I pose in the high country of southern NV-- Toiyabe National Forest, October 2000 November 2000 Cabin Diary |
 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
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3 November 2000 -- Getting things started early
It is early in the process of dawn as I begin waking up under layers of heavy backcountry bedding. My face can feel the cold that has entered overnight--or the heat that has escaped, to be more precise. Cowering in my soft, personal enclosure, I note that the room is quite still, almost to the point of being "hostile" in its darkened state of chill. It does not seem like I truly "belong" here, though I've known similar surroundings on real life camping trips during early spring and late autumn. I shift myself about against the reassuring touch of the weighted flannel sheets, making sure I do not expose any more of myself than is necessary to the prevailing air. Until I wake some more, this is the place I "have to" be. I do not yet have the concept in place of what reasonably comes after this.
As I watch the advance of the first light of day, I know I'll eventually find it within myself to get rolling, and probably sooner than I think. Though I often dream of a life where I could simply stay bundled up and hidden away entirely from all of the demands and incursions of "civilization", I am ultimately left with a sense of shame that a man can be so thoroughly idle, once I have actually achieved such a state. There is no satisfying that maddening internal drive towards connectivity once it has started, at least not until I have unwittingly taken on more than I care to have. Before I know it, I'm up to my armpits in obligation, wishing again for a whole lot of nothing in its place, even if "nothing" is a very scant ration for the long term.
I can see, as I install further reminders of my "troubles with living" in my working memory, that I am probably headed for another day without answers. Really, the best "answer" I usually find is to stumble upon an activity that occupies me entirely and without reservation. Then, I can "park it" right there and get some rest, as a sedate and satisfied "fool". Other critics of the social orthodoxy might not agree that a man can be properly "happy" under such a mind-numbing influence. These are the ones who would have each person be made content by "releasing" a supposedly-innate capacity for excellence. Perish the thought that I should want to quench this source of all that is good and noble! Why, the self-realized man is the only one worth being. I suppose they speak for themselves, just as I speak for myself.
It is growing brighter now, meaning the day must go on. I begin to think of what must be done to get the place warmed up again. It could even be warm enough to get outside today, though it looks pretty frosty from what I can see out the window. That nuisance of my restless motivation to action is ramping up, and it will soon have complete control. I will certainly look back on these as rather "dark" days, if I ever get out of being "this way". I finally crawl out of the sack, feeling the sudden influence of the cold morning air. This is good, actually--it gives me "something else" to put my mind on for awhile. That chill I had thought over for so long is now here, and as reality, it has lost the suspense-filled uncertainty of what might be. I should like it if I could enter other adversity as easily. I can handle simple challenges, it would seem, but not the ones that have no end to their depth.
I start working on a fire in the fireplace, knowing that the others will not close in and drive me to that opposite of inactivity; the state of "too much". It is still very quiet up here, apart from the noise of the growing flames. I can see that I am not going to derive any great and all-encompassing prescriptions for a sudden entry into the terminal good life by just being here this morning. Maybe I need to become engrossed in more hobbies up here, like those folks who go fishing or read books at their vacation homes. It is certainly good to get strung along on a course of action like that, the kind that has rules that do not "hurt" when they are obeyed. I am indeed quite the coward when it comes to pain, despite what my real life dentist will tell you. I now begin to think of when I'll jump into the truck and drive back to the city. It will be good when I have another chance at rest.
"Bo"
7 November 2000 -- Escaping in moderation
Today looks to have just enough "spare" time to let me wander up the 4.1-mile dirt road and spend awhile in front of a respectable fire, on this cold afternoon of later autumn. The business of transition to winter is nearing its end stages; no longer am I standing wistfully in a closing summer, comfortable without a jacket in the lengthening shadows of the clearing. No, it is harsh in these woods, with the crisp leaves piled among the briers and the lichen-covered granite rocks. I am made to assume the posture I take each year at this time, the one of parting company with an outdoors world that had graciously accepted my presence. I must begin the routine of "toughing it out", as I defiantly hold my place with the help of the Cabin building and my wood pile in the shed.
This scene provides an ample reminder of the frailty that pulls all of "life" back down to the earth from which it was formed. I almost get the sense that I am "cheating" by having such splendid indoor comfort out here in my fanciful boonies. If I were really dedicated to holding out against adversity, I'd be back there more fully in the urban sphere, getting what mileage I can out of those real life "challenges", the ones that are supposed to be both crises and opportunities. I guard against characterizing my bona fide humanity as being inferior to who I am in this "world". The Cabin is, after all, a mere luxury derived from a bit too much unoccupied time and attention. I am picturing now the extent to which the various affairs of day-to-day persistence among the others would fall into neglect and disrepair if I were truly given an escape like this, one involving hours of travel and absence from my appointed station.
I am therefore left to practice these wanderings solely as a sideline, while keeping at least one eye on what's going on in reality at all times. I must be ready for action without hesitation, for then I can claim that I did all that I could under the circumstances. I have often noted that I do better at standing guard back there when I have a secondary train of thought in place; it is as though full-strength real life would not be livable. This tells me that the "opposition" I face back there might not be as fearsome as I'd think. Only some of the concerns that fly across my path are actually there at the same time I am. With life scheduled as low-intensity but full time occupation, I am reminded of those seminar promoters who tell me that 90% of my brain is lying fallow at all times. I disagree, however, that the level of my effort is in need of anything approaching tenfold amplification.
When I dream of using my spare time at a real getaway location, I am implicitly calling for the unwieldy creation of sets of concerns that are "collapsed" over time into nice neat bundles, like the parcels from one of those trash compactors that were all the rage in the 1960's. This would result in brief intervals at the time of my choosing where I work all-out, with no chance of reprieve or redirection for my mind's focus. But this would be clearly unworkable, for total absorption in anything is an empirically proven disaster-in-the-making. There always needs to be reserve capacity, with chances from moment to moment to sit and take a breather. This must be why "fluff" sells so well in the media; people don't do well with modern problems in their "natural", native form. A synergistic alloy or composition with a filler material is called for instead.
I do like the thought that I can be on hand at all times, particularly when I am reminded that I will never be made to work at full capacity for any unbearable length of time. The architects of my placement in the collective have generally known when too much is too much. Since people generally will not lack compassion intentionally, the excesses that do come my way must be regrettable error and not malicious plans. I cannot call for the others to be perfect when I have failed so miserably in my own attempts in that endeavor.
Well, it is cold today, and I also hear those needs impinging upon my flesh-and-blood entity within the human medium that supports this whole exercise in imaginary extremity. I am reminded that the very notion of human "life" itself is mobility and versatility over time, through growth and through travels in time and space. No part of my load has yet distracted me entirely, and this can't be an "accident". I go to the fireplace and work some more on keeping up the heat in here, as I plan my next move in that "real" reality.
"Bo"
11 November 2000 -- Making do in scant surroundings
I begin my day here at the Cabin by noting that the first snow of the season fell overnight, accumulating about 2 inches. This event was accompanied by a spell of sub-freezing cold that allowed a certain, limited amount of blowing and drifting. Really, the drifts are little more than "ridges" on the soft, fragile surface, easily disrupted by my boots as I head out the front door to the outhouse and the woodshed. These conditions test the limits of having an outdoor commode, where occasional gusts of wind find their way under the door and the pervasive cold is all too ready to make itself known. I move on to get an armload of firewood, then trace my approximate path back to the warmer zone indoors.
I stack two new pieces of wood on the fire, close up the screen, and move to the sofa, where I cover up with my poncho liner. I look out the front window at the clearing, trying to remind myself of the layout that was so accommodating during the summer. It is a grey day out there, with overcast skies remaining from the precipitation, and there is little solid consolation in the abundance of white, even if the scene has an increased brightness some would consider "cheery". These might be the ones who are susceptible to the pitch of "holiday" shopping mall decorations and displays, which depict the snow as an idealized, artistically-rendered backdrop to what really matters--the merchandise. I am most certainly no "Grinch", I assure myself, for that cinematic antagonist is firmly centered in his conviction of the vital importance of "material" trappings.
Well, I don't have to be shopping today, though such duty is beginning to come due in my real life. The fireplace heat is building behind me, and I loosen my swaddling camouflage cover-up in recognition of this fact. I turn to put my bare feet out in the open on the coffee table, settling in to a new pose that is well-suited to reading. I grab a 1943 copy of Life from the rack and begin looking at the advertisements. Those are the best part of WWII magazines; the depiction of consumers demonstrating the proper use of still-rationed goods. Here is one that extols the virtue of cotton percale bed sheets. Not muslin, like my sofa slipcover, but the real, premium material with the high thread-count. They go on about how to stock a house with such linen and the proper way to care for it. This reminds me that I could stand to do a hand-load of laundry this weekend, using the indoor clothesline to dry it.
I next come to a story about the American occupation forces in Italy, who are portrayed as preferable over those disrespectful Germans. They work to establish an allocation of scarce goods that is acceptable to Allied standards and a fair approximation of the Four Freedoms, though they are meager in comparison to the typical latter-day Thanksgiving feast. I suppose I should be on my knees right now, giving thanks that having things is my "problem", and not the converse situation. Indeed, mine is a hollow "complaint" made with a whole plastic rack of sliced bread under my arm. When I return to my real-life home, I will be swamped by the selection of diversions that are fully-provisioned and ready to go. I am aware that I spend my share of time doing "nothing" there, just as I do here with all the great outdoors around me. I must be guilty of a form of "tunnel vision", where my darting vision only picks up a small field of view. A very cluttered and interesting set of surroundings will still look empty a sizable fraction of the time, given this malady.
I have no proven method in place, however, for perceiving and appreciating my total situation. I figure this to be the product of habit, a way of avoiding sensory overload. It occurs to me that I am most likely picking up various items of provision in something analogous to "peripheral vision". My habit includes an uncanny ability to avoid looking directly at the spatial content the others would see in a minute. Thus, I am squarely guilty of ingratitude, for I know what I have but go on denying it. When I look at it this way, I may be more "Grinch-like" than I had thought. The conceptual model I have created for my social and economic context is excessively controlled by the awareness and suppression of flesh-bound gifts. I retire to my bunk to puzzle this one out. I close my eyes, even to what is here before me in this pine-panelled room, and begin filling my field of view with the limited rations I have of that other species of gift; the charisms that I have allowed myself to express and share. This is the matériel that will help me on towards "victory" on this cold day at winter's threshold. I recognize it, too, in the magnanimous spirit that filled the "free" world two generations ago.
"Bo"
15 November 2000 -- A single, resourceful adversary
A fair amount of cold that could easily be called "bitter" has occurred since the snowfall over the weekend, but with several brief occasions of melting, the surface no longer has that powdery, drifting quality. Instead, it is a crunchy, crusted-over layer, with a number of bare spots. It is snow that seems to "call for" remediation through the real dumping that is sure to follow within a few weeks. Although the sun happens to be out today, a stiff wind has made exposure of skin outside a serious matter during my trips to the out-buildings. The frost, too, is present in force, adding to my awareness of the drafts around the windows when I am on the sofa or at the side of my heavy maple dresser. It is another of those days where I simply feel like "holing up" under my assortment of thermal covers, even with a fire burning.
Though I could probably be "safely" doing more today, I sense a distinct need to reduce to a minimum those distractions and "duties" that so occupy and constrain me in my real life schedule. It is not that the overall load would break me, but with everything rising to "emergency" status in my awareness as soon as I remember it, something must "give". I am beyond believing that I can simply exercise a sufficient quantity of will and "not let" the upcoming responsibilities pose an undue strain. No, I need shelter, absolute and complete, or else "it" will find me and build into a full-scale crisis, just as the cold will steal all of the heat that is my keenly-cherished possession in the Cabin this afternoon if it is given a chance.
What I am after, sad to say, is a dulling of my responses; an entry into a passively-content and apathetic holding state. Most of the "normal" back in the city have a problem when they hear of someone's counter-intuitive yearning to be made oblivious, even while there is no shortage of balm to this effect to be found at the business end of those consumer electronics information appliances. It is worrisome, I'll admit, to think of operating from a state of lessened vigilance. One would assume that reaction times are longer and responses are necessarily more erroneous. Of course, my years of practicing just this kind of "avoidance" would make life in the fullness of competent awareness a daunting experience, as much an affront as the wide-open cold that strikes at me when I dare step outside on a day like this.
Well, I get to be indoors for awhile today, and I will steep myself in my insular surroundings. I note to my dismay that the task of simplifying has become just that--a task. I have to wonder sometimes if it's worth burdening myself with this additional "assignment", since it frequently fails to reduce the extent of that other list of obligations that are still waiting when I return. I tell myself that I have established a safe harbor for "letting go" up in these woods, but am I really that much "safer" than in the typical urban scenario? It can't be all that hard to slow down, since what I'm asking myself to do is omit, and not add duties to the list. I don't know how this has all gotten so far out of hand.
I stretch myself to a deeper spot under the covers on the sofa, in response to the chill from the front windows. I do not like this feeling that real relaxation is still "pending". It is on par with the anxiety of having many jobs that become "due" upon receipt of their recollection. In passing through the state of waiting for relief, I am witnessing obsessive hypervigilance creeping back in, only under a different guise. I am dealing, it would seem, with a single phenomenon of self-irritation. This is actually something of a comfort in that a complete and comprehensive answer to any part of the mess will be useful in deriving the answer to everything.
This is making progress, I tell myself. When all that ails me can be seen as different expressions of a single woe, then I have a single enemy and just one fight, should it ever come to that. The problem is that I never see this "demon" in its native form. I am instead made to oppose its many, ever-changing agents on many assorted fronts, guilty of what the New Age and holistic promoters call an attack on symptoms without a remedy of the underlying cause. Well, even the scientific "healers" can appreciate the ultimate unity of my affliction, only they are too practical to believe in single answers. My sources of irritation are too well-entrenched, the veterans of many years of my attempts at a cure. I finally begin to feel my "treatment" in the warmth of this small space taking hold. This is what I do have right now.
"Bo"
19 November 2000 -- Preparations made in isolation
It is clouded over again this mid-day, which means that there will be even less to remind me of the sun as the autumn season continues on towards next month's Solstice. Illumination in the clearing seems to be less of a certainty, as if a different contractor had been hired for the purpose. I note that there is the barest hint of snow flurries in the near-freezing air, and not the kind that appears capable of developing a real accumulation. This snow is better suited to lending an "atmosphere" to the stark browns, bleak tans and dull yellows that dominate my view out the front window. It is an empty and featureless world in the hollow today, and I finally turn from the window to consider the goings-on in my small, simply-furnished space.
I suppose I'll eventually need to get up and cook a meal here, since a man can only live so long by eating out of open grocery packages. That will be later, though--I like to save up hunger until I can really appreciate what I have prepared. Perhaps I shall continue with my reading. Today I have a second-hand paperback copy of Burdick et al.'s Fail Safe before me, written during those allegedly "simpler" days when I was first born. In retrospect, I am glad to be in my late 30's now, since the corresponding legion of men who had been draft age during WWII must have had a more dire and vivid image of "war" to fuel their imaginations when the idea was renewed by world politics. To a reader in the 00's, it all has an entertaining air of "camp", something once reserved only for satire like Dr. Strangelove.
I begin reading the tale of intercontinental air power, only to suffer a frustrating trailing-off of interest that makes me put the book back down on the coffee table. Maybe I really do have a shortage of "attention span", be it from nature, nurture or both. I have observed that many of the others in the city escape these troubles by entering into lifelong commitments and devotions in the greater social network. They seek first to enrich other lives, so that their own lives may in turn be enriched. I must be "fighting it" when I make the "free will" decision to stay to myself in this desolate compound, 1800 feet above the nearest human population 4 miles away. I always carry around this image of entering into a limitless time-span of enlightened self-entertainment, made possible those few limited times it actually has occurred.
Today, however, I am clearly not as able to put one moment in front of another within a self-contained state. Earlier in history, when options were fewer, life must have been more "interesting", not less so, because those influences that managed to make it to a person's attention had far less competition. Now, the world is full of a great many jumbled, superposed signals, with a net result that is a fairly-good approximation of pure "noise". I can understand why people still look for their single channels of occupation and concern, for these act as natural filters. Does it pertain to what I "care about"? If not, it gets tuned out. My problem appears to be that I am monitoring raw output, intercepted on the sly, with the authors being as distant as the Soviets in the book from the perspective of a commander in a hard rock bunker.
"But no," I remind myself, "I do put in my 'time' among close contacts. What is it, then, that still makes me value this other time, in the great emptiness?" I may be "stuck" with a "pleasure center" that cannot receive signals any more gratifying than those I arrange and administer on my own. This would appear to be some unintended consequence of becoming too much of an expert on myself. The ones who "saw the light" when they were being taught their Golden Rule as kids picked up at once on the orientation that looks first to others and studies the outcome of one's actions with an emphasis upon empathy. I, on the other hand, cannot as easily project "myself" into the viewpoint of my "neighbor" because my sparse record of success causes me to lose interest before I can feel very much .
I climb to one of the higher positions in my internal "command center", looking over my vast and private array of mental resources. Various schemes occupy various components of attention, but without the authority to countermand the overall strategy. As the central figure among this complement, "I" could very well order this network of agent processes to re-align, to obey "better", more socially-oriented objectives. This whole machine has far too much momentum, however, and it is only executing the grim details of the latest doctrine to promise real and abiding peace. Avoiding interaction, then, appears to be pretty much all I have for now. The rest is a hard sell to the prevailing structure of long-established habit, which stands ever at the ready.
"Bo"
23 November 2000 -- An obligation towards gratitude
There was an obvious urgency to getting the fire going when I got up this morning, with temperatures outside that must have been below 20 degrees F. As the sun has made itself known and my "artificial" wood-burning heat source has done as it should, it has finally become warm enough beside the living room windows to leave myself uncovered, in ordinary clothing. Gazing outside, however, I have no illusions that the "real" winter weather has come. Everything looks ready to host a substantial snowfall, once the corresponding weather system is sent this way. The ground appears cold enough to make it "stick", since the frost on its low surfaces and the small puddles long frozen over have resisted the considerable radiant warming. Still remembering the chill of night, I make it a point to use the sun to my maximum advantage while morning lasts. I enjoy its incidence upon my face and upper torso as much as I can, as I also appreciate its true "greenhouse effect" upon the living room.
Though it is a bright scene inside the pine-panelled living space up here at the Cabin, the messages I've heard in real life from the media and elsewhere tell me to feel ashamed. It is Thanksgiving Day, a day as much for expressing "gratitude" as for being among noteworthy family and acquaintances. The powers that stand in my judgement are telling me something is wrong with preferring solitude; they accuse me of bearing false pride. "If only you knew, how frail is your place among your 'peers'," goes the sentence, "you would return at the earliest opportunity and offer homage and amends." I think to myself for a moment..."would I really want to know that?" I suppose it would do me some good to lower my view of who, what, and most importantly, how much, I am, for then I would be politically, morally and spiritually "correct".
There are problems with a blanket assumption of the prostrate pose, however. I am supposed to be grateful, after all, for what I do have. In this valuation, even "lowly" material possessions can be included, once they are weighted in accordance with their usefulness in the "proper" fight. When the overall sum is rendered, it will be a finite quantity of "blessings" for which I joyfully offer my gratitude, not a body of woe for which I desperately seek mercy. At this point, I wonder why I can't simply express my praise as I sit up here alone, in these woods. Why must I continually enter into 'community service' for my accrued merit to be the basis for a posture of justification? Nothing in the noun "thanks" or the verb "giving" suggest a joint effort, since the recipient is clearly resident in that transcendent realm I cannot escape, even if I wanted to.
I let the sun fall on the back of my head and shoulders as I sit on the sofa. I certainly feel bodily satisfaction, and I have demonstrated that there is a place for the worldly in the overall calculation of one's "acceptable" wealth. A great deal should be allowed in this liberal scheme of justice. Listening to the fire and occasionally glancing at its level of sufficiency behind the grating, I make an effort in earnest to present an acceptable, appropriate and comprehensive statement of my gratitude and indebtedness. I soon realize, however, that I did nothing in particular to deserve what is "mine", except to be who I should "properly" be. The assumption of obligation to my external benefactor(s) cannot be separated from my recognition of credit due. This is clearly not about "just me".
This could well explain my nagging guilt in hiding out. The minute I begin to see the extent of my "blessings", I am also made aware that I am dealing with the proceeds of a great many two-party transactions. Since I would not have much, if anything, on the asset column of my balance sheet without the others, it is eminently clear that I will always have liability in the other column along with my residual capital. Being alone in this clapboard-sided dwelling today, I can see that I am holding accounts payable to others, and in excess of my current revenue capacity. My specific shame, it would seem, is that I have broken the channel of any and all repayment. Though the others in their "love" may have given freely, without explicit terms for return, there are still transfers that are properly motivated and "acceptable" in the overall process of building one another through that great game of give and take, to quote the Motown lyrics.
The sun is now moving on towards its crossing of the meridian. I will soon need to find another place to be, and I am starting to accept that it should probably be back over the river and through the 4.1 miles of woods leading to State Highway 735. The gifts and their receipt must continue.
"Bo"
27 November 2000 -- A deliberate entry into darkness
It is growing dark already on this late afternoon of late autumn, as I prepare to head out of the village in the truck. The outdoor floodlights at the grocery store have duly responded to their photoelectric switches, assisting me in loading up my few cardboard boxes of supplies. I soon leave the surreal-yet-familiar spectrum of the sodium vapor tubes, giving the impending night a fresh chance to assert its idea of color. I cross the river on the culvert bridge, then make that immediate right turn into the apparent dead end that "concludes" with the swing gate that symbolically separates me from the others. This is the jumping-off point for my time spent in the inner reaches of my own mind, a terribly small place, really, in comparison to the thousands of acres my headlights can barely pierce as I continue on.
Undaunted in my resolve, I drive along up the slow incline of the river, keeping a sharp eye on what I can see of the road surface. I pass joltingly through the miles of close-in woods, catching an occasional glimpse of the darkened blue sky above. I am glad when I finally reach the clearing and the dooryard, where all is as I left it. I am specifically grateful that I no longer need to pay attention to the task of driving, though I still have to spend some time hauling in and stowing the supplies. I work carefully in the vanishingly-low amount of light that is left at the outset of a truly dark and moonless night, making it a point to get both the kitchen and living room kerosene lamps started up. I note how raw and "depleted" the cold air feels in the "side yard", a feeling that is nearly duplicated indoors except for the wind. In the low, flickering light of the lamps, I conduct the practiced routine of kindling the evening's fire, and light slowly begins to return to my overall surroundings.
It is another of those nights when the isolation made manifest by the stark and solidly-enfolding forest has left my mind in a strangely-cradled state of ambivalence. I am aware of all I could be doing if I were back in my city home right now, and it almost seems a shame to cut myself off from the acknowledged "fun" that happens my way every so often in that "connected" mode. At the same time, however, I know that I dare not let up on the ongoing work of sustaining the "sense of place" that I have had at the Cabin for 3-1/2 years now. The "place of rest"--who could possibly argue against that? Is there something "wrong" with my making it up as I go along? Would I have the same problems maintaining a comparable sanctuary in my real life home? For now, I seem to need this complete and extreme solution, one that does not allow for intruding compromise from without.
I walk to the darkened far corner of the living room to grab my sleeping bag, which I spread in front of the hearth. With my head buried in a pillow borrowed from the soft provisions of my bunk, I look towards the utter black of the front windows, knowing there is little I can do to change that aspect of the Cabin at night. I feel myself "settling in" as I remain planted at this secluded perch near the river's source. Still, I am left at something of a noticeable loss to carry on any real internal conversation, and it therefore feels rather "empty" up here tonight. Perhaps I would do well to put out the fire, shut off the lamps, and drive back to one of those motels I passed on the way out along State Highway 735. I could get the television back, at least.
With other options now exhausted, I begin to practice my relaxation techniques, which seem suited to this place of few distractions. I become aware of my weight, as compensated by the floor planks and Cabin frame as they hold it off the ground. "This is good," I tell myself, "for I hardly 'let go' so completely when I'm at my 'other' home". I almost feel true guilt in cutting the power to my motor response, as if there is as much reason to keep going as there is to take these occasional breaks. I am almost forced to the edge of palpable sorrow, when nothing completely fills the order except...nothing itself. I spend more quiet time in front of this fire, trying to find the control center inside my head that keeps setting all of these impossible standards and schedules. Sometimes I can lull it into complacency, and those are indeed the times when I can rest without restraint.
"Bo"