3 September 2000 -- A time for rest, not labor
Plenty of sun is finding its way through the wooden frame windows today,
bringing out the lustrous sheen of the varnished pine panelling that is
part of the rustic decor of the Cabin. It is warm enough to have
the windows open, only I have closed them as practice for the months ahead
when I will not have the option. The warmth I've thus created, ordinarily
something I'd be trying to escape in July or August, is an embracing source
of comfort on this official last weekend of "summer" in the world of civilized
leisure. Soon, my occupation here will no longer be that found in
a real "vacation property"; I'll instead be playing the role of a survival-minded
outdoorsman, the kind who accepts the wilderness as a whole.
Thinking ahead that way reminds me that I have to visit the fellow down
in the village who supplies the firewood for my woodshed. I'd think
if I were determined, I could easily find enough of what I need in "my"
woods right here, but then we'd be talking about hard work with a chainsaw
and hydraulic ram. It was never my intention in establishing the
Cabin that I spend many hours doing physical labor, since that was not
really at the heart of the dream. When I
think of what white collar work in the real world has done to me, I further
realize I couldn't do it, even if I wanted to. Grocery, fuel and
contractor services are a "concession" that "works" because these do not
require extensive quantities of my time and attention, resources I find
in chronically short supply in city living.
Observing my success today in "shedding load", I sit heavily on the
sofa reading one of my old WWII magazines. People sure had plenty
to do then, considering there was no television--even the simple
matter of living took a lot more thought than it does now.
Americans are depicted in the popular press of that time as happily joining
in to support the great Allied "cause", though I have also heard contemporary
stories of lesser harmony and compliance; of people holding back for their
own "selfish" gain. I think to the social and business structures
of the world we have nearly 60 years later and figure that I, too, have
most likely "missed" many opportunities to support the overarching principles
that define today's collective "struggle".
Thankfully, the press of the 00's is not charged with expressly vilifying
me as a traitorous and cowardly liability, one who consumes above and beyond
his needs but does not always contribute according to the minimum of his
ability. So long as the bills are paid, I seem to "get away with"
running off to my places of lightened expectation. I wonder, of course,
about the potential harm I might face from complacency, as I lean back
and prop up my bare feet on the coffee table. The propaganda we see
today contains a subtle-yet-discernible condemnation of the man who actually
enjoys endless hours of solitude. "Well, those messages are
not for me," I rationalize to myself. They're after the ones
who really would commit themselves to interminable periods of inactivity,
spans of time that would far exceed the length of a typical Sunday's schedule
of football on television.
I see that I am left today with another of those resonant messages from
my real life comrades, one I need to properly apply as my recommendation
for needed reforms and continued effort. Up here at altitude, I finally
decide that I won't let it bother me for now, since good old-fashioned
guilt will cause me to make good at my next scheduled return, on
5 September. Labor Day, after all, is a celebration of work to follow
at other times than the holiday itself. It is not as if formal,
institutionalized indictments and requirements are being levied against
my times of "escape". American life, as far as I can tell, is wonderfully
permissive in just how I hold my place and pull my weight, so long
as I do.
As this day moves on, I feel a renewed gratitude for the quantity of
time I am allowed to spend in places like this sun-dappled wooden room.
I doubt I'll ever shake the nagging "voice" inside that tells me I shouldn't
be this way. My labor during the hours I'm back in the office complex
certainly does have the implied endorsement of that disciplinary internal
authority, but it generally serves me better as a framework to highlight
these moments alone. A lack of socialization, perhaps, is at the
heart of my failure to be enriched by the positive effects of work itself.
I should really spend more time witnessing the results of what I
do, rather than chafing at the irritation of having to do it.
"Bo"
7 September 2000 -- Problems and their solution
It is a fine, bright day in the hollow, and the air is beginning to
acquire that crisp feeling one associates with autumn proper. The
leaves remain green, of course, but with the passing of the truly oppressive
mid-day heat, the imminence of the equinox is now easier to accept.
Sitting in the shade of the front porch, my impression of cooled-off weather
is even stronger, since it is solar radiance, not atmospheric ambience,
that makes the difference in the delivery of heat. The breeze that
I always associate with the change of seasons is present today, though
I wonder if I might notice such currents more because I know it
is "September".
As I fill my gaze with the stark yet warm-colored "decor" of stained
cedar siding, wood-plank porch flooring and vertical corner-timbers, I
am reminded of the primitive design that I have postulated in the presumption
that "simple is better". This environment has succeeded somewhat
in giving my mind a chance to rest from its many contorted maneuvers in
city living. The clearing, too, tends to be a marvellous absorbent
of my ever-wandering attention, with its endlessly-variable detail contained
within a single, unifying presence at the bottom of the surrounding hills.
I have such assortment as this before me, rather than the collection of
real-life woes that form their own coherent yet chaotic whole.
In this single, steady-state world of the Cabin, I can identify a useful
yet sporadic ability in real life, a "coping skill" that explains part
of my survival. Immersed in the city's fracas, I nevertheless let
myself be carried along by certain complex constructs that I have seen
hundreds of times, such as traffic. These I can usually assign to
one of the higher- (or lower-) order tracks of my thoughts, letting something
truly "interesting" take front and center. It is like an "immunity".
Though I might complain of being in "a rut", the predictability of those
repeated insults and affronts to my nervous, emotional and spiritual constitution
makes them easy enough to dismiss as harmless. Thus, the mindless
occupation is not so much a matter of identity as it is of functional quality
and equivalency.
Since I must concede that I can find a settled state in the midst
of a background of confusion, I begin dreaming of the day when such power
might be at my voluntary command. This would be to my advantage both
in the city and up here at the Cabin, since each place has its own brands
of seemingly-inescapable frustration. To the many who tell me not
to "let myself" be bothered, I would no longer have to say, "but it isn't
that simple". Because it is so sublime and desirable, the possession
of tolerant and passive accommodation on demand could very well be the
unmet goal of lifetime searches by various masters of the contemplative
arts, and not mine to know. I might be reaching the limits of my
dose of "human potential", since the tough parts are tough for a good reason.
It occurs to me that the onset of the colder seasons might not the best
time to be thinking about my limitations. I decide to get up from
the porch and go walk around for awhile out by the dooryard and the edge
of the taller grass. I have seen today that my visits to the woods
are filled with frequent questions that touch on a "deeper meaning", and
these can form their own source of irritating, distracting and ultimately
unsatisfactory diversion from the goals initially sought. The ideal
getaway might be one in which I can foist these knotty questions of few
apparent answers to one of the subordinate tracks, resting my delight instead
in the aesthetics and esoterica of the woodland. Those many chaotic
and errant doubts, paradoxes and mysteries are not unlike the vehicles
in my way, and can be safely avoided with a minimum quantity of applied
common sense.
I kick randomly at the various pieces of sharp gravel that appear before
my feet, with a mind that just won't go into a stable "cruising" state.
Today is not my "day". I therefore begin working on the other option
that so often "works" out here, the one that has a lesser utility in the
city because of the imposing insistence of its irritants. This is
where I start shutting down the processes of thought altogether, as a method
of curtailing the unruly and unpleasant manifestations that are so frequently
my unwelcome guest. While it remains a major question as to whether
I'm weakening myself by not keeping all systems running, I can see
the value of this form of "rest". I just might "wake up" from
this dormant state with the "right" kind of preoccupation; on the Kingdom
of God and his righteousness, and this will answer those "questions" on
a timely, need-to-know basis. It would seem to be time to turn things
over.
"Bo"
11 September 2000 -- A peaceful perception
I am enjoying this day of still-mild weather, as I stretch out in the
hammock I have installed between two of the pines in the grove behind the
woodshed. From this location, the steady-state roar of the river
below has taken the place of the traffic noise in my real life back yard.
The temperature is in the 70s F, making this expansive area as comfortable
as being "inside". I open my eyes to the sight of gently-waving pine
branches overhead and am reminded that I am under a different kind of "ceiling".
I jostle about to obtain a position looking to the left, where I see the
vermilion-and-brown buildings against the back-lighting of the clearing.
Planted as I am here, I cultivate the image of the steady-state, in
my resentment-filled revolt against that other world of constant change.
I am well-aware that my physical being is forcing its own changes upon
me, but that is not the same as being subjected to the arbitrary ministrations
of "superiors" back there in the city. Now there is a strange word;
"superiors", for one who lives in the nominally open American society.
I have heard axiomatic pronunciations that no one can be "best" in absolute
terms, yet I know there are some who exercise power over me in ways I must
follow, and they are, by this position of supremacy, "better" than me.
In this stand of evergreen, I suppose I get to call my own shots today.
Even the weather is leaving me alone, though I cannot say as much for the
insects. It is an academic exercise, of course, to picture a life
where time for relaxation really doesn't have an upper bound. Conventional
wisdom tells us that any person will eventually be driven in the direction
of insanity by such "deprivation", which then implies that it is the way
of the human to be controlled and (on occasion) to be a controller of others.
"Yes, yes, the social contract", I remember, "this is what underwrites
a person's being allowed to live and possibly even to prosper in the midst
of a multitude". All of this was worked out in the days of Sumer,
I should think, and the law has had a long time to be codified since then.
It does feel good, though, to settle my weight into this outdoor
bunk. I neither exert force nor have force applied against me, except
for the matter of being bodily kept from the bed of pine needles below.
Really, I could spend more time like this in my city life than I think,
when I take the time to observe just how it is that I'm being "coerced".
Built in to the typical human scheduling system is an extensive framework,
or matrix, of leisure time that can be every bit as restful as this time
under the canopy. The powers "above" find it their pleasure to relent
in this way, as though they know they are causing hardship and need
to make concessions wherever possible. It shouldn't be all that hard
to drift along through their hoops of attendance and allegiance, since
compensation is the due of a "free" working citizen.
I close my eyes during this momentary lapse, in the permanence of the
hollow. I ask myself how long I'll go on digging in my heels in resistance,
uttering vain statements of contempt that only leave me looking
contemptible. I am not at all convinced that I have the buoyancy
to float along on those well-intentioned currents of the enlightened ones
above me. It might well be that the concept of "gravity" does not
transfer into the spatial mechanics by which I have modelled my reality.
Such a lack of structure, however, is its own cause for panic and unrest,
since this legitimizes the random buffeting I must endure from the others
who are "in my way" (and I, in theirs). I'd suppose models per
se are not very appropriate when it comes to these matters; they are
as offensive to the human whole as idolatry is to God.
I listen to the river moving past, down the long course to the village
below. I am left at something of a loss, given my conclusion that
all of my pictures of what I'm up against are oversimplified graven images.
It is useful, I can see, to let my mind's eye be guided along by the countless
corrections, revisions, amendments and upgrades that the outside world
seeks to make to that picture. By being stretched out in these woods,
I am forced to throw the entire artifice to the ground as an unfaithful
mockery. The ones who participate in full, on the other hand, have
more accurate working representations, ones that are open to the many unseen
influences that bring them to life. I am awaiting the day when I
can fully endure hosting such an internal partner as a full-time resident.
"Bo"
15 September 2000 -- The cost of a free life
I am stretched out on the living room sofa today in one of my characteristic
Cabin "modes", watching the day wind down. There was good sun today,
and the crisp conditions of autumn should be here shortly. I will
have to take a walk in the woods when the leaves have started to pile up;
such a scene evokes vivid memories from my youth. The seasons seemed
to hit harder back then, and this was not merely from living four degrees
of latitude north of my current real life. Perhaps the inescapable
reality of changing weather reinforced the sense of known security that
arose from being "cared for" as someone's dependent-in-full.
I have noted in these recent years of caring entirely for myself that
it is no longer my spontaneous response to head outdoors in my off hours,
and this is with all of my talk about being a wilderness and backcountry
fan. There is something instead that settles me when I am solidly
planted at what is arguably the center of the Cabin world, this slipcovered,
overstuffed sofa. Such a disposition offers fewer degrees of freedom
and fewer opportunities for grievous error and avoidable suffering.
The proponents of self-determination, of course, will wonder how a man
could be so afflicted as to resent a central feature of life in a "democracy".
It must be nice to have so few critical tormentors that the great spirit
of "liberty" is more than enough compensation.
Still, when I stop to consider my motivations in being collapsed as
I am here this afternoon, I have to concede that I, too, cherish my freedom.
There is nothing like leaving the harsh mandates of city living behind,
for the purpose of driving up the 4.1-mile dirt road for another "campout".
I do lament the passing of those imagination-charged years before I turned
13, when I could easily sidestep my home life, entering into one my many
familiar places of whimsy. Today it takes a much more concerted effort
to "hold the ceiling up" out here in these woods, an effort that I have
to question at times. Why don't I just close up the shop here
and spend the time building a real-life "sacred place" in my suburban dwelling?
It is no longer a matter of plain old cost. This study is beginning
to look excessively elaborate.
I let my senses wander as they will through this wooden outpost, and
I become aware of what it is to have such sustained presence in a landscape
so remote. It is as if I am defying the arbiters of my disenfranchisement,
the ones whose actions came to result in a real life having the constraints
it does. The conservative corps down there beyond earshot would just
blame me for indulging in such rhetoric; their world is one where
if only I would do as they advocate, then I could be a "free" man
in their midst. Yes, I'd be happy and I'd know it. But what
kind of "freedom" is that, anyway? Am I to mask my greater suspicion
and nurse along the illusion that I have real sovereignty in my affairs,
as I faithfully occupy my slot and meet my quota?
If "independence" is false because of its requirement of compliance,
it sure has a way of looking genuine to the ones who swear by it.
I can only assume that there is a true and enriching presence in
their lives, something they must get from being solidly "attuned".
This is a paradox I've visited
before; the one that holds as equally sublime the two extremes of personal
liberty and fully integrated social membership. Though there is transcendent
propriety in "belonging", I have witnessed others who, like myself, resent
many of the limitations it places on their lives. But they do not
run away. They must have a proper recognition of opportunity cost
in their reasoning, if their collaboration offends them but they keep at
it nonetheless. The wise among these resolute have reinforced the
notion that pain is an authentic and human reality.
I suspect, however, that my maturity at this juncture is just too limited
to let me succeed by taking a heaping helping of mainstream misery.
A construct must be built around it first; something like the protective
framework that justified the pain of being young and directly supervised.
Since there are so many emancipated practitioners of this enlightened course
of woe, I have to assume that they have taken the place of parent,
guardian or despot state as moderator of their exposure. Rather than
being sent off under orders to attend to their duties, they pick their
own battles and design their own strategies. I am thinking back now
to the turmoil-laden cauldron I ran from this afternoon to come up here.
Within that setting of nominal worldly success should be a wondrous legacy
of valor in the harshness I have endured. I see now that absorbing
these blows is a gentlemanly art in itself, just like the art of independence.
Perhaps these are two views of the same higher truth.
"Bo"
19 September 2000 -- Descent into darkness
It has certainly been cool outside today, though not yet to the
point of being truly cold. The sky has been clouded over,
removing the sun's compensating presence and making for a day when there
seems little point to walking idly about in the open. A stiff breeze
moves along as I bring in wood for the fireplace and stove, the kind of
breeze that feels like it should have fallen leaves blowing in it.
It's still a bit early for that; the colors have only started to change.
Inside the woodshed there is a somber, serious sort of atmosphere, the
kind one would expect in the later season when the first snow arrives.
From the little light there is, I select enough pieces of seasoned oak
and maple for a single trip. This last bundle ought to be enough
to stock the box next to the hearth for awhile.
I walk with some determination across the gloom that has replaced the
heat and humidity of summer, noting how much the grey sky looks ready for
rain. It will be an evening for sitting tight and holing up, fine
practice for the days to come when I won't have as much of a choice.
I grab the handle of the screen door as best I can with my load and push
open the 2 inch thick solid wood entrance door. After dropping the
firewood on the top of the pile, I hasten to close up the room against
"the elements" and begin work on a small but sufficient fire on andirons
that have been generally dormant for several months. I swing the
creaking damper open and soon have a real source of heat. Being rather
tired from the happenings of my real life, I go to grab my sleeping bag
and stretch myself out in front of the flames.
I tell myself that I "should" find something with truly "memorable"
merits to occupy myself on this visit, and being passively planted on the
floor does not look very promising in that regard. It could well
be, of course, that this passage into autumn was never supposed to have
much of that--summer was when I should have done all of what needs doing
in the midst of life's full abundance. It is growing dark early this
evening, since the sun has been attenuated, and I become aware of how dim
the far reaches of the sleeping area and kitchen have become. I will
soon have to light the main kerosene lamps responsible for each of those
wings of the Cabin. I'd think I could do some reading tonight, an
activity that has become sorely neglected in my electronically-connected
city life, if only I knew just what to pick up. I am clearly
being called upon to embark on imaginative, "growth"-filled endeavors,
only nothing stands out as a starting point.
Perhaps I am seeing some of my ultimate fate, should I continue to insist
on playing it safe and avoiding all but the most necessary of challenges
and change. My strategy of laying low could well be appropriate only
in situations of acute crisis, and I know my life is not that
bad. If I did not spend so much time on the defensive, I'm sure I
could roll along with a "healthier" dose of the mainstream passing through
me. My increasingly-frequent "failures" to achieve a rapturous state
of high adventure up here at altitude have become a sign I need to observe
carefully.
I wonder sometimes if I am pushing myself into a dangerously vicious
circle by being critical of my indecision on these visits. When the
"alternative" begins to look as bad as the "problem" of the loud, rumbling,
shouting, screeching irritations of northern Virginia, then I could be
in for a future of evened-out misery. I need to remind myself this
evening that I will have plenty of time during which my membership in the
collective will be compulsory. Even if I spent the whole night vegetating
in front of this fire, it will look like I did something worthwhile, once
I'm being made to move along again in my well-worn track.
The rain finally has started outside, with the hastened nightfall
fully upon the hollow. I attempt to cultivate the sense of being
cozily ensconced in a curiously-benign dwelling place, one that does not
have the frantic motion of the others all around. I know I shall
soon need to restore circulation to my socially-conditioned mind and soul,
for that is how I keep from truly falling into a bottomless hole
of despair. I have to wonder about tonight's residual regret--is
it just the leftover "ringing" of the chaos as I left it, or am I so isolated
that the little I do pick up from the great "source" is soon bled away,
leaving me to feel empty and apathetic? Even more curious is that
the two possibilities should feel exactly the same, thus leaving me with
such a dilemma as to what is best to do.
"Bo"
23 September 2000 -- More time spent on my own
The colors have indeed started changing as of this visit, and with the
passing of the Equinox, I might finally be capable of accepting the reality
of the coming colder months through March 2001. True to the spirit
of autumn, this is one of those days "in between" the two extremes, where
the dynamics of change are nearly as strong as in April. Still, I
am not particularly drawn to the "rituals" of this season, such as NFL
football, Halloween, Oktoberfest or even the upcoming US Election.
My principal methods of passing time have become eerily independent of
the prevailing part of the year, as if I would want any month to be interchangeable
with any other month.
The pursuit of uniformity throughout the year is something I know in
my heart to be self-defeating, since it leads to a gradual deadening of
my appreciation of diversity in general. Since the separation of
light and darkness is one of those great and primeval "creations", my denial
of the inevitability of change might look to be an irreverent attempt to
be the "creator" of my own outcomes, a form of micromanagement to which
I have never explicitly aspired. Perhaps I am failing to draw the
critical distinction between cyclical and long-term cumulative change.
Those of true enlightenment do not shun the experience of winter's approach,
for they have the fuller picture of all that is, seen and unseen, to borrow
the words of the Nicene Creed.
Maybe my focus today should not be upon the substance of what
I deny but upon the very notion of denial itself. The practice has
a terrible reputation in the circles of pop psychology, but few of the
support group types would deny that certain matters are to be opposed and
not accepted. Invariably, the procedural protocol of denial is amended
to include exceptions, as governed by external authority, higher power,
or some other form of inspiration that seeks help from outside of one's
self. Often this guidance appears to be little more than the collective
consensus of the overall group, as a person has come to understand it through
diligent inquiry. In this system of ascendency, anything that has
universal applicability and support is safe as a foundation for one's deliberations,
while the erratic and spurious wanderings of the few are not to be considered
trustworthy.
From the extent of my own wanderings, I can see that mine is
in many ways a minority view. I should therefore scrap the carefully-built
infrastructure of my predictable life as ultimately unsound, borrowing
instead from more "proven" standards. All these attempts at self-reconciliation
through the written word are most likely being dissipated to insignificance
in regions of thought as sparse and desolate as these woods. I am
well aware that there have been many historical figures who have been productively
occupied during their solitude in the wilderness, only their departures
tend to have been at the behest of superior authorities, and not a spiteful
desire to go off and hide.
My thoughts today are not as focused as I would like them to be, which
could be a sign in itself that I "should" be participating in more "acceptable"
pursuits on this autumn Saturday. When I draw such a blank in attempting
to graft myself on to the great social celebrations, I am left to conclude
that the entirety of my life has been misguided, on account of my bad habit
of stepping out when the stepping is good. Though my system of self-support
and -entertainment is a cherished asset in my struggles to keep going through
the strange and densely-populated land of the many, it must, of necessity,
run down and need emergency intervention from the outside from time to
time.
It is a wonderful feeling, even if it is ultimately "selfish", when
my cantankerous schemes do succeed in letting me have "inner peace".
The feeling is not swept away at once by the overwhelming currents of the
orthodoxy. I know I'm not doing much, however, if I do not transform
these internal triumphs into some form of bona fide "contribution"
to the common cause of "proper" behavior and belief. Beholding that
larger picture could be a satisfaction I have yet to realize because I
have only seen random samples of it in those times I've decided
to uncover my eyes and look. The others have the benefit of never
being critically "bored" by waiting out each event until its own time and
its own pre-conditions are met. I resist the temptation to criticize
my Creator for making me impatient, since I have also been made to question
certain personal shortcomings that the others would write off as inevitable.
"Bo"
27 September 2000 -- An impression, warm and bright
On this crisp, bright morning, I build a minimal fire in the stove and
get started on a day in which I feel strangely "renewed", a word one does
not typically associate with autumn. It is cold outside and my breath
is visible as I step momentarily out the back door in my fleecewear outfit.
The trees are building some fine color now, though the prime tourist season
for that attraction in these parts is at least a couple weeks off.
I listen to the river down below in the ravine, with its continuity of
sound causing me to stand a bit longer than I had intended out here.
I suspect the flames in the cast iron firebox are now developed enough
to put on the coffee pot. The air this morning is such that the wonderful
wood smoke aroma hangs all about, a smell that is hard not to associate
with the "outdoors".
With the mental image of a sun-dappled "back yard" as a continuation
of the bright scene outside the kitchen window, I approach the stove and
get the coffee going. There is little sense that this is a cold
day with such an overwhelming heat source moving along. The smoke
smell is faintly present indoors as well, raising certain concerns that
I could be accumulating carbon monoxide. The chimney draws pretty
well for both the stove and the fireplace, however, and there is a non-negligible
flow of air through the window and door frames. This, of course,
is the source of those pervasive drafts in the truly cold months, and an
urban homeowner would have "done something" about it.
It is interesting that I should be so concerned about the "physical
plant" up here, with its variety of heating and ventilation issues.
I should ideally be developing a story of the wonders of those woods outside.
I suppose I like the notion of having "essential" matters covered, even
in a daydream. I thus find myself torn between a desire for realistic
sensations and a reaction against the annoying complications that go with
anything "real". I hear the sound begin to rise in the coffee pot
and remove it from the stove-lid, pouring a generous serving into my stoneware
mug. I take the first sip and imagine this to be the flavor the cowboys
knew from the back of a cook-wagon, as I take a seat at the kitchen table.
I glance across to the living room and the high cross-vaulting of its
open-timbered ceiling, noting the firm presence of the sun in the front
windows. It no longer needs to compete with haze on its way over
the top of the ridge. I eventually make my way to that side of the
Cabin, taking a seat in the fullness of the solar load as I continue working
on my mug. I am indeed warming up for the day, and by the time local
noon arrives, I shouldn't even need a fire. In the summer, I'd have
opened the windows by now to listen to the crickets and breathe in some
of that fine earth-aroma, only I know those days to be past. A new
time has begun, and I cannot deny it.
I remember this as the season of great "beginnings" in my school years,
since the student by definition needs to keep on breaking what is for him
new ground. Though it is popular to posit the concept of "lifelong
learning", my actual pattern of casual acquisition and incidental discovery
is lacking such a centrally-defining "mission" or "theme". It is
no longer my principal objective to expand my perimeters to greater inclusion--the
goal has instead become to build an enclosure around what is already there
and defend against the inevitable decline. When I recall the "reality"
of this somber outlook, my spirits are naturally dampened, and I work to
restore the basic impression of bright splendor that has given such a sense
of wonder to this morning at altitude.
Though I have come close this morning to one of those great moments
when all is open and spread before me for independent review and adjustment,
I still maintain a small center of reservation to my optimism. As
a man of logic, I refuse to assign this single "reality" a dual, self-negating
identity. It is either good or it isn't, and not both at the same
time. I finally decide that I can afford to absorb some more of this
wonderful solar heat, as I finish the last of my coffee. This is
the harder enthusiasm for me to maintain, after all, and there will be
plenty of other time to busy myself with making ready. Yes, this
sun certainly feels good.
"Bo"
Ahead to October 2000
