March 18

At last, two days of exercises in a row. I’ve even managed to do a few odd jobs inside and outside the house. The major problem of having nowhere to work hasn’t gone away, though, and this morning the buzzing from the electricity substation next door reached extraordinary volumes. It woke me up and tortured me at great length, until finally I dragged myself out of bed; downstairs, the noise filled the whole house, with the exception of Ignacio’s room. There are no two ways about it: my only option is to move in there until somewhere else has been set up for me. Ignacio doesn’t like the idea, but he’ll have to accept it.

Ignacio is getting more difficult by the day. I think there are a few reasons for this, among them his mother’s almost constant absence, the maid’s lack of authority over him, and the fact that he has a house key and a room that looks onto the street, meaning his friends are forever tempting him out. Today I threatened to make him move into the little room at the back of the house, which would keep him away from the lure of the street and allow us (or rather, me) to control him better. It would be a cruel step to take, since it’s extremely uncomfortable in there. But it’s something to bear in mind, in case things don’t improve and Ignacio turns out to be incapable of even a modicum of self-control. He’s still like a small animal with no moral code, always doing whatever he feels like doing and whatever he thinks is best for him. For a while his behavior was getting better, but since the move and the arrival of the new maid it’s gone downhill, and fast. I hope I can find a way to get him back on track, but I’m very tired.

March 19

Third consecutive day of calligraphical exercises. This is like a small light shining in the darkness (of my mind). I’m also pleased to see my handwriting looking more even. It’s still a bit small; I’ll try to make it bigger, but I don’t want to force things too much. It’s better to let my being express itself in whatever way it can, even if the actual handwriting and the desired therapeutic effects suffer as a result. The important thing for now is getting out of my catatonic state; it doesn’t matter whether I make an elegant exit. All I’m asking of myself, all I’ve begun asking, and even demanding, of myself, is action. It might be action like this—writing a modest couple of pages—or it might be venturing into the outside world, if only to walk a couple of blocks to buy cigarettes. I need to fight against my phobias, and against stasis and passivity, especially because this passivity is harboring a potent destructive force. It would be better to smash things up—to do anything else whatsoever—than to carry on in this senseless limbo in which nothing will ever be fixed and I’ll just get angrier and more frustrated. My anger isn’t directed at anyone in particular by now, except, I think, myself. It’s true that my circumstances are a pileup of disasters and difficult situations, but it’s my own inadequate response to them—slow, clumsy, and uncertain—that makes them worse, and makes the possibility of solutions seem further and further away.