It's early morning...

I am never up this early, well, now it is 7 and sometimes I am up around 7:30, but I have been up since 5:30, and I couldn't even get into bed until 1. I thought my insomnia was a long lost friend (last week) but it would seem she hovers.

I walked to the post at 6:15 with bowl of rice krispies in one hand and piece of correspondence in other (which was no small task given the sudden and severe onset of what seems frighteningly like carpal tunnel syndrome, but I won't self-diagnose, in both wrists). I saw my neighbor, as her lover slipped out the door. Nevermind that the stupid piece of mail was a sweepstakes entry, in which I never participate, but it was free from Amex (I opened three weeks of mail the other day, all trash) with no purchase necessary and the idea of $500,000 free dollars in my pocket (albeit a very slim chance) made me smile for a moment. What would I do if I won? I could afford a downpayment on a house in SB, or the Bay Area!!! We could buy our little piece of land and start the naturally-built co-housing project we've dreamed of (eh?) I could focus on my studies (ha - likely story). I could become a woman of leisure. I could dedicate my life to the pursuit of art... I could give up work and go volunteer for AIDS prevention work in Africa for a year. We could open the art café, and I could dedicate my days to preparing food for others.

Um, no. So fantasy world aside, or perhaps not aside at all, after all what is the life of a would-be literata but one of pure fantasy? I was perusing photos in the wee hours, trying to motivate myself for the long day ahead of... finishing (please let it be today) the Quijote and I was struck by some very curious and indeed Quixotic coincidences, like:
Sancho's letter to his wife Teresa Panza on page 806 was dated exactly July 20, 1614, and I happened to read it on exactly July 20, 2005. Coincidence? or something more? Yes, it is strange, this asynchronous synchronicity that makes one reflect on the power of literature. 391 years later to the day, here I am, reading a letter written by a fictional character and interacting with him. But back to the pictures. There was one woman, whose photos were so beautifully happy, surprising, serendipitous and vibrant, I was intrigued. I have no such vivid repertoire, my colors are the blues and greys, ochre hues, black and white, opaque and lonely. She was in love, and just married and I wonder if that was responsible for this seeming overflow of joy and vivacity. It made me sad to think that I have never seen the world as happy as she, and it made me wonder if somewhere, deep down, I am simply not a defective human being? Or perhaps, just not in the throes of wild and unbridled passion... Sigh.

Now back to Quijote, see I still believe that there is a difference to be made, and I am deeply frustrated by my inability to actually do anything of value, to produce anything of beauty. I tend to see the ugliness first, the caving hole, before the flower that pokes its resilient head from the crack in the sidewalk.

But on that thought I will leave the computer and return to my arduous task (I have so many more books to read, but I am unable to move forward with my list until I have this under my belt.)

And so I will leave you all with some wonderful words for the day: Sponsored by the letter V and the number 839 (which is where I start today):

Vejación - something like vexation
Vituperios - aspersions cast upon another
Vapulamiento - a stern beating

Disclaimer: these are not official definitions from the RAE, but rather my own (perhaps faulty) interpretations gleaned from context.