Selections from FM GALICIA

23.11

Once the snows came, it became more difficult to determine what this autumn had been like. It wasn’t until today, upon arriving in the moun­tains, that I realized that it had been, it seems, a very dry one. Because where there had always been a lot of water, there now was little.

The bucket needed to be lowered to the full length of the chain. And, even then, it barely reached the surface of the water. Whether it was from the wood shavings that had crumbled off the windlass or because of something else inside, the water smelled of wood. It’s as if it had been aged for a long time in a vessel made of wood prone to humidity. This is sort of the way that cognac, calvados, and rum are made. The aftertaste of the wood didn’t bother me. I wanted to drink as much water as I could from this very well.

If ninety percent of my body is made up of water then, obviously, the whole state of such a system is dependent on the type of water it is. Even the brain consists mostly of water. This means that thoughts should adjust according to the type and quality of the water.

If that is so, then water needs to be adjusted. It is necessary to squeeze out the dirty water with the clean, as is usually done with a reservoir. There is, however, a complication—if you pour dirty water into clean water, then all of the water becomes dirty, and when you add clean water to dirty water, it nonetheless remains dirty. (This is one of the life’s truths, formulated by my son). But regardless of this compli­cation, it’s worth trying to adjust it, at least partially.

You just have to find a well that is most suitable to you, because drinking the same water as everyone else is dangerous—imagine if everyone were to become identical, the way two buckets of water are. I found my well. Not to get too poetic, but after I drank that water, I truly started to feel different, and this lasted for a long time. Because if I flood all of my internal pipes with it, then it seems to start becoming me, and I it. And this will keep me going for a while. And then later, I’ll set off once again, from home to the mountains, to my well. Meanwhile, the snow will melt and the water will rise. It will no longer smell like wood. And by that time, I’ll notice whether there have been any changes in me between today and that day.

Translated by Mark Andryczyk