I stop to pose on the Appalachian Trail, (Photo looks South towards GA) Shenandoah NP,VA; July 1999 May 2000 Cabin Diary |
 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
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2 May 2000 -- A time amid the overgrowth
I take a seat in the metal chair on the front porch, as a hazy sun shows the promise of a genuinely warm day. The season for spending long periods outside has finally arrived, and with it the ability to sit and rest in a variety of locations in the clearing and up on the wooded hillsides. Realizing that such time is already going to waste, I step back inside through the open screen door, to find my portable seating pad. With this under my arm, I proceed outward into the bright stillness of the brush-filled clearing, above which the scattered granite boulders rise like islands. The soil out here is a patchwork of fertility, with some areas supporting thick scrub, full of thorns, while others have a rock-and-gravel foundation that does best with moss and the occasional hardy stands of wild grass.
I continue on at my slow pace, along the trail that leads to the steep climb towards the ridge and the high summit, until I am about 2/3 of the way across. It is still too early in the season for the mighty drone of insects such as the cicada, though the birds make a good effort at filling in for them. I take a turn to the left and begin along a twisted path that generally follows a single elevation's contour, looking to what I can see of the Cabin and the truck in the distance. The clearing tends to rise along a gentle slope from the ravine and the river that defines the hollow, allowing a view that would otherwise be obstructed by acres of tall shrubs.
After walking maybe 150 yards, I finally locate an open area near one of the rocks that has a certain grassiness yet not too many thistles and nettles to get in my face and on my clothes. Dropping below the horizon of green foliage, I have a sense of isolation that would be unsettling, if I were not able to rise again and see my links to the rest of the world back at the Cabin site. It has been warm and breezy enough to have driven off most of the moisture from the spring snowmelt, though I am still glad to be wearing a predominance of nylon and wool as I settle up against the rock. Realizing how tired I am, I soon pull myself away from the seated position and find a spot to stretch out on my back.
Looking upwards at the brightness of a sky that now knows its full portion of the sun, I cannot readily drop the worrisome threads of thought that come with me, wherever I go. I'm always picturing a need to be rid of these concerns, though I should have learned by now that I haven't such an ability within my will. This being the case, I try to accept myself, cares and all, as the only self I've got. I shift position slightly, after taking enough of an unseen rock digging into my upper back. I wonder at length what life would be like if I could change my thoughts on demand, completely and without reservation or condition. Would I eventually suffer a fate like Midas, after living too long in the state I had always pictured as "enjoyable"?
Though this scene is tranquil and the land is open, I cannot claim any real victory in the struggle to feel freely. I remind myself of what a privilege it is, to sit on 20 open acres that haven't been carved into 60 suburban homesites. This whole land is, by definition, "mine". It has no sharp edges to injure me as do the narrow strictures of my urban rounds. All of this is true, yet something is missing. It shouldn't be that hard to lose my cares, I tell myself. I suppose I'm dealing with the intractabilities of my unconscious mind, that waste-heap of snarled and misdirected sentiments and passion that makes this clearing look positively orderly.
I do not know how to plot a path through the traps and pitfalls of years of accumulated resentment. The ones who possess more of the skill of self-determination have probably lived simpler lives. It occurs to me now, on this 2nd day of May, that these tortured battles against imagined internal adversaries are only strengthening their position against me. I would do well to meet with this tangled mess and begin to find a way through, rather than continue in this fight of dubious value, the one that would ignore it. Maybe there is still time today for one of those glorious, transcendent experiences that render the conflict immaterial. In my place of repose among the rocks and the bushes, I might still have a chance to see above the irritations of my predicament of resentment to the greater, unifying construct behind who I am.
"Bo"
6 May 2000 -- Just being myself today
Today I continue in my efforts at simplification, as I sit in the relative absence of distraction in my dwelling at the top of the dirt road. Of course, if distraction was as bad as I make it out to be, then I would hardly crave it the way I do in my real city life. I look outside the front window in my usual style, upon a warm day that would "go to waste" in the buffered climate of offices, vehicles, and shopping malls. This single, slowly changing scene is what I hold up as the measure of all virtue when I'm feeling overwrought, yet something keeps making me go back "down there" for more. I suppose it is some sort of elemental drive or passion for non-stop activity, and there's little I can do but keep on doing.
I know, however, that I need this time of reduced motion, and this is in general keeping with the standard wisdom of vacation and leisure time. The ones I call "normal" must have an easier job when it comes to taking time for what really matters--they probably don't make a sport of sitting around, absorbed in my brand of introspective questioning. Maybe, then, I need something to do that will let me rest from my "relaxation". What this might be currently evades me, and I stop with that thought before it becomes the subject of a new round of internal dialogue. I simply need more time from one thought to the next; I must slow down.
But of course I can't slow down--that would be giving up on the many and varied interests that make my life what it is and that make me who I am. By my occupation they shall know me, I would think. This must explain why I like to be alone when I'm "not doing anything". I cannot see in myself what would make me worth knowing in a state of inactivity. This, too, could explain my aversion to an overload of social entanglements--the others would not appear to have much use for "just me". I am frequently puzzled about why people have those long stretches of unstructured togetherness they call "parties". I seem to need an objective to everything I do, and simply "being with" them is not enough.
Still, I have my passion for excitement, as long as it is goal-oriented excitement; excitement with discipline and purpose. This is a part of me that I've identified as sufficiently "authentic" not to discard as some neurotic artifact of impending exhaustion. I can and have lived for years at a heightened state of readiness. If I need to rest, then I'm probably doing a good job when I run off to one of my hideouts. The Cabin, I would imagine, is a distilled extract of those practices that "work" in my week-to-week pursuit of leisure. I would like to think that the mere picture I have of this simple wooden room beside an otherwise undeveloped clearing is filtering its way down into the time I actually spend in the process of recovery and rebuilding.
My train of thought now enters a section of track it has sped past before--the one that postulates the very real probability that a subset of the earth's endlessly diverse population would accept my imagined slovenliness and be a positive presence if I only let them in. We must be talking about some high-performance tolerance, I remind myself, for in my preferred state, I am not one to take steps to draw others towards me. This hypothetical person or persons would have to perceive what I do not see in the mirror, that inherent virtue of personality that does not require concerted efforts to please another. Since the existence of such persons is something I have not proven, however, I continue to see solitude as the only "sure thing".
Up here on this day of summer's approach, I comfort myself in what I can know as provably "real". If the mechanism of optimistic outreach is what I see the others relying upon, I know I'm keeping myself at an essentially ground-level state of deprivation. I wonder, as I sit with my bare feet up on the coffee table, why I strive at the mechanical gestures I do, trying to gain approval in ways that are usually nothing more than precocious posturing. I have seen how little ever comes of that, except for my own transient sense of "accomplishment". The works of my genuine self, of course, will sustain themselves longer, when properly expressed. It is time to turn my cravings for mindless performance into equivalent cravings that are consistent with who I am, and not who I'm trying to be. This is the problem; being satisfied with that intangible yet immutable manifestation that is, simply, "me".
"Bo"
10 May 2000 -- A moment of stability
It is early enough in the day that the side of the Cabin building facing the woodshed and outhouse is still a source of shade, something I notice myself seeking again with the return of warmer weather. I sit below the kitchen window in the tall grass that grows against the fieldstone foundation, with the fireplace flue on my right. Given the size of the territory in which this dwelling is planted, it seems a bit odd to have the solid impression of a "yard" in this space. I could conceivably pick enough stones out of the ground to permit mowing, but then that would be an item of maintenance that would serve little use. There are no neighbors to satisfy or property value to maintain, except the value to myself. This is better served by the "wild" look, though the danger of ticks makes a good case against sitting out here for long in short pants.
Indeed, a lot can be said for having one's own space, and I am hardly alone in this yearning. I remind myself of the traffic jams I see, leading from what is open to what is closed on each city morning. The image of life in this hollow that does best to settle me, as I walk a strained course from point A to point B, is that of an absolute freedom of movement, without needing to avoid collision with obstacles C, D, E, F and G in between. I cultivate the release of that relentless driving force and those abrupt maneuvering controls, until everything finally dissipates and I come to be as I am now. It is most certainly true that I can stop most times on the street and stand there, but then I become a hazard to navigation for the others. Being so resentful of obstacles, I hate to become one myself.
When I think back to those hastened motions to get to places I'm not really all that interested in getting to, I wonder what is so hard about moving at my own pace. I have complained often enough about not being "socialized"; it would seem that I should not be bothered by others having to step around me. I must be overly sensitive to the slightest indication that I am inconveniencing someone, and there is ample justification for keeping the flow smooth. Careful driving is a civic duty, after all, and one of my stronger responses is the one to duty.
Maybe I'm blaming myself too often for wanting to hustle as the others do. There could very well be a mass depravity that keeps everyone moving like that, and perhaps they feel just as I do when they succumb to the compulsion to "get there". Of course, sitting up here at the Cabin is not the best place to begin lengthy conjectures of phenomena that are not occurring within my field of view. I should instead go back there and attend to business, only with an initial emphasis on seeing what is the true case of the many others that comprise "traffic". They are people, not projectiles. If I run into one of them, they'll just run right back into me.
This is not the first time I've questioned whether I should be spending all this time thinking about someplace that doesn't exist. Every thought that is plowed into fleshing out the side yard here or the appearance of the ridge is one less opportunity for making my peace with those scenes of controlled havoc. I seem to be caught in another unstable equilibrium, the kind that typically leads to internal queasiness and indecision. There is no place I would preferably be. The Cabin detracts from necessary real life and real life detracts from any chance at sitting as I am amid these assorted wild plants, without another place I should be off to. Since I am, after all, some sort of transcendent creature as a human being, it should be no great feat to be in two places at once. Even inanimate matter can behave that way, on the quantum level.
It is frightening, though, to think of running on two tracks of thought at the same time, even if such instability is my best chance at any kind of single "condition". I always like to give my whole attention to what is before me, developing elaborate defenses for each individual severity and resenting the need to entertain that other, opposing "way". Furthermore, I have seen enough of the frustrations of others dealing with the rat race to know that most are in a similar, violently-rocking boat, doing what they can to maintain themselves under the opposing factors of life and relaxation from life. Of course, it is only I that would use a phrase like "relaxation from life". To them, it's all just life. The time spent for others and spent for self both have their place, and I make it a point at this juncture not to disparage any activity that fits either of those two categories.
"Bo"
14 May 2000 -- Many options are open
Today, the bright sun accentuates the new-growth green on the variety of plants that comprise the clearing and the forest's edge. I listen to the rhythmic rustle of the branches overhead as I walk about near the end of the dirt road. If this summer is like the ones before, the mud here will soon be parched into a pair of pale yellow tracks, with the predictable assortment of dusty grass and weeds in the middle and on both sides. I only tend to see dirt roads on construction sites in the city, and I realize how far away my real life is from the simple rural pleasure of one-lane dirt roads.
I walk along the path to where it emerges after its last bend from under the tree cover. The two sloping sides of the hollow rise in an outward direction to ridges that follow their own higher courses towards civilization. It is perhaps 3/4 mile from one divide to the other, with the right side about 500 feet higher than the left. From this point, I can see the Cabin compound as a unified whole, especially with the truck parked where the road ends. With the entire sweep of the high ridge in front of me, I am reminded of the insignificance of a single, part-time residence in the hundreds of enclosed acres that feed the river and my glass-lined 55-gallon cistern in the kitchen.
I am wearing long woolen trousers today, so I am able to step off the road and wade through the knee- to waist-high brush of the clearing. The clearing, of course, is why the Cabin is where it is, since I do not enjoy the picture of having trees immediately outside the front window. I walk in the direction of the stone fire ring, taking care not to twist my ankle on the many unseen rocks in this tall grass. I know there to be only so much that will hold my attention out here, unless I decide to put together a hike to the summit, at 5040 feet, a climb of over 1250 vertical feet. If the horizontal distances associated with this hollow seem large to a person less than 6 feet tall, the corresponding vertical ones are even more daunting.
I will most likely sit around the Cabin today and read or lie still, going over what has happened and what is likely to happen when I get back. The large, open spaces, however, remain essential to my satisfaction. I seem to need the miles of separation, or at least the thought of them, to create a sense of "security". I am closed in just as tight in the Cabin as I am in my real life home, yet because I theoretically can step outside into thousands of "empty" acres, the outdoors becomes like an ante-chamber; a part of its set of private rooms.
Maintaining a large repertoire of potential, preferable activities seems to be the core attribute of my "freedom". It does not matter that I might never actually do what I stay prepared to do. I know I could drop a lot of my preparedness and still get along as I do now, but this would require making cuts without knowing what to leave alone. I slowly walk the somewhat-beaten path from the fire ring area to the front porch, knowing that some uses of my time are a lot more probable than others, and that this relative probability should be the criterion for what is worth rejecting in my array of provisional plans.
I take a seat on the metal chair on the front porch, gazing out towards the summit I will not be visiting today. Though it is my intention to sit here for awhile then go inside, I am grateful that the constraints of urban confinement are not upon me here. It bothers me that my leisure time can seem so empty, given the world of possibilities that I have reserved through the single living with few commitments. One day I might recognize how limited I am in a "limitless" setting. I finally go inside, as planned, to sit out this day. I can identify myself as indulging in conspicuous consumption by having so many plans but so few implementations. It would be all right to engage in such extensive fantasy in my real life, if only I were not tying up essential and limited resources in its pursuit.
"Bo"
18 May 2000 -- The voices of guidance
It is another fine morning for sitting on the front porch, barefoot, while the sun catches the accumulation of dew upon the foliage of the clearing. I let my head lean back to rest, tentatively, upon the vermilion-stained cedar siding. In light so intense and squarely incident, no part of the front of the Cabin building can hide, and that includes me. I close my eyes against this sun, which is barely above the top of the ridge, and enter the world of subtle-yet-sufficient sounds, chief among these being the muffled roar of the river behind the back door.
I feel a need today to be still like this, for I often fail in my estimation of self when I do not give particular thoughts their full due. Of course, I must take care not to let one consideration dominate the internal microphone; the source of the "voice" in my head that cannot be ignored for long. Seeing that so much of the content on that channel is biased and sensationalist at present, I decide to reopen my eyes and turn the old metal chair so that I no longer face the sun. My sensory connections should serve me better with the more objective view; of the front wall, the eaves, and the low brush that has grown to the edge of the fieldstone foundation.
When I am overrun in my real city life with multiple concerns that cannot conclude their natural courses, I find myself embracing the ideal of quiet living at this woodland getaway. I keep telling myself that it's all right to slow down and take it easy in the style of this romanticized life, since the tiresome maneuvers I put myself through are part of a dead-serious game, one that is played for keeps. If I could turn off that "voice" of self-criticism on demand, I just might see an end to my almost-involuntary tendencies to take on too much at once. When the "voice" speaks, I am essentially dealing with the erratic output of a "black box" I dare not open, though taking things apart was a favorite pastime when I was a kid.
I rise from the chair and stretch some of the sleep out of my system. I step out to the corner post of the porch and look over to the "side yard", with the truck parked on the right. The outhouse and woodshed stand there, not far from the rim of the ravine, though they hardly present a silhouette with the May fullness of leaves upon the trees. I realize how little time I've lived at this site when I note that there is no accumulation of rusted-out junk in the area of the out-buildings. I often see this near farmsteads along the state highway as I'm approaching the culvert bridge and the turn-off near the village. I almost miss that kind of level of detail in this setting, even though I know it to be a vestigial longing for the full-strength complexity of visual stimulation I have expressly escaped.
Today I count myself fortunate in being able to keep my attention sufficiently occupied in this simple place. It may not be like some of the times of "enlightenment" I've known, where the endless splendor of the woods, the animals, the insects and the rocks carry me along in a way that seems inherently "right". In a certain sense, such absorption has its own problems not unlike those of the city. It is best to stay at a neutral position, rather than entering headlong into the first bit of the forest-scape that captures my attention.
If anything bothers me now, it is the problem of knowing just where to "park" my mind. I am not sure if I should even think of coming to such a standstill while my life continues to dissipate, day after day. My ultimate goal is one of attitude improvement, where I might see all things working together for the good. When I think of what gets done in my frantic urban struggle, the combined efforts shine with a wholesome goodness and the appearance of being "directed". The best days of all in that life are the ones where I do not injure myself from over-exertion; where I know my limits and work within the envelope. I walk out into the dooryard area, feeling the sharp gravel on my feet, and do my best to embrace that wondrous and optimal equilibrium. My principal opponent in this pursuit is the "voice", but this I can readily challenge and sometimes even defeat. It's only me talking, after all.
"Bo"
22 May 2000 -- The masters of my freedom
With the summer solstice only a month away, I have had a sizable amount of daylight today for being outdoors. This effect is enhanced by the downward slope of the northwestern ridge, which has finally claimed the sun for its own at a new and lower altitude. I walk around in the growing dusk in my familiar rustic wooden living space, closing up the windows against the advancing chill of night. I can barely see the matches on the shelf above the stove, and I waste no time in getting the kerosene lamps into operation. While the woods' edge and the hillsides above create a barrier to enclose the area of the clearing during the day, the perimeter moves in to these small pools of incandescence, once the far superior benefit of solar illumination is lost.
I feel a refreshing return of immediacy, now that I have temporarily stanched the flow from my information appliances. Some would say I am practicing a hypocritical denial by this exercise, and they would accuse me of the unjust vilification of a stream of "enrichment" that I really do want. When I think long enough about my motives, I notice that I do not often shun urban situations in which I am in control of where I have to be and what I have to do. My PC and the television have remarkably prominent "off" switches, and that seems to make the difference. Still, there are times when I suspect I am acting out of compulsion, and not my own will, when I let those guests express themselves in my living space.
Tonight as I stretch out on the sofa under the living room lampstand, my bodily contact with the upholstery, the throw pillows, and the slipcover fill some of the sensory vacuum of this place of intentional silence. I watch the dancing shadows cast by the motion of the flames as I glance over to the area of the stove and the darkened fireplace hearth. There is nothing in this scene that I haven't seen on hundreds of occasions in the past. I've probably had other evenings just like this one, and my imagination goes only so far in conjuring novelty. That job I have largely left to the professional imaginers of the media, who fill my head as surely as agri-business fills my gut.
I now hear the corps of my critics calling me "ungrateful" for lamenting such abundance, and I must admit that I do ingest my share--it's all my fault. I seem to be teetering, then, on an unstable balance between wanting control over the influences in my life and needing the shepherding hand of the well-stocked marketplace to make many of the choices for me. I remind myself of the important place those various inputs have in my city life; they keep me from burning up in a fit of irrelevant and distorted introspection.
This sofa is indeed a soft and supportive fixture, one of the central agents of regulation during my visits to the hollow. The same can be said of the tent and the sleeping bag when I'm camping, and I can even bestow such an honor upon the "one-eyed monster", as I remember it being called in the 1960's. I may only deviate from "normal" in having sustainable stability during the many hours on end that I spend alone. It is not that I do not need the external touch or the sense of being connected to the rest of the world. Maybe I just need to fight off another of the laxities with which I am often charged, the one of "selfishness". This is what keeps me from being truly "social", as I sit about in a mode of passive absorption and frivolous reflection, as in the Beatles' "Nowhere Man".
It will amaze me if I ever find a style of two-way living whose schedule demands I do not eventually end up resenting. The ones who would engage the "real me" all appear to have agendas and syllabi. It is of course naïve to think the promoters of mass culture to be otherwise, simply because they are not watching me as closely. They could be working their way to my core and forming the very heart of my dissatisfaction, only covering their tracks like any good break-and-enter artist. As the evening wears on, I come to the sad realization that I have never been truly "free". I settle for now for the complacent satisfaction I can obtain from the panderers to my weaknesses. One day, I'll know what real living and sensation is all about and wonder how I could have enjoyed such deprivation.
"Bo"
26 May 2000 -- A satisfying insignificance
Since it is a warm enough day to cause real perspiration if I spend long in the sunny open areas of the clearing, I decide to prepare my daypack and head upstream to visit the waterfall. It is not much of a climb; only 150 vertical feet, but the trail, where it can be called one, is rudimentary at best. I make my way through the dense undergrowth as I enter the gully carved out by the river. I note the many mossy boulders over which the water tumbles and flows, remembering that the falls themselves are nothing more than a larger and higher collection of such rocks in one place. It is not long before I can hear the water passing over the edge, and finally I arrive at the adjacent area where there are good sitting stones.
I lean back on a large, flat, lichen-encrusted rock, using the pack as something of a pillow. I look up at the thin canopy above, with its various and changing apertures in the tree cover. These are not sufficient to remove the darkened, forested character of the river bottom, yet they are enough to remind me of the sun that will be even stronger when summer is finally here. It occurs to me that the people back in "civilization" are about to begin another Memorial Day weekend, when they traditionally get in the car for a trip to their favorite "summertime" vacation hangouts. I was never one to place much importance upon this declaration that it is now "all right" to live in the mode of summer. I'll take good weather whenever I can get it.
I listen to the overpowering roar of the falling water, a form of "white noise" that makes me feel like I could go to sleep, right here on this rock. I have always been amazed at how something that is so random and devoid of "meaningful" content can still be such a fixation for my ever-moving mind. It is as if there were real intelligence in the unpredictable combination of initial conditions and local circumstance that make the water do what it ends up doing. This causes me to think of the sources of content that actually are "intelligent" in my real life, and how often I use them for background "noise" as well.
I do my best to avoid one of my frequent resentments, the one that says that all I experience is only so much "noise". This presumes that there are "signals" I'm not properly receiving, even when I try going along with the activities prescribed as part of a "meaningful" life. I suspect that I'm looking for something whose overwhelming splendor leaves no question in the mind that this is worth doing. The more of these missed fulfillments I store up, the more I figure I'll regret when I get old and can no longer deny the ultimate limitation upon life itself. It is a poignantly tragic dilemma, this knowing that I need quality experiences that are not happening. It has to be more than re-interpreting what I have done--historical revision is rarely an honest enterprise.
The water continues on its way and I continue to rest in the shade on this flat rock. I ponder the high adventure of my real life among real people, doing what I can to establish a coherent and inherent sense that I have lived a good life. I could always get up from this hidden place and seek out some of the many who have seen me achieve what they consider valuable. There are many times that I believe them, especially when their testimonies agree with one another. Still, my moments of solitude have instantaneous satisfaction, even if what I'm doing is essentially "nothing". It would seem that the successful life for me must paradoxically contain what look like "wasted" time, if enjoying the present moment is to occur.
Maybe, just maybe, there isn't any burden upon me to live an exemplary life of shining and profound achievement. The witnesses agree the most on the importance of being true to who I am. If this means I fritter away hours sitting by the side of a river or lay transfixed by the soundtracks of sitcoms and sensationalist journalism on television, then it must be that way. A life in which I can say I enjoyed myself will probably have that glow in retrospect that I prefer to know when I think back over the old times. As I live still more years doing what I like, the accumulation of trivial joy continues to develop the total picture of what I have done. I count as most valuable those times when I can see such a creation, built largely of insignificance, as a life well-lived.
"Bo"
30 May 2000 -- The place of true comfort
I pull into the general area near the outhouse where I park the truck, noting that the Cabin and the hollow are as I remember leaving them. I step down from the cab onto the moist, packed earth, taking in the relative silence of the open air. After enduring the necessary miles of bumps and jolts along that dirt track, I have finally placed myself into the woods that I have imagined as optimal. It occurs to me that I go to a lot of trouble to get to this refuge, but this is where the hollow is and the village is where the village is. Even in my imagination, the structure of a consistent, "frozen" design is unavoidable.
I am always faced with the need to get "started on something" when I arrive here, since the novelty of the quiet wears off in a hurry. Pacing tentatively to the out-buildings and then to the front porch, I am gripped by a feeling uncomfortably close to real fear, when good and sufficient activity does not immediately present itself. I suppose it would be better if I had a real purpose in being here, one other than simply running away. The frontiersmen had their hunting and trapping, and the pioneers had their land to settle--but I have to look further to find justification for this use of my time.
As I sit on the chair on the porch, with only the grass of the clearing and the trees of the hillside to hold my attention, I remind myself that it has never been my good fortune to know sustained and abiding satisfaction for more than a few hours at a time. The notion that it is "average" for me to be somewhat on edge, even at the Cabin, makes such a state easier to endure, but such acceptance appears to require an "insulated" setting. I suspect this experience is much like the way I close out the various complexities of my real life when I'm asleep or watching television. As long as my first duty is to avoid offensive or painful encounters with others, I fear that I will never find rest--and thus I never do.
I am finding it unusually hard to let go today, which seems puzzling to me, since letting go should be an entirely passive operation; a no-brainer. I keep getting the feeling that I am opening the door to any number of unwelcome thoughts when I back off from my defenses. It is as if the tangled heap of my commitments and projects is worth guarding in its entirety, just because it happens to "work" as it is. Since I have lived with less dignity in the darkness of my past, it is not hard to imagine a descent into disarray, should I leave the structure of my real life unattended for long.
Thus, I cannot escape at present the "need" for ever-vigilance in the face of vulnerability. To expose myself unconditionally would be to invite a most "uncomfortable" sequence of events. The others are willing to leave me alone to stand watch over the somewhat mis-shapen apparatus of my day-to-day survival, and they appear ready to accept that this is how I've chosen to make my way through their midst. I find comfort in believing that they consider me largely inert. So long as I am not made to know the awkwardness of those social situations that strike to the very core, I can continue to pass untouched through their potentially corrosive channels.
I know I am doing no one any real good by keeping to myself, yet I am equally unable to understand how an assimilated person can have any sense of individuality, once dispersion has run its course. I see too much evidence of the others having private lives to believe they have really gained their "happiness" by giving themselves away in the exclusive service of neighbor and not self. I can only conclude that the "normal" population are different than I am when they are alone. Their ongoing involvements with the others must give them a proper place to rest their eyes, beyond the familiar old person they thoroughly know themselves to be. One day I'll fully understand what it is to have an identity that is defined by one's associations, and not one's experiences in isolation.
"Bo"