4 November 2001 -- The hard duty of finding rest
I am doing what I can to experience a suitable interval of "relaxation",
up here in the leaf-covered clearing with its wood-frame structure, while
the rest of real life hurtles on and expects me to keep pace. The
sky is clear today, with no hint of haze or visibility reduction,
at least as far as the local ridge and adjoining summit-tops are concerned.
It would probably be a stunning day to be up there on the high ground,
I tell myself, only I just don't want to use my time that way.
Instead, I am at my most frequent resting place, the living room sofa,
with a "minimal" fire burning on account of the solar radiation that works
to my advantage through the single-pane windows. Something "gnaws
at me" as I conduct this practice of "doing nothing", as might the conscience
of a young, misbehaving child in one of those 1960's sit-coms. Though
I have demonstrated the value of being up here with everything shut off,
I am left with the feeling that I'm "wasting time" again.
I should think that my success in bringing such a large and magnificent
"place" as this to life would not look like such a "waste", in view
of the quantity of relief I have found in imagining the broad, open clearing
and the majesty of the mountain slopes when those grubby city streets have
begun to demand something "vital" of me during my ordinary rounds.
It isn't really that cold out there, either, and I should
be outside, getting in the full effect of one of these last of the hospitable
days of autumn. But then I'm just conceding my attention to the unspoken
"law" that there must always be a "program" that I should observe, even
on a "day off" such as this. Whatever I've done to weave this woodland
into being gets cut short by that imperative. I am probably
seeing the central and inherent difficulty of my efforts in this exercise,
since I am not the kind that can enter a whimsical mode at will.
It is one matter to think of coming to the Cabin and walking without
impediment; it is another to free myself of the impediments that in fact
remain in a mind conditioned to hurry along.
I finally decide, however, that I will get off this sofa, don
the few clothes I must, and go for a walk out there--the day is just too
beautiful, from the small amount of it I can "see". I step
onto the front porch and make my way from there into the wide open basin
of the hollow. It is here, I remind myself, though I cannot
always conjure up the details I'd like from its established and fully-presumed
scene. I walk at a slow pace across the dooryard, towards the main
trailhead that begins the path to the 5040-foot Summit. There is
a wealth of color out here, even on the broken gravel and
brush surface that I feel crunch beneath my sneakers. An occasional
breeze comes along, this time with the unmistakable truth of the cooler
weather in its set of parameters. I breathe slowly and purposefully
of such air, looking for a fuller sense of "inspiration", so that I might
consider my more "sensitive self" sufficiently fed by the artistry of living
where living looks "proper".
My time in this mode looks like it may begin to "pay off", if only I
hold my gaze to this inward tableau, a personal storeroom from which I
furtively bring back the few glorious-yet-ordinary "natural" items I can
in terms of its description. I know I shouldn't be "flinching" the
way I am now--this is too much the "burden" of a 6th grade student being
"made to" write creatively. Where is that grand and unstoppable flow
that I want instead from my time spent in contemplation, anyway?
Will I be "given" enough to work with today? Nobody knows.
At least I can rest my body the best I can on the chaise lounge near the
fire ring, from which I brush the leaves that have become fixed in the
folds of its cushion. I begin to picture the actual "extent" of my
body in a pose of lesser tension, the body that must force itself through
so many strictures to be a "responsible citizen". I continue the
breathing exercise, hoping to ignite one of those rare moments of peaceful,
unqualified "presence".
I become aware now of the number of oddly-extant and generally-tangled
"threads" that occupy my mind, and by inference, the motor functions organized
to make up my bodily tension. Do I somehow have a personal
standard to be a regimented, "properly functioning", reliable component
of that real-world firmity? I suspect my thoughts are running over
the roughened ruts of years of "traumatic" agitation, and attempts at escape
where I didn't quite break free. I really would rise
above that horrendous scene of battle and defeat, if it were not all I
have as a frame of reference. To be "troubled" is hardly the vision
I wish to accept--I would prefer instead the one of my solitary dwelling
in a rough-yet-tranquil landscape. In a desperate move, I finally
remove my hands from the controls, satisfied that I am as close as I'll
ever be to the "right place". Maybe I won't "see all that
I can see", but the gift of life, no matter how distressing its details,
is still life, and not to be resented. I continue, just to
be, realizing what an accomplishment resides therein.
"Bo"
8 November 2001 -- A fabrication of certain value
Up here at altitude in the hollow, it has come to the point where it
is beginning to seem "strange" that it hasn't snowed yet.
I believe it has been cold enough, even during the day, and the assorted
plant life doesn't look like it "needs" to be in the open for any further
activities of growth. Though the sun is out this morning as I casually
walk about in the "side yard" while wearing my heavy field coat, I am almost
anticipating what it will be like to have that insular feeling of
a goodly accumulation and maybe even some winds to add to the effect.
I note the hard soil that I've created through numerous arrivals in the
truck, a surface so different from the mud-choked way it exits
the winter months in March and April. Everything looks buttoned down
and in its place for the solemn passage to come; the kind of condition
that truly accentuates the work that has gone into building and outfitting
the Cabin all those years ago.
I walk slowly about the Cabin compound in my lighter-weight shoes, since
I haven't the need yet for my insulated, full-leather boots, soaking in
some of the wonderful satisfaction that comes from having this settlement
to call "my own". It is a "victory" of sorts over the urban mediocracy,
which would make me lie down in shared pastures beside waters that
have many folks along them both upstream and down. When I
am properly endowed of mood, I can develop a form of "pride" in all of
this, even though my "civic" unit has but myself as a member. I suppose
I'm sending the "wrong message" to the ones who might notice me missing,
though there is the other faction, too, that respects a man caught up in
a dream-world. Continuing to indulge my illusion, I note that there
is something of a wind out here today, and it is doing its best
to find the openings in my outerwear. Still, I do not feel "out of
place", since I can just go inside when I see fit.
I should suppose that an effort as intense and self-directed as this
one is in real need of continued examination on its merits, which are never
as well-founded as the more "socially correct" values that consume a similar
share of the "normal" person's attention. What, indeed, is the
"point of" this inward escape? I know I've probably had to ask this
before, but the absence of immediate assurance in the present instance
is a sign that I have ongoing ambivalence that is seeking to be put at
ease. Who really cares, for that matter, about my little
place and what I get out of it? First hand experience is rarely
transferrable, as I have seen in my perceptions of the others and their
curious ways of loving life. Do I really think I'm helping
the world at all by leaving such a massive lump to be digested by the certain
erosion of time? I feel put upon at present to give an answer to
these demanding levies, which is most likely the interface I see to the
outside world--one of continual requirement.
I think back to my real life and note that "they" just want me to keep
rolling, as if momentum, inertia, energy, or whatever mechanical term the
commentator should like to appropriate, must be maintained in a viable
manifestation. Just sitting quietly and acting with an easily-discerned
and fundamental prudence looks like a highly-effective method. Still,
I hear the critical voices, the ones that at least have the illusion
of coming from the outside, and "they" call me petty and vain. This
builds in the pit of my stomach a renewed desire to "do good" when I next
have a chance, for it is my typical pleasure to give "them" something they'll
end up being openly "grateful" for. The center of this ill-defined
but typically-expressed yearning looks to be none other than the development
of something undeniably "good" in my life. This patch of wild, open
land; these 20 acres of rocks and brush are, at least, "good" to me.
This emphasis on "what is good" will usually bring my internal conversation
to considerations of the "divine", for the question is rightly asked, "who
is good, but God alone?". In all of this, however, I am left to my
various designs, schemings and envisionings of something here on
earth that can also be assigned such a quality. Am I, as a "created"
being, ultimately discouraged and left with a life of wondering because
I've overstepped my bounds in a larger, unseen reality? Is my attempt
at leaving a legacy nothing more than self-centered idolatry? I don't
know--there is just such a richness in the idea of a personal habitation,
as though it were a sign that I had achieved some notable status in absolute
terms. I continue walking along in my slow, deliberate pace.
I figure I'm headed for the upstream woods and then the back door.
The ground surface has grown so solid and substantial, and the snow
will soon be here. What "fun" it will be, to continue my adventure
then as I have already done since 1997.
"Bo"
12 November 2001 -- The question of where to look
The various corners and crevices that form "destinations" for the wind
are now full of newly-dried leaves, on a bright, fairly-cold day at the
Cabin. Owing to the forms of sanitation and heating that I have specified
for this lifestyle, I have had opportunity today to expose my skin to some
of that wind, the kind that will inevitably lead to chapping when the winter
finally makes its home up here. Even indoors, on the sofa, I am left
with the characteristic sensation that cold is the "preferred" temperature,
and that heat is but an anomaly to give away the warm-blooded beings that
insist on venturing into such a climate. I know that there are things
I could be doing, even in this sparsely-configured living space,
only I have heard the "call" to rest and know it is sincere and benevolent
in its intention. I do what I can to let go of the tension throughout
my body as I lay back on the overstuffed arm of this piece of household
equipment, geared as it is towards that task.
Since I am not really "trespassing" on anyone's substantial liberty
when I come here to be so "lazy", I can dismiss without much trouble the
other "call" I hear whenever I'm acting like this--the one to "defend myself"
in what I'm doing. I've got enough bases covered, or so I've calculated,
unless someone has changed the layout of the playing field when I wasn't
looking. Of course, it is false pride to pronounce one's sufficiency
publicly, so I must also keep all of this to myself, as something
that has value but which is also crass and materialistic. Those
sentiments are to be reserved for support of the economy in this strange
set of "holidays" that are scheduled to begin in a couple weeks.
Indeed, I should bow my head and ask mercy as some sort of properly "sinful"
creature, but only where it won't drive folks away for other, obvious reasons.
I suppose I really don't mind that I say and do a fair number
of repulsive, misanthropic things, for I have never professed any overwhelming
joy of being held in that particular, collective "bosom". Still,
it offends me, as a sole person, to be tempted towards such misbehavior,
so I would probably do well to avoid all acts of value-assignment
to myself, both positive and negative. Thus, I hear the great consensus
tell me to abandon my private life, for its principal subject ends up being
myself, a topic over which a polite "gentleman" is properly uninformed.
"Oh, but let's talk about you," goes the line, as if no "acceptable" person
should be "it"--the focus of the conversation. It would be proper,
then, even in my time alone, to talk about someone other than myself, except
that I am then engaging in "gossip". Is there anywhere "to go", given
these limitations? Maybe I'm just being oversensitive in these matters.
It may be that I "should" center my self-conversation on what I see,
hear, smell and feel in this secluded camp beside the river, these aesthetic
attributes being the reason for choosing such a setting in the first place.
Let's see--I've already mentioned that it feels cold, no matter
where I happen to be, and that this is a fitting characterization for this
part of the year. I can still hear some of the rustle of my shoes
through the leaves when I was last outside, and of course there was that
unforgettable, home-like and poignant sensation derived from the wood smoke,
before it was blown off into the waiting woodland. The trees up the
hillside, last time I looked, were bristling and dark brown, with the appearance
at a distance that the stubble in the clearing has close-up. I don't
know if I've satisfied the ruling "authorities" by directing my mind thus,
for their record is something that is only published inside my own
head.
In a frustration, I conclude that there's no substitute for "exposing
myself" as a player in the great "game", the kind Milton Bradley can only
approximate on those store shelves. It is a properly "restraining"
experience to be in the "hot seat", with others before me in earshot range.
My mind then has none of that corrupting freedom to think about whatever
comes fancifully along. "Viva la Navidad", I should say, for my very
existence on this old planet is the express result of the predecessor conditions
that decided--or acquiesced--to my arrival and support. There is
a "proper" way of considering myself and the others, only it is something
that must come from the outside of all parties locally involved.
This train of thought could lead, perhaps, to a celebration of some pantheistic,
Gaia-like positioning for myself, only such talk is also to pass
"judgment". Still, my own head is such a container, all to itself,
and it will take work to see beyond such well-constructed and -decorated
"walls".
"Bo"
16 November 2001 -- An unremarkable moment
I do not feel up to "doing much" on my visit today, but then there never
has been any strong expectation that I conduct a particular line
of "business" when I'm at the Cabin. If I were better settled in
my occupation of the modest indoor living area, I might pass some of the
time by reading. It bothers me, of course, when I am not spontaneously
moved to action, perhaps because I begin to believe I'm "slowing down"
and "losing something" that I took for granted in my earlier, more "vital"
years. Inevitably, I start finding fault with myself for letting
matters slide to such a point, as if I could have "kept everything" if
only I had truly "wanted to". Even the simple truth of having "my"
hundreds of adjacent, undeveloped acres is reason for this kind of "shame",
since I'm not out there, walking about before the snow makes things prohibitively
difficult. There are so many places on this landscape that I'll never
see, and the usual way of a man who has taken "possession" of something
so grand is to peruse and survey it to his continued delight.
The chill that fills the corners of the heated interior Cabin space
prompts me at last to get under the covers in bed, this being a rather
primal comfort on my list of sensations. I am not really tired
enough to sleep for any great stretch, so this will be a span of time to
run over just what's been going on, with the presumption that there can't
be as much "wrong" as my level of discomfort would suggest. I sink
my head into the pillow and take note of the weight of the comforter and
poncho liner atop the flannel sheets. I certainly do strike a "cozy"
pose for now, with all the adventuresome excitement that goes with conducting
a "campout". For the time being, the external influences that are
my ongoing companions and opponents in real life will simply have to stay
behind the gate down on State highway 735.
It does bother me, though, to be so entirely uninspired.
I know I "should" be moving along with plans for the "holidays", the annual
tribute that custom has exacted of my American city life. I would
rather attempt to pass through all of that unnoticed, of course,
and cover the more "important" points in real spirituality and in
business. I am reminded that the present level of my performance
may not be the driving factor that my reaction to it is. Once
I've "decided" I'm degenerate and derelict in my handling of the great
"gift of life", I must then hear and consider the charges, even if I can
argue persuasively against them. This becomes the ultimate frustration,
where the whole picture becomes "ruined by" this disagreeable characteristic
that no one ordered and no one can take away. Am I simply acquiescing
to the "blah" face of the woods in this cold season, adopting it as part
of my own outlook?
I turn slightly under the bedclothing, aware of how my take on what
I've "been given" can change over time. If I spend long enough in
any one pose, it will collapse under its own weight and allow something
new to take its place. I should really be grateful that moods
like this have so little basis in inescapable fact. This, I suppose,
is the definition of real "freedom", where a man faces only himself in
the upward struggle. I will let time pass, then, and in substantial
quantity. I cannot defeat the tormentors of my conscience in any
direct confrontation; it is hardly that simple. I have come
to the Cabin because of its relative "safety" from the raucous annoyances
that the others call "society", so it is in such a controlled setting that
I will find my way clear, in a deliberate, almost studied process.
It is my good fortune to have been given a great many individual
moments to live.
I take a deep breath in the generalized quiet of the sleeping area,
well aware that the season and the year are passing beneath my feet and
all about in the surrounding woods. I begin to think of the wondrous
"magic" that will inhabit those "better" times, which are likely just hours
away when evening falls and the scene changes to one lit by the fireplace
and lanterns. Though I cannot transplant any meaningful comfort from
then to now, such thoughts at least give me a sense of "purpose".
I am holding out, on my own, and at my own behest. It will be so sweet,
when the ordinary and mundane in my life has restored to it the excitement
and assured value that now evades my perception. I have "succeeded"
in escaping the obvious irritations that the city arrays against me, and
now I need to make the best use of a personal docket so thoroughly liberated
for new but familiar action.
"Bo"
20 November 2001 -- Not inclined to hurry
Having slept my fill, I wake to another of those mornings where I know
it will simply be cold when I step out onto the wood plank floor
and endeavor to restore something of a fire at the opposite end of the
main living area. The Cabin really does get to be like the
interior of some sort of "vehicle" when it's like this, and as my eyes
continue to settle in, I note that there is a certain, non-negligible snowfall
going on outside all of the windows. It has finally come,
in a "matter of fact" sort of way, though I can imagine it getting warm
enough to make a slushy mess of the two to three inches on the ground by
mid-day. The "reality" of the newly-formed snow is something to "enforce"
the cold weather with the firm hand of ice upon flesh, even if it is rather
wet, and I have a real sensation that I've "turned the corner" onto a new
phase of the 2001 - 2002 season.
I find my fleecewear shirt and trousers in the diffuse glow of the overcast
dawn, this clothing being enough for waking the rest of the way on the
plush, muslin-slipcovered sofa. The fabric is, of course, cool
to the touch, but the larger thermal impression comes off the thin glass
panes of the front windows. I look out there as I often do, this
time to watch the softly-falling flakes. These are the "big, nostalgic"
kind that form in times of heavier accumulation, only the weather I heard
yesterday on the truck radio didn't speak of anything so "dire" as that.
It is late enough in the season for everything to "stick", and it
has developed overnight into a respectable, rounded-over layer into the
clearing. I suppose the effect will be different when the full
light of day arrives, when "business" will return on more of the terms
I tend to know.
I am in no particular hurry to "get under way" at present, so I just
sit embedded in the upholstery, considering the bleak-yet-beautiful scene
that is my "front yard". I pull one of the throw blankets around
myself, and I become wrapped so thoroughly as to feel tempted to fall back
asleep in this new location. This is the behavior that I typically
elevate to the status of an "art"; the one of letting go and not caring
a whole lot about what isn't mine to care about anyway. I suppose
it is not the finest show of initiative just to sit like this so soon after
"getting up", but then I'm not as concerned at present about what
I "look like", especially with no one here to see. I pull the covers
still closer, working my way into the kind of spot where I really could
spend some time without the fire. I couldn't be grabbing for those
assorted distracting occupations of city life, even if I wanted to.
I am indeed "cut off".
Leaning my head against the top of the sofa-back, I close my eyes in
the rare silence that the snow has helped to produce. So very much,
yes, is going on on the streets of my real life, but what good does any
of that do me? I am of a mind that says I can move towards
a firm resolution of even the hardiest of crises, given enough time away
from the "heat" like this. There is no need whatsoever to play into
the hands of escalating and furious frustration, when calm such as this
is something I can still enter and favorably embody from time to time.
It is a stern discipline, though, this running away. I find
myself wanting to flinch and run back on frequent occasion when it all
sinks in: I have told them "no". They'll certainly find the
place for me if I do return, but my conscience is always left with the
stain of duty not fully completed.
Well, the fact is that I do tend to "eat it up", at least at
first, when I reconnect to the invigorating supply that is my interface
to outside humanity. Really, there isn't a whole lot wrong with any
of what I do or don't do. I have paid my dues, it would seem, and
"get to" be this way. I should be grateful, yes, that I am given
to such excess when I've bellied back up to the public trough, even if
my eyes are usually bigger than my stomach. 40 years of habit are
just too many, I can see, and the day will proceed in the ways it must.
Opening my eyes again, I note that the snow has let up just a little.
There is texture to the brightening cloud cover, and the sun is sure to
return. The syllogism may hold that "A implies C", only such logic
is far too ready to dispose of "A" and its own intrinsic value,
which could be something as "special" as the wonder of an early winter's
snow in late November. It is quite the privilege, when one can both
have and hold.
"Bo"
24 November 2001 -- The happiness I hope for
On this gray, frost-bedecked day, where a thin, crusty remnant of snow
adds plenty of atmosphere to the world beyond the front porch, I count
myself "successful" for having passed into the generalized apathy of the
"proper" resting mood. This might be the kind of Saturday in which
"elders" would busy themselves in the kitchen or out in the woodshed, if
such were my companions and I were still a "youth". Whole secondary
through nth-ary agendas might be going on around me, only I have
done enough to "earn" a place of my own for these times of leisure incarnate.
I know I don't always get the necessary internal conditions to "function"
properly by myself at the Cabin, and I must admit that the sense of empty
and solitary withdrawal is a frequent guest in this home that has no human
guests to be the focus and facilitation of activity. Oh, but when
"it" does come to me, I am indeed the happy man, left to the quiet
of this single rustic wooden room with its fire within the hearth.
What I am dealing with, of course, is a variable endowment or
capacity for sustained, unquestioned satisfaction, something I probably
spend more time seeking than is good for me. Now that it's here,
I should plumb its depths as fully as I am allowed, since the doors do
not always get left open like this. When "admitted" to this fuller
realm, I have a pride of place that is every bit of what I feel when I'm
outside, walking around the hillsides and through the now-stark woodland.
I so rarely get to stand still and look directly at something without
it vanishing at once to the extreme edge of my peripheral vision.
The sad irony, of course, is that I'm not such a bad performer in the socially-based
endeavors, either, when things are this good. My times for them
are invariably the ones of desperation and hard duty, when inspiration
has left, since there is no need for external agitation and occupation
when I can get by on my own.
There certainly is something of a chill in the room, despite
my attempts at heating things up with some sizable split oak logs.
I pull the cover-up a bit closer to my happily-settled hulk, as I consider
where next to take my process of thought as I lay under the drafty front
window on the sofa. I suppose I am engaging in certain forms of "guilt"
when I note so often that I am not in a particular social framework
at a time like this. What a "waste" it is, to load one's mind with
such pointless prescriptions for posturings, when truly "meaningful" work
could be done. I note at this juncture that I have every capability
right now of putting things into a better state of "order" for the time
I'm forced back into the fray. Though I will not necessarily see
that such preparations are in force, they will be carrying me nonetheless,
as in the story of the footprints on the beach. It all gets to the
question of "how a man should think", so as to weather the hard times with
a rationally-implemented "plan".
Well, I note to my partial-yet-substantial satisfaction that time now
looks like an easily traversed dimension, as in the walk downstream
along the two-track dirt road that leads to the village. It does
not matter that my historical recollection tells me it won't really
be that way. It's all a matter of illusion and heartfelt conviction.
It would be an amazing survival skill to have in place, if I could somehow
install the very real and essentially "physical" internal confidence that
makes each moment its own cause for hope. This sounds like a more
"actively" provisioned emotional pursuit, if indeed it is possible.
The "conventional wisdom" on the marketplace in city living states that
"joy without end" cannot possibly exist, as if it were a violation of thermodynamic
law. But the ones who have their "joy in sorrow" can't be
feeling the same "joy" that I manage to find in sporadic but treasured
parcels as I move along the axis of increasing age.
I wander around some more inside my "internal" dwelling place, wondering
about this subsidiary "joy", the kind that the world does not take away.
I see myself approaching some sort of font, or official repository and
administrative center, where certainty is reinforced in the solidity of
structure. There is evidence of a long-established authority in this
edifice of the heart, but not one that came to be through a partisan contest.
No, it is the central registry, where a person is given access to
abiding support, through good times and bad. Of course, such an image
bespeaks the presence of others, going about their business
in rendering due tribute at such a field office. Well, in any event,
it does look like the place to put my trust. My "cause" appears to
find understanding here, and also the hope of safe passage when I must
head back out into the "meaner realities".
"Bo"
28 November 2001 -- Making ready for the night
Real life has dealt me such a "load" today that I am content to sit
upright on the sofa, with my unshod feet resting heavily on the coffee
table. It is growing near dusk, and the view of the sky out the back
window is substantially composed of that solid, solemn orange that looks
ready to set up the hollow for another frost-filled night. My eyes
have ample time to become accustomed to the dark, so I hesitate to light
the kerosene lamps while the sun remains. To have arrested bodily
motion like this is the kind of "result" that a man can daydream about
at length during his execution of a "responsible" job. Really, I
will end up losing attention span before too long, only the thought
of rest without end seems to be worth having, at least for the next few
minutes. I am not sure just what I'll do later on.
I close my eyes and listen to the few noises that come over the circuit--the
sounds of the shifting structure, the wind as it chooses to rattle the
windows behind my head and the "noise" of noise's absence, the product
of my persistence of hearing. A human being is not "properly supported"
emotionally by such emptiness, I remind myself, and this quiet could
well develop into some sort of cabin fever-related panic by the
time January and February are here. I try to picture myself in the
real wilderness, such as the boundless taiga found in Jack London
stories or Siberian folk legend. I suppose I'd have to be waging
an active campaign of survival in one of those settings, and I'd
have no time to squander on this idle chasing of my philosophical tail
in an idealized temperate zone forest.
So I figure I'm probably looking for agitation and challenge in my life
after all, despite my frequent statements to the opposite on these visits.
This eu-stressful hustle is most likely akin to physical conditioning,
in the way that the bones of older persons are reinforced by admittedly
tiresome activity without a more suitable redeeming "purpose". Yes,
I'm a glutton for "excitement" and all of the stimulation it implies, even
though I endure regular thrashings as part of the process. Just so
soon as I get back on my feet from one "time out" for exhaustion, I've
returned to take yet another dose of "that stuff". It occurs to me
that I'm dealing with a potentially-useful internal by-product in all of
this, be it adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin or whatever. It has been
my frequently-stated goal that I'd seek nothing more than the invariably
"bubbling" flavor of that "way", were it not for the pain that accompanies
the gain.
There is something essential, indeed, that is central to my occasions
with the feeling of "well-being". I think of it at times as some
of the thrill that accompanies a younger man's acquisition and domination
of various forms of preparedness and power. I like the thought of
riding along as some sort of commander, controller or other sovereign,
deftly disposing of assorted weighty issues as they rise ahead. I
pause to think over the components of the Cabin's "infrastructure", simple
though they are, and I develop a small satisfaction as I tick off all
of the items on the list. This is what it is to be awake and "ready",
even though I am currently collapsed in something of a motionless heap
in a room that is now undeniably dark. I feel myself settle
in to the "post" I have created here, realizing the value of even small
"victories" against adversity.
I finally rise from the deep upholstery to go around and light the lamps.
This is the very definition of "holding out", whether there are active
crises at hand or not. The interior glow has returned to the pine-panelled
living room, while the Cabin structure persists in its place. It
would be sweet, I must agree, to see such stalwart accomplishment and stature
in what I've made of my city life, which generally moves ahead whenever
I push it. I feel myself reaching the edge of some sort of "plateau"
as I return to my seat on the sofa. I am manning the very citadel
and breastworks of an "independent" citizen, where deprivation must now
be answered with more of a real reason than during my years as a
minor. I have "won" some part of the "game", though I know I've just
begun competition in the qualifying rounds. I take careful note of
what is now my "due", or at least my "privilege", as I continue to occupy
this dwelling at the threshold of another night's interval.
"Bo"
Ahead to December 2001
