Saturday, November 11, 2006


Index, indices, the moving object. An integration of functions into static forms. So that my less-restless eye can find in your mind's flux a certain return. The movements of your ever-wand'ring mind (and the nature it belies) are, at heart, circumscribed by walls thicker than those of your father's keep. Its musty halls and corners (and libraries) that never see daylight are the perfectest assurance that, safe from siege, your melancholia will flourish most ingeniously. Your retreat should be a retreat outwards, not only into your own hallowed lands, but perhaps further, somewhere beyond the veils of that damnable fog. Once its vapors recede, I would think you should see a great many things more clearly.
Of course, it is also untrue that because I wander wide here beneath the sun, that my own journey is not circumscribed in some way. I hint of course at what I cannot describe. I am not my subject, after all, and as painter can only trace the model, not myself. I leave that, perhaps, to you, though I will here give you the outline of one of my features so that your portrait will be the more complete (though perhaps not one as titillating as you had hoped:
The woman whose image I impressed upon you in my last letter (and which had impressed me in turn), is, I was later to learn, the daughter of the local landowner, though by illegitimate lineage. I was unfortunate enough to be the guest of this boor for a rainy evening during which he treated me badly as if I were an imbecile and gave my man and I only the meanest quarters in which to pass the night.
During that night, shivering with cold, I was roused from my half-sleep by a beautiful voice like a siren singing a song I did not recognize and which I do not recall. I looked out the window of the house and saw, wand'ring below the bright moon, that same girl, clothed in a heavy cloak, making her way between the tombstones of the churchyard nearby. I was assured of her identity by recognizing her gait and a single moment when she seemed to look directly at me and in which her face was illuminated by the celestial orb's pale glow. She paused only briefly at a small headstone and then departed after tracing her fingers over the lettering, all the while still singing that lovely song.
I memorized the location of that monument, and, the next day when I was reading the name I found there, a short, bald padre interrupted me and inquired about my interest in that particular resident. I explained my uncanny tale to him sheepishly, and he was good enough to provide me with that information about her parentage I have already recounted, augmenting it only with this: that the grave at our feet was that of her mother, who, upon being betrayed and forgotten by her lover, had died of grief.
Apparently the girl was struck with a kind of hysteria that only expressed itself under the full moon, and which compelled her, as of she were a somnambulist, to trace the letters of her mother's name and to sing to her the very song her mother had sung to her as a child.
I am reluctant to say so at the risk of opening a painful wound, but I think there is something in this girl which reminds me of your sister. Perhaps it was this unnatural resemblance which caused her to stick in my memory, and which compelled me to mention her to you, even though I was reluctant at first to do so in full.
This was more a recounting of where I have been than an account of where I am going, but they are all that, and so it will have to suffice.

I hope this letter finds you better if not well.
Don Quixote De La Mancha


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