2 July 2000 -- The contexts of my immersion
I am currently driving along the 4.1 miles of two-track road from the
main highway, on a day so bright that the endless trees do not form their
typical dimmed enclosure. Everything glows a bright green to yellow
to brown, and the piles of decaying leaves from seasons past catch the
occasional illumination that has found a path through the leaves occupying
a more strategic location above. The river flows back downhill to
my right, and it is far enough below so that spring flooding will not wash
out the road. I now note the decreasing slope to my left, a sign
that I am approaching the first of the two tributary branches from the
east. This is midway; the point where I'm closer to the Cabin than
to the village.
Though it's uphill the whole distance, I always get the feeling of riding
over a crest as I pass the second of the two earth and steel culvert bridges.
I have arrived at last at the side of "my" ridge, the one that keeps rising
on the left until the Summit 2200 feet above. I'm soon past the stream
that flows down from the south, and the second side of the hollow begins
to enclose me on the right as well. As many times as I've passed
through this dense forest, I'm still amazed that my whole settlement could
be at the end of such a road. I begin to drive up the side of the
ravine, "my" back-door ravine, losing sight of the river. With nothing
but woods on all sides, I finally see the clearing through the trees ahead.
I've made it.
Out in the open, I realize what a hot day it is, after I climb down
from the air conditioned cab of the truck. The
droning chorus of the cicadas has started to make its appearance in the
intense sun of near local noon, and I stand for a moment beside the porch,
watching the populations of insects in general as they attend to their
business above the grass and scrub bushes that support them. Realizing
that this sun will soon become more than a mere novelty after riding in
climate control from the city, I head to the shade of the front porch and
the greater shade inside the Cabin itself. All is as I left it; this
is a way of life that does not carry the strong indicators of progress
and time that surround a person immersed in history as it happens.
My first job is to open the windows, after which the insect noise becomes
a background to the indoors as well. It is so bright today that it
is almost like having electrical lighting in here, even though the sun
is not entering any windows directly. The trees and the grass become
secondary light sources of some intensity, giving the interior of the Cabin
a feeling like being outdoors under a patch of heavy tree cover.
Since I am tired again today, I retreat to the soft cover of my bunk, where
I continue in this experience of woodland enfoldment and personal relaxation.
I know I often do myself a disservice when I come up here, since it
has been my habit to discount the generally equivalent enrichment of living
among others. I typically cite some excuse about how "inconvenient"
or "constraining" it is to go with their flow, as if the state of fellowship
is something I need to make happen all on my own. It does not matter
that I rarely find enough that is really worth doing when I have finally
entered a stretch of "free time"; the important part is that I kept my
options open. Of course, a rational consideration of the matter shows
that it should be possible to have my place among them with only a nominal
quantity of exertion, once I've broken the fear of losing my precious autonomy
of action. I am dealing with the full force of habit here.
I know I'll eventually grow tired of this sameness and feel the need
to resume my place in the great mechanical context of passing time.
The hours, days, weeks, months and years form an intricate and universal
framework for self-definition, one every bit as inclusive as the woods
that surround me today for so many miles in every direction. To look
back upon a stretch of time and see that I've faithfully attended to business
throughout is a feeling of mastery, though I do not "own" the time any
more than I hold title to any real estate in these cyber-woods. My
true peace as a component of the unbounded social realm will come when
I stop belittling those small bits of involvement that, in memory's foreshortening,
appear as a life of responsibility and concern for the collective that
is my real home. The forest might wonder what I'm doing here, but
the others will not, once I've gone back to join them.
"Bo"
6 July 2000 -- A temporary excess of concern
Though it is hot enough already this morning to give me good reason
to be slowed down, the familiar "restlessness" is with me, the one that
urges me to "get going" on something. I have done my best to build
a world of few absolute duties up here at the Cabin, but when I'm like
this, I begin fabricating obligation where there is none. In real
life, if I persist in letting things go, I'll eventually get swept into
some situation where I'll wonder why I didn't take action when all was
still viable. The problem seems to be that my best life should be
an optimization of moderation; the ideal of the perfect balance, but this
is one extreme that I cannot yet embody.
I realize that I am dealing with dangerous reagents in my present experimental
procedure to discover the right and proper life. Overwork and unbounded
leisure each have their own problems in the extreme, and I should imagine
it is to my benefit that I am not called to assume either of those extreme
roles. Still, I do not have any truly practical techniques for living
some of both at the same time, the apparent "answer". I'd suppose
I'm making a good effort at maintaining the two tracks simultaneously when
I carry this landscape around with me as my daydream world. Walking
on a city street or poring over some distasteful assignment, I can also
be here in the woods--if I really want to.
This method of thought requires a relatively-rare state of mood to be
successful, however. A good bit of the time, I'm living in unsatisfactory
isolation at one of the two poles. I'll force myself to work until
I cannot endure it any longer, then languish in inactivity until shame
finally makes me pick up what I had dropped before in desperation.
I suppose I am not the first person to be motivated primarily by fear;
this is probably the reason my ancestors prevailed to the point of my being
here at all. I recall now the time in the 1970's when "fight or flight"
was a common pop psychology catch-phrase.
In pondering this situation, I am reminded of my excessive, hair-trigger
hypervigilance. Like the Y2K survivalists of 1999, those preparing
for nuclear winter before that and the hysteria in the face of Communist
expansionism in a still earlier time, I work with all the strength I can
to be ready for the coming calamity, the one of complete ruin in which
one man can still play a heroic role. The settlement up here in the
hollow has been developed as a defense against similar forms of dysfunction
arising from human nature and human folly, though none are so well-defined--it
is frustrating to be faced with a non-specific foe. Perhaps the correct
approach to take is the one I see being used by the bulk of the "normal"
population: wait until the opponent finally rears its head, then
deal with it.
When I think of those others living that way, I wonder how they so successfully
avoid being overwhelmed by situations they should have anticipated.
A good many simply don't make it, I would think, but their lives tend to
look better-lived because they didn't waste the time I do drilling forces
to handle various implausible scenarios, just because they might
happen. I have sadly fallen victim to long-compounded hype,
in the best tradition of conspiracy-mongers and propagandists throughout
history. The spinner of these lies, however, is none other than myself,
or at least a component of myself that I have coddled for far too long.
I don't even know why all of this concerns me on such a bright summer's
day. These difficulties of my internal motivation are so entrenched
that I should probably give up and accept them as part of my diversity
within the overall population. I should not think myself a coward
to have this fanciful retreat in the headwaters, though some might compare
me to the camp caricature of a solid family man laboring with pick and
shovel on his 1955-model fallout shelter. Today, as the nagging concerns
jab at me from their cover of indefiniteness, I do what I can to defend
myself. I know the siege will eventually be lifted, though not for
all times. I can safely predict a passage into temporary blissful
indifference, and thus my share of the consciousness that has sustained
others in my lineage before me. It is probably too much to ask, just
yet, that I actually make progress against my "enemies" during those
better times. It is enough by itself when all seems well;
apathy is its own reward.
"Bo"
10 July 2000 -- The standard schedule unfolds
It has been hot, hazy and humid the entire day up here in the hollow,
and I've been in the outdoors enough to know what's coming next. The darkening
of the sky that emerges as a continuation of the haze is my final warning
to get under the shelter of the front porch. I bring in the few items
that had been on the clothesline between the kitchen wing and the woodshed.
They are still damp, which doesn't surprise me with the humidity.
The clouds are gaining the real form and texture of clouds now,
and the first drops of rain arrive as I take my seat on the porch chair
with the laundry piled beside the open screen door. Soon, the torrent
has assumed its characteristic full-but-brief intensity.
With a steady current of runoff from the eaves to my right, I watch
as the wind tears across the trees of the hillside and moves about over
the scrub brush in the clearing. At the height of the squall, visibility
is curtailed to a couple hundred yards, thus defining a finite space that
is regularly filled with flashes of lightning and thunder to make me forget
for a moment the roar of the river out back. I look out on the surface
of the dooryard, which supports a makeshift network of tributaries and
streams, a graphic indication of just how a river is formed from a watershed.
I try to peek around the side of the building without getting soaked, noting
the whipped-about willow trees, which must certainly appreciate their flexibility
right now.
But then--also according to standard form--the rain tapers off and the
winds are back within their standard bounds. I step out into the
decidedly cooler air in the wake of the storm, carefully avoiding the deeper
of the standing water puddles. Since the ground had been so hot,
a secondary humidity arises from this trapped moisture, though it is hardly
as pervasive as what was here during the full heat of day. The flow
from the rooftop finally lets up and the sun reappears, to make a brief
showing before finishing up today's rounds. It does not look like
there will be a rainbow, so my inspiration won't go all that far this afternoon.
I turn from the dripping scene, pick up the laundry from the front porch,
and head inside, glad that the wind didn't drive much water through the
open screens.
There is a well-practiced routine to a summer day like this, one in
which I just want the next part of the cycle to get past. I realize
how inadvisable it is to wish for the passage of time, since I am only
allotted so much. I suppose I should have been out there in the height
of the mid-day mugginess, dancing about in ecstasy for the simple pleasure
of "being alive". There are people, according to my understanding,
who can even do this without first being deprived of "liberty". Well,
I'm not one of them, I'm just me. The ones who would have
frolicked in the sun would have been disappointed when the rain came through,
but it's all just the same to me.
I stretch myself out on my bunk, looking up at the pine panelling of
the pitched alcove roof. The varnish catches a slight glint from
the sunlight now entering the rear window. Another day is passing;
another missed attempt at securing unqualified satisfaction out of the
strange predicament known as "life". I realize that it is precisely
my ability to think with such rueful introspection that has given me this
chance at living almost 40 years. When I reflect upon the extraordinary
lengths to which the architects of modern living have gone to ensure this
entitlement, I know that I can ill afford to be anything but grateful.
Maybe my problem is that I've lived altogether too many uneventful
days. Of course, the next thought after that is, "that means I need
something bad to happen to restore my gratitude". That is always a dead-end.
As the sun moves on towards the lower ridge in the northwest and I continue
to lay heavily atop the down comforter, I wonder about what was I "supposed
to" do today. "I could have done more, yes, if I weren't so lazy,"
I tell myself, though I rarely come to know what that might have
been. Has the great Plan that has provided for my advanced years
also left me with this feeling of inadequacy, so as not to become too elated?
Perhaps this was Paul's "thorn" in 2 Corinthians; his ultimate realization
of the folly of a life that will never be what it might have been in better
circumstances. With what I face (and also fail to see), I should
think anything I can muster in the way of faith is a sign of a race run
with no shortage of effort. The finish line, however, is nowhere
in sight today.
"Bo"
14 July 2000 -- A presumption of higher justice
My life has allotted me another ration of nominally free time, which
I will spend up here at altitude until I get that all-too-familiar tap
on the shoulder; the one that reminds me of my ongoing commitments in the
city. The principal difficulty I have in that life is that I view
so many "leisure activities" as just another form of work. The ones
who actually enjoy unstructured time in the company of others have done
what I cannot easily do--they see each event with an "open mind", working
fully within the fluid realm of possibilities. In my quest for certainty
and predictability, I know I have imposed too many constraints and limitations
upon what "should" happen when I am introduced into the chamber of social
interaction. Thus, I have placed in vitro controls and simplifying
assumptions on what is really an in vivo experience.
I think back to this stifling framework of mostly-archaic habit and
wonder what chance I really have of breaking "free". The Cabin's
world is supposed to be available for such liberty, but there are many
times when I am consumed by guilt over what I could be doing in
city life as I sit on the porch or collapse in a heap on the sofa or bed.
There are so few times in my life, whether real or imagined, where I can
stop to look at myself and see a man "properly" occupied in a canonically-correct
and unquestionably "authentic" use of his time. Try as I might, I
cannot dispel the nagging suspicion that there is a hidden agenda for how
I should live; an all-empowering truth that is kept from me as an example
of the "sick sense of humor" certain people attribute to our God.
I live better when I can rid myself of the position that I am a walking
victim of disenfranchisement when it comes to awareness of those higher,
more noble "realities". While it might be disillusioning to see everything
for just what it is, and without reference to a mysterious secondary set
of alignments, at least it is less frustrating. I am encouraged when
I see progress in living with the solidly-identifiable, and not an unseen
and hypothetical world that is only accessible after a concerted effort
of deduction and stretched inference. Still, the others exhibit such
a steady course under the direction of unexplained guidance that I must
accord significant credence to the "absentee" stewards of their paths.
As I lay on the sofa in my supposedly-relaxing practice of idle dissociation,
I hear the call to rejoin the structure that so often feels like constraint
without reason. Objective analysis by others has frequently shown
that many of my restrictions are really my own unnecessary idiosyncrasies.
This leads to the sad conclusion that I have done such a complete job of
pinning myself in place that I will not have time, even if it were possible,
to break free. The best I will get are these internal flights of
fancy, which of course are not "real" freedom because I have not done anything
to strike at the underlying roots of the problem.
I am thus faced with the expansive gulf between how I currently live
and how I picture a "better", more relaxed life. I would certainly
hope I am nurturing a universally usable skill when I envision my isolation
from the legion of tormentors that stir me into continuous motion as I
go about my city rounds. The 4.1 miles of road between me and the
closest habitation (by others) could well resemble a power of defense that
is standard equipment in the emotional constitution of the "normal".
I could be successful in my attempts at right living and not even know
it, if it is only human to establish an internal and private reserve.
The fact is, I have not literally run away; I still put in my appearances.
On a day that seems generally good for just sitting around, I must conclude
that I am not as far off base as my fearful sensations would have me believe.
It is just a matter of letting up on the throttle of ever-escalating presumption;
the need to have all things known at all times. My sense that there
is a truth to which I am being denied access may be something I simply
have to live with. This woodland source of my own solace could be
a prime example of a personal "way" that others do not fully understand,
and more importantly, which they do not need to understand.
Individuality is not a crime in American life, and with it comes the necessity
of each person following a course known fully only to himself and to God.
Walking by faith should then get me by, at those times I cannot fully see.
"Bo"
18 July 2000 -- Awaiting my entitlements
Without the distraction of several hours of television, the arrival
of this evening's darkness is a slow, drawn-out affair. I have made
it a point to keep my activity level low on this visit, so that I might
gain a true appreciation of the value of time spent alive. It is
a settled, single scene out there in the clearing, now that the sun has
dipped below the ridge across the ravine. I sit on my porch, with
the conspicuously-wild overgrowth taking the place of visitors from down
the street on one of those nearly forgotten summer twilights of my youth.
I continue to be impressed at how every realistic niche for plant growth
has its corresponding plant growing in it. It would seem that nature
is "overdoing it" at times with all the grasses, shrubs, vines and trees,
which essentially form a solid wall between me and the others.
With such a formidable barrier of enclosure established by the terrain
and the foliage, this environment could easily feel as isolated to me as
it would to the typical "normal" person. Of course, I do all humanity
an injustice when I put them into statistical lumps like that. Further
reflection causes me to think of the many who see such country as a welcome
getaway, though typically with family and/or friends in tow. Since
the sentient life of this planet is defined best by its diversity, I do
not long chastise myself for "avoiding" the activities of a typical summer
night. My spiritual inwards keep pulling me back to the Cabin,
and I know how hard it is to do what I am not genuinely driven to do.
The bright haze of the passing day continues to give way to the certainty
of night, and a nearly-full moon appears over the higher northeastern ridge.
The crickets begin their newly-formed society in the grass and I am impressed
by the number of fireflies that provide their partial path-tracings at
the edge of the dooryard. My forced separation from those many diversions
of city living has succeeded in reminding me of the tangible substance
to be found in a piece of unclaimed and unbroken time. Indeed, this
very hour has a special charm that I'll remember with a fondness that is
not my guest this evening, after another decade or two have passed.
I am aware that I live a badly "out-of-sync" life, where experience and
its appreciation typically happen at two widely-separated times, but what
can I do about it, anyway?
My particular "wiring" gives me the overpowering suggestion, day after
day, that I should slow down and try to coax the "real thing" in terms
of joy from its secretive hiding place, but this so rarely happens.
I will eventually have to go to bed here and probably have to give up on
tonight's chance to be happy and to know it. The bugs are starting
to attack me out here on the porch, so I head inside, letting the screen
door bang to signify my retreat. There is just enough light left
to find the matches and start the two main kerosene lanterns. I sit
on the sofa in this flickering approximation of a "proper" incandescent
bulb, waiting for that serene visitation that I know to be possible.
Maybe what I'm describing is a tragic-yet-real personality defect, since
the commerce in joy is evidently greater in the population as a whole.
Since I do not get to see from any set of eyes but the two I have with
me in the darkened living room, I can only verify such theories by inference
and the disinterested observation of the others, a rather limited approach.
"They" might have just as much "imprisoning" them, only they have learned
it does not do much good to beat on the walls. "They" might just
amble along without any concerted effort, stumbling across joy when they
least expect it.
I know that I am toying with a puzzle having many solutions but none
that are inside of me. It is rather like the fallacy of lifting one's
self by the bootstraps, an exercise that only causes needless internal
stress. I make a point, finally, to stop and just to listen to the
sounds of the night. There are the crickets, and there
is the ever-flowing river. Certain cooling breezes are arriving through
the open windows, and I can see the hordes of insects drawn to the screen
near the living room lamp. I am grateful that so much of my life
can be devoted to the fine art of sitting a spell. Peace is just
that--peace, with no extremes of emotion or maddening chases based upon
guesswork and flawed conclusion. This day is nearing completion.
"Bo"
22 July 2000 -- Life itself can be enough
As the end of the 4.1-mile dirt track draws near, I wonder just what
I'll be doing today when I finally arrive in the truck. Driving up
here into the hollow is its own well-defined piece of work, but there is
always that "awkward" moment after I step out of the vehicle and enter
the world of the Cabin. Since my nature abhors a vacuum of activity,
I feel the urgent need at that point to move on to a new occupation.
This apprehension is with me as I enter the lower end of the clearing and
pull to a stop on the rough gravel and earth "parking space". It
is not that I really have anything to fear, except for a visit that
does not contain unquestioned and palpable satisfaction. Heaven forbid
that I should need to exert an effort to stay busy--this should
happen spontaneously, I would think.
I lower myself down from the cab and walk idly about in the hazy sun
of mid-day. The ground is fairly dry today, though not to the point
of raising a cloud of dust from my sport sandals as I make my way across
the dooryard to the stone fire ring. On the occasion of this arrival,
I do what I can to stand still and intentionally let the waves of
apprehension have their way. I try to remind myself of how good it
is to be on my feet and getting around at all, even if I'm not yet convinced
that I am spending my time well. The larger social structure of my
real life does not need me all of the time, so I can imagine that
I get "time off" like this for a reason.
There is not much wind blowing today, and the drone of the cicadas rises
from the grass and shrubs around me like the radiant heat stored in the
ground itself. Though I know it does little good to look inside the
process of my motivation, I cannot help taking note of the internal constructs
that stand behind me, with the firm intention of coaxing further motion
from a person who has already been in motion all week. "If I really wanted
to," goes the critical self-refrain, "I could get involved in anything,
and it would soon become its own self-contained and self-perpetuating process."
I really need to be kinder to myself and let common sense prevail,
when this set of imperatives rises to such a level. Since I'm not
going to be driving back until tomorrow, I will need to find my new orientation
to this slower life, one way or another, with or without gratification.
As I stand in this setting of calm, enveloped in the firmness of summer's
full warmth, I find myself again faced with the question of how to proceed
"correctly". One of the tragedies of this life of mine is that I
so often end up doing what is "right" at precisely the moment I've given
up. The answer usually comes while I'm looking elsewhere.
I can see, therefore, that I need to accept a good bit more of the way
I feel from moment to moment, since I'll never enter those regions of opportunity
unless I go on with what is "natural" for me. I am left with a problem,
however, in that my will and initiative are left out of the picture.
The very moment I decide that this action or that one will
drive me forward, the race starts to be lost. Am I really supposed
to dismiss my own free will altogether, as in "letting go and letting God"?
The preachers tell me to "allow myself" to be carried into such a state
of relative grace, but this "allowing" still requires action on
my part.
I recognize the corner I'm pushing myself into with this fruitless debate
over what I "should" be doing. I don't need to sink much further
into this local "rock bottom", though the worst of it will not be over
until I get that wonder of wonders, the spontaneous inspiration toward
action. It is a jarring, reciprocating course of motion to suffer, know
relief, and suffer again, but that is how it goes. A "real" life
should not contain such an itinerary of extremes. I should abandon
pleasure as the definition of the good life, for it is typically balanced
by a proportional measure of pain. It is not what I do but that
I'm doing it that counts. Form, once again, defines over substance.
"Bo"
26 July 2000 -- Preparing for another day
The first light of day begins to make itself known from its origin behind
the high ridge. Though the windows are only cracked slightly, against the
cold chill of a night at altitude, the poly-rhythm of the vast population
of songbirds dominates the small set of sounds in this simple wooden room.
I spend a certain quantity of time in the intermediate state of my waking,
conducting the process of letting full "awareness" sink in. I remember
things that were lost in my retreat to the oblivion of sleep last night;
the various truths, constraints, realities and blessings that tell me how
I'm "supposed to" feel. I cannot rid myself of the habit of needing
to put on this heavy mantle of concern--it is as though I am something
less when my mind can only draw that initial blank at the start of another
day's consciousness.
Since I do not have any major tasks before me this morning, I decide
I can spend awhile under the covers in my bunk, letting the sun continue
on its own path to full expression. I am faced with the unfortunate
temptation to start goading myself into action, just for action's sake,
and backing down from this call is often harder than simply riding along
with it. I review my small set of priorities as the sunrise draws
near. I suspect it will be on the hot side today, so I really shouldn't
be doing much heavy work like climbing to the Summit. "But wait a
minute," interjects the task-master, "you aren't here just to lay around.
When are you going to begin making what you can of this wonderful place,
the wooded isolation of your incessant daydream?"
Such prompting is a very difficult opponent, I must admit. I suppose
I'll eventually need to find some chow in the kitchen, since I'll otherwise
suffer from a predictably unworkable and vacuous state. I can always
be picking up and straightening out, for try as I might, there are still
a good many "things" in this dwelling to get moved around in the unthinking
activity of a previous evening. I have something of a headache at
present, owing most likely to one of the various "allergies" I've known
since I was young. I should be getting some coffee and moving
around--the sinuses begin to improve when I do that. Still, I am
tired to the point of continuing slowly with this inevitable start.
In this state of low occupation, my mind has finished going over the
details of the front window. I have fully noted the accumulating
evidence of the sun's imminent appearance. The portion of the clearing
that is visible from my bed suddenly fills with that wonderful orange-green-yellow
when the beams finally hit their mark. I continue to walk about in
the "control room" of my conscious thought, resetting the parameters of
instruments I have neglected and let drift for several hours. I remind
myself that many of those values do not need to be where they are,
but I do not wish to risk the turmoil of a discontinuity today. When
I return to my city life, I'll have enough of those fluctuations
to take into account.
The sun continues to rise, and my work of arranging the convoluted components
of my internal constitution nears completion. Among the certainties
I now remember is that I will advance to other regions in my overall mood-space,
and most of what I've tried to establish will be moot or redundant.
I could just stop right now and have a day where I take what I have
coming without building these ineffective defenses of self-image and excessive
preparation. It really is that simple. The superstructure
of presumed identity that overlies the "business end" of my interactions
is often a grotesque and inefficient contrivance.
I conclude with a sigh that I just don't know how to be what the world
around me would find easiest to swallow, or if this is even my duty at
this stage in the game. I hear so little in the way of externally-inscribed
"rules"; the bulk of my bindings are self-inflicted. The sun fills
the hollow now with a firm brightness and the room grows brighter still.
Is it just a matter of "taking it easy" and not running about abruptly
in my various "plans"? Waking up is one of those mysteries in life.
If I were my most basic, "authentic" self, I would not need to hasten in
these preliminary preparations. But then, just as there is day and
night, my ongoing vigor might be sustained by the daily practice of donning
what looks like a suit of heavy, needless vanity. The answers
are not coming just yet; it's still too early to tell.
"Bo"
29 July 2000 -- The inevitability of a limited life
In the short time I have for being here today, I am doing what I can
to become settled within the open expanse of the yard, the Cabin compound
and the clearing. As a man who must live within featureless modern
suburbs and office complexes in real life, I work on cultivating what I
hope to be a long-lasting "sense of place" in my self-generated alternate
reality. I should think there are enough places, even from my most
recent living, that would have the nostalgic character I am trying to invoke,
but these are always tied to one contingency or another--such as the need
to stay current with obligations where I have primary reponsibility or
the reminder of visitor-only status where I do not.
I doubt I can create much of what I'm really after, just by writing
enough words about a preferred place such as this. This raises
the question of just why I keep coming up the dirt road to hang
out, as I am today in the metal chair on the front porch. Perhaps
I am one of those overindulged youth that do not fully appreciate what
it takes to establish a "home". Since I am unwilling to make any
major efforts at building upon the continuity I do have in real
life, it can't be that simple to wave the magic wand and have it appear
ready-made from nowhere. Of course, familiarity of place is not an
essential prerequisite for the kind of soul-enriching relaxation and contemplation
that I'm after. Without reminders of past of iniquities and injustices,
I often have an easier time at spontaneous enrichment in someplace I've
never before visited, much less lived in.
I thus find myself needing to define the governing parameters of a system
of gratification that, for the most part, is a mysterious mechanism I dare
not open when things are going right. I am encouraged whenever I
see a favorable pattern repeat, and especially when I can determine causative
conditions that are able to restore it at a later time. This must
explain my interest in having an unchanging world at the Cabin, so that
I can always know what "will work". I realize that what I
want is nothing less than a functional mechanism, one where I press the
button and get the reward. This is far more than I can expect of
any environment, real or imagined--life's justice never works that
way; there is always sacrifice associated with acquisition. Otherwise,
I can be fairly certain I'm being lured into some manner of fraud.
It becomes more apparent, as I follow this line of thought, that what
I really want is self-determination and freedom from external influences
that drag me off to places I do not want to be. I have seen that
a want is rarely to be accorded the seriousness of a bona fide need,
so I begin to back away from my unrealistic pursuit of a sure-fire method
of continuous elation. Even where I can set up a scene as isolated
as this overgrown stretch of grass and brush, I cannot force myself
to be at ease. If pain is my due, it will ride along inside my head
and continue to bother me after I've parked the truck and come to be as
I am now on this lone wooden porch, lounging about in my bare feet and
sipping from my canteen to hold back the effects of unremedied heat.
I finally conclude that an enforced solitude such as the Cabin, filled
though it may be with resentments that follow with me after I've left the
pavement, is about as good as I'll be seeing for some time. An outcome
that is only mediocre is still fully consistent with the limitations of
even my most optimistic expectations. I have no reason to expect
that anything should be "given to me"; divine justice would not be any
less divine if I led the exemplary life and still walked away sadly with
nothing. Yes, the mechanism of my pleasure is best left alone,
even if it is "broken" in a number of ways. If I were really
in a place like this, I would be absorbed in the consideration of natural
details that no thought process can conjure into being. But then,
that is something I simply cannot have right now. My real life, on
the other hand, is full of stability and predictability. This is
a truth I too often fail to appreciate and exploit where I can. It
will still be there when I get back from this trip; that I know.
"Bo"
Ahead to August 2000
