I’m going to try using these exercises to settle my mind, readying it for the day ahead (which is shaping up to be a tough one, though you can never tell with these things: yesterday, for example, everything was shaping up swimmingly until the neighbors informed me that Ignacio was on his way home from school because he’d been feeling ill. That destroyed my peace and quiet for the rest of the day and for today as well, days that had been marked out for the most absolute and glorious solitude, since there was a school trip scheduled. And so Ignacio—who, by the way, is feeling perfectly fine—is at home, in bed out of laziness and his own free will, calling me into his room every so often just to exert his control over me and make me feel his power, and because his mother is in Caracas I have to obey, fussing over him guiltily the way invalids always make you).

November 20

Let’s see if I can pull myself together enough today to form the letters properly. I woke up this morning feeling distinctly ill at ease with myself. As far as I can tell, this is because for too long now—too many years—I’ve been living outside myself, concerned only with what’s going on around me. And on the rare occasions when I’ve been able to turn my gaze inward, I’ve connected not with the most substantial parts of myself but with the most trivial, “subconscious” ones. What’s happened to my soul? Where has it gone? For ages, as I said to Alicia awhile ago, I’ve been in a bad way because I have no connection to eternity. I meant that I’m seeing things superficially, that my experiences are shallow, that I’m a long way from my Inner Self; too far, and with no idea of the possible routes back. It doesn’t matter what happens to you if you’ve been separated from Yourself; everything’s equally weightless and goes by without leaving a trace.

The problem isn’t the demands of the outside world, even though I often think it is, but rather my attachment, or commitment, to those demands.

I need to give this more thought.

November 21

Since my handwriting has received justifiable criticism of late, today I’m doing my best to produce a script that’s elegant, svelte, large, and easy to read. There’s something really nefarious about the weather here in Colonia, and it sends the nervous system into disarray. Today I got up early and went out to run some errands before noon, and (speaking of “svelte” handwriting) my body felt monstrous and muddled, as if I’d turned into a kind of toad with a disgusting swollen belly, dragging myself laboriously along on weak, stubby legs. Walking three or four blocks through the town in this cloying, stormy weather is a herculean task. Despair clings to your skin like the sticky heat. All you can think about is finding a dark, cool place where you can lie down and let life pass you by. As Juan Ignacio says, “It’s a struggle.”