Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Seven Times Around the Track, Another Lap

It may surprise you to hear this, but I often find myself envying you and your misty world of melancholy and intrigue. Sometimes the bright spaces of La Mancha and the straightforward order of my spirit leave me feeling, frankly, bored. Upon closing the covers of a well-worn romance, a tale of inspiring chivalry, I look about myself and feel disheartened by the disspassionate character of my homeland. I think, then, of your own surroundings and can't help but find them more fertile for the happenings of drama (let us hope it be comedy) than my own country. I almost suspect that if adventure doesn't happen upon me soon, I should have to force it to appear.
Perhaps this envy is simply an effect of the epistolary nature of your Uncle's kingdom, that is to say, it, like exotic Alexandria, exists for me only in letters, and you, like Roland, likewise. I am assured by receipt of the key to your castle that your such a fortress does indeed exist, somewhere, and that with it, should the road I travel wind eventually thence, I should be able to vouch for your own existence as well therein.
I entreat you to be more generous with your mother, she no doubt has your best interests in mind. I have great faith in the holiness of her station as descended from the Madonna, though I confess some reservations about your own mother's readiness to marry your uncle so soon upon hearing news of your father's death. Methinks the marriage was ... . Well, I should refrain from saying, on account of the censors at end of this letter's voyage.
Of the ghost: beware! Revenge is never easily gained, and never at a mean price. And yet, neither is the justice which promises to be bought with it. If only there were room in that exchange for tranquility of the spirit, I should be much happier with your prospects. As it stands, though, this spectre seems to be directing you along the long, dark path which is often the surest, if not the quickest or safest route to that ultimate end towards which we all hurtle.

As I anticipated, and contrary to your admonitions, Sancho Panza and I were forced to cross through the stream that ran along the plot of land on which sat the inn of our recent lodging, rather than upon the bridge spanning it which turned out to be too narrow. Frankly, I am happy to have done so, for it allowed us to stray from the path in a most productive way. It has reminded me that one is not always obligated to progress in the customary ways, that one must not always search out the sturdiest bridge. Instead, there is often a course of action looking one boldly in the eye, which can be seen--not by focusing more intently, but by relaxing the gaze, by insisting less on the methods to which one has become accustomed and allowing a new method to present itself. It is a new freedom, really, which we have gained at the cost of wet boots. I think that, rather than being the beginning of our decline, it shall be the inauguration of our ascent.
I embark with a light heart.

Don Quixote De La Mancha


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