The earth continues trembling, following Kierkegaard's advice: 'The most that anybody can do for another in that sphere wherein each has to do solely with himself is to inspire him with concern and unrest.'
The earth fills me with a certain unrest as aftershocks remind me that the outer shell of the world is thin as a hen's egg, and has been incubating a long long time.
A dark-eyed gringa yoga teacher fills me with a certain concern as she gently reminds me, 'See this? This is. See that? That is.' Amazing what one doesn't see is, no?
And sandwiched in there somewhere is a slice of time when I manage to scribble messages to the outside world: I AM TRAPPED INSIDE A GUATEMAIAN FORTUNE COOKIE. DON'T HELP.
Monsoon approacheth. Very mild: sunny bright mornings, clouds at mid-afternoon building up, thundering but not yet strong enough for daily showers -- give that another week or so -- then clearing up after dark into starlit nights. May be the mildest tropical monsoon I've been through, yet it washes all the tourists right out, and Panajachel is entering its quiet part of the year.
Yes, if you want your books back you can get them from my sister, but I am bound to say that I would feel a personal reluctance to return them: they have, even unread, some value to me, and unless you truly need them I would ask you to let them stay where they are.
My own book, having creaked past the half-way point, is coming slowly to rest, perhaps for a bit, while I take a rest from such labors, plan an Easter trip to the Caribbean side, renewing inner wells of creativeness, now somewhat dry. Work out of the way, maybe they'll fill up.