I stop to pose on the Appalachian Trail, (Photo looks South towards GA) Shenandoah NP,VA; July 1999 April 2000 Cabin Diary |
 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
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1 April 2000 -- Living out another day
I am sitting in the chair on the front porch, engaged once again in the struggle to find the "right" activity for the day I've been given. It is April, and the winter seems to be officially past; the sun shines brightly upon the increasing green of the clearing and hillsides. It saddens me some that I have already started to take the warmer weather for granted. I had envisioned something better, a time when I would enter a trance of unquestioned joy that would not conclude until October in 6 months. Without that spontaneously-occurring and satisfying sense that I am doing what is "right", I see time pouring down a hole to a waste heap on an otherwise gorgeous day.
But what would I do, when nothing looks worthy of my attention? I gaze upon the wildflowers and the occasional butterfly in the tall brush beyond the dooryard and parking area. I know full well that there are times when just beholding this scene is "enough", and though I am doing essentially the same by contemplating it now, it still lacks the underlying sentiment to give it value. It is so frustrating, sometimes, to live with a mind having a mind of its own. I realize, of course, that I am falling victim to the fallacy of a belief in constant-duty joy. Nothing so full of pitfalls as a human life can be that good.
I get up from the chair and take a walk out to the edge of the high growth, to see if considering the plants at closer range might provide that missing "something". I look at the evidence of new growth in the form of pent-up buds, waiting for the cue of still warmer weather. I often find inspiration in seeing new shoots issue forth from vegetation that had just sat there during the colder months. There is not much I can do today, however, to make such a scene a reality. What is worse, I have no guarantee that I'll ever know that particular inspiration again. What happens, happens, and I have very little real control.
It occurs to me that simply living out a day like this, with only mediocre, utilitarian occupation, might be "right" in more ways than appearances suggest. There are certain to be times in my later, more afflicted years when I'll go over the accounts for days like this and see value in hindsight that I cannot see at the moment. Walking back to the porch and resuming my seated pose, I close my eyes on the clearing, since the sight is not currently doing me any good. I try to decouple myself from the petty annoyances that keep me from that all-elusive joy in the present moment. I continue to hear the occasional bird out there, and of course the river that flows without any explicit prompting other than the lay of the land itself.
It goes without saying that this is not the kind of day I actively seek, but then I get so little through direct pursuit anyway. As I continue to listen to the settled sounds of the hills, I try all the more to stop "trying". I step away to take a viewpoint removed from that of a tired man pushing 40, sitting in a remote woodland hollow in April 2000. This begins to prompt all of those inquiries about who I am and why my life must be as it is. As kids, we would sometimes answer the unanswerable with "because". We assumed then that the proper authorities would know full well why we happened to be the persons we were, doing what it was we were doing. That could also be the answer today--no answer.
It is a hard reality, this not having the satisfaction of knowing what is "right". I keep seeing myself answering to a tribunal of ultimate jurisdiction on the charge of neglect, for wasting so much time while I still had abilities remaining in me to be a "better" man. But then society has gone to great pains to avoid labelling one person as "worse" than another, since that path leads to persecution and human rights violations. I begin to think I am the only one judging myself "wrong" for having failed to do what I cannot in any case do. At least I can find comfort in knowing that a life of nominal, innocuous, and yes, balefully mediocre day-to-day subsistence is only a failure in my own eyes. Should the better times arrive, it will be easy enough to assume once again the mantle of sublime appreciation--I'll just pick up where I was last cut off.
"Bo"
5 April 2000 -- An escape from discomfort
Though it is arguably warm and dry enough to be outside on the paths and trails today, I am hoping instead to capture a few moments of complete comfort by sacking out atop the deep coverings of my bunk. There are times this really works, and I end up entering a highly-cherished state of unquestioned rest. In my real city life, this often requires the concurrent administration of television content, but a large part of the success is being in the right place at the right time. This must explain my preference for an established routine with few surprises--I can look to the schedule and predict when my relief might have a chance of coming. The rate of effectiveness in this practice tends to be better than my experience with oral analgesics.
If knowing my future with high probability is my opiate of choice, however, I am always left wondering whether I was really supposed to be feeling the pain of a less-certain life. As I settle into this environment, with its near-antiseptic absence of distraction and annoyance, I think back to the random jostlings and rushed avoidances of peril that make up my time in the city and suburbs. People actually seek that out, at least to listen to the "I Love NY" crowd. I can even see why I might take such a plunge deliberately, when I realize that helplessness in the midst of a crushing population means that I can blame some of my anxious reaction upon forces beyond my control.
Up here, in this small wood-and-stone enclave, I should therefore expect a heightening of self-directed scorn when the formula does not "work". After all, who was the one who sought out his solitude, of his own free will? Who left behind a city and a world full of perfectly acceptable, "normal" collaborative activities to try his luck at happiness under a lighter load? I am pretty easy to write off, once I have made my gesture of non-conformity, since I am responsible for my own outcome. I suspect the authorities of judgment back there in town are really quite accommodating when it comes to understanding weakness in the discharge of standard risk-bearing duties. Still, they can't do much for my pain, so here I am, with only my own thoughts to listen to and only myself in the way.
I do have to say that the manipulation is yielding results today, if only because I have become so tired in the course of a day's work. I close my eyes to the light from the windows, which is still somewhat harsh at this time of year, and let myself drift along, hearing the occasional creak of some unseen component of the wooden exterior or frame. I turn onto my back and spread myself to a completely "uncrossed" position, with the tension pouring out of me from all those close encounters with people on an apparent collision course. It never occurs to me that they might actually see me and step aside. The image is more like the one in the popular press concerning impacts from kilometer-diameter near-earth objects.
I am grateful for chances like these, where I can let my guard completely down. I know I need to spend time in the fray to build up resistance, if not indeed the understanding that lets most of the others walk about unscathed and even with an occasional smile on their faces. On this visit, however, I feel so settled as to use the rationalization of my "special case" status as a human being. "I'm not like them," goes the excuse, "so I won't even bother with their peculiar rituals and games." Coming to a complete state of rest, I've realized, requires me to accept just exactly who I am and why I am. The dilemma that crops up, however, is the need I have for assimilation into the various groups that support me in real life. On the one hand I'm asked to be true to my own self, but on the other I'm asked to be someone I'm not (or at least not yet), so as to be a better "lubricated" part of the great machine that is humanity. I am often left believing I'll be on a knife-edge balance between these two life-forms for the rest of my life, since neither is a fully viable option for the way I am.
"Bo"
9 April 2000 -- Down to the river and back
It is a brisk spring morning, with only a scattering of cumulus clouds to interrupt the sun as the wind drives them past. I felt a need to come out today and see what conditions were like on the floor of the forest, a place I had assumed was a dominion of mud from all the snowmelt. As I walk along the side of the ravine below the Cabin, I am able to keep a relatively firm foothold on the earth, covered as it is with the fallen leaves of many autumn seasons. I am in the section of woods immediately downstream from the back door, and ahead of me is a section of bank steep enough to form something of a canyon wall. Not wanting to trust the traction in that area, I find myself a recently-fallen tree trunk and sit for awhile before turning back.
I am not sure just how long I "need" to be in the woods today. At this perch above the riverbed, I am occupied to some extent by the wonderfully settling sound of the river. It pours along over the various minor cataracts, its path shepherded by rocks that one would imagine rolling down the hillside, if they were not there already. Gravity, it seems, will have its way, both with tree matter and with stone. Realizing that gravity is also affecting me, I shift to a new position on the log, in the hopes of creating a new pattern of stress on my body.
The river continues on its way and I continue to make the best use of this time that is mine. I typically resent real-life commitments, which constrain the liberty of motion I enjoy right now. When something has actually inspired me to "make plans", my first and most pressing objective is to get the event behind me. Though it is not difficult to form a favorable impression of such a "constructive" undertaking, it is rarely enough to keep me from mourning the time I could have been "free" to spend in relaxed, contemplative solitude.
I am well aware that it is absurd to postulate a life consisting of nothing more than sitting on logs, staring out from high rocks on the ridge, or dozing on the sofa. There is a certain stability, however, to this life where the uses for my time are concisely defined and do not have hidden entrances to further involvement. It is my state of least potential energy, to use the imagery of high school physics. It is a place to which every trend in my behavior will carry me, unless I have appointments to keep. I tell myself that I should really hold my tongue when opportunities to join the others come along, since the pain of being pulled from rest to activity is worse than any part of the actual event.
In having a habit of accepting invitations, my gravitation towards a minimum of entries on my social calendar is offset by an opposing field that moves me the other way. Obviously, these are two different phenomena, if I am to continue to use the analogy of forces from the Unified Field. I am caught between them most of the time in a wavering motion, not really knowing which one is (or should be) the defining influence. Sitting in the river bottom on this log, I can devise as convincing a defense of being "free" as I can of being a participating, contributing "community" member on the schedule of others.
As I prepare to climb out of the ravine and find other activities, I continue in my life of "oscillation" between the two uses of my time; the individual and the collective. Unlike the water that flows towards more water or the trees that only fall once, my life will most likely veer from one extreme to the other, and for a very long time. There is of course a point in the "middle", a place where I might have true rest with the "right" amount of occupation, but that state is something I only see as matters are driving me along at maximum speed, one way or the other. I finally begin climbing out towards the Cabin and the truck, knowing I need to return to the city as much as I need these times alone. Something is sure to damp out the fluctuation one day, to leave me where I can live full-time.
"Bo"
13 April 2000 -- Temporarily slowing the pace
I gaze out the front window on this bright-yet-overcast day, where the predominant color of the trees in the distance is now an unmistakable green. If I weren't so tired, I'd be getting outside more now for hiking and climbing. I'd suppose there is a "proper" way to go wandering on the trails, one that does not embody the rush of getting to meetings and carrying files at the office. When I was young, I knew this procedure, since I did not have the years of constant-duty career strain that are now under my belt.
I will attempt to live with slow, deliberate movements on this visit, since this is how I see the others "relax" on demand, back in town. When I try to do this, of course, my internal inertia resists the effort and will do what it can to keep things rolling. As I turn back around on the sofa and put my bare feet up on the coffee table, I realize that I need a gradual braking process if I'm ever to return to that wondrous rest of yesteryear. Feeling the figurative "mass" inside hurtling forth, I wonder why I don't notice a similar effect as I am flung about during on-duty hours from job to job, person to person and thought to thought. Perhaps I am toughened to those particular stresses, or perhaps I just deny that I am getting hurt. It amazes me, how selective I am in the pain I'll accept and the pain I won't.
I know it is not good form to discredit any compulsion that happens to be directed towards meaningful work. That is how I avoid the economic sanctions that lay in wait, should I finally run off the tracks of the responsible life. When I see so much of that effort coming from being driven from behind, rather than called from ahead, however, I wonder why I accept the sharp corners and steep inclines of those tracks. I try to take time out when I can as I go along that rugged course, but fear of being permanently becalmed in such a state is worse than the alternative fear of calamity from underestimating my strength.
The outside observer, in his preferred reference frame, would watch me and say, "surely you can just slow down, without creaking to a halt". But while I can admit in an instance the value of such a move to lessen motion, I keep feeling the internal restlessness. I seem to harbor this motive presence as a guest, troublesome though it is, and have a sense of devotion to it, even though there are better ways to earn one's keep. In such a model, I would eventually outrun my tormentor, if it weren't for my bad habit of continuing to assist it at the same time.
When I get as tired as I am today, however, I realize that fear will indeed catch up with me and trample me without mercy, so long as I continue in the alliance. I try to tell myself that my problems are multiply considered and redundantly covered, from years of living in a state of hypervigilance. Sure, if I sit long enough like this, complacency will take its toll, but it would have to eat through a number of layers of defensive preparation. Complacency and idleness, after all, are the very scapegoats that I've hoisted in the propaganda campaign to continue responding to the fear that I am not yet ready to abandon as traitorous.
There is, to be sure, a better procedure for motivation, in which I would walk side-by-side with a non-threatening agent of motivation, one that is forward-looking to what might be, and not to what better not be. In such a life, I would find the rough paths made smooth and the jarring evasive turns laid straight, to use the imagery of Isaiah. It will certainly be a more challenging course, to live the life of inspiration rather than desperation, and I am still not sure if I am up to it. I'd hate to give up the status quo, even is not sustainable over the long term, since things are still not "broken" to the point of needing to be "fixed".
For now, I just let myself coast, sinking into the soft upholstery of the sofa. I turn to observe the stealthy approach of the still-provisioned powers that I have installed to get things done. When will I learn how soon they will lose strength, the minute I begin to budget my homage towards a real ally in this race? There should really be no choice; the one threatens the world's scorn, while the other merely uses the world as I know it as a place to start towards someplace better.
"Bo"
16 April 2000 -- The makings of further growth
The sun is a firm presence in the haze of the afternoon sky today, a welcome change from the recent days of protracted rain. The overwhelming feeling is warmth, even with the occasional breeze that would have caused "wind chill" in March. I step off the front porch into the bright world of the dooryard and the clearing, squinting my eyes after having just been inside. The damp earth and foliage appear responsible for the humidity, which seems ready to make me break out in a sweat. With this moisture comes the basic aroma of "earth", as one might expect it to be referenced in a medieval alchemy text. There is a strong sense of the potential of all the hollow to come alive, and with very little provocation.
This is a time that is poised on the line between the passing fury of winter and the impending incubation of summer--there are reminders of both, since the trees are still in their initial growth yet the atmosphere is so warm and encouraging. On this day in the woods, I am reminded that I cannot easily foster my own internal growth through such simple prompts as a time of rain and warmer weather. Maybe the problem is that there are few standards as objective in the analysis of human accomplishment as the simple appearance of leaves and outward branching on a tree or the initial stirrings of insect life that will eventually dominate the sounds of an August evening.
I realize that because I have to question the authenticity of my experience, it is most likely nothing worth holding dear. I have memories of other truly "golden" moments, when I was happy and I knew it. What point is there to unrecognized happiness, anyway? I often find myself in a struggle to accept grim times, saying, "there has to be something that is good about this situation". As I walk out to one of the many granite boulders that form the "furniture" of the clearing, I begin this soul-search again. Climbing upon the sharp surfaces encrusted with lichen and finding a seat that is not filled with standing rainwater, I remind myself that there will come a day when adversity will be an unescapable reality. This exercise is a familiar mind-game I play upon myself, to coax golden moments from the dross of mediocre city living.
It is so hard to force appreciation upon an uninspired mind, however. I feel tempted to sit and stew in the midst of this mile-wide cauldron of earth and the life that has emerged from it. Sometimes I think I isolate myself like this just to lessen the regret I would otherwise know in my social placement. There, I would appear to waste countless opportunities to grow along with others when I don't join in. Up here at the Cabin site, there is only so much I can possibly do. A day of sitting on rocks and listening to the river is not the same as sitting at home on the sofa and listening to the best I can find on cable TV.
After a time in this pose, I find that the mere potential for life's resurgence in this enabled sun begins to be a source of solace. I realize that there is no promise of lasting joy in any of the scriptural or secular wisdom I've heard, when "joy" takes the narrow definition I've forced upon it. It is so warm today, I say to myself. At least for now I can enjoy the novelty of a warm sun, especially in combination with the full scent of the wet earth and brush. Do I feel blatant euphoria, as in my warped specification for "the good life"? No, not really. There is little more than passing edification in the temporary surface details of emotion, anyway.
I suspect that what I need today is a new form of prayer or meditative construct. It would open my eyes to the powers of endowment that are working hard to keep me at the level of being that I now discount as worthless drudgery. I am so accustomed to seeking fulfillment in erudite stimulation that I miss out on the uplifting trends towards spontaneous growth, dignity and genuine satisfaction in which I am immersed. God does not expect me to do anything to participate in this splendor--I need only to step aside and let it enter my cordoned-off inner recesses. This is something that even the grass, the bushes and the trees "know" how to do, as they enter into their new abundance under the sun and the rain.
"Bo"
20 April 2000 -- The specifics of satisfaction
I've made another trip up the 4.1 miles of two-track road, with the hopes of enjoying a moment or two of rest. I walk around the area between the Cabin and the out-buildings, taking in the fresh air that one does not get in a hermetically-sealed office building. It is a day that entirely typifies and embodies the concept of "spring". The temperatures are "just right", to borrow the phrase from Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Reflecting upon my origins as a human mammal, I am ultimately satisfied that persons less tolerant to such surroundings did not end up forming my ancestry. In being at home in this middle ground of the earth's climate, I must admit being "normal" in at least one way.
I still do not know why I find it so difficult to assume a more central position within the overall distribution of human life. Something in me enjoys being "the exception", though "the rule" has its own appeal to my sense of order and reason. I have seen the ultimate folly of trying to stake out a claim to fame and glory at some particular extreme, since all the good spots have been taken by my "superiors" in the respective endeavors. To the extent that I wage an unrealistic campaign for preeminence, I load up on false pride, and the consequence of humiliation is a well-established tenet of justice in the common law of human affairs.
The others just want me to "be myself", or so they say. I am being myself when I journey to lonely places like this hollow, though I do not claim to be any sort of naturalist. The setting is acceptable and livable, especially on a day like this when I can get outside, yet it is not the particular virtue of any living species in my midst that creates the satisfaction. In that sense, I do an injustice to the individuality of a given tree, plant or animal when I merely enjoy the general process behind its self-expression. Maybe I really do appreciate specific endowments when I see them, since it is so hard to separate an act of creation from what has been created. I suppose I should read up on the flora and fauna of these particular woods, so as to make a more intelligent presentation on this imagined realm that draws its content from real nature.
It seems, however, that simply populating these woodlands with known and consistent wildlife would not serve my particular purpose in being here. If I can enjoy a tree when I know nothing more than whether it is deciduous or evergreen, then that's all the distance I should go. I will just wear myself out, trying to learn whole areas that do not interest me. I would only make a presentation that would be ridiculed by the real experts. But what, then, is the specialty that is authentically mine? Need I even be specialized beyond the basic requirements of making a living? Something in me presumes I am "special", even if these thousands of words only sound like the cry of a 2-year-old seeking "attention" from the others out there.
I walk from the woodshed to the back porch, noting where the winter's erosive presence has washed a good bit of the soil from between the rocks and gravel that remain in this high-traffic area. I should be working on building a system of retaining stones, like the ones I've seen on well-constructed trails during my visits to Shenandoah NP. Taking a seat on the back steps, I realize how few solid answers there are to the questions I ask, and how unlikely I am to answer them myself. I am at once a "normal" and an "abnormal" person, though not so abnormal as to merit "exceptional" status. I would gladly join in and be one of the properly-humble many, if their life didn't seem so unlike the picture I have of who I am.
I have to wonder whether it's worth my time to resolve any further detail in my self-image, when it runs in a direction so contrary to life as it is "best" lived in my particular assignment of environment back in the city. The final result would be something good only for my own review and reflection, and useless to the others. I do not want to suppress the parts of my personality that enjoy time alone, but I have to wonder if the other components, the ones that form affinities with the collective, are strong enough in their natural form to be used. I suspect the rest of the population will accord some respect to my stated interest in becoming like them, even if what they currently see before them is not.
"Bo"
24 April 2000 -- A life of two extremes
I am at rest again on the soft covers of my bunk, seeing if my thoughts will slow down at all with miles of forest in every direction. I have the windows open, front and back, a practice that only lets in the noise of traffic and other raucous human affairs in my real city life. The view from every direction at the Cabin is one of abundant greenery, so much plant life that some would call it "overgrown". The clearing alone has its share of grasses, vines, shrubs and trees, which become impassable in many places to all but the hardiest of bushwhackers. I realize what it would mean to be lost somewhere out in one of the square miles of this terrain, where visibility is rarely more than a couple hundred yards.
Here at the Cabin, however, I am far from lost. On this return visit, I pick back up on the familiar thread of the daydream that has been alive since 1997, the one of a place of proper silence. I would be sure to find persons among my urban circles that would argue against silence being so golden, and I can appreciate their point. Of course, I doubt they are referring to the "noise" that irritates me so much of the time. When I think about this long enough, I realize that I am just reacting to unpleasantness the way most persons would, only my "solution" is to do away with all distraction and annoyance. The others are in better control of their reactions, I suspect, and they can shrug off the noise while they keep on listening to the music and friendly voices that enrich their lives.
I know it is a pointless exercise to compare myself to others, a practice in which there is no victory. When the other person is better than I am, I feel shameful and inadequate, while in the reverse situation, I am given over to false pride. I can also see the error in disregarding the mitigating value of the company of persons with whom I have a mutually-benevolent relationship. While the many human sounds echoing through a crowded shopping mall might properly be considered "noise", if I am there with a family member or a close friend, I'd have to be in one of my worse states not to appreciate the presence of his or her voice. Still, I can be so callous as to walk away from the best-meaning of them, in my panic over losing "control", something that is only restored with appreciable effect when I'm alone.
If I am to gain any real "improvement" from my visits to these woods, I cannot have the attitude that I am hiding from people, even if that's what it tends to look like. It should be a much simpler proposition than running away--I should take what is here for what it is worth, and not for its preferability to some caricature of injustice that I construct in order to justify my departure. This raises the question, though, of why I would even come here, if that city life is really all that good. The popular literature of the last century contains its stories of "bored" rural residents, headed off to the excitement of the big city, even if there is not as much grass there to look greener. Of course, they have had their fill of life on the land, and since it is axiomatic that "you can't take the country out of them", they can live with the best of both worlds once they've made their way.
So my two worlds, the real one in town and the imagined one up here, have to exist together as a unified whole, rather than as antagonistic opposites. This is not to say that they should attempt to lessen their respective unique qualities, for then everything would "even out" and life might resemble the postulated thermodynamic catastrophe of "heat death"--when everything assumes one temperature and entropy has run its course. I turn to look out the back window, where I can see the shaded cover of the ravine, and then I look out the front, where the bright sun highlights the slightly waving tops of the tall grass. Does the valley resent the high ridge because it is higher, or does the ridge resent the lower bottom because it takes away the rain that falls on its side? In my position in the middle, I can see why each can feel justified. Up here in the hollow, I attempt likewise to dismiss my contempt for the noisy world that has me in its grasp. I am a person who can make a certain life for himself in both settings, and I am therefore all the richer for needing to go back down for more.
"Bo"
28 April 2000 -- A most powerful truth
I have seen more than my share of what society has to offer this week, so I'm taking another time out, away from the action. I seek a withdrawal as complete as possible, since my overly-active imagination constructs endless false impressions from even the slightest reminder that I do not really live alone. The trees pass by as I drive up the dirt track, while the reality I find so fearsome continues to recede behind me. The usual sense of calm is upon the overcast scene when I finally round the last bend and pull up to the parking area near the outhouse. The grass and wildflowers that grow high against the edge of the forest seem to have closed the final door between me and the places of temptation in real life.
I head inside, since there is something of a chill in this late April air, and begin my time apart on the slipcovered sofa. It is still early in the afternoon, so I do not need to make lighting my first priority. I find myself entering one of my ongoing threads of contemplation, attempting to know the truth and to know peace--if both are possible at the same time. I am reminded of the sad importance I place on getting the rest of the population out of sight, as if I really wanted them out of mind as well. I must frustrate them sometimes when I can look so independent of their ongoing support, though this always leaves me wondering what they see in me that I do not.
Staring up at the timber beam framework of the rafters, into which a proper loft might someday be built if I ever wanted to add bunk space, I ask myself if these getaways are really an honest way to live. I recall being raised with an emphasis on honesty, but seeing things as they really are has never been that encouraging to me. This makes me think that the "normal" people down there in the city do not see an absolutely "true" picture of their surroundings. Because of a proper emotional bias that filters out and reinterprets so much of the suffering and inhumanity that abounds, they have optimism; they have confidence. The "truth" relied upon by the successful social participant is that of the power that rests in such intangibles as faith, hope and love.
I know I am just wasting time when I do not practice these more excellent ways, but something essential in my person and personality values the cynical disregard that so often impels me to separation. I do not easily accept the height of the "higher" truths, the ones above my own observations of worst-case possibility. This could be a result of my background in science and engineering, where physical reality is, well, physical. Human factors in scenarios under analysis cannot be as precisely quantified as the consequences of "natural" laws. If this really is my world view, then I am most certainly being dishonest by such gross oversimplification. The spirit has its own governing principles, ones that defy all predictions of decay and destruction.
Since I am at the Cabin today, my need to confront this subjective "reality" is rendered temporarily moot. Still, I make certain efforts as I close my eyes to find comfort in the notion that all is well, at least in the dwelling place of my soul. The procedure for living better among the others is as simple as turning on what little optimism I can manifest, so as to become consonant with the more practiced performances I see every day. The difficulty there, of course, is feeling dishonest for putting on such an "act". They are sure to see right through me and begin wondering about ulterior motives. They know what kind of man I am--one who reduces everything to minimum expectations, so as to err on the side of caution.
I turn my face into the upholstery and search diligently for whatever honest glimmers of hope I might have for when I return. I know there is only one way out of this scene of minimal outlook, and that is to "grow" into something better. As evening approaches, I begin to find genuine solace in my resolve for improvement in the fine arts of human interaction. So long as I am on the upward road, I will be doing something about it. That's my solution for tonight--a time of prayer and praise. I am grateful for the human endowments that ultimately win out over the most dismal of odds.
"Bo"