarts in the whole planet. You smelled poverty every where.

 Most of the men were on the dole and still there was rationing.

 In Beverly a mile away there was a Minster but the cathedrals in England had nothing to do with the idea I preconceived from them. They were monuments to British patriotism. Britannia was a religion.

 I realized that since God is an Englishman. Anglicanism became a sort of religion based on the Bible and the hatred to the pope. The Beatles blasted their songs. English wives ran away with the milkman. Mr Harold Wilson lived in number ten Downing Street and there were strikes and Trade Unions. And sittings in and anti Vietnam War demos. Make love not war. Those were the sixties. Where was Edward the Third? No where. People stopped going to church and parsons preached to empty congregations.

I bought myself a transistor and heard my favourite programme Ten of the pops. Girls dressed mini skirts and there was black and white TV. There was David Frost with that was the week that was, Alf Garnet and the Two Ronnies.

 I understood the congenial English but could not follow the conversation in the Yorkshires dialect. We are blunt and down to earth you know. Where was Edward the confessor? Where the old merry England of my dreams? I had read many books on Medieval England but even the British medievalists they drive on the left and they had their own peculiar ideas and won’t tolerate a foreigner to tell them what to do and things are they are. I was looking for Edward the Confessor and I found Perfidious and fastidious Albion. And milk ´goat. The Brits are milks goats. They don’t mix with anything. Good insulars. Abroad they hold on the balance of power and they don’t have friends but interests. That’s it British interests. Pride and prejudice that was a rule in the character of those northerners and they are proud and prejudiced and they could become nasty and xenophobic. In the staff room the other masters looked at me with a chip on their shoulder. Oh dear I never could become an English. What disillusionment. I never shall become one of hem.

At the doldrums, I spent half of the time reading since all half my allowance went to the book shops and the other half in beer and chasing the mini skirts.

 Without boasting the thought I was an Italian and they got romantic and sang to me the song oh Antonio selling good lollipops and ice cream. Your lodgings or mine that was the question on the Saturday night. And we tossed a tanner in the air and it was love at first sight. Please not the whole way. I am not in the pill. A dissipated life I lead and I sinner I was those days but it was easy to score in those days of the swinging sixties looking Italian speaking good English and without being too handsome having feeling. On their arms I felt like a gigolo. A man object I felt. And the one of the first words I learned was wily. How is your wily, mate? Ready for Virginia, then. Let’s go. Come on. Your place. My place.

 Hull and London girls liked Latin lovers. They used me like a disposable nappy. Mea culpa. Mea culpa.

But where was old the confessor? That year was the ninth centenary of the battle of Hastings. The British defeated the Danish.

 King Edward the confessor 1004-1066 lived in the dark middle ages when the bishop of Rome died by poison. He tried to raise the standards of English Christendom. He built the abbey of Westminster. It was the time of the investitures. His personality has come to us shrouded in the mist of myths and legends.

 All we know for certain is that he defeated the Vikings and had to suffer exile and the misunderstand of her mother- terrible shortcoming, the king had to put up with his maternal ingratitude and became a saint by means of tolerance and patience- who married Knut his best enemy who plundered with the Vikings all the coast of East Anglia.

 Edward descendant of Alfred the Great spent most of his live in the exile in France and was crowned in the abbey of Westminster.

 He married another saint and queen Sancta Edita.

 In my apartment of Beverley road, damp with falling wall paper and with a gas heater which cost me a fortune you had to keep patenting shillings in the slit and hardly and went that terrible winter of 56 without electricity for lack of payment, I meditated shivering underneath my craggy blankets and half starving about this mysterious king.

 He was a kind o of anticlimax. I thought that the confessor of the Faith was only in my head. He did not exist.

 Nearly naked or in rags like most of poor students, I bought clothes at pawn shops and dowdies.

 I smoked woodbine and N.6 horrid cigarettes and mean and down to earth like the Northerners I came across. They made you cough and no wonder they gave lung cancer to my good landlady. I was a regular at the Bull a rough pub at the intersection of Beverley and Nottingham road. My teaching was a disaster.

I had a fight with that Paul Preston because of Franco. He is now a very renowned historian of the Spanish Civil war. Preston hated Spaniards. I could not stand him.

 In spite of that I saved my pennies for tickets at local pubs and the dancing halls. There was one dancing called the Locarno I remember well... There I met nymphomaniacs. They liked quickies in the street alleys too call or on the back of a car.

But where was Edward the confessor? Not in Hull the dull. That king was a sort of fiasco. All England was a kind of fiasco. I learnt the language and I learned love and the facts of life the hard way.

 Of course England had me in a way but it was tough and very disappointed in those bad old days.

Tuesday, 14 October 2008

 14 de mayo de 2000

 

THE PREVARICATION OF A POPE ON THE          ARCANES OF FATIMA

 

His Holiness J.Paul II seems to be luckier than those poor Spanish citizens who over the years have been targets to the bandits of ETA, the last one a journalist, J.Calle, one colleague of mine. Like him, we have a long black list which include policemen, civil guards, housewives, students, city councellors. All of them innocents, elected at random by barbarians behind the scenes. The macabre roll has been increased infamously, day by day, year after year, to reach the numbers o nearly three thousand anonymous names, all shorn by the big Birch of the Hydra of the new times.

The pope is judge and party of the system. That is why, in spite of his big does and happenings, tiaras, speeches and long journeys through the world (his comparecences, travelling, populated masses recited in the explanades all over the world, congregate millions) we continue the same or even worse. The situation ahead looms apocalyptical, but all the endeavour of this pontiff has been to deny the very essence of apocalypsis.

They say he is a bit of a gaffe. His only presence brings bad luck. The 13th of May 2000 while he was at Fatima canonising the two famous shepherds of the apparitions, a whole firework plant in Endschebe (Holland) exploded. We had pirotechnics that night in TV. When he first came to New York in the autummn 1979, and I went to see him in Harlem, I got mugged on the tube on my way back, and when I reached home I discovered my wife who had just given birth to our third dauhgter, in a pool of blood. She had died if we  with the help of the neighbours did not rush her to hospital. 

There was no mercy for those victims of terrorism while he stays put, gets away with murder. In any case, the one who arrogates for himself the title of vicar of God on earth enjoyed acquittal from Heaven at the hand of Ali Agca, his merciful gunman.

To speak pontifically means to act as a bridge between the Olympus and poor mortals. It is a job only for arrogants, and it is a reflux of the heathen tides, reminiscence of the superstitious romans and his cult full of syncretism.

Those poor victims of terror did not have as a shield the finger of Our Lady from Fatima. As they did not have sponsors over the heights, there destiny was written, and they had to die, so stupidily. Could be God whimsical, moody, or prejudiced against some one?  The bullets went there, harbingers of death. They did their job.

Ali Agca, apart from the worse of marksmen, aimed really to do the Pope in with two shots? Or was he a hoax? Cant you tell him an anticlimax? A warning or rather a real attempt to the life of the bishop of Rome? Who was behind that gunman:the Bulgarian Connection, the Circus,the CIA, the KGB, the mossads?

None had explained. To me seems the subject so obscure and intriguing as the Third Secret of Fátima. The Vatican ought to shed some light on that arcanum.

The archives of the See of saint Peter in this matter so scurrilous and impermeable as ever won´t clarify our confused minds.


However, even the so called Myteries of Fátima in three parts as a serial of Apocalypsis in programme, a bar code extracted from Nostradamus for simpletons even in the unpolished style in which are drafted, show certain preferences toward America, the big capital and the jews.

That is not fair play.

On the other hand they are biased against Russia, the land of Christ.

They seem, furthermore, to oblitarate the reason why the Czar and his family were assesinated by a certain Abraham Lewinski or Liwosky- the surname leaves scarse doubts of the social extraction of the character who perpetrated such a sacrilege- commanding a squad of drunken foreign mercenaries, since no Russian could participate in such a ferocity, obeying orders from Lenin.

This Lewinski of infamous memory was perhaps an ancesstor od a certain call girl by name Monica who did naughty things with the penis of the jewish pressident in the oval room in the White House? The father of the atom bomb, Albert Einstein, belonged as well to the “elected people” and his letal invention was proved and texted in New Mexico, before they dropped it over Hirsohima and Nagasaki.

No one talks now, God bless America. over the barbarian act of the “Enola Gay”. Human memory is so fragile especially for those events out of programm!

I find cogency among all these events mentioned: the crucifixion of Christ by the deicide mob, the assesination of Nikolai II, monarch absolute, his emissary on earth, the opening of the seventh seal of Fatima, the Theology of the Shoah and the postponement of the Truth of Redemtion in the Mount Golgotha, implemented by the reigning Pope.

It is heressy, apart from a revulsion, to pretend the conversion of our Credo, to ax the Cross to put in its place the Menorah. Nobody denies he has ambition, that he is clever and audacious, but I think he has gone over the line, superseding his function of bishop to become an statesman or minister of the Trilateral. And his forgivings are going to be hindrance for catholics in the near future. Bur “apres moi le deluge” might think the Pope Sun, the new Luis XIV of the papacy. Wojtyla  turned our whole religion upside down.

One wonder whether his whole mission consisted in bringing the force of change to appease the minds of those who put the head of Our Lord in a block prompting the substitution of the Crucifixion by the Holocaust.  He quietened down the clangours of the deicidium (“crucify Him, let be that his blood may fall over us and over our children”) transforming them into the deification of the jews. Very clever. Only a demoniacal mind could have orchrestrated such a plan, but the polish pope helped by his cronies in the Curia, the mafia from Cracow and the Cia,has arranged it.The motto of the whole pontificate has been:rub the memory of the Church.

That´s the venon who pervades the whole philosophy of the Holocaust: an intention to efface the memory of the Crucifixion of our Lord.

The real holocaust took place in Russia. There nearly thirty million people died struggling agains the nazis. Hitler was an invention of the Rothschilds, an scapegoat of the jews from Vienna. A trump card or dingdong disposable to use in their intentions of world domination.  Nazis and zionits. Birds of the same feather fly together.

That letter “z” appartaining to the word zionism and nazism is deletereous, both had the same origin and a certain ressemblance.  We hear them constantly all over again, like a cry of avengers, the muted and morbid call of the isofar. There seems not to be other subject these days in our Press. We feel at the pillory of the concentration camps.

Those names-Auschwitz,Mathausen,etc- are pointed, like a dagger, aiming at our heart and to the heart of Russia, who was the real victim of thar war. Someone has to stop them, otherwise with that z we are doomed to a inminent catastrophe. And that shall be an holocaust for real, and global.

And it is written in the Protocols. The snake will creep back East to suffocate the neck of the world. There she will be strangled by a man of God. A real primus pater of the faith, a pope, but not Pope.  The roman bishop is only an usurper o f the Holy Cross.

It is also an affront to the second person of the Holy Trinity receiving all the papal blessings. Holocaust,yes. Resurrection, no. The revolution of this pope turns over that axis.


It seems to me that in the moment of his death, when  priest in Roma say for the relief of his soul the “novenalia”, he had to give account in the tribunal of divine justice, although I doubt that “His Holiness” believes in God and afterlife, for many of his crimes. He is staunchly pitched to this terrenal life. One hardly sees any emanatism in his homilies and perfomances. Everything is now and here (hic et nunc) no trascendence at all. Like the saduceans he does not believe in resurrection Hardly talks about death, but he is a god politician.

 As a jew, he is a master of the double talk. As a priest, he does not believe in what he preaches. As a Pole, he is sttuborn like a mule.

But he is the only responsible of his  apostasies and the sin of scandal pervading the rank and file of his flock. If the master chose the way of abnegaion, selfdenial and contradiction to the mundane flatters, the servant preferes the glory and adulation of the great enemies of the Cross of Christ.

There had been many a rumour in Rome that he has made pact with the devil.

His face is rough, never seen with a smile, his voice coarse reveals a man without tenderness, somewhat obstinate, haughty, implacable. He prefers to be feared rather than to be loved. That phrase that runs “J.Pablo II te quiere todo el mundo” is only a slogan.

He had been elected by the Americans and jews to appease their own ill feeelings, their crimes against humanity. Remember Hiroshima, six million people dead, Dresde with its 300000 casualities in a night of bombardements, Almagordo, Los Alamos, the napalm bombs of Mayalai, the expulsion of the Palestinians from Cisjordania, the war of Kosovo.

The polish pope did not move a wrinkle of his big face to condemn the aggression by Turks, helped by strawmen like Solana, chief of NATO, against Methopia. During the war of aggression against Yugoslavia in the Spring of 1999, masterminded by that jewish Secretary of state, Magdalene Albright, kept and uncomfortable and guilty silence. Said nothing when old churches, craddle of the old orthodox faith preached by Cyrilus and Methodius, burned, or were destroyed entire towns inhabited by serbians, and monasteries crushed, his monks evicted or their nuns violated by the muslimic hordes.

In the name of God Allmighty, all these “trifles” must weigh over his conscience, although I doubt that Wojtyla had any. He is a man of guts but  unscrupulous, and his machiavelian profile makes one think of those popes or the Renaisance, the cruel Borgias, the incredulous Julius II, the warrior, the one who said: “The Evangelium, that fable, has made us rich”.

Looking at what he has done during his extremely long and tedious 22 years of power one thinks that Lutero was right when he saw in Rome the see of the devil and called the pope antichrist.

 He has been a hurricane, certainly, but his mandate has not opened the doors to the flood of grace and the wind of the Spirit. He is nothing but the breeze abreast of Satan.

Thanks God that the Holy Spirit blows in other parts and the essence of our faith is preserved by the good orthodox christian of Moscow, Nicosia, Athos, Constantinople. The russians are really converted to the face of our lord Jesus Christ. However, at this side of the waters we have blasfemy, fornication, atheism, apostasy, revenge, protervia and obstination.  The West has ceased to be christian, Holy Father. The churches are empty or closed, or stink to cat dejections.

In Spain the gates are open for the invasions of the moors. Then it was a libelaticus bishop by name don Opas. Now is the jewish pope the perpetrator of high treason.

Lord Jesus Christ forgive this pope. A great forsaker.  He had led the catholic believers into the shadows of error, manipulating everything, even the spirit and letter of the Message of Fatima. Beware of the false prophets. He is the prototype of the bad pastor. A good pastor gives his life for the security of his folk. But, a real wolf in desguise of lamb, John Paul has made a deal, being the pope of the big consensus, with the forces of Hell. “E  per guardare la sede perde la fede”. He has a good precedent in Pius VI, who surrendered himself to Napoleon. He lost the faith but he kept the job at  the cathedral of Saint Peter. In his heart there is a lot of evil. This son of excomunication and abomination “sit anathema”and for all eternity let him to roast in hell.

A bad man from Katowice arrived in Rome. He did not follow the wise advice “when in Rome do what the romans do”. He just and turned the whole thing upside down.     

 

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