oh shit! butterflies? not again!

Tomorrow I am supposed to start a new class for health officers. Actually, it would have been today if Gilgel Gibe II had not come through for me: there was no power and class had to be postponed.

I can’t help but get butterflies every time I am about to start a new class after some time – time in this case could mean a day- off. I am sure I am going to make a mess of it tomorrow.

But fuck it! Who the hell cares? As a matter of fact I do, very much. But I can’t seem to see in myself the improvements I want to see. I so want to be excellent at least at two things – one of them being teaching. As I have tried to point out somewhere somewhen in this blog, I already have two (not three, thank you) white hairs in my beard and my hairline is receding to the notice of everyone; and I have nothing to show for it.

So I am thinking, what would be the perfect song for the moment? Why, of course, this!

That’s some hot Darwinian shit right there!

Lately I’ve been listening to a lot of Nas, Sade, Miles Davies and Herbie Hancock. The first two,  I am starting to dig even more than I used to. And the last two, I hope the grey hairs could at least be interpreted as having come from a “knowledge of various types of music and artists” 😆

One

Pray for me sinners

The morning after

 I think things went well. Now calm descends and various degrees of calm are expected until I am right back at it next week.

You know, I tried to tell that worn out joke of biochemists, the one about death being in accordance with the second law of thermodynamics. I was not able to detect any smiles and I had to settle for a smirk of my own. Maybe they did not get it Or maybe death stops sounding funny after a certain age. I have already mentioned that I have gotten old. But the majority of the class is older than me.

So I get out of class right? And I am on my way to you. This student asks me if I am the civics teacher. I say “sorry, I am not” and get on my way.

How things you should have said and done come to you ten days after the moment has passed! My reply should have been “no I am not. But I know a civics teacher whom as a matter of fact I have been eyeballing a lot lately. Let me get her for you”.  I, then  should have gone to where I suspect where her office is, find her and tell her that … just a crazy thought.

Whatever happened to timihirt bet?

and

migb bet? (in a café and restaurant)

 Please read this from One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez

… They were cousins. They had grown up together in the old village that both of their ancestors, with their work and their good habits, had transformed into one of the finest towns in the province. Although their marriage was predicted from the time they had come into the world, when they expressed their desire to be married their own relatives tried to stop it. They were afraid that those two healthy products of two races that had interbred over the centuries would suffer the shame of breeding iguanas. There had already been a horrible precedent. An aunt of Úrsula’s, married to an uncle of José Arcadio Buendía, had a son who went through life wearing loose, baggy trousers and who bled to death after having lived forty-two years in the purest state of virginity, for he had been born and had grown up with a cartilaginous tail in the shape of a corkscrew and with a small tuft of hair on the tip. A pig’s tail that was never allowed to be seen by any woman and that cost him his life when a butcher friend did him the favor of chopping it off with his cleaver. José Arcadio Buendía, with the whimsy of his nineteen years, resolved the problem with a single phrase: “I don’t care if I have piglets as long as they can talk.”

So they were married amidst a festival of fireworks and a brass band that went on for three days. They would have been happy from then on if Úrsula’s mother had not terrified her with all manner of sinister predictions about their offspring, even to the extreme of advising her to refuse to consummate the marriage. Fearing that her stout and willful husband would rape her while she slept, Úrsula, before going to bed, would put on a rudimentary kind of drawers that her mother had made out of sailcloth and had reinforced with a system of crisscrossed leather straps and that was closed in the front by a thick iron buckle. That was how they lived for several months. During the day he would take care of his fighting cocks and she would do frame embroidery with her mother. At night they would wrestle for several hours in an anguished violence that seemed to be a substitute for the act of love, until popular intuition got a whiff of something irregular and the rumor spread that Úrsula was still a virgin a year after her marriage because her husband was impotent. José Arcadio Buendía was the last one to hear the rumor.

“Look at what people are going around saying, Úrsula,” he told his wife very calmly.

“Let them talk,” she said. “We know that it’s not true.”

So the situation went on the same way for another six months until that tragic Sunday when José Arcadio Buendía won a cockfight from Prudencio Aguilar. Furious, aroused by the blood of his bird, the loser backed away from José Arcadio Buendía so that everyone in the cockpit could hear what he was going to tell him.

“Congratulations!” he shouted. “Maybe that rooster of yours can do your wife a favor.”

José Arcadio Buendía serenely picked up his rooster. “I’ll be right back,” he told everyone. And then to Prudencio Aguilar:

“You go home and get a weapon, because I’m going to kill you.”

Ten minutes later he returned with the notched spear that had belonged to his grandfather. At the door to the cockpit, where half the town had gathered, Prudencio Aguilar was waiting for him. There was no time to defend himself. José Arcadio Buendía’s spear, thrown with the strength of a bull and with the same good aim with which the first Aureliano Buendía had exterminated the jaguars in the region, pierced his throat.

That night, as they held a wake over the corpse in the cockpit, José Arcadio Buendía went into the bedroom as his wife was putting on her chastity pants. Pointing the spear at her he ordered: “Take them off.” Úrsula had no doubt about her husband’s decision. “You’ll be responsible for what happens,” she murmured. José Arcadio Buendía stuck the spear into the dirt floor.

“If you bear iguanas, we’ll raise iguanas,” he said. “But there’ll be no more killings in this town because of you.” …

92.Beklo in the rain

yyyu

I wish they had ghosts that would haunt their owners like: ” I serve you for Lord knows how many years…how could you do me like that?…”

One

I know that the quality of the picture is ghastly 😀 ;  but,let us face it –  so is the future of its subject.

In a migb bet I saw a person order food for an “ebid” and make eat it . Some (I) –  though a potential member of the club- did not even dare take  a decent look at the poor fellow and others (a waiter) roughed him up a  bit.

The Good Samaritan sort of  restored my faith in humanity (myself).

And I was  made to remember the verse ” …bayenewim gize dem gibat yelelew….atkuren enkua endanayew fitachinin sewerinibet…”

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