4 July 2001 -- As free as can be for now
Given the status of this particular first Wednesday in July as a "National
Holiday", I have been given a good chance to leave town and drive up the
4.1-mile dirt track from the last outpost of that "Nation", which rests
festively on its collective "own" at the junction of State Highways 735
and 753. It is a day in which summer has become firmly planted within
the upper hollow, along with the buildings of the Cabin compound and my
own markings in terms of environmental "impact". It is a hazy sort
of day, with an indeterminate overcast that varies in its admission of
sunlight. The insects have arrived in force, so stepping outside
is no casual matter--I need to impose my own will as an unwilling donor
of blood products upon a majority that still looked poised, eventually,
to "win" over my efforts at applying repellent. It is only as a human
that I am at all "alone" in this place.
Though it is the middle of the day, I decide I'll build a fire in the
charred stone ring beyond the dooryard, since this tends to drive off the
bugs. I am aware of the strict regulations against such an act within
the backcountry of the US National Parks, a jurisdiction that is not asserted
over this land. Because it is "just me", the terrain has only
the sterilized earth under this single designated point. I
retrieve kindling and firewood from the shed across the way, and it is
not long before a respectable daytime flame is in place. I bring
myself to rest on the nearby chaise lounge, with little need to be close
to the "wasted" heat of this fire. I would have done well to bring
some bratwurst or wieners along today, since I was just by the grocery
store in town before I turned to pass through the hidden gate along the
river. These are the practices of "normal" Americans, I should think,
practices that do not include hiding out in ill-conceived fear of
assimilation's trappings.
I listen to the seasoned wood as it crackles and pops (and yes, some
of the noise resembles a "snap" as well). My outpost is now fully
emplaced, with the element of my personal "civilization" embodied
in the fire. There certainly is a "settling" feeling in my
having things as I nominally want them, even if the same "selfish"
yearnings in the aggregate create such disasters as urban congestion and
the resulting need for strict legal restraints upon interpersonal infringement.
I just want to "slink away" from all of that civic posturing at times,
for it often seems that to live there is to "offend" and to "violate".
At the core of being a self-serving human being is the cynical necessity
of testing the limits of one's "neighbor", even if the proper "Way, Truth
and Life" is to do nothing more than "love" them as I do myself.
It would be a sweet existence, indeed, if I had such a disposition as my
innate and ingrained "nature". Reality, however, is not so sweet
during much of "my" time.
With the sun slightly more in control as the flame continues, I fight
to avoid the downward spiral of self-pitying despair that goes with "not
fitting in". In this realization of vanity, I form the typical resolve
to be a "better citizen" when I next need to behave among the others.
It just can't be; that the several members of the population at
large only advance when they are in egregious trespass of the dignified
yet ill-defined personal "estates" of other, presumably "equal" cohabitants.
What is it, anyway, that I am resenting, when I face this dilemma?
Do I wish I could be more of my "own" man and a "free" one at that, or
am I ashamed that I do not get the presumed rush of "community" pride when
I deny myself in the interest of being "selfless"? As long as I am
here at the Cabin, these are non-issues, for the virtual space around me
is, by definition, free of well-meaning civil authority. All human
dominion in these woods starts and stops here.
A barbecue may have been a decent idea after all, even if it were
constrained by the limited lifetime of electrically produced ice and artificially-refrigerated
victuals. I guess there's no real "escape" of the long arm
of human and national heritage, even if I write at length of desperate
actions towards self-expression and -satisfaction that make me the caricature
of a true "Patriot". The method of my isolated continuity,
however, is something that comes so easily that I find it too useful in
"getting along" to give up. Withdrawn into these thousands of fanciful
acres, I begin to cultivate those generally-disparaged internal gratifications
that cannot offend in a land that still allows a person the liberty of
his privately-maintained thought, if not all of his outward expression.
So long as I lay this low, I'm off the screen and the docket of the hired
powers that must occasionally and "officially" dominate.
Life is really a "better" proposition, of course, than any of this habitual
second-guessing. My Country, it is of Thee that I sing, as
well as performing other behavior properly fitting a man whose "time off"
is so very much his own.
"Bo"
8 July 2001 -- Some time in a smaller space
Weary from carrying life's "load" these last few days, I am glad that
I can just be for awhile this afternoon on the living room sofa.
It's a hazy-bright sort of day, very typical of July, and the warmth inside
the Cabin grows noticeable as the sun continues to "be there" overhead.
The feeling, not surprisingly, is one of being "on vacation", though I'd
doubt that three or four hours parked at the end of the long dirt road
will have much lasting effect. I have little inclination to do
much of anything, and this is bothersome to a man who usually feels any
of a number of competing compulsions to "get at" some long-"neglected"
chore whose time has finally come in real life. I am thus faced with
another troubling condition, the one where I must spread myself
out and "let go", since it is not quite certain what I'm hanging onto,
anyway, when the commotion finally settles.
There is, of course, considerable uneasiness when I find myself starting
a process in which I do not, by definition, "know" what I'll be doing.
Putting one's trust in the unseen is one of those great tenets of faith,
only to have a belief without a convincing conviction is not a comforting
"way". Looking at what my "heart" assures me is true and affirmed,
I see a hollow space, with its overlay supplied by the more "enlightened"
folks in the population who must act as my guides. These fine souls
are on the "better" side of coping with the great social predicament, which
they see instead as a natural blessing that testifies of the higher
authority. Though I have to wonder why they can allow themselves
to be "controlled" by mere intangibles deriving from their righteous
integrity, it appears to be a highly-optimized and enviable adaptation.
So thus it is, when faced by immersion into the great and teeming collective,
that some are united but others, such as myself, must contend with a barrier
that encourages times of separation that are "free" from entangling commitment.
I am here today, in my evidently-preferable mode, with only the clearing,
the rocks and the forest to "challenge" my tired load-bearing faculties.
These outdoor furnishings are workably benign, especially when I get to
stay indoors, only it is not difficult to convince myself that I'm letting
finite personal opportunities for self-improvement "go to waste".
I choose this "cowardly" path simply on the basis of comfort, as though
that were a currency I could reasonably trade against the woes that will
arrive when I must return to the urban fracas.
Clearly, then, there is this immense and wonderful "reality" that I
just don't see, but which is the rightful province of every human,
no matter how distanced. "If it's there," I argue to myself, "then
I should be able to live in peace within it when I'm here, alone."
Since this exercise in separation is one of my better-loved styles
of "leisure", I decide to release some of the tension from my body and
become acquiescent to the kind of high-performance "quiet" that characterizes
being in this living room for the time I've been granted today. Perhaps
when I've returned to real life, in what I can only imagine as a state
of greater "refreshment", the hidden "channels" in the barrier that do
open from time to time will "let in" some of that alternatively-enriching
flow that I hear the others calling "life", "love", or some similar word
associated with divine interchange and function.
I close my eyes, feeling the tension in my forehead that needs release.
This is an artifact of my last "battles" within the "great beyond", prior
to getting in the truck and heading for this hollow. My precious
free will has been granted its characteristic full freedom in what it might
"do", only it does nothing for now but "let me" lay in this collapsed and
tired heap. There will be no escaping the conclusion that something
has gone to "waste" in the expenditure of my lifetime on this earth, when
the final account is rendered. The internal predisposition that causes
me to take these "breaks", however, is something strong and essential.
Since the notion of omnipresence is accorded to the great "pervasive
presence" (i.e., God), I cannot disparage anything that has such
a strong ring of "authenticity".
Still, I consider it strange that I "choose" to follow such leanings.
I will need to rejoin the great struggle to build my share of the
almighty "kingdom". I am left with a puny and ultimately "inferior" fragment
of that reign, one that I dare to call "significant", when I cut off the
exchange and flow through the defined surface in space that is my external
"barrier". Greater unity, it is clear, is existent and abundant.
I am grateful for the gift of this small quantity of conviction, given
the weariness of this day, for it reminds me that I am still alive and
will still be able to "move" when I absolutely must.
"Bo"
12 July 2001 -- My independent enterprise
Stepping through the screen door into a bright summer's morning, I must
squint my eyes when I reach the edge of the narrow shadow provided by the
front porch roof. Though there is the appearance of a certain quantity
of dew on the abundant brush that surrounds the "developed" area of the
Cabin compound, it is already warm enough to give the sense of the ultimate
humid stasis of mid-day. This atmospheric "presence" supplements
the sun as it lands on a somewhat-tired body that had until now been in
a relatively cool, dry place indoors. It is a warmth, moreover, that
is not tempered by urban constructs and conveniences; this is a wholly
"rural" scene, to suggest, perhaps, those quaint settings from Andy
Griffith or To Kill a Mockingbird.
I walk out towards the stone fire ring, again taken by the solid embrace
of a truly "golden" sun, and I hear an assortment of noises from the living
creatures in the nearby thicket and woods. I do not need to "make
nice" among those curiously-named "peers" that are my constant concern
in urban life. Instead, I have launched myself into a different form
of "marketplace", one whose "commerce" takes place in accordance with the
"terms" agreed to by its constituent species. Since I am something
of an interloper amid their circles of "trade", I avoid being party to
deadly-serious and "adult" transactions in which I run the continual risk
of not having studied my part well enough to be a serious negotiator.
The setting is something in which I can be involved yet sufficiently "distant",
while my assignments in real life exact a price of my integrity and physiological
reserves if I do not put forward the tribute that is expected of me.
I am probably treading over an age-old problem among the contemplative,
when I lament being mired in a social and business "predicament" that forcibly
imposes burdensome "demands" upon me. All I want is simple subsistence
and ongoing, sustainable support, be it from outright elation or calm and
optimistic confidence. Perhaps the "thinking class", who find me
bumbling through their meeting places from time to time, have a good "case"
against me for craving such gratuitous occupation, just as their economic
philosophy has little place for compusive "consumption". Life is
supposed to be a wondrous and ornate colloquium, in which original sensation
does not compare with proper veneration and appreciation of those "points
of view" that are agreed upon as containing "valid" abstractions and recommendations.
"What is the point of using your time on earth, if not to be solving problems
with the help of wisdom's well-honed implements?"
Yawning from my recent sleep as I stumble amid the rocks, I find myself
unwilling to be a client or a competitor today in those glib fraternities
that so often let me in the door to look around. Their whole process
is too "derivative" for me, since I must tailor my output to adhere to
the "polite" standards of "social convention". Of course, they could
argue that standing around as I am today in the middle of the woods does
not very well immerse me in a "meaningful" exchange, either. I have
certainly tried, in both of my environments, to learn what "is going
on", so that I might be a properly-contributing and authentically-invested
"player", only it is less traumatic to "fail" in this regard at the Cabin,
since all the damage is internal. In my time alone, I can always
just sit down as I do now on the chaise lounge and let the current thought
process dissipate, with no external effect, rather than displaying to those
within viewing range a clear picture of what an uninformed fool I've been.
I lay back on the lounge, in my posture of resignation, letting the
sun renew its hegemony over my assorted bodily territories. This
very scene, perhaps, might be used as backdrop to some other "main event"
staged by the social authorities in their procedures of summer vacation
benevolence, only I obtain gratification from it without adhering to those
implicit and explicit timelines. I may just be asking for too much,
when I seek the variety of lasting contentment that does not appear and
disappear according to an externally-imposed schedule. I could well
be violating a rule known since the days of Plato and Aristotle and taken
as trivially "true", yet it remains in 2001 as my personal "stumbling
block".
Though I might be accused of being "absent minded" when I plant myself
among the overgrowth in this clearing, I am at least sparing the others
the unnecessary inadvertencies of a man who many could rightly call "immature".
In becoming a minimalist in real-worldly participation, I have enacted
arguably "responsible" damage control. I let myself settle further
into this isolated outdoor cushioning, amid the warm, damp enclosure of
foliage, knowing that my current frivolity is not directly hindering the
"business" being transacted in the city. I have never said that not
being "with them" means that I am "against them". I suspect I will
get by, and that may be the mediocre truth that history's "experts" would
agree upon.
"Bo"
16 July 2001 -- The gravity of my actions
I would call today a decidedly hot day, and the dry weather that
has persisted gives a substantial confirmation that we're entering the
"dog days" or a similar doldrum. The rear of the Cabin, of course,
has the shadiness of the trees at the top of the ravine, only I need to
watch out for briers and poison ivy when I walk down the series of stones
to the river in shorts. Though there is the added burden of the solar
load, my preference on a day like this is to be out in the open; within
the clearing. It is growing a little dusty out there, in the spots
that are not fully "taken" by the assorted components of the near brush,
and the arrival of the cicada populations is yet another sign of a summer
that has reached "maturity". Though I know I'm bound to get sweated
up, I decide to spend some more time on the thick-padded chaise lounge,
parked as it is near the ash-marked "hole" of the fire ring.
I am not at all sure what kind of a visit I will get today, since real
life has its share of demands to fragment my time. It is hard to
say if I am even engaging in "authentic" experience of this domain when
I allow a secondary (or perhaps primary) "channel" to become devoted to
those assorted concerns that should "really matter". Laying
back under the sun that is nearing mid-day, I think what it would be, if
somehow I really could just set down my load as a "responsible citizen"
and endure lasting truancy up here in the hollow. The general conclusion
is that I'd soon be hankering to go back, only then I'd presumably be in
a worse spot as a social contender than before my "desertion". I
sigh in something of an incomplete recognition of the kind of stern factors
that hold a man in place, once he's "addicted to" modern life and its trappings.
Knowing how it will be when the hand of my regimented life calls me
back, I do what I can to get a solid "hold" on this spot, so that the grounding
it provides will never be all that far below when I get pushed to
higher levels again in excitement's urgings. If I were really
"relaxed", of course, I would not have such a terrible sense that everything
is going to vanish without determined efforts at "holding open" the door
to these woods. Perhaps what I'm seeing here is a case of guilt,
over having left the others behind on such a day as I continue to live
and have nominal "usefulness" to their commerce and their causes.
One would think there could be a better way, one where all causes,
personal and joint, are fully addressed. I suppose that because
I see the "distinction" between the two, I'm not helping matters much.
I am beginning to feel sweaty, and I will eventually need to
wash myself down with water from the river. I have heard what overheating
can do, which is why I took a long drink from the canteen on the way out.
When I decide I've "had enough", then I will be able
to rouse myself from this bunk and head for shade. At present, I
do not sense immediate calamity, so I stay out here, with a barely-perceptible
breeze at hand to remind me that I am, indeed, outdoors. Why does
it sound so sinfully "good", anyway, to let myself "coast along" on my
own initiative? Would that I could rejoin the fold and do those mind-numbing
labors! I would put all of this "acting out" behind me and be "good"
again; the occasion for my ongoing apology would be behind me.
I feel the sweat beginning to form on my face, and I know my back is
already soaked through. I will soon douse this interval's effect
in the proper waters of the river. I don't really want to
be any sort of "rebel" by holding to a position that is so "high and dry".
I'm just looking for a way to let loose my limbs from their stance of defensive
cowering and feel genuinely "grounded", "rooted", "settled", or whatever
the word is that describes a land that justs lets me be. I try my
best to use the woods as my counterpoise, taking the full dose of what
I have coming back there in real life, but it is clear that I cannot serve
the two masters with the same impartiality. City living--why, that's
the abode of love, for people are so thoroughly "juxtaposed", while
this barren clearing is obviously "self-serving". The roles of God
and mammon are well established. The two must be reconciled,
for I need them both.
Finally, I've taken my limit of the direct sun. I head for the
back porch, where I douse myself and my attitude in a lengthy deluge from
the shower above the roof. A person such as myself is ever on the
move, in search of abiding comfort and the chance for restoration.
"Bo"
20 July 2001 -- A minimum of contact
With the generally-effective "separating" effect of the 4.1 miles of
dirt two-track road in action today, I find myself in search of the ideal
"resting place" today at the Cabin. I had felt it necessary to "pull
the plug" on the relentless stream of irritations and interruptions that
comprise my usual multimedia interface to the world. I usually get
some pretty good relief from that dreadful sense of "overload" when I can
"back off" successfully, though there are a limited number of "hiding places"
in my real life that I can occupy as often as I'd like. It's a rather
warm and damp day in the hollow on this occasion of escape, with a sultry
form of hazy partial overcast in which the "blue" portions of the sky are
comparable in color to the adjacent clouds. The external perimeter
of these secluded acres, complex though it is, has not been designed to
capture my attention and coerce me into action, as is the implicit trouble
with sitting like this in a real life dwelling.
I am walking slowly, and in something of a daze, past the truck, the
outhouse and the woodshed, noting again the Cabin on my left. It
is late morning, meaning the kitchen wall and fieldstone chimney are still
within a nominal shadow, though the ambient light of the hazy sky still
brings out the vermilion color of the siding. This area of the "yard"
is given over to an assortment of short brush, growing where the gravel
and fractured rock give way to patches of suitable soil. Passing
the "back" edge of the out-buildings, I arrive at the hammock, which I
have left hanging between two pine trees in the small stand above the ravine.
This is a different sort of "world", where the pine needles and bark are
the prevailing botanical influences, despite the best attempts of the surrounding
deciduous forest.
Hanging heavily in the mesh of the hammock, not moving any more than
I have to, I still hear charges of my "laziness" coming from the progenitors
of progress, in chiding remnants of signals that have recently been fed
directly into my head. From many social circles and from many information
appliances have "their" exhortations come, the ones to buy and to
be a part of the great and moving "movements" that form the self-glorious
"population". Since I am only dealing with second-hand echoes here,
I find that it is eventually possible to "give them the slip". Those
sources no longer have a hardwired connection, so I am able to let my mind
drift over to the wondrous calm and steady-state reassurance of the river
I hear flowing below. My opposition is out of sight and will soon
be out of mind. I know it's sad to think of all encounters as essentially
adversarial until proven otherwise, but then that's life on the "East Coast".
All are in contention for what is scarce, or so the assumption goes.
No, I doubt that the disposition of the greater bulk of that urban society
is a whole lot better than the indifferent, self-centered disregard that
is my own. I can see that in my judgment, I am judged myself, and
that I have some serious Golden Rule violations outstanding. Well,
I am here in the woods, with the pathways closed to my personal
"I/O". I have a certain confidence that I'm not out there,
actively stirring up trouble and incurring further transgressions.
I shift slightly against the less-than-steady rope mesh of the hammock,
figuring I'll soon be up and off to another of my well-known places to
crash out. I'm seeking, of course, the ideal of what is to me a high
calling--a life of such disconnection that even the mere presence of the
slightly swaying evergreen branches above will rise to offer sublime and
euphoric fulfillment. There is sure to be a "track" out here that
I have yet to embody as it should be embodied, the one that takes inputs
on a more reasonably "human" level.
I finally do get out of the hammock and head for the back porch,
squinting some against the hazy sun now that I'm out in the open again.
I enter through the cedar-scent of the panelling near the kitchen door,
taking a drink from the cistern before stumbling, heavily, to the next
installment of my siesta, over on the bunk. It isn't so
hot today that I can't feel comfortable in the shade of the building here,
and the wide open screens, front and rear, permit an infusion of that full
and wonderful air to enter, along with the rising cicada choruses.
I am "shut off", I remind myself, though such terminology suggests
the opposite of my intent. I should want instead to shut off the
irritating signals arriving at my beleaguered input terminals.
Sunk deeply into the down cover of my bed, I push back those assorted and
aggressive influences from my centers of vulnerability. Out of harm's
way, I, too, hope to do no harm.
"Bo"
24 July 2001 -- My proper and settled scene
There is no question that it is hotter than I'd generally "prefer" today,
as I wander around in the haziness of the clearing in lightweight nylon
shorts and sport sandals. I begin to wonder just what kind of an
"ideal getaway" I have in fact created up here at 3800 feet, when "nature"
has this to offer. Looking about from my vantage point along
the trail that eventually leads up the side of the ridge, I do have
to quietly acknowledge the exuberant expression of wildflower growth that
adorns the assorted greenery among the granite boulders. There is
such a diversity of subtly-varying shades, values and saturations to this
color, something that holds my attention in an assortment of interesting
ways. When my overall motion is slowed as it is under such sun, I
have time to fix my gaze at length upon some of these areas, with color
that is tangible to more than mere vision. Indeed, my senses of all
persuasions drive a softly-settled internal "feeling", one whose origins
derive from actual external stimulation, memories of other such times from
my youth and the predispositions I've carried since birth. Interpretation,
indeed, is the larger part of my perception.
I know I can't expect too much activity from my body while I
continue to stay in a setting this warm. So long as I am willing
to accept this "limitation", I am able to spend a surprisingly-long time
out here with no climate control. Perhaps that is how an extreme
such as this can "fit" into my attempt at an optimized utopia in the woods.
Heat just "gets in the way" of city life, where speed is of the essence,
while here it is actually part of the "essence". I suppose
I'm doing myself a disservice when I seek out these times of fewer concerns
and "inputs", since the truly "evolved" man should find himself right at
home in the urban hustle. That, after all, is arguably the highest
form of human expression; the city. This remote settlement, on the
other hand, is something that might be recognizable to a colonial American,
even if Thomas Jefferson or James Madison might find it "below" his gentlemanly
station. We defer so readily to the vaunted yeomanry who could not
escape a fair dose of life in the unimproved and generally "wild" countryside,
even if today's moneyed "upper crust" sees such a lifestyle as "backward"
and "deprived".
Of course, what really makes it "possible" to spend any length of time
walking around out here in the sun is my "release" from the obligations
that are otherwise incumbent upon an urban "inmate" in real life.
A schedule that is truly "free" is a tantalizing thing to imagine, and
perhaps only a theoretical entity at that. Since there is always
something I "could be doing" within the life-scape that I've permitted
to develop around me in the city, I am never left without that internal
tension that is constantly "checking the chart" for the next assignment.
Though I like to think that I am nurturing such a "free" environment for
my recreational activity at the Cabin, I am sadly not getting enough of
a "cross section" of it in my daily thoughts to implant the imagery as
an ongoing thread in my mental process. Though I might see this lush
and vibrant field before me during the actual time I spend on one of these
visits, I know the goal is something more--a total "revision" of my cognitive
mechanism that allows the Cabin and the hollow to become portable "accessories",
to be whipped out and used whenever real life is taking too large a toll
upon my better sensibilities.
These reservations aside, I do like the chances I get to live
out a summer day outdoors without some imperative pushing me along at an
uncomfortable rate. The "propriety" of this setting continues to
occur to me, as I make another in my series of many frequent pauses amid
the flowering wild. This aspect of summer represents a valid "suspension"
of the rampant calls to whatever is "next". Indeed, I am given to
one of my favorite states of being when I have such a "load" upon me;
the one of suitably-complacent "oblivion". When I think long enough
about this, I must acknowledge that I partake of this "opiate" at other
points among the seasons as well, but there is always the same comforting
"release", no matter how it's achieved. I feel gratifyingly "weighted"
and "restrained" out here in the clearing, though I know it will all look
a little foolish when I get back to the world of air conditioning.
Still, these colors are, for now, a truly wonderful sight, even if they
will be soon enough forgotten when it comes time to get back in the game.
"Bo"
28 July 2001 -- Responding to the unavoidable
Something of a "front" has moved past overnight, depositing a fair amount
of rain onto the receptive plants of the hollow and the resistant asphalt
roof of the Cabin. Were it not "summer" and relatively warm outside,
I'd call an overcast day like this a "dreary" one. It has stayed
thoroughly wet in the grass I encounter in thin patches as I walk
across the "driveway" to use the outhouse. I have no strong desire
today to be engaged in cross-country bushwhacking, when my clothing could
wind up so rapidly drenched. This is a day, instead, for "hanging
around" inside, even if the natural lighting is a bit weak.
I am sure to see other times soon where the heat of the sun and the general
prevalence of dust amid the broken gravel will resume their roles in forming
the principal definition of my experience up here at altitude.
I step back inside the front entrance, letting the screen door bang
into position to frame a grayish-green, lush backdrop; the extent of the
clearing and the distant deciduous trees in the prime of their growing
season. Since it is just a little difficult to see everything clearly
in the living room, I light the kerosene lamp beside the sofa, its incandescence
changing the balance of color and its effect upon the "mood" that is in
place. My gratitude for the dry muslin slipcover on the sofa
is renewed, after the conditions I had to observe when I was outside.
I stretch myself out with my head beneath the lamp, watching the faint
shadows follow the flickering flame. I do not have the "docket"
of chores and distractions at hand that typically characterize a Saturday
in city life. I am now "free" to pursue my own whimsy, to
the extent that my internal mood will "humor" me. Since I'm a little
"on edge" today, I am not at all confident that I will witness such compliance.
I have often resented the "arbiter within" that assigns each of my moments
its predisposing "climate", something that seems as chaotic and unpredictable
as the weather that goes on outside. Of course, when conditions are
good, the issue is moot, since I am then able to "ride out" the
fortunate phenomenon until I am left again, deposited in another barren
place. Because my mind is so "fixed" on this injustice of life's
arrangement, it becomes apparent that I am in one of those lesser times
as I lay here. Time simply must be spent; there's no proven
way out. I am bothered by needing to play host to my unwelcome and
dominant "guest", and if it is actually a "part of me", I am not yet willing
to accept it as such. Compounding this resident annoyance is the
inescapable certainty that life's "precious" intervals of time are
leaking unchecked from the place I hold them dear. This "store" has
an indeterminate quantity, yet its outflow and consumption forms an essential
component of life's ongoing temporal "metabolism".
When I think over the problem in these terms, it becomes a resentment
of my ironclad and fundamental overall "helplessness". It is like
being a child again, chafing at the reins of "authority". The ones
"in charge" now tell me that I am "free"; that I have paid my implicit
"dues" and may do whatever I am willing to be held accountable for.
But my present problem is not one of dealing with my "elders".
No, I am now face-to-face with governing principles not administered by
man but still an inseparable part of being a man. The best
"it" (or "he") does is act on occasion "in my favor", giving me those wondrous,
settled times. Those with a greater inclination towards morality
would say I must have done something right, though many of this
same population would deny that I could ever "earn" such realized "freedom".
The powers I'm dealing with are hardly capable of being "persuaded" by
the puny likes of me, anyway.
Still noticeably agitated as I lay here on this gray summer's day, I
am at least consoled to have deduced the presence of a ruling "body" that
is impossible to deny and impossible to manipulate. Painful though
the process may be, my life is underpinned and regulated by "agents"
whose independence has never fallen fully subject my will.
It is interesting to note the interplay of my predisposing authority and
my own volitive response to it. Conventional wisdom would state that
the wise respondent to this provided situation would behave in such "precision"
as to maximize the result of life's final outcome; e.g., "what happens".
But then I've already seen that I have little chance of authoring such
an intricate response, for it would need always to complement an unfathomably
capricious "pattern"; God's own unbreakable "code", by which intelligence
"hides" from the under-enlightened in pure "noise".
I can see, therefore, that I need to take a different stance, relative
to the "central planner". Justice resides in this "system" and its
terrible swift capacity, only I cannot deal with it by dictating "terms"
of my own. If I am now bound in a difficult posture, it is sure to
move on; I will just have to pass more time. This seems implicit
in life's own "definition"; a part of sustained "being".
"Bo"
Ahead to August 2001
