5 February 2001 -- A unified yet diverse progression
The last of this day's light is proceeding on its path towards the back
ridge, with another of those cold winter nights arriving over the high
front ridge. I finish my activities related to the outhouse and woodshed,
then cinch up my parka as I head for the known quantity of my fire and
shelter. With the kerosene lamps still unlit, the flames fill the
central living area with a sparse yet reassuring glow, and until I warm
back up, I'll take my seat in the armchair immediately nearby. I
find it easier to live with this little light when there is so little,
really, to concern myself with inside. I suppose I might end up wondering
"what to do" a little later on, but my mind is holding its own right now
with nothing more than the captivating "life" in progress behind the iron
grating.
The heat plies its firm course over, into and through my finally-settled
body, with the crackles and pops making this a "multimedia" experience
all its own. The quiet that prevails otherwise is something I can
take hold of as if it had shape and mass. I keep expecting to hear
vehicles outside or aircraft passing overhead to a nearby landing, and
I must remind myself of the change of circumstance that I've completed
in coming here. I really will have to light at least one of
the two main lamps before long, though I hate to think I'm being possessed
by some form of "restlessness". That gets me in enough trouble during
my real life days in the city. I would have the light so as to avoid
stubbing my toe or kicking something over as I go about the last affairs
of the day, or so goes the reasoning. There is always something
to be attending to, so long as I bear any resemblance, real or virtual,
to a human being.
Sitting unoccupied in this plush chair in what is really a quite dark
room is still an effort, at least to the extent that I have to work
a little harder at developing a convincing set of surroundings when it's
all make-believe. Realism, indeed, is the sterling goal in this "enterprise",
for the original Cabin in the dream was notable
for its faithfulness to a secluded country hideaway. I turn to look
behind myself, to see just what I can say about the far reaches of the
sleeping area. Without bright light, it takes on a somber, single
hue, one that is modulated in response to the variations in the fire.
My own shadow is thrown into combination with the cumulative shadow that
always results when light is at a premium. The bed, sofa and dresser
are there, as are the lampstand and the coffee table. There is not
a lot to put in words about this construct, and it seems that words
are indeed what this situation calls for. If I sit in total
silence, the narrative must draw to a halt.
With so little detail, the evening here ought to stretch out for quite
some time, unlike its suburban counterpart, the one that ends almost as
soon as it starts. The two different paces of my Cabin and real life
"homes" often "get in each other's way", since time taken from the one
is lost to the other. I have to wonder how large a space I can really
keep afloat in each location. True "simplicity" would have me chuck
all of this assorted foolish dreaming, but then the call to ultimate "authenticity"
says that dreaming is essential. I can probably blame this mess upon
lining up too many habitual time traps in real life, chief among these
being that dreaded-but-cherished home theatre rig. Encapsulation
in all of those transduced "signals" can do as much and more than any evening
with just an ordinary fire.
I am made to ponder what it is about me that always needs to have something
"working", either by me or on me. There is a grand and collective
satisfaction to a life that is populated with assorted long-term project-threads,
and the textile metaphor would call this a "fabric". From many diverse
and chaotic endeavors, a unifying central "plan" makes the whole sequence
take shape and provide substance. One day, perhaps, all of these
diverse experiences, from the most contrived to the most inspired, might
"make sense". Christian teaching, when faced with this question,
would have me spit out the stock answers from the Catechism:
Seek first the Kingdom, yes, and all else will follow. The makings of my
life are certainly a nebulous and rotating system at present, something
of a "blob". I can see, however, that the overall entity is not flying
off on its own accord. The center looks strong, and I probably shouldn't
worry about the details. My own free will, even, is folded into this
package. I will have to be up to light the lamp soon, however.
Darkness grows old like everything else.
"Bo"
9 February 2001 -- A necessarily lesser day
My world about me here in the hollow today is colored by the latest
of my real-life head colds, if indeed the net effect could be called "coloring".
I suppose I could dismiss the situation altogether, since this is an idealized
place of lesser pain, but that would soon require me to begin negating
large other portions of unpleasantry. Soon, I could not call myself
"me". Tucked under my down comforter and with a basic fire in the
hearth, I am hoping to slip by, passing through some time without "being
noticed" by the assortment of woes that come to call when I am sufficiently
"exposed". I am aware of the school of thought that sees a necessary
"hardening" in times that are not fully to my liking, but I am amazed at
how often I can "duck" this toughening exercise and still get along in
what is for me a "grand" style.
I must admit, however, that there are nefarious forces at large,
even in a "protected" life, that will have their way with me. At
such instances, I should ride along with what's happening, instead of resisting.
This resembles properly "going with the flow", except for the humiliation
of submission. Up here in the woods, it does not seem that I'm being
much of a "non-assertive coward" or "doormat" for adopting such a stance,
but then maybe I simply do not have enough of a sense of what I really
look like on a day-to-day basis, being stuck as I am on the inside.
Also, I cannot honestly believe that the ones who advocate fighting in
all things are seriously advocating certain confrontations.
Moreover, when I fully analyze my responses, I can observe that I am one
who likes to be "prepared", taking care of many problems that aren't even
"problems" as soon as they appear.
Even if I could claim "tip-top" condition, however, it would not be
the best of days for enjoying the outdoors, which are a soggy, partially-molten
mess in temperatures near 45 degrees F. With this course of my all-too-human
events presenting challenges beyond sustained mortal capability, both from
external and "internal" weather, I am left with a subset of my "ordinary"
open responses and feasible practices. This is with my typical imperative
of seeking "justification" through an effort of my own will.
In the time I have left to "make something" out of the incalculable gift
of life per se, I want this day, too, to "count". There can
be no gaps, for they will end up as flaws in the final reckoning and report.
I suppose I'm buying into the fallacy of having "unlimited" powers at my
disposal, as in the proposition of those seminar pitchmen. It just
isn't that simple.
It occurs to me that being placed in this compromised position might
make my attempts at "rationalizing" the counterintuitive absurdities of
my life, and indeed of any life, one of those goals I just won't
achieve today. I let my head rest heavily on the pillows and stare
vacantly out the rear window, at the trees that are still bare and the
sky that still presents its clouded gloom. This, some would say,
is its own form of affirmative and assertive living, since I am making
what I can of what I have. Though the ideal is to have life and have
it abundantly, there is no denying that this, too, is life--and that this,
too, shall pass. I am somewhat dismayed to think that I could
be so enveloped in temporary "woe" that I would give up and seek the terms
of a negotiated "peace" with the proceeds of the flesh.
Some of my current trouble with knowing how to think and what initiatives
to take probably arises from too many unreasonable expectations in the
first place. Life and its cumulative content do indeed have "what
it takes", and without the flailing about that I associate with the notion
of "accomplishment". Keeping myself aware of the ultimate "prize
of the high calling" is clearly a prescription for behavior outside of
myself. It is only reality in the collective that will "outlive"
me. Thus I witness another of those spiritual paradoxes, and I'm
too tired to do any work today unraveling it: I become the most as
my own person when I think of that which is not me.
Well, I can look ahead and beyond to the brighter, finer days
that should still be in my space of probability. It does not matter
that I do not have the usual clearer picture of what's going on, for even
that is one of those dull images in an ill-silvered mirror.
The imagery of Paul does well here, it would seem. An "interesting"
output is the evident final product of large quantities of elation tempered
by "thorns" occupying strategic stations. It is not a simple "balancing
act" by any means. Self-imposed complexity appears to be graven "idolatry"
here, and I am once again aware that its grotesque mis-shape does little
to resemble the strange-but-"correct" package that is instead "a life".
"Bo"
13 February 2001 -- A brief visit to the same old
place
The sun has made itself well-known in the hollow today, as befits its
predictable status of returning for another season. The sky is generally
the same color of blue that I might have used to paint a scene of snowed-in
"desolation" in December or January, but with "spring" only a month away,
it has lost its ability to play such a serious role. Really, I'd
like to suit up and tromp around out in the clearing in my heavy boots,
investigating the status of the building buds and the flow of the still-icy
river down in the ravine, only I do not want to get sweated-up from that
much time in my parka. With a sizable load of sunlight arriving through
the front window, I have fortunately found that I can "sustain myself"
well enough to pass the time of day, just by noting the small things here
inside.
This mode of consciousness is one of those extensions of the "senses"
that I often find lacking in day-to-day life, even with the same set of
facts and ambient conditions. I'm looking now, for example, at the
incredible richness and diversity of the simple color brown, in
the wood of the floor, the maple dresser, the pine panelling, and it "speaks"
of a fine and varied splendor. Though some could call such vividness
a "hallucination", I'll take all I can get. Doing nothing more than
sitting and observing, I am "entertained" by this cast of inanimate objects
playing their "parts" in the comic, or perhaps ironic, tableau of this
living area. These things are established and here, as per the ongoing
story, and I cultivate the fantasy of having entered upon the strange newness
of a familiar scene when considered from a new viewpoint.
I can easily verify that none of the surrounding articles are actually
moving or speaking, yet the simple presence and sensory outreach of these
sunlit forms is enough to initiate connectivity in my higher faculties,
and a detailed-yet-internal personal interpretation. It is sad, of
course, that these fine models erode like anything else in my constantly-moving
mind, and my inability to see them those other times makes a strong
case against continuing to value "possessions" that can assume so many
appearances and consequences. I have also noted that I am rarely
close to what I'd call "being there"; at the final state of open-ended
contentment. Indeed, it is a cruel joke when it looks like
it has arrived, only to be closed off again, as if by a heavy passageway
door in one of those thriller or sci-fi movies. The question is always
whether I'll get out in time, before my lines of communication are severed
with the remainder of my self.
The warmer seasons are arriving, though, and I don't have to
manipulate any complicated and indirect controls for that. I realize
how "liable" I make myself when I attempt to ride such subtle trends so
demanding of tolerance and patience, but then there isn't much else that
will produce such an authentic and complete "effect" when it chooses to
"work". I can tell that it is more in my interest to develop my power
to work with whatever is before me, this being the more adaptable
faculty that will accommodate all media. A worthwhile process
of perception, however, is certain to have some dependence upon
self-defined contextual constructs, for that is all I can influence with
my "will", and no one has told me to "give up". There has
to be some "formula" that I've been denied (or failed to have "discovered"),
the one that will install the proper organics of flowing and harmonious
thought. Am I to consider myself accursed for not having achieved
such a goal? Is partial occupancy enough? To ask the cinematic
question, is this "as good as it gets?"
Well, I know that when I begin asking so many questions I have clearly
run low on bona fide "answers". The sunlight continues to
hold firm on the floor and the coffee table, and I can still see some
of the former brilliance and "meaning" of my furnishings as individually-hued
entities of this rustic decor. I should simply be grateful that I
am given the chances I do get; to see some of what makes
for a "real" life. I continue to sit heavily on the sofa, knowing
that the "model" has moved on inside my head. Perhaps it isn't so
much a matter of steady motion as it is of finally coming to rest.
Perhaps it is a matter of both. A functional definition, though possibly
lacking a neat, closed-form description, still only associates one
state of mind with one state of being. This, then, is my "identity",
wherever it may "go".
"Bo"
16 February 2001 -- Further success in my concealment
I wake to the arrival of the diminished light of an overcast day, and
when I finally get myself out of the sack to look out the front window,
I can see that several inches of snow have fallen. The main part
of the precipitation is still happening, with large, heavy-looking flakes
that continue to round out the already-soft shapes that are based upon
the underlying contour of the clearing. Cold has certainly made a
return, as is its "right", after all, in the middle of February.
I sit in the darkness of the living room, knowing that I will only last
so long in fleecewear topped by a GI poncho liner, and my predominant sensation
is one of being "buried" by this turn in the weather. Though I've
known many of these reactions to the outdoors to be exaggerated, romanticized
or distorted "opinions", and not objective summaries to build a plan upon,
their vivid presentations are more than I care to question, especially
when I'm just out of bed.
There is a "steady state" to the look of this snowstorm that gives every
suggestion of a real dumping. I decide that I will remain here, in
the snow-hushed and sealed-off "silence" of this dwelling for the duration
of the snow, so I rise to light the kerosene lamps and begin work on the
fires in the stove and the hearth. When I finally have to go outside,
I will likely require a firm source of heat for drying out my boots, gloves
and other similar garments. I can feel a stiff burst of cold enter
through the chimney when I open the damper, and this impression of the
fireplace remains with me until the kindling has begun its work on the
larger pieces of oak that I have arranged upon the grating. Still
feeling rather tired, though it is now well into the morning, I grab my
sleeping bag from the corner and stretch out before the maturing flames.
Though it is remarkably dark outside for this time of day, the
two lanterns and the fire do little to alter the overall snowy uniformity
enclosing the Cabin compound. There are the miles of woods, the acres
of clearing, the tall stands of pine in the grove near the end of the 4.1-mile
road, but only these few buildings, making the minimum intrusion necessary
for a man to live for a protracted period in winter as formidable as this.
I suspect I would find the clearing to be rather lonely this morning,
if I were out on my snowshoes, looking about. The Cabin would not
rescue the scene from that feeling. There really is no "business"
here to capture and involve my attention, and were this the typical summer
home in the mountains, put into storage until April or May, little would
be lost during this time of "hibernation".
I turn from my bedding-place on the floor and watch the occasional load
of snow break free from the edge of the eaves, while the combination of
snowfall and clouded gloom makes it hard to see much more than the first
50 yards or so into the open. The environment thus before me is notable
for its not being notable. I have that sense of defiant and
indulgent "disobedience" in being here, since my prescribed station in
real life is in those quarters having their ongoing stimulating content
piped in and presented in "living color". No one questions that February
is one of those prime locations for "business" activity, and being in the
midst of this storm has me charged with that vicarious pleasure of doing
what the "normal" do not think is the "proper" use of a socialized person's
time.
I am not sure just how I came to delight in this undeniably intentional
"disobedience"; this running off to seclusion. Am I really
so opposed to those "good intentions" upon which my real life is predicated?
People are very much in earnest when they decide an activity is "fitting",
and I have been a champion of personal "authenticity" from the beginning.
When I examine my motives, I see a man who is not willing to latch on to
a predefined program unless it has the ring of true enrichment. I
hardly choose many of the offerings, however, that are expressly designed
for this purpose--no, I consume as much "fluff" back there in town as anyone.
This may simply be the mode by which a "shy" man achieves his cover--by
"disappearing" into a bland, repetitive background that conceals him well,
and does not prompt any outpourings that could form his embarassment and
final rejection. I am still tired, I realize, and I roll over to
bury my face in the nylon covering of my sleeping bag. This is where
I'll be.
"Bo"
20 February 2001 -- Accomplishment in the silence
With temperatures getting back to near 40 F, the snow has become heavy
and wet today. As I return from a trip along the shovelled-out path
from the outhouse to the front porch, I can see that the open ground is
in the process of "winning", where it was once overcome by drifts and casually-piled
accumulation. I am aware that I am making an incredibly muddy mess
of my feet as I hit the deepening puddles in those places where soil has
the majority over rocks, and since it is warmer, I am not in the
usual, cold-conscious hurry to be back inside. I stop for a moment
to look around at this wide and rugged landscape, emerging as it is for
the 2001 season, and the sun appears from behind a cloud as if to aid me
in the process. I consume what I can of the relative novelty of being
outdoors in the "winter", then move on, to deposit my boots at their
designated position inside the front door.
I know I should be spending more time taking in the scenery as
I just did, rather than spending seemingly-"pointless" hours in front of
the fire, on my bunk, or crashed on the sofa. Yes, that is always
the resentment, when I'm forced back into the strictures and near-collisions
of walking about in city life. But then this is my idea of
indulgent solitude, and I am not one to argue for more to do that
takes an "effort". Though there had been a slight breeze to hear
outside, along with the ever-present hushed roar of the river below, I
am left in an unobtrusive and passive silence as I find my "place" in the
muslin slipcover of the sofa. I can certainly entertain the thought
of the grand hillsides and ridges, and even the peaks and rock outcroppings,
that make up the whole of the hollow, only this is all too easy to "let
slide", since it has so little "for me to do" as a participant in its reality.
I can see that I am being pushed into that unfortunate little corner
of wondering what I should really "be doing". To deposit myself here
like a lump is arguably a form of "warehousing", something no social planner
wishes to be caught doing. I find myself needing to justify
this use of precious time, as though I will one day be made to show what
I had done with the valuables left in my care. But then, just being
aware of what I've made of what I've been given can seem like quite the
reason for an assured state of ease during these quiet moments of "reflection"
and "assessment". So many loose ends can be tied down when I get
to this point, and the overall structure and integrity of my life's corpus
is made all the more firm. When I do not expose myself to aggravating
stimuli in the forward pursuit of my "civilized" goals, I can see a worthwhile
process taking place in simply "doing no harm".
This, I should think, is a fine definition of what it is to be certifiably
"alive"--when "laying my burden down" still lets useful work get done.
I doubt I'll discover many ways to relieve the inherent discord that comes
from day-to-day "business", so I am encouraged when I see in this near-"lifelessness"
a true work in progress. There have to be people who have this unity
of feeling when there is more on their agenda, but then I can't trade places,
despite the popularity of this theme in literature and the movies.
No, I just have to be here and be myself. I look back on 4 decades
of struggle and discover gratitude, actually enough, in not
having had the opportunity to wander outside of this one pair of eyes.
I should not question, therefore, what look like times of "inexcusable"
idleness, for I am keeping the thread going, to be viewed from another
context within the same life.
Nothing has really gone that far awry, I remind myself, as I
turn to bury my face in the upholstery as I have so many times before.
I can take pride, and I hope not of the "false" variety, in having kept
the process under such watchful regulation. Even here, in the middle
of thousands of empty acres, there are thoughts and notions I simply won't
let myself have; they are not part of my internal lexicon. As
the deer, rabbits and squirrel maintain their integrity in an admittedly
"simplified" and instinctually-governed "routine" in the surrounding woods,
I, too have yet to fail completely in my appointed station. Of course,
it is the height of vanity to go around saying such things openly,
as if the example of my life were not apparent at those times I choose
to live it among the others. It does not need to be said,
actually enough, for the substance that underlies it when it is true can
serve as its own focus of personal conversation.
The process continues along, and I am still involved. This, indeed,
will be my "activity" this afternoon.
"Bo"
24 February 2001 -- Appreciation of an insulated
space
Since the arrival of colder conditions two days ago, the snow cover
in the hollow has been frozen in place, forming an crunchy, ice-laden layer.
With no new accumulation to blow about, the bright sun portrays a static
scene, rather than one that emphasizes the presence of the wind.
I can see, in the trees nearest the front window, that there is
in fact a fairly stiff breeze today, one I would not brave without a complete
set of outerwear. Being out there is like submitting one's self to
a rigid, gripping lattice of bitter cold, and true "freedom" only begins
when the heavy wooden plank doors are securely barred in defense of this
small whiff of sustained and tolerable warmth. Indoors, the sun has
a chance to create an atmosphere of reassurance as it enters through the
frost-edged panes, rather than being the party responsible for one's full
visibility in the eyes of an "Old-yet-still-capable Man Winter".
With nothing truly feasible "to do" outdoors, I therefore live out the
time I have today, seated on the sofa. The brilliant sunlight at
this time of the morning would make for good reading, if I didn't do so
much of that at work already. I do suppose I should
"get around to" some of those standard great books, the ones that the liberal
arts students devour in habitual quantities before the "real world" has
a chance to catch up with them. Always to my tantalizing annoyance
is the thought that I could be walking right now on a "higher plane", using
the kind of "conclusions" I struggle to reach today as the already-settled
building-block premises of what the better-socialized accept as "original
thought". Thinking back to the days of my own predicament as a student,
however, I know I didn't dabble in the "humanities" for good reason--the
process of my "enlightenment" never had what it needed to bring it all
to "life".
I guess I'm just looking for the wondrous captivity of sedate oblivion
to arrive on my scene once again. This often ends up in sleep, with
its attendant feeling of being "hung over" when the break is through, but
I'll take it anyway. I know I'm just "frittering away" what I have
for a reasonably healthy late young-adult life, but then I'm ignorant in
those finer fineries, as a barbarian who relaxes at length in his carved
out space "inside the gate". I turn to assume my classic pose of
being stretched out on the sofa, where my mind can frequently take advantage
of its "lesser" development and be at ease. On this particular visit,
however, I find myself fighting to avoid entry to a vicious downward spiral
of "analysis", the occupational risk of the specialist in technology.
"No, it's not 'like that'," I have to tell myself, when some
imperfect analogy from simplistic linear reasoning suggests its applicability
to the present set of my emotional "parameters".
I could well "plug in" to the limited store of real human
wisdom that I have had to swallow in the interest of being acceptably "rounded"
in school and worship. Let's see here--the way it goes, I'm not supposed
to fall victim to the temptation to oversimplify, for that only leads to
suffering and misery. Anyone who claims to know, of course, has immediately
made a declaration of ignorance, for it's always "more than just that".
Humility, yes, is the order of the day--to be so low that all flows spontaneously
in from the outside. But then, I'm alone today, and I don't
really care to pick up what might well be the "wrong" text from my limited
bookshelf to initiate such an influx. I am encapsulated and separate,
like Bowie's "Major Tom", "sitting in a tin can, far above the world",
and I dare not break radio silence.
I realize, in a sort of disgust, that I'm "doing it wrong", if my original
goal was to enter squarely into a self-sustaining place in the pleasantry,
cut off from my cares and woes. My interface to those connections
with the others is still actively seeking traffic, despite being overloaded
most of the time in city life. I can see my small core quantity of
self assurance draining away and damping out, since it has lost its connection
to a sustaining "source". My lack of continued exchange with the
external bodies of studied opinion has predisposed me to a reduced sense
of self, though to say that this is "being humble" is wrong, for the better
man does not presume to know anything for sure about who, what or
where he is. Maybe I should pick up a book--any book--and
remind myself of the high stature of the true opinion leaders that
have gone before me.
"Bo"
28 February 2001 -- Facing a temporary temptation
There is a certain quantity of gloom in this last day of "meteorological
winter", with the overcast sky affecting me as it predictably does.
The snow outside is not the powdery white that builds wonder as it first
begins to arrive prior to Christmas. This "water substance" is instead
grubby and tired-looking, as if it were crying out for something warmer
than this morning's 35 degrees F so that it could be melted out of its
misery. I look out the front window and can once again discern the
stones of the fire ring, where I have spent many a summer evening under
the stars while the flame continued on. That area, obviously, is
in the holding pattern of this "off season", though the fireplace keeps
the memory from being lost completely. I would think that the first
of the spring songbirds should be on their way, though this is something
predicted more by my ownership of a calendar than by direct experience.
No, it's "still winter".
I am left, therefore, with an overall impression of a settled and unremarkable
semi-frozen world in the hollow, one that does little to inspire the kind
of "great thoughts" I might otherwise call a "natural" consequence of being
at the Cabin. I have never really had any objections to the
quiet and inconspicuous setting of this personal and placid "place" of
mine. It's just that it is hard sometimes to be so deeply enmeshed
in a scene that has even less of a sense of "direction" or "purpose"
than the real life that is my typical cause for complaint. To be
without flashy distraction is also to be without shining and majestic vistas
that make the "truth" so entirely self-evident that the "answer" arrives
without the "question" needing to be asked. Clearly, this is not
the "way" of the properly-humble man. I know that this particular
construct--bleakness and deprivation as an emboldening tonic--promises
justification somewhere in its unfolding, only it stubbornly expresses
but a single mode now, the one that presents a uniform landscape
of grey.
"This is 'feeling sorry for myself'" warns my internal regulator of
emotional indulgence and transgression; "I just can't be this way;
life is not that hard." I am still alive and arguably capable
on this day, and the time will come when I must concede the loss of even
this most basic of endowments. Just as the snow will melt in due
course and flow past the banks of the river in the village below, this
doggedly-defended bit of "creation" that has the bold courage to call himself
"me" will be called to assimilation as was prescribed at the outset.
I suppose it is dishonest and an act of "denial" to hold out on my own,
given the outlook that is "proper" to an ordinary man. I should make
my principal dwelling in the great "assembly", asserting those intangibles
of identity that might have half a chance of enriching the overall sovereign
kingdom that has been established by droppings from the hands of those
who have gone before. I still have my "pride", however, and so long
as all goes passably "well", I will sit up here on my slipcovered sofa
or sleep without regard in my deeply-layered bunk.
With such a graphic realization at hand, it is of course all the more
difficult to persist in this behavior. The present scenery, however,
does not prompt me to any greater course of activity. Since I am
forced through daily strictures that may cause certain others to
balk, I figure that the proponents of individual acts of deliberate will
can't be talking to me. Oh, no, I'm not one
of them. I would have the incredible and unmitigated audacity
to believe that my account is paid in full, when it comes to effort in
the interest of the collective and the eternal. Extrapolating from
chance witnesses, overheard and out of context, I have built a schema to
rationalize inactivity that nearly has me "fooled".
This is an obscene excess, of course, and I should simply chuck the entire
load of it and be my most basic self. I would do that, too, if I
had anywhere to "go" that didn't look like just another blind alley in
this same, medievally-deprived habitation. There are, of course,
many doors to exit this enclosure, and they aren't even camouflaged, though
they are quite heavy.
Well, if nothing else, I'll just go on living, with the earnest hope
of a better day. I am simply too tired to take this grey world and
brighten it of my own accord. Waiting and endurance, goes the internal
apologetic dialogue, are developmental exercises in themselves; they are
the unavoidable business of anyone who takes up space and
time. I can see, though, that there is nothing to be "proud" of in
holding back. I would endeavor to "forgive myself", if it did not
so often turn into an unwarranted and indulgent "pardon"; the toleration
and prolongation of what is, after all, temporary. I will cherish
instead whatever I see today that holds the promise, and indeed the self-evident
identity, of lasting unchanged through the many seasons that will
follow.
"Bo"
Ahead to March 2001
