Ignatius' Journal Entry 3

Dear Amarius Rafael,

The past day has been quite eventful, to say the least. Yesterday morning we found ourselves in quite the predicament. A group of the town guard decided to follow us, for no apparent reason to me. I chose to ask them why they followed us, which in hindsight might have been wiser had I simply ignored them. This was viewed as a hostile act by these thugs and they proceeded to try to place me in irons, I successfully placed myself in sanctuary against the guard placing the irons on me. However, a rather strong willed, dim witted guard proceeded to see my defensive act as one of offense and grazed my leg with a bolt from his crossbow.

Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and after a while I was able to talk, with the assistance of a few companions, our way out of what might have been quite the bloody confrontation.

The evening we found ourselves in the most splendid of inns. We were presented with magnificent service and a wonderful spread for dinner. Unfortunately, our evening would not play out as pleasant as it began. The monk call Smriti laid down to bed only to be attacked by vicious worms that burrowed their way into her, in fact I have been told they would have continued on to her heart or brain where they would kill her.

Our group promptly responded to this, but found that martial weapons were of little use against these parasites. The savage Coatl set the room ablaze, as with the domicile above our room. While this did destroy the parasites, this also took a gift of a noble woman above us and destroyed much of Smriti’s possessions. Due to this very unfortunate event, Coatl has been exiled to his homeland, and we find ourselves with one less soul to join our adventures.

I would like to close by sharing a poem I have been thinking of recently.

When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ignots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.

The ocean’s surge is calling.
The wind
calls me
and Rodriguez calls,
and Jose Antonio—
I got a telegram
from the “Mine” Union
and the one I love
(whose name I won’t let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.

No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up
with typography,
with heavenly imprints
or was ever able
to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals
or to eat smoked beef
by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous
books,
books of forest or snow,
depth or sky
but hate
the spider book
in which thought
has laid poisonous wires
to trap the juvenile
and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won’t go clothed
in volumes,
I don’t come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems—
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I’m on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I’m going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived
with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.

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Ignatius' Journal Entry 3

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