1 May 2001 -- A proper yet unseen way
The clearing this afternoon is delightfully and overwhelmingly "taken"
by spring's bright green furnishings, which have now acquired a respectable
quality of "permanence". The question is no longer "when will it
warm up?" but "how hot will it get?". It is clear that I could have
saved myself a lot of anxious suffering in February and March if I hadn't
"let" the cold and dreary conditions become a reason to find fault with
myself for simply being alive in the "wrong" place and time.
I do not recall there being an explicit definition beforehand of what was
"right" about a given circumstance in life, anyway. Still, I am not
quite ready to concede that any one time is as good as another. There
are absolute standards; such as the preferability of a day in which
I no longer need to wear even my "spring weight" jacket to come outside
and spend some time picking my way through the well-emplaced thicket.
If there is any resentment bothering me today, it derives from
the old standby--that I am not "getting enough done" to take advantage
of a day for which the question of beauty is already settled. It
does not matter that some of my fondest memories are of times when I was
quite happy doing "nothing" at all. I am also well aware that accomplishment
in itself rarely satisfies this implicit requirement, one that looks to
have come from somewhere "outside of" myself. So there I have it:
I have been "condemned" to a life that will never be "good" enough on the
basis of how I use my time. It should, by this formulation, be just
as "good" to sit around in a state of profound inactivity, since all prospective
efforts will come up lacking. This is where I sigh the wistful sigh
of the Philosopher in Ecclesiastes, that champion of rich living in the
present moment.
The fact remains, however, that there are "better" ways of exercising
my free will, whose presence is typically defended by those of greater
philosophical enlightenment. If I could follow those ways in all
situations, then surely goodness would follow me as I carried on afterward.
For any given set of external realities, this means that I will "win" the
"game" if I make the right moves when they are called for. This belief
in a real-but-hidden "prescription" or "formula" for day-to-day living
may be an encouragement when it becomes evident that I've done something
"right", but what about those long spells in the darkness, when my coincidences
are far from happy ones? Even here, on this bright first day of May,
I can sense that I should be involved in something besides these idle ruminations.
Why, if I could read what is written on that constantly-advancing, secret
scroll, I would never have a "missed" moment. It would all be good.
Since I do not have the internal assurance that I'm doing "well"
on this visit, I will let things continue to unfold, in the same patient
wait that should have been my preparation for the arrival of spring.
Who is it that actually holds me accountable for "wasting time", anyway?
I suppose it has to be God, only those closer to his confidence do not
typically make him out to be so stern. While the "proper" work for
these idle hands is not always evident, I tend to doubt that they are instead
doing errands for those powers of lesser repute. It looks more like
I am at the behest of a "null" taskmaster, the one of reluctant and mediocre
avoidance that is conservative in its risk of precious emotional resources
on unproven courses of action. Thinking that my further progress
has fallen today into an example of such a doldrum, I locate a higher,
dried-out patch of earth in the shadow of a large granite rock, where I
have a seat, knowing it can't stay like this for long.
"It is the month of May", I tell myself, "and it shouldn't be hard to
find praiseworthy occupation for my hours under the sun". I take
a few deep breaths of the rich, earthy aroma, spiced as it is with the
many varieties of plants growing nearby. I begin to see what makes
for "properly" idle time--an immersion in immediate surroundings so complete
and compelling that I am drawn out from my lazy hiding place within, to
see a more balanced picture of the situation at hand. This is how
those enviable times usually felt so "good" in the past; a change in viewpoint.
The idea that there is a set of "rules" for better living is no longer
the central issue, for the center has shifted. This, I suppose, is
what is meant elsewhere in Scripture, where the law should become written
on one's heart, and thus no longer studied second-hand. A restrained
and casual time, spent drifting along with the great "flow", is indeed
all I'm really "supposed to" do. It is good to have lost that futile
body of unseen imperatives, at least for the time being.
"Bo"
5 May 2001 -- Securely held in place
One of the sure signs of summer's imminence in the hollow this morning
is the almost-damp haziness that obscures much of the fine detail along
the ridge-top but is still not quite the thickness of "fog". There
is a large abundance of birdsong outside today as I walk idly about the
diffusely-lit dooryard, without a whole lot of anything "to do".
The gravel is now dry enough to be loose and crunchy under my sport sandals,
and I get the sense that the insects could be "out" in significant force
today. Perhaps the upcoming afternoon will bring one of those summer-like,
fast-moving squalls, the kind that puts the integrity of the asphalt roof
to the test. There is sun for now, to the extent it survives the
haze, and it is the kind of day where folks in the mainstream would be
expected to do those "outside" chores. With everything pretty much
"taken care of" up here at the Cabin, however, I am left as I am now, just
to "bum around".
I listen some more to the sounds of the enveloping forest as I head
over towards the woodshed and the edge of the ravine. There is such
evidence of activity that the impression of being thoroughly and
completely "contained" by the wild is renewed as part of my cognitive state.
This is total "removal", yes, from all of that real life annoyance, and
there is no alternative but to concede the essential perfection
of my isolation. I walk to the woodshed door and open the hasp, which
has never needed a padlock, and I gaze for a moment into the dark area
where, perhaps, a good face-cord of oak and maple is still left from the
winter. With an obviously "living" world outside instead of a barren
snowscape, the wood has regained some of its past-season identity as a
living participant. Up the trails, of course, the fallen trunks are
indeed "alive", with moss, fungi and insects, "factors" that are kept from
this space by the elevated concrete floor and pressure-treated structural
elements.
With my vision adapted to the darker space, I see what I now know I
came for--the rolled-up hammock from last season, also in a well-preserved
state, standing against one of the framework studs. This I carry
towards the wood-plank door, where I must stop for a moment when the light
of day returns to hit my eyes. I walk along through the low grass
beyond the beaten-smooth area that defines the "end" of the dirt road,
watching to avoid any chance of encountering poison ivy or thorns.
I reach the area of the hemlock pines, fragrant with pitch and naturally
mulched by its characteristic floor of needles. From here, the sound
of the river is quite pronounced, in the immediate distance downhill.
I am not sure of exactly where I deployed this hammock last year,
but then it doesn't really matter. I locate two stout, scaly trunks
about 10 feet apart and securely tie off the two end-ropes. Before
long, I am at rest in the soft netting, looking upwards at the finely-intermeshed
evergreen branches.
This is complete seclusion, so sweet, and so sought-after on
those busy city days, and I need to get my fill. No one driving over
the river culvert on State Highway 735, 4 miles away, could imagine that
this settlement has been upstream and in use for 5 seasons. While
I have at times seen the river as a metaphor for my call to return to that
other life, I feel fairly stable in this present accommodation. I
am holding my own, against whatever vestigial boredom, discomfort or longing
for excitement I happen to encounter. It is a condition that lulls
me, sweetly, towards a sort of sleep that is nearly complete, yet conscious
enough to support fine, elemental emotion. Everything is as it "should"
be; this is the stuff that composes the American Dream of a well-merited
leisure episode. I realize, of course, that I do have that
"other" role to play when I get back, as part of the 21st century America,
only this kind of setting never goes out of style.
I turn to my right and continue listening to the birds and the river,
on this calm day of my lesser obligation. I can see the open spaces
of the clearing, of course, and the truck as well, but this is no ordinary
agora; the stuff to make a tired man cringe. It is instead
a place that allows me the kind of "freedom" I seek, every so often.
As I begin to drift off, with my eyes still holding and cherishing
the scene beyond the grass and the darkened far wall of the woodshed, I
know that there is nothing truly "permanent" about the details of this
season's forest. Still, the underlying design values and biological
principles have stayed as they have been my entire life, and I am invited
to a privileged land, and not one internal to "just me". This is
the place where all continues on, in a larger coherence, perhaps well-characterized
as the "kingdom of heaven".
It is a calm and reassuring experience, to be held up by such a firm
support as this.
"Bo"
9 May 2001 -- Away from the pointless fight
It is another of those average days to be expected in May: while
it is not yet hot, there is still every suggestion of what will
be here by the end of the month. That will be "summer"'s official
commencement, when these precursor days will have served their purpose
in prompting the usual variety of vacation schemes among the urban confinees.
For me, it might as well be summer, since my preferred mode of leisure
is to keep the others out of sight, without contending for beach space
or the ideal rental property. Sitting up here on my secluded front
porch, I do not have to find my proper place in the overall "order".
Some might say, "but this is America; we have social mobility. No
one has 'trapped' you where you are." Still, to see the others move
"ahead of me" on that promise is always disheartening, and if I were to
go in search of the ones who have gone the "other way", I'd just feel guilt
on top of it. No, jostling for position is not what I want
today.
The hazy sun and general brightness across the clearing does much to
embolden my spirits, since these become incident upon my resting hulk with
no special effort on my part. I know that this sentiment is little
more than participation in an ill-presumed version of the entitlement state,
asking where my "something" is while manifesting an obvious quantity of
"nothing". I am most likely "selling out" by developing this capacity
for nominal and mediocre "joy" in response to basic and unremarkable "truths"
such as the way the sun looks on a day in early May. I need instead
to resume my right and patriotic role as an achiever, a consumer, and an
adder of value to the common weal, or at least that's how the line of guilt
and/or shame would spur me to act. I know, however, what happens
when I pick up that heavy yoke in real life. It's more emotional
load than I care to have at the present.
So I am on out on this weathered plank porch, in rather balmy conditions
around 70 degrees F, while the others go about their rounds in the city.
I have heard on many an occasion from the ones denouncing my "misplaced"
envy as egregious sin, but these same would not hamper anything that promises
growth and ever greater prosperity. Indeed, there is a model of that
process right here, as the foliage extends towards its final summer configuration.
This proliferation, I suppose, falls into the same category as human enterprise;
it is simply what the organisms involved will do. In my questioning
such pursuit of abundance, I am clearly failing to "affirm life", but this
avoidance remains viable in my mind as a way of relaxing from the amount
of hustling I need to do to keep from sinking like a stone in that real
world society.
Still, I cannot drive the picture from my mind of a fully competent
plan, and one in concert with the sensibilities of nature and human
nature, in which a straightforward course will allow me to feel at every
moment as if I'm in the peace and quiet, with no further competition than
myself and the basic environmental factors of this hollow. It is
a form of "hunkering down", I suppose, and the assumption of a lower profile.
I will get kicked in any number of places and ways if I entertain
for long the expectations of the truly "glorified" among the citizenry.
I just wish it didn't have to be so rough on my physical and emotional
constitution to play along with them. Perhaps I am not qualified
to walk in that realm because of my misperceptions that always make it
a battle to the finish. The selfish, the vain and the proud are notorious
anyway for having a presumed "humiliation" coming along, somewhere in their
future.
It is just as good that I don't have to spend the kind of time
that some do in the social mechanism, for this unsuitable "attitude" would
quickly become my undoing. I let myself sink still further into the
creaking metal chair, while I perform an internal exercise that minimizes
my exposed cross-sectional area to the resentments, guilt, and yes, occasional
anger, over the supposedly-worthless cards I've been dealt.
"It's not true, any of it," I say to myself. "Things are 'good'.
I am just overwrought and tired. I need my rest." I look to
the inside of my emotional constitution at this point, where a number of
errant threads of thought are in operation, the ones that would condemn
me. It's just a whole lot of "noise", with no overarching "signal".
I find myself needing to erect a partition to close off all of that,
while still suspecting that it isn't going anywhere. Maybe it will
somehow lose its strength in such a stronghold, and I will walk away from
it relatively unscathed.
I settle some more into the chair, perhaps in denial, perhaps in desperation,
but at least in peace. This is what I get today.
"Bo"
12 May 2001 -- Living under reduced conditions
In the brief time I have on this warm day of overcast skies, I am almost
afraid of letting myself "collapse in a heap", for I know how soon
I'll have to be back up and at it again. The clearing is spread out
in its usual late-spring abundance, quiet and inviting in the space it
is allotted below the randomly-rough upper ridge. I have had to begin
making a point of getting enough to drink when I'm in this place of no
central air, and the effect of adhering to that guideline is a gratifying
one. I have located a spot in the grass that makes for a good place
to stretch out, since even small amounts of absolute rest are better than
none. I haul my GI poncho liner out from the bed and toss it over
the rough surface, then proceed to lay myself down. This is the pose
advocated by the "relaxation" therapy folks; the one of uncrossed arms
that have no trouble feeling heavy.
There are a fair number of insects buzzing about my face, but none that
are more than an annoyance. In the kind of resolve that makes such
a situation something to be appreciated for its merits of natural
authenticity, I begin to close off the usual responses to petty discomfort.
I'm trying to figure out how I got to be so run down today. It seems
that the simple fact of being "out and about" is enough to impose a physical
load. Well, I'm not carrying any burden now, at least.
I'm certain that I'll be able to return with a different take on the schedule
of assignments that remain undone, once city life reclaims me. Perhaps
I had been unconsciously thrashing about, over-controlling and over-compensating
with my set of faculties, the struggle that always looks odd when its over.
There is nothing here before me but open sky--and insects--so that particular
energy-sink is not quite as deep at the moment.
Thinking of my current exasperating befuddlement, I can see that I don't
know how to "approach" the "task" that life's compliance presents to me
on a daily basis. Intuitively, I should think I'd do well to be a
man of fewer "preparations", since the world is well adapted to assist
citizens such as myself that don't have everything in place. That
means I have to trust in the goodness of others, a policy that has its
wide range of acceptable and unacceptable results. I can see
today, however, that I have grown so tired from the process back
there in real life that I can't even muster the energy to run this kind
of "analysis" for long in my head. I will not have an "answer",
and thus I am left to whatever will befall me on account of this ignorance.
I continue to let my pushed-around weight find what support it can from
the uneven surface of the clearing. I am not certain how well I can
continue the narrative, only there must be something to form meaningful
commentary, even if it is low on utilitarian content. I'm on the
verge of one of those moments of "silence" so intense that not even recollected
memories can be ferried safely away, as in the popular image of light trapped
by "black holes". I become just a little worried at this break in
the action, for it seems to invite me to that rare and often-frightening
state of simply "being alive". This is not the usual "assignment"
for a person who will habitually formulate and embellish the picture of
his surroundings as would a foreign correspondent reporting home to his
syndicated readers.
I feel my weight continue to stay where it is, as the occasional breeze
passes overhead. The emptiness of this current interval is
something to be appreciated on its own dubious merits. This is the
opposite of pushing ahead; I am letting those life's seconds elapse with
neither note nor redemption. There are hints now that this "siege"
might soon be "lifted" by a resumption of spontaneous internal conversation.
I would like it better, though, if it didn't have to be an actual conversation
that begins in my head. I can imagine instead the incredible sufficiency
of "experience" in its most basic form, the kind whose "goodness" is self-evident.
I will be needing to return to the city before long. While
I might see some of that better "way" in the time I have left, I doubt
it will do much to remedy the underlying habits that always keep the thought
of the Cabin somewhere in the back of my mind as an "escape route".
I see myself arriving at last at another of those trivially-true platitudes,
the one about needing to discern the "things I cannot change". There
really is a whole lot of "nothing" in my thought process today.
This is the greatest fear, perhaps, of all--the one of being tossed onto
some future surplus heap as both redundant and irrelevant.
Still, the providers, in their variable goodness, give me some credit,
if as nothing more than a consuming comrade. Somehow, I always get
by.
"Bo"
17 May 2001 -- The inescapable load
I'm at rest at one of my typical places for spending unclaimed time--the
sofa in the living room, with its arms so soft I do not need pillows there
for my head. Since it is cloudy today, the indoor illumination is
noticeably scant for this time of the afternoon. With summer so close,
there is a full feeling of atmospheric "warmth", so this is not like the
true "darkness" of winter. Indeed, it was almost "stiflingly" warm
when I was last outside. The various plant species are passing through
their seed phases, which does little good for a person prone to allergy,
and any trip up an incline now is enough to add an intense level of uncomfortable
sweatiness to the mixture. I suppose if I am good enough at the game
of putting myself after others, I can summon the "will" to bear all of
these personal burdens. Of course, that trick helps when the others
are actually here.
Laying in a somewhat restless state on my back and looking towards the
darkened world of the rafters and ceiling planks, I do what I can to determine
ways in which I can be "useful" in real life without being "broken".
Jumping in like that always has a way of getting "out of hand", as if I
were somehow so relieved of my guilt in hiding out that I take on
more involvement than I need to have. Continuous presence in the
multitude is the intuitive "answer" to that, only I wind up with unrelenting
fatigue whenever I begin to approximate such living. There
are ways around this, I'm sure, as developed by spiritual leaders and self-help
practitioners. These still need people to buy their books and fill
their edifices, however, and their initial motive is necessarily suspect,
once it has attracted followers.
This raises the question of what is the substance and responsibility
that accompany the daunting "job" of either presenting--or accepting--the
particular and peculiar demands that accompany each personality and its
agenda. I suspect that I am at fault for my demands upon myself,
as a perfectionist who is nowhere near perfection. The authenticity
inherent in the folks who do not claim to be using any special "technique"
is always as amazing at it is humbling. "Average" people they are,
only they take what's coming to them. I doubt I'd really want
their lives, since I derive too much solace from a fairly continual option
of getting away to one of my many hiding places. Maybe I'm actually
jealous of what they have, and this is all one big "sour grapes"
routine. It could be a unilateral pathology in operation; a "world
of woe" that exists only within myself.
I hear the beginnings of rain upon the rooftop as I close my eyes and
listen to the empty space in this living room and sleeping area.
I'm so "free", yes I am, that I have the chance to make "repairs" in the
shelter of this solitude. The others in the city have to deal with
living, breathing "life", making temporary fixes under the pressure and
distraction of interpersonal expectation. But really, I have just
finished saying that most of what I call "stress" is my own mal-adaptation
and internal reaction. I have to wonder sometimes if the "normal"
back there in real life are so completely saturated by their ongoing commitments
that they have found their way to a highly-dynamic, "real-time" mode of
dealing with what comes up. This would explain their apparent authenticity.
I am glad for this life, though, for I am convinced that there is abiding
merit in allowing my system to become quiet, rather than continually operating
it at its limit. It is not in my better interest to attempt what
the others do, for I cannot easily live with the thought of an imperfect
system that will fail. The others might or might not fill
in, were I to fail in my initial outings in their midst. It even
occurs to me that this very practice of running to isolation is itself
a mode of "failure", since the typical social response is to "hang in there"
and stay in the game. I have demonstrable continuity in the thoughts
of those I do need to deal with, so absence might just be an equivalent
to defeat in one of those humbling encounters, rather like a team that
forfeits by not showing up. I better face it, I'll never have a real
handle on all of what befalls a 21st century man--and I doubt that many
others do, either.
It is raining now, and though I continue to notice all of the
petty physical annoyances of this tired old body, I am not at all surprised
that it must be this way.
"Bo"
21 May 2001 -- A day for hanging on
With the rain that has persisted for the last few days, I am pretty
well confined to the indoors this morning. Looking over the back
of the sofa through the opened screens, I see the increasingly-lush growth
in the nearby clearing, building what reserve it can now against the later
droughts that summer may bring. It is on the cool side out
there, and I am tempted to close up the windows and build a fire in the
fireplace, only I do enjoy the damp, "earth"-scented air that is generated
by the soaked ground and its cover. I am almost given over to what
it must be like to live "as a plant", where there is a different "understanding"
of a rainy day. Though I may just be looking for a way to live with
whatever weather comes my way, there is an underlying, objective cause
for inspiration in this forest domain, in its burgeoning process of regeneration.
I continue to gaze at the spread of wild vegetation, upon which the
various prominent granite boulders appear as "floating" craft or stalwart
"islands", depending upon my choice of metaphor. The overcast skies
do not allow my imagination its full range of ascent, so I might end up
"bored" if I stay long enough in this position. I know what I'm
after--those bright, splendid days of summer sun, tempered by the 3765-foot
altitude, in which there is just enough heat to "support" and "encourage"
a time of easy living. If I were given a better state of optimism
this morning, I could recognize how soon that "carefree" time might appear,
though it will take awhile for things to dry out. It is tough to
be contained in the present moment, at those times when the moment is an
unenviable one.
The rain continues, softly and persuasively, as if the terrain had called
specifically for such a treatment. It drips from the edge of the
eaves and forms minimal puddles in the small-scale variations in the ground
surface. I should probably be looking for "something to do" today,
so that it will be "done" when life outdoors becomes more realistic.
Time keeps on passing, which means the "better" times will arrive.
I am frustrated, though, that these moments, too, are not so filled
with exuberance. There should be a reliable way to "allow"
my mind to know the usually-gratifying reality of having such a large "private
space" as this. When I am successful in such an endeavor, I am launched
into a grand "adventure" of occupation, where the woodlands become an extension
of this small indoor space. Then, I am truly "at home".
It is, indeed, a cozy "stasis" that befalls me, whenever I see my surroundings
rise at last to cradle me in their secure-yet-soft appendages, and I am
always a little upset when I am "rejected" by an otherwise-"good" setting.
I am unwilling to accept uncritically that "the world isn't fair" or that
"into every life some rain must fall". No one has delineated the
"proof" of these premises; a way of contentment is surely eluding me and
favoring others who didn't even have to search. The promoters of
serendipitous acceptance would point at once to my ardent search as the
very reason I do not find. For them, the best results go to those
who attend to other matters, disposed at seemingly-unrelated right angles
to the main quest. So this is the reason why I need to occupy
myself otherwise, on a day in which the basic reality of the outdoor world
does not contain the power it needs to cause spontaneous satisfaction.
I let myself sink, slumpingly, into the sofa, finally feeling the chill
of the air from the screens. The thought of all the latent majesty
that I am not realizing is enough to let me fall headlong into a general-purpose
"pit". I know that there are aspirations that I am not properly
funding with decisive action, and it is a sense of guilt that overcomes
me, when I think of all I have been given in this life. I begin to
go through the accessible portions of my disposition, looking for ways
in which I have been consciously "holding back" when I had the power to
do "more". If I have "done my best", then I will be justified, or
at least that was the way it was in grade school. I am somewhat dismayed
that this sense that I am dealing with a higher authority is something
that doesn't seem to have a firm basis, except in the etherealisms of mind,
consciousness and spirit.
Well, I will do what I can. That, by definition, is all I can
be held "responsible for". I would like those finer days to
arrive soon, though--the pictures I have been supplied of the great "benefactor"
do not have a real place for these ongoing journeys through lesser times.
If I am being "tested", I sure wish I could know who else is writing the
"questions".
"Bo"
25 May 2001 -- Compensation for my burdens
On this somewhat overcast day, I have decided to make an attempt at
"quality rest" in the hammock behind the woodshed. It is still fairly
wet out here after all the rain that passed through, and I wouldn't want
to be spending long walking around in the tall grass. Many areas
of the clearing are sure to assume a fully-humid, "jungle"-like condition
when the sun finally appears in force and things warm up some more.
Settling myself in to the nylon rope rigging I've set up above the needle-floored
stand of pine, I'm getting a little of that sense of enclosing and supportive
dampness, though my process of perspiration is still well-enabled.
It's
generally non-descript in these woods today, nothing to cause any
particularly overwhelming spontaneous inspiration.
I know I have achieved one of the two conditions that allow my
jostled self, soul and nerves to begin their repair--I have arrived at
a suitable location. The next challenge is to develop an abiding
internal disposition, to "let" this place do what I know it can.
I need to see the whole hollow as a soft, enfolding, personal support;
indeed, one where I can "let go" and know where I'll land. When I
am successful in this exercise, I remove a whole layer or more of constraining
strictures, like a workman who sheds his vocational attire at the end of
his day's duty. It is hard to tell just what I'll "get" today, as
I become conscious of my weight and the way it is being held by the netting
below. I am attempting to cultivate a wondrous quantity that I have
known since I was young--that feeling of "well-being" that "looks forward"
optimistically to an immediate future of no critical anxiety.
Real life, as I've been forced to recognize, will never let me stay
long in such a promising state. No, something always comes
along, to be done, responded to, avoided or negotiated. I am well
aware that the moments of uplift that I so cherish do not specifically
require an absence of concern and duty. Instead, those times
are full of "confidence" that I will rise to meet those challenges when
they do arrive. I close my eyes and let my mind uncouple itself from
a number of stubborn loads that real life has lashed to its harness.
In the unburdened state, it won't be all that hard to walk back
and pull as I absolutely must at the appropriate time. Maybe
this is how most people live; without the continual presence of solid,
grimly-shouldered loads that won't move much of the time anyway, no matter
what their effort.
I take a deep breath and sigh with a somewhat resolute acceptance of
how I've been "yoked" in recent times. I know it doesn't do me any
good to resist or resent a life having responsibility. Instead, I
let myself "believe" in the part-time dream of the ideal poise, the one
that neither abandons nor strains needlessly against those real life loads.
I sense that I have an aversion to compelling control at the hands
of other persons, places or situations, and it is freedom from these (or
at least an appearance of such) that make for the final stage of
release. They always need me to "drive here" or "be there" or "call
someone at this number", all of this requiring composure and capability.
Heaven forbid that I should have let down the level of anticipatory guard
that I need to attend to those matters in due time. Still, certain
compromises and co-existences are possible, and indeed increasingly necessary.
I know I've left a lot of "loose ends" in this escape, where I'd ordinarily
like to see them cauterized and safely secured when I've left on a "bender"
like this. Time does pass in great quantity in which I do
have "safe" "freedom", though, and the job is always to sit myself down
in a secure position, so as to know what lesser tension really "feels"
like. These woods have become something of an essential influence,
among the many that comprise my whole experience as a worked-over human
being. In the compounded shade of cloud and evergreen branches, I
derive what I hope will be beneficial to the overall conduct of those plural
affairs in city life. While I might end up encountering the scattered
loads I've shed when I continue on, I also know that this land is not going
anywhere I don't want it to. I will always be able to come back.
"Bo"
29 May 2001 -- The provisions of my hideaway
The typical cold and damp "mountain chill" is in the air as I get under
way this morning. This is what makes warm bedclothes something to
have on hand up here, even in the hottest of summer weather. Without
strong electric lighting, there is that feeling I know from camping, where
the sun gradually makes itself known via the windows, which I have yet
to open for the day. My experience of the outdoors today has come
from taking a trip to the outhouse, through the gravel and wet grass that
manage to survive in that part of the Cabin compound. It's almost
cold enough to see my breath out there, though the view I have of the ridge
top through the front window suggests a sun that promises to restore a
reassuring warmth, once it is given a chance. I should really open
the windows soon, for the birdsong is considerable at this time of day,
and always a welcome background sound when it joins the low roar of the
river.
I am in no particular hurry to begin any explicit tasks around
here this morning, especially with the outdoors the way they are.
I have toyed with the notion of climbing up the trail today, perhaps to
visit that spot I saw
almost a year ago, where a nearby spring would provide enough water for
a decent campsite. I suppose that's the "kid" in me again, wanting
to have his hideout. The Cabin itself has grown too "familiar" to
do the same service in that regard; it might just as well have a mailbox,
an IP address and a satellite dish. These, however, are not options,
at least in the original concept of this place. Maybe my life has
just grown too full of "the same old same old", and I'm after something
with variety's spice. This response would only be human, after all.
I'm picturing it now; the development of a sub-camp up there at 4500 feet,
so hidden and so immersed in the high woodland splendor.
I tell myself that the Cabin should have enough to allow me a
similar experience, only with decent shelter and sleeping quarters more
readily at hand. I must be using inefficient methods of visualization,
when I fail to see it as such. Am I somehow feeling "spoiled" by
this less-than-completely-"rough" dwelling? While the thought of
finding my way to the source of that high river might further my desire
to "get away", I know there is plenty to keep me "happy" right here.
The sun is finally over the top of the ridge, a stark and brilliant addition
to the formerly-darkened acres of trees and scrub. There is so much
"nothing" that is illuminated within the clearing and up the hillsides.
I have come far enough; I must simply become better aware that this "facility"
does what it should, all by itself.
I decide to put on some basic clothing and have a seat on the front
porch, now that there is direct sunlight. I let my mind "explore"
the notion of the miles of near-trackless wilderness that signify my having
become so well "hidden". I am indeed well-"emplaced" and "inserted"
into something that, by definition, is a "stronghold" against intrusion
and annoyance. It occurs to me that my very defiance in this escape
may add to my resentment when I return to the objectionable characteristics
of the human "flow". I refuse to classify this getaway as "pathological"
on those grounds, however. I am unwilling to see all attempts at
"hiding" as somehow "cowardly" and "immature". We're talking about
a yearning that has every right to live within an "adult" scheme of belief
and sentimental disposition. If there is a "problem", it is only
that I cannot yet craft a good-enough "second home" with only thoughts,
imagination and words as my building materials.
There are a whole lot of woods out there, even if the truth of
this concept does not quite make it to the tentative scene that I want
to join whenever I come out to try my hand at "adventure". Perhaps
I need to experience more in the real world that I can use in cobbling
together this idealized model, just as dreams typically find their source
material from previous real life. In the course of travels that I
have been given, I have obviously not stored enough in my parts
collection to build a good likeness of the hidden land that it is my general
intention to inhabit. The sun is now rising to a fuller height above
the ridge. Certainly I've seen light on the forest before.
It's time to go to work on my 39-1/2 years of memories, though I know the
resultant hollow will, by definition, be "second-hand".
I can see that my imagination will not go the full distance this morning.
I may well have "failed", only the acts of a grown man cannot be summarily
rejected as erroneous. I let myself sink into the chair on the porch,
closing my eyes against the sun. This is as "real" as it will get,
given the current constraints upon my creative faculties.
"Bo"
Ahead to June 2001
