2 August 2000 -- The forward motion continues
Though I know I'll just have to start back up again when duty calls
in my real city life, I take the opportunity today to "cut power" to the
relentless drive that causes me to take up new pursuits before the
current (and old) ones are fully developed. As I sit in the chair
on the front porch on a hazy summer afternoon, I comfort myself in the
knowledge that the various features of the Cabin, the clearing and the
enclosing ridge make up my sole allotment of stimuli during these visits.
I cannot "move on" when I'm up here at altitude, for I have, by definition,
"arrived". I am aware of how the word "arrived" has been used to
describe the placement of a person starting at his or her first "real job",
and maybe that is also the case here. By positioning myself in these
woods, I am at the threshold of a world to be defined by an ever-deepening
exploration of a set of initial conditions that remain for all times.
It is certainly a warm day, one in which restraining my motion in physical
terms is as much a refreshment as centering upon the consideration of fixed
targets of thought. I am, of course, faced with the dilemma of where
to begin in the ongoing craft of "filling in" the further extent of what
I have already seen. I suspect that I need to think of something
other than those tangled threads of thought that I brought along with me
today, since these will remain after I've returned to my job, my home,
my family and my friends. The intention over these last 3 years has
been that I launch into a progressive exploration of the implied and bottomless
richness of the "natural" adornments surrounding me, as if I were in a
child's playpen full of familiar toys.
It soon becomes apparent that I am feeding my hunger for a course of
study; a curriculum, as it were, even in a place that is supposed
to remind me of those "carefree" summer days from before I began college
and my "professional" life. I like nothing better than to be carried
along on a current that is larger than myself, knowing and believing
that my time is not being squandered. But this is far more motion
than I came up the road to experience today--I should ideally know that
same feeling while I am at a state of rest. Aware of how I'm driving
myself forward, I see a need to divert my attention from stoking an engine
that might soon envelop me in fiery ruin. I am not at all certain
that there are safety valves in place to take over when I fail to observe
proper operating limits.
I remind myself that this landscape is indeed what I started with in
August 1997, and I generally nurse the axiom that when I see today what
was first there, I remove the degrees of freedom that would make me indecisive,
arbitrary and fleeting in my goals and pursuits. It is certainly
true that I've "fleshed out" a good bit of this setting as the "need" arose,
taking what was presumed and fixing it into the solidifying framework of
my habitation. Since I tend to embrace these embellishments rather
than avoid them, I have an unquestioning trust in powers of discernment
that do not always do what they "should" when it comes to choices in real
life. It is strange that I should think in such romantic terms of
what my life would be if I were doing nothing more than solidifying the
structure of this tentative schema, based on little more than a series
of whims.
I continue to sit on the porch, letting the inertia of my deliberations
rotate without attempting any abrupt braking or redirection. I am
picturing one of those enormous flywheels, the kind that are enshrined
in museums of technology, turning on precision bearings. Standing
next to this concentration of personal effort and compounded accomplishment
(and failure) is somewhat unsettling, though the machine has run like this
for at least 20 years. It occurs to me that my fabrication of the
Cabin and its surroundings are relatively recent in the duration of this
motion, and that this world is most likely a direct outgrowth of the historical
urgings that push me forward. "But these are woods, and those
are animals," I tell myself. "It can't really be that the
product of something so unruly as the 'maddening chase' could be like this."
To continue the analogy, there appears to be a difference between the raw
dynamic potential of a mechanism and the stabilizing influences, such as
picturing one's self in the woods during off-hours, that make it useful.
"Bo"
6 August 2000 -- A permissible revision of plans
The morning advances upon a clearing that is still soaked with the dew
from overnight. I can see that this might not be a bad day to go
for a walk up the side of the ridge. There is always a fine, steady
wind on the open rock formations, and sometimes this is my only way of
drying out completely after I've been living amid such pervasively damp
conditions. In planning this hike, I know that I should follow the
standard advice about hot weather--taking it easy and maintaining hydration,
so I start out with a full 2-quart canteen and a relaxed pace that would
not be very practical if I were part of a moving throng on real life city
streets.
I make my way through the waist-high grass and wildflowers, listening
to the noise of the cicada population. My boots crunch on the fractured
gravel surface of the path, and I am in no particular hurry to reach the
start of the trees. I finally enter the woods, where my experience
of distance gets cut back to the dozen or so yards of trail that are visible
in each direction. I might actually have a chance to limit my concern
to just one of these stretches at a time, and if I am lucky, to a single
step. Since I'm mostly walking on rocks, and some of them loose ones,
my feet are a useful place to focus my attention.
Though I know that there are sports and fitness enthusiasts who would
encourage me to push my limit of endurance by developing a rapid pace,
I find that I can climb a hill faster at a steady, reduced-speed grind
than with a series of sprints that needs a number of breaks for catching
my breath. Since my goal today doesn't even include "getting there",
I take a seat on a suitable trailside rock anyway, after about ten minutes
of putting one foot in front of the other under the lush green canopy.
I take a long sip of water from the canteen before getting back under way.
I realize that I could have obtained significant cooling by staying
at the Cabin and washing down under the gravity-fed shower by the back
porch. As warm and sweaty as I'm now feeling in the shelter of the
mountainside, I am tempted to turn around and go back to exercise that
option. I can do that, after all. I am a free and sovereign
entity, especially when transported to this place of reduced obligation.
The story of today might look like a failure, however, if I don't
make it to the ridge as planned. I am a person who does not like
to retract his indications of future plans.
After continuing to walk for another 15 minutes, inching my way towards
the open air, I begin to feel trapped by this whole mission.
I find another rock at the corner of a switchback and sit again, looking
at the two branches of trail, each going its separate way. Some might
see in this a metaphor for choices in life; whether to continue upwards
or to minimize losses and know the journey will still be memorable after
heading back down. When I step back from this scene and place it
in the overall context of my life, the outcome of this choice loses the
bulk of its relevance.
Just to see what happens, perhaps, I rise from my seat after a taking
another sip and begin back down to the Cabin. Before long, I have
assumed the proper position in my nylon shorts under the shower head and
have pulled the handle. "Ahhh...that's it", I say as the water carries
off the heat of the day's partial climb. I walk out, dripping wet, to the
front porch and look to the distant rocks of the crest. I remind
myself that if I had really wanted to, I could have made
it. While I should be true to mine own self, I do not find fault
with myself for abandoning the initial plan. I find consolation,
actually, in being able to adapt to changes in my disposition. Spontaneity
is a gift of the spirit that should ideally be followed where possible,
and I didn't let anyone down, not even myself. The clearing is finally
beginning to dry out with the mid-day sun, and I allow evaporation to have
its way, right here in the dooryard.
"Bo"
10 August 2000 -- Waiting for a chance to rest
I have found sufficient "slack" in my real life schedule today to spend
some time up here in the hollow, where I have less temptation and susceptibility
to overwork. Really, it is hard to know just when I am "free" and
when I am inextricably "bound"--I usually have an overwhelming conviction
one way or the other, regardless of the true negotiability of my commitments.
An obligation will be intolerable until it is met, but the only way I can
relax after that is to deny the ongoing debt that continues to mount.
This has to be part of the Cabin's appeal, since it is easier to shut out
those nagging reminders as I lay crashed out on the sofa in this rustic
living room during the full heat of mid-day.
Of course, real-life geographic relocation accomplishes this goal with
a much greater efficiency. In taking a "make believe" trip like I'm
on today, I must plow considerable effort into keeping the illusion alive.
Real life travel, on the other hand, provides a passive experience
of place. So long as I can be yanked away at a moment's notice during
these fanciful interludes, I am unable to place both of my mind's eyes
upon the woods, the river and the ridge. I can tell myself that it
is all right to let myself wander up here when I do not have immediate
responsibilities, but satisfaction never arrives until I get in a sizable
time span with no interruption, and this is rare.
The recognition of such a shortcoming in this daydream life is nearly
enough to make me want to abandon the practice altogether. During
every hour in which I can't physically remove myself from the calls
of duty and desirability, I am tempted to sit in the staging area, be it
the office, at home, or in my vehicle, with full vigilance and preparation
to act. Enduring a rapid and unanticipated start usually looks like
a greater trauma than hours of maintaining readiness. I always fear
that I won't be able to handle such a sudden demand, or that I will look
like a fool for having drifted off on a dream. Real life usually
treats me better when I pay full attention to it.
I suspect some of my problem in balanced living comes from an exaggerated
fear of being broken off in the middle of a task when it becomes apparent
that I should pick something else up instead. I like the notion of
the single, fluid stroke when it comes to getting things done, and I often
go to great lengths to stay focused on the task at hand. I know that
entering an in-depth consideration of my current assignment is not in itself
a problem. With the way I push myself, however, I can see that I
am realizing diminishing and even negative marginal returns on my all-out
effort. This continual drive to be done with what I'm doing
leads to an inevitable dissatisfaction with the present moment, since its
job is, by definition, still unfinished.
I continue to absorb what rest I can on this hot summer day, knowing
that real life is just around the corner, waiting for its chance to press
me into service. The others don't appear to care for unending work,
either, and I am comforted in being "normal" in this way. My pathology,
if I have one, is the sense of shame and delinquency that comes when I
am made to rise from my idleness and assume my place once again in the
great social and business machines. Though I fully recognize the
implicit contract I have to respond when prompted, I am all too quick to
see this as the terms of incarceration for the failures that must have
occurred during my long lifetime of avoidance.
With a part of my speculative capacity fixed upon sustaining this virtual
experience, I am at least partially restrained from lingering over the
list of emergencies that are entirely possible at the present moment.
I sink some more into the sofa, looking to invoke that sense of security
that comprises my typical experience of real rest. This rest
is a wonderful achievement when it finally arrives; it is not like the
tentative, on-edge state that I now occupy. Instead, it forms a time
of such authentic completion that I am even ready to return to work, but
without the familiar old loathing. I can see now the difference between
real rest and its imperfect imitations. It is no less a difference
than the one between love without condition and "love" with an ulterior
motive, which is usually exposed for the fake it is.
"Bo"
14 August 2000 -- Listening to the same old sounds
As the summer of 2000 heads into the home stretch up here at altitude,
I am once again in active pursuit of the relaxation that is denied me during
so much of my real life rounds. I am stretched out on top of the
soft covers of my bunk, with the windows opened to their fullest, front
and rear. The steady-state sounds of the insects and the river, while
hardly enough to occupy my attention the way television does, are still
enough to support certain of my mind's more basic processes. Most
important, of course, is the notion that I can let myself drift along,
without firm commitments staring me in the face from the immediate future.
It is interesting that I can receive such influential cues as to "how
to feel" from surroundings such as these, while the much more explicit
messages from the mills of the public relations firms seem to do little
to change my sentiment and behavior. This could explain some of my
difficulty in becoming as settled-in at my real life city home, planted
as it is in the middle of high-density suburban development. The
open spaces surrounding the Cabin have a way of affecting me, even when
I am out of their direct sight. The picture I have of this world
is one of hundreds and thousands of "empty" acres, and I need only see
the trees immediately outside the rear window to incorporate the entire
truth of this isolation into my internal picture of fact.
At times I'd sure like it if I could be easily and directly duped
by someone's attempt at electronic or print persuasion. I do not
bother with those "personal success" promoters or other such "motivation"
types because I am rarely convinced that I can endure a true transformation
of my fundamental thought processes merely by reading his book or
listening to her television program. If the weariness I feel
today is a sign that the workers of worldly wizardry have somehow
found their way into the back door of my head, then they are playing a
most dangerous game, one I do not appear destined to win. It is hard
to say who has control of how I live, if control is being exerted
at all. It could even be that my lowest ground state is one of dissatisfaction,
and when I close off the external voices, I end up sinking to that same
old place until something new is thrust before me.
I realize that I am following a train of thought that usually ends up
leaving me in a crisis of confidence. I am led to acknowledge a need
to be part of the intricate workings of the human collective, yet I drove
up here today for a break from that sensory traffic. Observing the
lengths to which I go to have my hiding place, I witness the entry of a
competing thesis; that I know full well of the power of another's insistence
but shield myself for my own "good". I could be judging all motives
as ulterior and self-serving because of the small percentage of bona
fide charlatans who ruin the scene for the benefactors I cannot bring
myself to trust.
Maybe I just have a view of social interaction that is too "mechanical".
I would see various persons as discrete modules when their entire being
extends instead to a bewildering array of distributed resources and influences.
My conclusions about "who I am" might therefore be permanently limited
to mere conjectures, since I cannot fully extricate "myself" from the various
places where "I" have full-time outposts. If I am indeed "plugged
in" as part of a lifetime of systems integration through messages I cannot
turn off, then the exquisite variety of countless intermingled human murmurings
would naturally combine to become "noise" across the terminals of my sensation,
intuition and spirit.
I continue on in this crashed-out state, wondering if I'll ever hear
any real intelligence over those assorted channels. Maybe I've been
depending too much on the hit-or-miss inaccuracy of listening primarily
to broadcast sources. It may be that the voices I'd really
respond to are at the end of much longer, loss-prone lines. I do
not typically enjoy being so close that I am forced to hear everything
someone has to say to "just me". All I know is that I feel at home
up here in this simple room, even if my true home is cast in the
midst of a far more enriching biosphere among others of my kind, the ones
who wonder where I've gone this time. If they're calling me by name,
I'm either unwilling or unable to hear their signal above the confusing
roar of society as a whole.
"Bo"
18 August 2000 -- A creation that will endure
My week of duties in real life has drawn to another close, leaving me
free to pursue whatever features of Cabin living might appeal to me on
this warm, muggy afternoon. Many times I have difficulty picturing
myself engaged in productive recreational activity in this place, as though
I were affected by some manner of "dreamer's block". This is frequently
a frustration of my city life as well--the lack of spontaneous motivation
to lay down an aesthetically "pleasing" history of personal occupation.
I look at myself and my relative state of health, only to realize that
what is left of my "youth" is arguably being "wasted". I could blame
the media, I suppose, for painting a disheartening picture of a population
absorbed in back-to-back episodes of all that is relevant and meaningful.
They are the media, though, and I shouldn't hold them too
accountable.
I could be facing a difficulty that is not a "difficulty" at all, if
looking inward and fixating on internal constructs is supposed to be such
a negative stress on a social being. If it were truly possible for
me to enter this subsidiary space whenever I saw fit, I doubt I'd get much
done on my job, at my home, or in the circle of friends that somehow manages
to hold onto me. My founding hypothesis; that an imaginary world
of rest can be envisioned and freely visited, is undergoing the test today.
I'm outside the front door, standing tentatively in the low grass near
the beaten-down yard of the compound, wanting to make just the right "landing"
in just the right place, as if there were a pre-ordained "correct answer"
for the best use of this all-too-limited parcel of free time.
I am describing something of a desperation here, I can see, the kind
that causes me to take desperate measures. It would be the height
of opulent excess, actually enough, to have one's own private 4.1-mile
road, even if it's dirt two-track. That has been the size of the
buffer I have found fit, however, and it serves its purpose in the identity
of this wilderness. I know from listening on the way out that the
sounds of the village vanish after the first 1/2 to 1 mile, but that won't
do; I have to have my factor of safety. I could just be living
the typical life of those yuppies I'm so ready to denounce, the ones who
will have "nothing but the best". There is no place for mediocre
subsistence in such a moral setting.
Having nothing "better" that I want to do, I finally head inside,
to the calm of the pine-panelled living and sleeping area. I am frequently
surprised at how often I end up in my bed or on the sofa when I get here.
These are two fixtures that are easy enough to have in my real life home.
Still, it is my repeated and cherished initiative to seek something beyond
a real life habitation that is so readily achieved, so I must conclude
that there are intangibles to these woods that I'll never experience directly
in any significant amount. It might be that my picture of the hollow
is so...hollow...because I know I am dealing with a rarefied substance
that is only effective in a mega-, giga- or tera-dose.
I hear myself strangely describing a "natural" world as if it were a
source of toxicity, to be taken in moderation. It was never meant
to be this way, though that is how it turned out. Am I somehow fearful
of stupefying boredom? Is my trouble in embodying Cabin life on days
like today a defensive reaction in view of the moralistic preachings I
hear about "togetherness"? "It's all right," I tell myself, as I lay on
the sofa looking at the ceiling timbers. There will be other days,
and I'll have other ways of looking at even a visit like this.
I close my eyes and listen to the insects beyond the open front windows,
letting myself enter a complacent, dozing-off state. Yes, there is
a virtual legacy now to these woods, one that need not be experienced
full-strength. In the possessiveness so characteristic of someone
who knew shameless post-war materialism in the 1960's but never got to
be part of its counterculture, I hold the notion of the forest and its
square miles in a fine little box among my collection of things. I find
myself drifting off to an early evening's rest in the satisfaction that
I have created something out of nothing. It is duly entered,
archived and catalogued in the annals of my experience, for such times
as I might pick it up again.
"Bo"
22 August 2000 -- Dawn's first promptings
While it usually takes the sun in my face through the front windows
to wake up in this place of no alarm clocks, I must have had a good start
on sleep last night with no television to detain me. It is still essentially
pitch black in the room when I regain full awareness, though the cricket
noise makes up much of the deficit outside the open screens. Realizing
that I'm up for good, I find a nearby shirt and my sport sandals, so that
I might step outside and witness a bit of the arriving day. Poking
my head outside the wood plank door, I determine that I should get my jacket
as well. I'm still feeling the chill as I stand in my nylon shorts,
watching my breath form about my face in the barest hint of dawn's first
light along the ridge. "No, it isn't too early," I say to myself.
It occurs to me that this is the time of day when I'm making ready in
real life to beat the rush hour traffic, following a schedule some have
called "inhuman". Of course, my eyes are straining then against the
new incandescent light in my face, rather than straining to pick out detail
in this world of microluminance and shadowy forms of all-too-real substance.
I do not get to linger like this when I finally do step outside;
the need for survival in traffic makes sure that I keep my priorities in
front of me, behind me, and in every direction where someone might appear
from nowhere. I sometimes lament the loss of that magic moment between
night and day as I head on in to see what mess awaits me at the office,
but this morning I get to live it out in "real time".
I have a seat on the edge of the porch and look across the far, empty
reaches of the clearing, which appear smaller at such a low level of detail.
Above, the stars create a more sensational environmental texture for the
moment, though their persistence detracts from the growing inevitability
of the sun. Perhaps it is habit that causes me to run through the
various concerns that might be piled up in real life for my return.
"I should be back there right now," I tell myself. There is
nothing quite so satisfying as being fully "caught up"; to be on top of
things.
As the blue sky atop the ridge begins its progression to the yellowish-orange
of true dawn, the birds are not lost on this fact and join in with the
crickets. Business goes on without hesitation up here in the hollow,
except for me. My business is that grotesque series of maneuvers
that is incredibly called "professionalism". The ratings scheme seems
to favor such creativity in contrivance, so I doubt that modern management
principles have much place for just sitting and letting matters "be".
It may be enough that I take work home with me, and even up the dirt road
to this Cabin compound. I might have done such a good job of welding
my identity with "what I do" that I work closer to 168 hours a week than
only 40.
This thought gives me pause to shudder, and not from the cold morning's
air. What if I really am united in every way to those matters
called "gainful" in commerce, with the rest just being insignificant "fluff"?
This would mean that I do not view the conduct of human affairs as anything
more than how I function in the presence of others. After
some further thought, I conclude that I'm probably not like that.
I get too much satisfaction out of the non-work methods of goofing off
that I have discovered. I am often dismayed when I cannot
lose myself completely in these diversions, however, and this suggests
an underlying thread of perceived duty that tells me I need to return to
all that is "good" because of its productivity.
As far as I know, the adage only warns against "all work and
no play", so I could just be seeking the "proper" allocation of
each in the great gray area of moderation between the two. The sky
is growing brighter in the northeast and I can discern the foliage of the
clearing with greater faithfulness. Despite the variety of sounds
from the various animals out there, I do not hear solid guidance as to
where to draw the line on my recreational wanderings. The others
see me and tell me there's a place for me, only I doubt they understand
how severely I react to anything resembling obligation. I
should not blame them when they come asking for more. I only wish they
could hear what I hear.
"Bo"
26 August 2000 -- The work of being idle
I am stretched out on this hazy summer afternoon in the shade of a large,
lichen-encrusted granite rock, one of the many that litter the clearing.
I have completed enough work in real life to come up here and try my hand,
once again, at relaxation. All I want to do is exist, with
no thoughts beyond those related to the simple objective of being in this
place and this time. Occupying my city post is characterized
by its compulsory irritation and pain, and it would seem that this affliction
is unavoidably prescribed. Though I know constant-duty satisfaction
to be a myth, I am not satisfied when I do encounter pleasure, since
it is always overshadowed by the certainty of more pain to come.
My problem is that I can predict my future all too effectively; my accentuation
has long had a habit of falling on the negative.
In my pessimistic realization that "life hurts", it is thus my habit
to seek out stifling oblivion and the bliss of temporary ignorance.
While this is not always as pleasurable as those upper peaks in real life,
at least the introspective conclusion of universal futility is put on hold
until it comes time to "snap out of it". My descent into non-sensation
today strikes me as a sign of desperate depravity, and for a time, this
in itself is a cause for dismay. Being crashed out like this is only
desirable in contrast to the pain, real or impending, that permeates the
various phases of my real life. I might just be taking the easy way
out, a perfectly "normal" human tendency. Entry to this state remains
something that is relatively "possible", while seeing my way clear of the
alternative, hard truth of continual-duty dissatisfaction is not as straightforward.
As I lay on my back on my portable resting pad, gazing upward at the
clouds where they manage to stand out, I do what I can to disconnect myself
from the cruel, jolting traction of "real living". I am fully aware
that I am forfeiting a known and worthwhile quantity of pleasure, but for
now, it doesn't seem worth the cost. I take as axiomatic that being
up here at the Cabin doing "nothing" is a truly "authentic" pastime, since
the active use of an aging imagination is typically portrayed in encouraging
terms. My mind returns, however, to being reminded that this is a
neutral condition; a happy medium, and one that owes its existence
to a strong dose of denial. This is different from the "genuine"
pleasure that occurs during the positive excursions of the cycle in real
life. Obviously, I'd take something defined in absolute terms over
what is relative, if it were not part of such a frustrating total package.
The very concept of "satisfaction" appears to be subdivided into two
recognizably distinct parts. One is derived from an active real world
life, while the other is peculiar to times like today, when I am detached
from reliance upon a peculiar and paltry ration of joy. There is
the "real" and there is the "imaginary", but they both refer to the same
variable. In my place of isolation, I have instituted many favorable
provisions for being idle, yet I note that a positive effort is
still required to enter this landscape and become centered in "doing nothing".
There are some who would argue that this prowess in getting away
from a place of known pain is something that could aid me in pushing ahead.
Existence in meaningful employment and relationships supposedly "matters"
more than lounging about outdoors in a tentative state of "rest".
They would tell me to employ the old self-help book technique of diverting
the "energy" that I currently use to "escape" into actually doing something
about what makes that other life so hard.
As much as I work on making this place an equivalent to in-the-flesh
reality by noting its detail of terrain, wildlife and weather, its network
of simplifying assumptions and exclusions detracts from its final suitability
as a substitute. This creation, with its inherent flaws, therefore
appears incomplete for the ultimate purpose of fostering "authentic" escape.
I am comforted somewhat in realizing that I've had some connection,
even if has been tenuous at times, to the world of my waking moments during
the entire time of my visit today. In this scenario of hope, I can
have my times of fanciful inactivity while also giving "real" life its
due. If this is indeed the case, my labor in getting away has been
"properly" spent, and I have been building useful strength for my inevitable
return to the action. Hanging on to that thought, I close my eyes,
intent on spending more of this balmy afternoon in the lengthening shade
of this rock.
"Bo"
30 August 2000 -- An absence of immediate plans
Looking at the calendar near the fireplace reminds me that summer can
no longer be accepted as a given up here in the clearing, so I decide to
spend some time outdoors while these milder days remain. I'm not
yet sure just what I want to do out there; I am relying instead
upon my common tendency to find unforseen "direction" when I begin with
none. Since so many of my intentional plans fail, I start this afternoon
from a point that is nearly devoid of preconceived expectations of joy,
so that the only way to go is up.
I head out the front door, picking up my old steel-frame chair from
its defined staging area under the lamp-hook on the porch. With this
load bumping against my side I find a spot with a good rock for a foot
rest and take up residence among the grass and wildflowers. The bugs
of summer are sure still around, and I am grateful to have sprayed down
with repellent when I was back inside. I almost want one of those
nets to drape from the brim of my boonie hat on a day like this, but my
hands
are free for that custodial duty today. I lean back in the
chair, and assume a state of rest, realizing that I am here for the "duration".
From this vantage point, I gaze back through squinted eyes at the upper
end of the Cabin, though I am far enough out to lose this otherwise prominent
detail in the realm of trees, hillsides and random rock formations.
Having "emptied" myself of my more frequent trains of introspective thought,
I am initially taken by the quiet, familiar yet wild vicinity of
which I am a part. There is something of a breeze, and I could easily
be focusing on various trees, etc., if this were one of those "better"
times when "everything is beautiful". The cicada noise, combined
with the sound of the river, enhance the notion that this day might
actually count as a source of unique splendor, even in a land so uniform
in its endlessly-repeated features.
Though I sense that a time of serenity could very well be within reach,
I concede at last that my mind has to be chewing on something, so
I lift the restriction and begin thinking about my life again.
I soon enter the meditative mode that considers my past, and how this day
is becoming the latest addition to its growing accumulation. I have
lived out 38 previous instances of this particular day in August, sitting
as it does at the back-to-school threshold. I suppose the school
years come first to mind because that was where I first learned the discipline
of the calendar. Being a student is a way of life fades further from
relevance with each year, even though the months in my new schedule come
from the same old set of twelve.
As I review what I've done, what I am doing and what I should
be doing, I picture the immediate calendar that surrounds this last Wednesday
of the month, opening what I can recall of the Day-Timer book inside my
head. 2001 is just around the corner, though it will take autumn's
final arrival to drive that point home. August is a deceptive point
in the year, since it is 2/3 of the way through the months but still feels
like the dead center. The various "programs" of the 2000-01 year
are in the starting gate, as much as I try to avoid noticing them.
If I knew what I was doing, I'd join in on some of that activity, even
if it were as simple as getting on another bowling league. "But no,"
I remind myself, "that won't fit my work schedule", to which I must quickly
add, "and the time I need to relax at the end of the day".
Though I am a fully-grown kid, I seem to feel a need to "get with the
program" today, despite being already loaded down with the responsibility
of an ongoing career and a household to maintain. Though I have no
truly objective need to pursue those organized ways in which I might
"better myself" or make my life more "meaningful", sitting around taking
it easy is only good to a certain point. Part of the problem, I do
believe, is that the days where self-development was "mandatory" are now
long gone; the effort is entirely one of my own volition and making.
Even when I know I'd be better off with long-term plans in place,
I too often find myself shying away, since so many plans end up failing--and
being my fault at that. I continue, therefore, to wait out
the glory that might be coming later, even if it never does appear.
At such time as I am retired, the various present commitments that seem
to need "something more" might very well be "something" in themselves.
"Bo"
Ahead to September 2000
