Twenty-nine years after I was born it took to finally pick up Don Quixote. Poor book has been waiting for quite a while.

I elected to read the translation by Thomas Shelton. This was a pragmatic, i.e., lazy decision as it is the only translation I have in my possession. As translations go, it is supposed to capture the spirit and energy the Spanish text despite being "less accurate."

It puzzles me that there are critics for translations. I imagine there are probably only a very few and they are very loud. These people would have to go around reading a book in the language of the author, then read a translation (probably several translations) and deem one superior. Then we all hem and haw and nod and peer at each other through our monocles.

Or I'd just say, shit, I can't read German or French or Sanskrit so even if this is the worst of all the translations it's still better than the fuck-all I would come away with if I tried to read the original text.

And that's when they took my monocle away and threw me out into the night.

In the case of Don Quixote I am at an advantage since I know Spanish. And I do like this translation because it sounds more like Spanish, even if it is in English. More to do with the phrasing and the rhythm, I suppose. Spanish is a much more fluid language than English; each sentence flows right into the next. It's not.so.damn.halt.ing.with.stop.sounds.as.English.

And it feels more natural when the characters speak, even in Don Quixote's elevated Romance language. So I'm calling this translation: good.

Now I just sit back and endure the wrath of the linguists.

I call this one "Laziest Comic Ever". The protagonist, upon finding that someone has pooped in his rock tumbler, is shouting his question to the world while gesturing off-panel at the presumably operating rock tumbler.

To be fair, I am not truly lazy. I simply can't draw a rock tumbler. No idea whatsoever. I haven't seen one or even thought of one in years. There are probably different kinds of rock tumblers, what with the natural abundance of rocks and other small hard materials that might presumably benefit from a good tumble now and again.

I'll leave that mystery to the botanists.

I am already at work on a physics-themed Laziest Comic Ever. It's that same guy again, only this time someone has pooped in his Large Hadron Collider. It's almost done but I'm having a hell of a time translating it from Swiss to English.

Maybe someone will yell "Are you sure it isn't a Higgs boson?" This yelling person will also be off-panel.

Routine again. Crippled by the glut of information again. I spent the last 15 minutes looking for a picture that matched my mood and by the time I found it I didn't even remember what my mood was. Probably had something to do with Bartleby the Scrivener.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, Humanity!

Walking right up to the edge of the world and peering over.

When I was but a lad my family visited the Grand Canyon. It was snowing and I was wearing a red and blue jacket. One of my parents told me to be careful not to fall in. I said it would be okay; if I fell in they could just pull me out. They said they didn't have any rope. I assured them that they wouldn't need rope; all the people around could just link hands until they could reach me.

I've always been more creative than practical. Yet I do not despair. All these things that are practical now were merely creative once.

Well, maybe not, but it sounds good.

Ritual plays a painful part in this writing game. Painful to me because I abhor routine. At least I abhor being aware of routine. Maybe I don't abhor it; probably I just wanted to say "abhor". Either possibility is acceptable to me at this time.

The bath is vital. Er, the shower is vital. I'm far too big to properly relax in these Western-style bathtubs. And there's hardly any room for my Transformers toys. Oh yes, there are water-based Transformers. They just don't get seen much because they're usually float along staring wistfully at the coast or channel or fjord hoping some Decepticons come by with some evil plan involving sunbathing. (I know this feeling exquisitely well.)

The Japanese tradition would look in horror upon our toilets nestled snugly in the same room as our baths and showers. Might as well put the dining room table and the microwave in there while you're at it. Look at us; we're crazy Americans! Let's just do everything where we poop!

This reasoning makes sense, but I don't ascribe to it. Architecture that allows me to take off my pants and leave them off has my full support.

So to the shower I go. I get clean. Scrub away the lingering doubts. Try to, anyway. Then I'm ready.

It is imperative that I remain in my towel as I sit down at the computer. If I put on my nighty-time clothes there is the real and present danger of me simply walking past the computer and falling onto the bed. Being in a towel fills me with a feeling I can only assume is confidence. Also, the dampness of the towel imparts a sense of urgency; the origin of which I am hesitant to explore further.

Thus clean and clad, I can begin. Or in this case, end. It's my bedtime. Another night of dreaming and another 6 hours before I have to put on pants.

As I read over this I must apologize for the disjointedness. In my defense, I've spent the last 2 hours alternating reading the short stories of Herman Melville and watching episodes of the new season of Futurama.

Goodnight kermit!

If there was a time when I wasn't fascinated with labyrinths I do not remember it. Perhaps it began in the flimsy metal shelves of the library at my elementary school when I read all the Greek myths I could reach, or the subtle lines traced through the lives of men in the tales of Borges, or in the mazes of the children's menu at Smitty's that I traced in crayon while I waited for my breakfast of eggs. toast, and bacon carefully laid out to look like a kitty cat.

The art of the labyrinth was in the way that while moving forward, moving inward, the traveler must continue to pass very close to the path he or she had previously traversed, the obstacles they had overcome.

This was not the cathartic path of letting go. This was the constant reminder of where you've been and who you are becoming. Yes, there is a boon at the center but each step now determines what that boon will be.

Now I lie on the floor with my dogs. I scratch their backs with my toes and their tails wag sleepily. I will read a bit and then go to sleep myself. When my eyes close I can almost see the walls of my own labyrinth and in my dreams I hear the echoes of footsteps and laughter from that me not so very long ago, that self I was and still am now, just more so and more so with every fall of my foot.

I still yearn for applicants to work with me at HALO Animal Rescue. Half of the job is getting the animals the medical treatment they need and keeping them clean. The other half is learning their behavior so we can find the best home for them, making sure they get enough play time, introducing the animals to people who visit our shelter to adopt, putting pictures and biographies up online, and sometimes you actually get to sit down and do data entry.

It's fast-paced, often stressful, but never boring.

I need people with an almost-unhealthy obsession with saving cats and dogs.

Plus, at Orientation, everyone gets a Chihuahua!

Supposedly being tired and cranky is the best time to write. I have no way to test this; I never feel tired or cranky.

I believe the best time to write is when someone is slapping you in the face because you aren't writing. It gives writing a sense of immediacy. The now-ness of it. A challenge of writing is that every word rockets to the past; each sentence is born to this time but the past is its wet nurse.

Or something.

I finished reading Moby Dick. I think this was the fifth time. It seemed like a braggable number but that breaks down to about once every couple of years since the first time I sat down to read the whole thing.

I almost feel like if there were a four-year degree in Moby Dick, I might at least minor in it. I'd probably get a whale-watching tour out of it.

I'm falling asleep in this chair. It's time to reclaim my bed from the dogs. Then I can dream of whales, and of standing on a whale-watching boat which, when there are no whales to be seen, is a lot like any other boat.