1 January 2001 -- A position of questionable authority
The snow outside in the clearing has been there so long that it has
now earned a certain status of "permanence". The beginning of another
calendar year, while providing the forward-looking reminder that the warm
weather will return, does little to remove the sense of added isolation
created by the cold, which I would place somewhere in the lower 20s F today.
I have the fire in a "maintenance" mode right now, having spent enough
days to re-learn the most auspicious times to load additional fuel onto
the grate. The sky is nominally overcast, meaning I do not have the
radiant load to show that the sun is still there and intent on coming back.
I suppose I'd call this day "bleak", as were many of the winter days of
my 39 years in the temperate latitudes. I feel as if I am waiting
for "something man-made" to begin, given this notable absence of any meaningful
"natural" offerings.
As of this visit, I have installed a plushly-upholstered armchair within
close range of the fireplace, so that I don't need to sit so rigidly in
the cherrywood rocker or stretch myself out on the floor. It has
a muslin slipcover like the sofa, and I like the way it cradles my somewhat
tired body in prime viewing position before the flames. Of course,
I do not have ready access to the view from the front window, so I am lulled
instead into the tempestuous and infernal world enclosed by the fieldstone
structure beyond the hearth. I realize that I'm not being fully "honest"
with the "reality" of those square miles of snow, rocks, ice and barren
branches that are central to my fantasy, but they offer little to "occupy"
my mind today. Rather, I am inclined to seek human-oriented "occupation"
on this non-"business day", though it is hard to tell what, if anything,
will "do it".
The flames continue along their one-way course, and the wood slowly
shifts and settles. Since it is probably rather cold in the far reaches
of the Cabin building, I feel "content" to restrict myself to this "station".
Of course, the "contentment" at hand is not currently of the "satisfying"
persuasion; it is simply a recognition that I have reached a workable compromise
in my "way" of being alone. If I am properly fortunate in the vaguely-known
course of neurotransmitter activity, I might finally wind up with that
snug
feeling, the one resembling being held as an infant in motherly arms.
I leave that mysterious process alone for now, for I can rarely
will
such a gratifying state into being. I suppose I'd do well to find
a course of "alternative" activity, until such time as I might be admitted
to that "upper-level" "room" of true privilege; where satisfaction proceeds
as spontaneously as the combustion that currently holds my tentative attention.
I could try to work on "thinking over" what I'll face when I
return to my real-life office job, though that might be seen as a sign
of desperation. When I do not spend enough time reflecting upon my
worth to "the organization", I tend to discount my qualification to take
up space in that laboriously-developed niche. This train of thought
has problems when conducted in absentia, though. I can tell
myself that things could change for the better any day down there, and
make a solid resolution to be the kind of worker that does not have
such doubts, but this leaves a tall obligation pending for the next time
I'm actually at that post. It is a "set-up" for further disappointment.
There is always a problem, in off-site ponderings, of the distortion created
by distance. I would do better to live in the present, but even here
I need a fire to modify the true surroundings, which are cold, snow-laden
and not casually accessible. Illusion, therefore is indispensibly
key.
I finally decide to ditch my contemplation of that "paying" life, to
pursue other prospects for mental fixation. My focus of concentration
begins to return to this central location within my one room of two wooden
wings. My roving attention is clearly too restless and energetic
to be at home full time in this simplified and sedentary setting.
At times like this, I'd like to climb inside of my head and tell my spuriously-behaving
mind to "stop complaining". It does not always hear me from the usual
command post, located somewhere behind my eyes, where the skipper and executive
officer have a full view of the external subject scenario. When all
is truly "well", there is none of this fractious disagreement between my
internal members, and all runs as it should. Morale becomes infectious
and spreads uniformly throughout, with no need to "pull rank".
Such a model of self-organization and -motivation might explain
my many hours of dissatisfied despair. Because of the inherent imperfection
of this unavoidable flesh, I will have my share of unwanted assignments.
While I shall not complain if I find myself seated in "the golden niche"
of unconditional satisfaction this afternoon, I will also concede and accept
"my deal" as a "natural born" man, one who must proceed onward through
a non-negotiable sequence of trials as the years pass by.
"Bo"
5 January 2001 -- Playing host to myself
It is overcast again today and warmer, meaning the snow that was on
hand has begun to reduce to an icy-soggy layer, one possessing the chill
effects of the still-frozen portion but also the penetrating capability
of the accompanying liquid. There are a good five to seven inches
of this compact material, spread over the clearing and the dooryards, accompanied
by that cold fog that goes along with the above-freezing state. This
is the kind of weather that makes me glad for the Gore-Tex-endowed outerwear
I have on hand, given how sweaty I become with any exertion at all in my
parka and full-leather boots. Really, there isn't a lot to do
out there this afternoon. My more active outdoor episodes are typically
after new snow has fallen, when that small amount of "digging out" becomes
necessary to get to the out-buildings and the truck.
Since it is so damp and so cold, I decide on spending
some time within the "island" of dry floors and bedding that comprise the
wood-heated Cabin interior. Leaving my wet boots to form localized
puddles near the front door and hanging my parka on one of the wooden pegs
nearby, I let the remnant of the moisture that is with my lower garment
layers find its way free. Looking out the rear window, I see the
occasional branch in the ravine lose a load of snow, which crashes heavily
into the unseen brush below. On a smaller scale, there is the dripping
run-off along the edge of the rooftop, which will be the makings of a new
set of icicles whenever it gets cold enough. I haven't the same need
for proximity to the fire on a day like this, so I am satisfied to stretch
myself out on the sofa, with my head propped up on one of the broad arms
and my feet nearly reaching the other.
Unlike the colder days of wind-driven snow, this is a quiet day
for being here. Maybe it is the fog out there, which dampens sound
as it contributes its share to the overall water-layer in the hollow.
The fire, of course, provides its own crackling and popping, and it continues
in its role as contemplative focus for my attention as my body enjoys its
chance to be crashed into the deep upholstery. I suppose I'm describing
a "cozy" feeling, one in which I "wear" this interior as an extension of
my clothing in a complete "system" of outerwear. Someone wandering
along the trails might see the Cabin and feel mightily inclined to ask
the favor of a drying-out in front of the hearth. Since we're talking
about a location so remote that he'd walk another 5 miles before reaching
the next shelter in the village, I would be inclined to let him do just
that.
I will leave the potential of "visitors" alone for now, however.
That is what I face all day long in real city life, where each corner must
be considered likely to have someone coming around it, out of sight, in
the opposite direction. I see the occasional deer or rabbit, of course,
but then they are not presumed needy of my hospitality. If
I were trying to grow a crop in what little soil there is among the rocks
out there, those creatures might be more to think about, as in Rawlings'
The
Yearling. But no, this is "what there is", and I can ignore
the surroundings or embrace them, as I see fit.
I continue to watch and listen to the fire, noting in my peripheral
vision the occasional snow that drops from the broad branches of hemlock
pine outside the kitchen window. "This is what I have to do,"
I remind myself, "to feel relieved of the oppressive influence of 'the
many' on those city streets". There is no "casual" immersion that
works for me--it's all or nothing, with no shades of grey. It is
such a contrivance, though; this far-removed shelter that needs its maintenance
and its heat. Clearly, I do not have very effective or portable "life
support" for my real-life travels. I forget, of course, that I do
not have to have a hiding place "all my own" when I'm borne upon
the bosom of the cooperative collaborative. There are enough ways
to lighten my load, even in the most contentious of rat races, since they
are human beings and not really "rats".
Well, I am able to rest "my way" for now, and without all that "discomfort"
and looking like a "moocher" within the hospitality dome of another.
Soon, I shall be dried-out enough to feel truly warm. The
day has yet to arrive that would make all of these components of shelter
look like a needless waste. It is true, though, that I haven't
much real "business" in this hollow, and that is the usual justification
for establishing a domicile. A "home", therefore, does not mean much
without the ability to be a "host" from time to time.
"Bo"
9 January 2001 -- Sufficiently supplementing my reality
After a bitterly-cold night, I rise to look out the front window at
the now-frozen clearing. Much of the ground appears glazed over by
a hard layer of ice, even where there is snow beneath the surface.
Since the sun is out, the whole scene "glitters", as in the aftermath of
a genuine ice storm. Whereas the summer was marked by the predominance
of green, this winter's identity is overwhelmingly based on the
color white. With ice and snow both, the "majority" of shades
of this spectral composition is greater than ever. Of course, the
tree trunks and scattered stalks of brush are still there, but it takes
a significant "artificial" concentration of color such as the wood-panelled
Cabin interior to detract at all from the impression formed by the recent
hard freeze.
In conditions such as these, the drafts from the plate glass windows
remind me without hesitation of what it will be like when I need to go
outside today. I decide to move at last from the sofa, to sit in
the armchair by the fire. I look to the wood-box between the fireplace
and stove, noting that I had filled it nearly to overflowing when I was
out to the woodshed yesterday. I seem pretty well "set" for now,
though the cistern might end up running a little low if I heat a tub of
water for washing later on. I do enjoy anything that suggests being
"caught up" with my outstanding obligations, though I cannot avoid falling
behind as soon as I finish a given spell of work. One of the advantages
of my Cabin set-up is that I do not face those bottomless labor-pits created
by years of disorganized accumulation. The space and its accommodations
only go so far, and that's the end of it.
I suppose, in truth, that I delude myself when I picture a woodland
Cabin as having "less to do" than a city home. In the days of the settlers,
pioneers, and other such real-life survivors, very little was provided
in the way of "labor-saving" implements--labor, from what I've read of
those times, was pretty much spent in full. I am departing from my
stated goal of "authenticity" when I deny some of the harder realities
of primitive living, so my motives have to be elsewhere. Maybe I'm
looking for nothing more than contrast, just like the one that was
established when I stopped looking at that world of ice and began taking
in the rich colors of the wood and the flames.
Given that I am probably in search of a suitable "counterpoise" to urban
living, and not true deprivation, I begin to wonder just how I should craft
my fanciful "workshop", so that just the right amount of "work" is called
for. I sit back in the chair, doing little more than watching the
ongoing saga of the fire. It looks important that I have a variety
of places and ways to "crash out"--either in bed, at fireside, or on the
sofa, and in assorted natural settings when the weather is in season.
Because certain ways of achieving this relaxation are trivially excluded
by the presence of winter, I need to keep the design centered upon known
parameters of a rustic dwelling, or the whole set-up starts to look "silly".
Still, I doubt those earlier Americans got anything like this much
time off.
I therefore find myself faced with the need to incorporate the correct
amount of "truth" into my fictional woodland experience, so as to optimize
its co-existence with my real life. I have noted that I am willing
to accept a fair amount of hardship, such as using an outhouse in 10-degree-F
weather, in exchange for the guaranteed calm and unbroken solitude I find
when I return to the heated living room and sleeping area. This is
something I would predict, with my knowledge of a real life that also contains
a mixture of "desirable" and "not-so-desirable" influences. I suppose
I'm dreaming of a hollow that is something like a photographic negative;
an "additive complement" to the realities of real life, which are not as
subject to my hand in authoring.
An "additive complement", though, suggests the actual operation of addition,
in which case zero would be the result. Is this really what
I want--a cancellation of both my doubts and my joys? If I'm
looking for a mathematical metaphor, perhaps it is that I wish to add a
new dimension to the internal dialogue of my mind when I posit these
visits to the pine-panelled room, currently encased in its icy matrix.
In that case, I doubt I can craft a real "utopia", but that's all right,
since no one has done it yet. This gives me encouragement about my
real life, the one that is imperfect by definition. A wilderness
retreat that still has realistic "problems" will assure me that I'm making
positive efforts to keep the overall set-up "right". Honesty in earnest
has a glow to match the joy of a successfully-built illusion. I will
do what I can, and thus experience life, regardless of its form.
"Bo"
13 January 2001 -- Taking time, just to live
It is a bright yet calm afternoon in the hollow, and knowing that the
Solstice is past is almost enough to ignite the feeling that will fully
arrive in late February, the one that tells of a new spring. There
is enough sun arriving through the windows to make all parts of the Cabin
warm enough for long-term lingering, so I am whiling away some hours on
my back, on top of the voluminous bedclothing I'm usually required to be
under.
I find myself curiously grateful for the simple provision of "the light",
as if I were performing an analysis of good-versus-evil, or some other
pair of dual, complementary elements. Of course, the sun is only
made truly significant by the "life" that surrounds me in this forest,
and I suppose this is always in the back of my mind. From the standpoint
of being alive, I have little choice in the matter.
I feel a bit of the residual headache that has chased me through
the end of the workweek. Now that the weekend's leisure has been
declared, I am doing what I can to avoid the compulsory behavior that causes
it. Indeed, "if it feels good", then it is my intention to "do it",
prophets of decadent decay notwithstanding. There seems so little
point for all of that tension, even when the money is figured in, since
I should be free enough by now to make a fairly good "deal" for myself.
It is funny, when I think of it, that I should work so hard in the interest
of staying in the same old spot. I've tried casting myself adrift
on those "wild winds of fortune", however, and the uplift is not what a
man would predict.
I start performing the old relaxation ritual, the one of progressive
release. Important here is to let loose the muscles of my forehead,
which have done some serious squint-duty at the office lately. This
is a hard practice, I find, because I am used to being "onto something"
most of the time. Without a specific subject for these eyes to hold
fixed, I am left to that indeterminate position of buoyancy in the "ether".
I could use this branch-point to begin thinking of all that physics education,
which says there is no ether and therefore nothing to "float" upon.
That, however, is the conviction that leaves me free to begin accelerating
towards some obsessive draw or another, with a return to slavish performance
at the workstation of whatever massive body happens to be closest at the
time.
No, I must maintain a state of active-yet-optimally asserted "being",
for that looks like the entitlement of one who has come to be as alive
as I still must admit I am. By my mere presence, status and constitution,
I am accorded respect as a "player". Thus I should rise to my sovereign
dignity within that ubiquitous "life-affirming" social environment, to
use the current catch phrase employed to sell motion pictures full of sweet
sentimentality. There, perhaps, is a better train of thought for
this time off on the King holiday, rather than a blind launch into savage
obedience to the latest call to extremism. In keeping with the televised
exhortations of the US Army, I should "be all that I can be" and walk as
a self-respecting "one" among many "peers".
I do worry some when I hear myself thinking such "mush"--perhaps
I am finally "going soft". I may soon lose all ability to wage effective
campaigns of aggression against that which would still pose an appropriate
threat. Is it really as simple as just being "me"? I do not
relish being hauled off to the assorted detentions that await the passive
resistor, but then I do not make it an ongoing habit to position myself
often in those dire, heroic surroundings. I am out in the woods,
after all, at the end of a 4.1-mile private dirt road. I am no activist.
It is not what I see myself being. I suppose, if anything, I have
studied the makings of "industry" a little too closely, and come to regard
them as living, co-heirs to what awaits all men and women of repute.
Indeed, I give eyes and ears to what does not see or hear, then wonder
why my own perceptions seem so dim.
Well, the light is good, and that's generally something I can
accept, so long as I don't have to look directly into the sun. So,
too, is the luxurious depth of this resting place, the one that might even
evoke the metaphor of gestational satiety. My wish on this cold yet
sunlit Saturday of my 39th year is that I find an acceptable peace as I
am carried along by life's strange winds "to wither so ever they blow",
to quote another line from Man of La Mancha. Status quo and
time-honored ways are indeed comfortable, and the well-accommodated man
does not shun them completely. Still, he is not bound in absolute
terms by images and warmed-over memories that are, by definition, not of
the present. This, indeed, is the "life" that is "in my face"--and
that which lives will attempt to have its way.
"Bo"
17 January 2001 -- Imagination reaches its limit
I am seated in the plush armchair in front of the fireplace, with my
eyes closed. It is hard to trace the origins of today's "malaise"--perhaps
it is from that insidious viral attack that I've seen in recent years,
the one that safeguards its survival by never leaving completely until
spring. I realize that my real life is going on as I sit, only it
is not my express intention to concern myself with its latest presentation
of problems. I choose instead to send myself to dwell at this Cabin,
where I do not face direct "exposure" to those channels of irritation that
have earned "hard-wired" status as a result of my "buying in" to civilized,
middle class subsistence. I could well collapse backwards from this
pose of mine into deepening layers of oblivion, only I know I cannot completely
dismiss my guard. My schedule for return to that other, frantic life
is rather uncertain, and I must always maintain my preparedness.
It annoys me sometimes that I cannot form a better impression of the
admittedly "impressive" lands that surround me in this hollow. I
walk instead along tired old paths of frustration that are essentially
transported here whole from their more active real life locales.
It is not enough that I say the others are not here to knock on
my door, even when rabbits and raccoon are about the most likely beings
to darken my doorstep. I somehow "need" to keep the possibility alive,
and in spite of my efforts in imagination. I can see that this situation
calls for special practice in the imagery of isolation, if this "thought
experiment" will have any chance of success. I need to think back
to the times I've been in winter's woods, up against empty white landscapes
outfitted with barren brown-black brambles and branches. The snow,
such as remains outside today, has that wonderful and sobering "settling"
feeling, as it muffles sound and enforces the chill in the air.
Yes, with enough concerted effort in this direction today, I might actually
conjure up the empty clearing and the vermilion-stained buildings, with
their windward sides that have acted to gather the blowing drifts.
Though my real life body must remain connected to its fixtures, I am able
after some time to realize how low the bandwidth really is over
those links. I drop my head against the back of the chair, feeling
the warmth established by the stacked oak and maple fuel. Were my
powers of imaginative contemplation in better shape today, I might actually
be able to "make something" out of the concept of having driven so far
into the mountains to get here. It does not look like I'll "get"
that quality of appreciation today, however, and this shortfall is nearly
enough to ruin the entire exercise in visualization.
I consider for a moment the problem of my lackluster enthusiasm as I
"let" those assorted city woes continue to operate in front of my mind's
eyes. Maybe I'm seeing the ultimate limit of what a grown man can
imagine as he sits on his duff in a remote shelter in winter. The
empty space may simply be unable to fill in the "gaps" in my wandering
attention's time-schedule. This might explain why I find myself sitting
in a sort of stupor, knowing that for the present moment there really is
"nothing better" than putting my activity on hold. This is an egregious
offense, of course, in the workaday world. "Leisure during paid hours?",
I ask, "Isn't this somehow contrary to management's overarching 'plan'?"
I forget, of course, that I am a simple, fallible man, within the
vocational context of other men who would acknowledge me as such.
I therefore remain here in these woods, unconvinced of the latent benevolence
of that urban setting. With wide open space surrounding me, and a
generous dose of sustained quiet, I patiently wait out the better times
that might come; the ones where I am satisfied and involved.
To be completely honest, I can't call this present "tentativeness" a very
"satisfying" way to be. I remember what time alone in the wide-open
winter scenery felt like as a kid--it was downright boring.
Maybe as I age further, the residual and sporadic urge to inflict city
irritation upon myself will finally subside, leaving me at last with an
unchallenged life of "rest". That, indeed, is a comforting dream.
I have little choice for now but to continue to give an ear to the deep-down,
shame-driven and impulsive "voice" that tells me I am not as much "here"
as I'd like to be. While I do my best to give this open, overcast
space below the ridge a healthy dose of realistic detail, it is still placed
out of reach, at something of a distance. I must be satisfied with
this nominal level of rest, for it looks like about all I'll get until
times and seasons change. I could very well be dealing
with the trailing edge of that last cold from real life among the many.
"Bo"
21 January 2001 -- The active efforts continue
There was new snow last night, and the cold that has persisted through
today has maintained the powdery mobility of the accumulation's upper surface.
I suppose there are only so many different ways a common winter scene like
this might be described, even when the diversity of my mood is taken into
account. This time it has a nicely "enclosing" effect, as something
that does not make me ashamed to sit around inside on the sofa instead
of pursuing a 4th-season sport like snowshoeing or cross-country skiing.
This lack of outward initiative is becoming so frequent that I am beginning
to accept "passive" times like these in the silence as a part of "who I
am", and thus something to treasure, rather than resent.
I turn to look out the front window, discerning what I can of the terrain
at the tree line 200 yards off. The clearing looks quite large today,
which is curious in view of the homogenizing tendencies of the snow.
Only the most assertive of rocks and largest scrub bushes contribute now
to a landscape that had a wondrously-fine and living texture during summer's
bloom. Realizing that I have no real "mission" in staring vacantly
into the sun-filled outdoors, I turn to explore other possibilities for
what I am "supposed to" be doing on this visit. When I must make
this concerted effort, of course, I know I'm not "there" yet; the "real
thing" is supposed to unfold in a masterpiece of spontaneity. "It"
will "happen", and in spite of a preplanned program that is only generally
pointed, and not precisely aimed, at the serene rest I know is "out there".
I should be filling my time with more reading--or so the train of thought
now says. Yes, if I were "better read", than I would wander through
these opportunities for contemplation with the great books as my travel
guides. These infantile graspings would be gone, leaving a man who
consumes precious life in ways befitting the profound expenditure involved.
But I have not really been led to the reading of books during those
times when I've been happy "as I am". When the enlightened "state"
has been declared, I need no supplemental input. During those hours,
I see above the need to cross two minds' boundaries to get at the essential
substance that is played in top fidelity on my own internal "screen".
Thus comes the call to sit still and, with a little bit of luck, to know--all
conscious machinations and outreach are vanity and must be abandoned.
With the implicit directive to become divested of all conscious plans,
I pull the sofa covers up a little closer. I go for a state of near-absolute
emptiness in my schedule of mandated effort. This practice, I've
seen, will eventually lead to a madness of self-contradiction, since
one cannot try to stop trying. Maybe it is my narrative voice, and
the work it takes to generate this very discussion, that is ruining this
plan-that-is-not-a-plan. It could be a case of observer influence,
like the kind that produces dualities in quantum mechanical experiments--or
the less-definitive result of multiple, subjective "realities". The
truth, in this case, is that there is a pathway of discrete and
non-zero effort that will also qualify as an absence of effort because
I'm following a precise plan of predestiny or canonical propriety.
Thus, I am left with a hopeless paradox; a knot admitting neither of guile
nor the sword.
The good part about allowing myself to fall into this point of "unbreakable"
conflict is that it is trivially overcome by the least change in external
surroundings. It is sad, to be sure, that I have to declare everything
as vanity in order to see that nothing is completely vain, when considered
from the proper viewpoint. I look across to my bunk, which I still
haven't made up for the day. Now there is something I did not think
of in this way when I was last using it. No, I had to get up and
get the fire going. Other small chores are also sure to look different
now, after my strict attempt to cut out distraction, obsession and occupation.
I find something approaching "genuine" solace at last, in knowing that
I have freedom of motion in the space of my attention. I will not
be "here" for all time, and what now looks trivial and barren will, at
another juncture, be the very culmination of unshakable joy. What
a thing it is, to be alive and to get about.
"Bo"
25 January 2001 -- The weight of emptiness
I am once again "put back" into the familiar surroundings I might call
my second "home," after being made to wander to and fro on my real life
duties and assignments. Certainly, "there's no place like" it, even
if a hidden sanctuary like this Cabin gets its truest and most sentimental
validation during the times I'm not here. There is snow outside,
to be sure, but its restriction on my motion does little to deter me as
a complicating factor. The woods, in their supreme silence and absence
of people "in my way", are a haven of well-cushioned containment.
This setting takes me from my typical state of agitation, and promises
to efficiently yet gently absorb all of the motion that was going to waste
anyway in ill-directed activity.
The silence, yes, is notable during this visit, as I sit in the armchair
before the fire. I know that I'll never "empty" my real life this
completely, though I'm still working on employing one of the subsidiary
tracks of my mind to run this as a full-time program thread.
There are times when I wonder if rigging such a scheme would really "work"
to any usable extent, since dreaming up the dream just consumes a valuable
time-slice that might be better used solving my problems directly.
When I look at the quantity of second-, third-, and nth-guessing that is
the current programming of my conscious faculties, however, I know that
I'm "wasting" a fair amount of limited capacity on the making of redundant
concrete plans, co-plans and counter-plans. The situation calls for
a "balancing-out" via aesthetic pursuit, and I suppose it is here that
maintaining the image of the Cabin figures in.
I note with curiosity that in achieving this "balance", there is no
stipulation on just where the emotionally-oriented, subjective experience
should "come from". It is almost as if there is an equivalence between
time spent by myself and the time that others spend in social engagement.
One might argue that the same function--compassion--is being "exercised"
either way, and the difference in results is like the one between home
exercise equipment and real "road work". Still, my tortured series
of personal deliberations on this matter might point out that my time alone
is really not doing for me what it "should". Perhaps I am
dealing with some form of guilt, when it looks like such a fine
idea to drop everything and run off when there might be a better way I'm
choosing to ignore.
Since it is the prospect of getting away that looks as good as
anything else, I could be in the sad situation of witnessing a phenomenon
that has no "steady state". The minute I grab hold of the essentials
of one of these dubious joys, it begins to decay, to end at last in a forgotten
and nullified nothingness. This, I should think, could be a fair
description of the vacant woodlands of this hollow in the dead of winter.
My innate tendency towards these visits could be why the Cabin isn't just
a "summer home", but also why I invariably need to pack up and return to
real life every time. Honestly, I have to admit that is hard
to see much in the way of aesthetics in something that is really "nothing".
If I were to populate some unfortunate track of my mental processes with
this occupation, the one of sitting for hours in front of the same old
fire until spring arrives, that part of my mind could well "die" from underuse.
Relaxation, I can see, is an active process, just like any other
behavior I'm "made to" or "let myself" do. What's more, the sought-out
final subject state is one of those destinations that vanishes when it
is reached, and thus of little use to capture and hoard internally.
Still, I do like to carry around the means of slowing myself down,
even if it is a load of "dead weight". I suppose that this is the
trouble with being self-contained. While my working plan of "escape"
to desolation will, in the practical sense, serve as useful relief
when the world around me gets out of hand, the ones who use others
in this capacity have the advantage of travelling light and, possibly,
even helping the person that helps them.
For now, however, I'll hold on to my unremarkable, ponderous, and ultimately
barren facility for relieving stress. Though I could find myself
in a King Midas-style quandary in which my source of solace ultimately
serves as my undoing, I still like to know just where I'm going
when I back off from troubling circumstances. The scene indeed remains
steady here, as I continue to note the deceleration of former high-velocity
concerns.
"Bo"
30 January 2001 -- The variety of my connections
I have have found another of my increasingly-rare opportunities to get
away and think over the events of recent times, without facing the threats
and potential liabilities that accompany being "exposed" to the full "load"
of social living. Crashed out again on the sofa amid an unremarkable
snow-filled clearing on a grey day in the "pit of winter", I watch my concentration
head off along a road nearly as desolate as the dirt track leading from
the village. Most would probably observe a strange pathology in my
needing to be 4 miles from the nearest human being before I can lower myself
to a preferred state of "preparedness", which oddly enough is the state
requiring no preparation at all. Further complicating the situation
is my ongoing delight in having the input of a fair offering of artificial
environmental stimuli from those information appliances back in town.
Though I know these "productions" to be designed for a mass market governed
by the least common denominator, I do, after all, have that denominator
in my ungainly and complicated set of factors.
It is a decidedly-different "mode" that is demanded of me when I finally
arrive at the end of the dirt road, one requiring a more "active" perception
that puts to use my often-neglected powers of creative outreach.
Since I have become fairly vested and "empowered" as a grown citizen, I
shouldn't need to fabricate my recreation from a preordained set
of unyielding and arbitrary constraints passed down from "above".
As a "free" person, I am given a chance to write whatever ticket I can
afford to fund. Maybe I just never grew up, and have sustained comfort
in following the wide and easy road of least resistance, especially when
my home-made attempts to satisfy the craving for satisfaction do not typically
have the same "yield" as the "quick fix". I could just be a poor
"artist" when it comes to creating my own joy, and I suppose someone
has to be there as an audience for those who can present enriched
content on a regular basis.
While I do enjoy climbing aboard a successful and interesting
bandwagon, no matter who is driving it, it saddens me to see the
ungainly underside of such an "attraction". This leads me to wonder why
I don't "get it" the way so many others do. Since the process of
staying sufficiently occupied does not sustain itself when I'm "down there",
I sit up here in the hollow instead, working on the alternatively-noble
objective of seeing in the barren trees and rocks the makings of next summer's
splendor. Such times of spontaneous creative prowess do happen,
and I resent the number of them that I "waste" when I'm stuck at some mediocre
duty among the crowd. Those situations have their own high
bandwidth and amplitude, from the ready access to feeds authored by one
or more of the "others", and I don't need any additional help from myself.
The problem appears to be one of aligning my internal disposition
and fundamental constitution with the variety of external influences
that I now have a certain "freedom" to select. Though connectivity
in that regard can be tiring, I have enough in common with the others to
make significant use of their input, once I lose the false pride of defiant
self-sufficiency. It would seem that I do not give myself as much
chance to "grow" as a person when I decide to shut off the coupling to
those forced decrees regarding what should be "playing across my terminals".
These woods, filled though they are with "life", are a personal dreamscape
built from the most generic of raw components, modified according to 3-1/2
years of my own prevailing sentiment. I have therefore created
a "short circuit" across my senses, feeling only as much as my feelings
permit. This is indeed a circle that can become vicious.
As a living being, I am charged with the need for "growth"; the ultimately
satisfactory development of those personal intrinsics that govern my reaction
to the world about me. Since the only way to make "something more"
from "less" is to acquire suitable and enriching constituents through my
interface with the outside, my self-administed occupation has hazards of
its own. It is difficult, and indeed an almost cruel frustration,
to be a "free" man who must turn around and admit that he can do little
according to his own internal whim. Though the fundamentals
of my human identity cannot be overriden, I will have my moments
of true contentment on my own, where my process proceeds without transfer
of useful work to or from the outside. One day I'll see life among
the others as a "source" as well as a "load", and become better attuned
for the purpose of such gainful exchange.
"Bo"
Ahead to February 2001
