I feel like I’m going round in circles. If I’m not mistaken, these pages began with me talking about almost exactly the same thing, namely the inability of my consciousness to take charge of certain unconscious contents that are struggling to surface. I definitely need help—someone who, just like in the dream, will lead me obligingly toward the ordeal of the prison cell or the complicated form, to a place where I’ll somehow be judged or critically examined. Unfortunately, there are no therapists in this town who could help me. The only suitable person (apart from Alicia, who should be ruled out for obvious reasons) is someone I know well enough to invalidate any therapeutic ties. I’ve thought about healers, and people have suggested homeopathy. I’m happy to give anything a go. But what I really need is a psychotherapist, and there aren’t any nearby, and for various reasons I’m stuck here and can’t easily travel.

On top of all this, there’s the imminent move to the new house. The house we’re selling is metaphorically falling to pieces (and physically, too, I could almost add). When you know you have to leave a place, never to return, it’s impossible to go on living there comfortably. You stop being where you are, so to speak, and instead spend your time projecting yourself more and more forcefully into the place where you’ll soon be living. If I look at my books it’s to think about tying them into tidy little packages, and that’s how it goes with everything. If something is lost or broken, it no longer gets replaced. If some furniture’s in the wrong position, it no longer gets put back. We’re living here temporarily, as if in a hotel, constantly counting and recounting the number of days and hours left before we move. The effort that moving will involve, however, has yet to fully sink in. I find it impossible to imagine moving day, when I’ll get out of bed in this house and then go to sleep in the same bed in a different house; in between the two there’s exertion, complications, work I don’t think I can face.

The thing is, I’ve accumulated too many moves lately. After more than thirty-five years in the same building, over the past six years I’ve moved three times, and this will be the fourth—and that’s not even counting all the stays in hotels and the houses of friends and relatives, or the month in a little house here in Colonia. It’s a lot of change for a man who generally gets extremely attached to places.

Exercises

January 3

It’s been pointed out to me, entirely fairly, that these exercises have lost all their calligraphical intent. My writing is now intelligible, though, so in a sense they’re still doing their job. Consequently, as I write this I’m trying to pay as much attention as I can to forming the letters. I shall devote today’s exercises to developing patience in my writing, focusing on the shapes I’m forming and not on what I’m trying to say. At this juncture, however, I’m going to risk something very difficult: I’m going to attempt to write about a dream I had recently without losing sight of my calligraphical duties.