Tuesday, June 05, 2007

In Which a Stiff Wind Blows and Uproots the New Growth in the Garden.

"See about writing you more"?!
This is some kind of crack about my new blindness, isn't it? As if I could write with my eyes even if they were still around for my use. The thought of it (and your insolence) drives me to rend my garments and gnash my teeth. If I weren't already doing it because of the betrayal of that louse, Sancho, that is.
Last night I could hear him stealing into my room to pour poison in my ear. I think he wants to marry my wife.

But I got the better of him. I had cut off my ears the night before and covered the holes with leaves and spider webs. I have a man in Omaha who can stitch them back on. I'm enclosing a letter for him, perhaps you can forward it to him on your way to Cal-fortress.

I am also preparing to venture out again. I'm hearing the calls of Dulcinea in the holes in my head, which seem even more sensitive to her voice than the old fleshy ones I had until the day before yesterday (maybe I won't have them reattached).

Anyway, I have really to prepare my beast and my burden and my self. I embark shortly. Perhaps in the night.

In the mean time, I sip brandy from the decanter, and chew ginger root I had brought in from the Orient. I know it will boost my strength. And freshen my breath.

Don Quixote De La Mancha
In Festive Attire, I remain undaunted.


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