3 October 2001 -- A certain small relief
I have arrived in the truck today in a state of some agitation, as is
caused by the practice of hustling to work in the morning each day and
back home for the evening in what seems an "iron circle", and a vicious
one at that. I would see more of a golden significance to
each of these days, if this were not such a difficult focus to develop
and hold when duty comes to call. I am well aware that my
nerves don't "have to" be this way, and that they've been treated to some
fine examples of soothing accommodation in the recent past. At least
I've found this moment to put my attention fully upon the environmental
aggressors that have had such easy access in establishing tension in places
vital to my life's ordinary conduct. Before I move to step out of
the cab, I note the quiet surroundings at the Cabin compound as I take
a number of deep breaths from the diaphragm. No one has made an affirmative
consignment of my one person to this one state; all is "optional".
I think that's the key to "empowerment"; having some "say" over what I'm
made to do next.
I finally jump from the relatively-high SUV seat, to land heavily on
my feet in the hard gravel soil on a fairly-bright day in which the gold
and orange throughout the trees makes the clear sky look brighter than
on many a hazy summer day. Oh, but what is this nefarious
tension that has gripped my face and head? Will it "let me"
walk about today, even in a reduced state of operations? This
is the kind of irritating affliction that makes the smallest achievements
into magnified acts of heroism "under fire". It is as if I need to
be slammed "into shape" every so often, at those times that I mistakenly
thought I could do all things at all times and be all things to all men.
This is why the Cabin was set up, after all--to provide a place of such
simplification and base-level essence that I could continue to live without
those temptations to heap my plate high with questionable commitments.
I doubt I'd get myself to slow down very easily otherwise.
I'm thinking I should probably go lay on the bed inside and drape a
wet cloth across my forehead and eyelids. I walk to the front door,
which I now keep closed against the colder weather, and step into the preserved
conditions of my place for "flopping out". My preferred "props" are
all at hand, just where I left them. With the small reserve I have
left for contemplative whimsy, I think to myself about the fine little
"nest" that this settlement has become, way up here in the ultimate watersheds.
I walk in a bit of a daze to my bunk, after finding a washcloth in the
kitchen and soaking it beneath the tap of the glass-lined steel drum cistern.
Coming to rest at last, I feel the heavy, even loading upon my face, drawing
forth tension as though it were some sort of instilled toxic substance.
I find myself being willingly lulled along a gradient of increasing
"comfort", as I feel everything starting to progress to a minimum of motion.
"Oh," I say to myself, "this is more like it." I hear a certain quantity
of wind negotiating the angular contours of the lean-to alcove above my
head, a reminder that true cold is not far off, either. I
am aware of the shift in perspective that accompanies this exercise in
solitude--I am attempting the old self-help trick of changing my response
to what I cannot actually change through direct initiative. "It's
all right," I tell myself. Enough folks back there in city
life see the given day as a unique yet ubiquitous entity that I am within
my rights to "step out of the box" in the way I have just now. I
begin to become aware of just how heavy my body feels, and of the
occasional drop of water that passes down my cheeks. Still, I am
perfectly "free" to be this way, "lazy" though it may look at first.
When I realize how thoroughly "permitted" I am to take this kind of
time out, I am not as frightened by the posturings of those agents of obligation
that are installed as my "jailers" in real life. I don't really "owe"
much in the way of a verbal response or an outpouring of effort in my day-to-day
rounds. Then I think of the "miracle" that is this day, during which
I should properly be enveloped in a sweet and sublime joy, the kind that
is so skillfully metered that it doesn't burn up in an instant. I
suppose this suggests a second form of internal fluidity, standing as an
opposite for the vile substance that accompanied my tension-laden body
to the Cabin today. I like to think that I am dealing with two aspects
of a single phenomenon, for then there is a chance that a person so adept
at piling on the stressful species might also have a latent ability to
wield the more peaceful one. That has a certain intrinsic
appeal.
"Bo"
7 October 2001 -- That central awareness
I have repeated the now-familiar routine of shucking my "non-essentials",
which have only become that way by the change in venue afforded by my trip
from town. The raw heft of the abundant-yet-simple timber and panelling
that continue to stand on the spot I saw so long ago form a reassuring
"cradle" for a man who must ordinarily pass through so many changes on
a daily basis. I need not consider the variables that are--variable--in
real life, and as a result, I am given to a fuller consideration of "myself".
I suspect that people in earlier times were much more aware of such intrinsics,
which is to suggest that modern pop culture has a vested interest in our
being "distracted" from them.
Thus it is, that I walk pensively through the front door from the truck,
looking at so much that is at its "minimal" state. I enter the kitchen
wing, with its rustic assortment of cast iron and enamelware furnishings.
I suppose I could be found guilty of reactionary sentimentalism
in all of this, or perhaps that I've bought into the current vitality of
appreciation for early American pragmatism. I think, however, I am
still reaching out in hopes of igniting some "golden age" of my own self-awareness
and -actualization. Whenever I have entered that privileged
"groove", I am struck by its self-predicting identity, as if I were
"on to" an old trail that had been wondering where I had wandered off to.
Everything has symbolism there, yet it is also precisely what it is.
In the pantheistic confidence that all is, ultimately, good, I do a quick
sizing-up of my non-perishable supplies, then move on to my central position,
the living room sofa.
With some of the extra "features" in my life shut down as "moot" for
my current purposes, I regain the sense of how tired I am, from
spending so long in overextended indulgence. I hear the few, hollow
sounds of the wind outdoors, which now fills the air with a suitable quantity
of blown leaves. Since it's overcast and gray, I am taken by an awareness
of the undeniable chill of this classic autumn afternoon.
After I light the kerosene lamp on its stand by the sofa, I sit back down
heavily on the ample upholstery, covering up with a blanket until I have
the energy to set up a proper fire for the evening. These, indeed,
were the concerns of the man who occupied such a "wintering place" in the
early industrial age, and to him, it "made sense" to think critically of
what he could do to uphold his tenacious yet entitled-to hold on the furtherance
of self for another year.
I think to what I can sense of my assorted components of immediate presence,
under the circumscribed flickering of the wick at its current state of
trim. I can all too readily enter the lamentation of how urban society
"tempts" me to neglect my self-sufficient realities. I know they're
just selling what the "market will bear", and I should not impede capital's
progress by any more of this corrosive sedition about doing more with less.
I feel something of my headache return, when I realize what I've done through
the marginally-impeded exercise of freedom, given my concurrent and corresponding
shortage of right judgment. I almost want to drift off to sleep right
here on this sofa, only that would be to disregard the fuller "program"
of sustained Cabin life, and thereby forestall my progress towards unity
with the canonical and the correct.
I have been made so very aware of the "proper" configuration
and operation of my bodily and spiritual faculties, now that I've established
myself for another of these "secretings". I see "man" before me,
indeed, as an erstwhile metric of all that is, and that's quite a lot.
I rise at last to discover that I had good kindling and tinder at the ready
before the hearth, so it is not too much work to get the fire under way.
I sit in the armchair now, feeling the utterly basic influence of
the heat upon my reclining man-shape. When there is more to do, then
I'll be certain to do it, only I can't in any good conscience let go of
the understanding of indivisibles that should properly define any right
description of that which is, and especially, he who is.
"Bo"
11 October 2001 -- Towards the minimal load
There is now a brisk, bracing chill in the air, even on a sunny mid-day,
and the "fall colors" are fully appropriate for such outdoor conditions.
When I need to walk around in the open areas, my feet encounter leaves
at various levels of crunchiness, and my hands, if left unprotected, soon
begin to feel "raw". This would be the time of the "harvest" in a
collective grouping that appreciates the agrarian way, with hayrides, cider
and a bonfire, though I doubt I could get the same effect on that last
item merely by using the stone ring at the edge of the dooryard.
Campfires seem to "work" when I'm sitting alone and focusing on the flames,
but the other is meant to be part of a party in order to be "bon".
I do not spend long in my outdoor excursions today, and after making a
trip to the outhouse, I head directly for the front door and the heated
interior space.
Sitting in the armchair with my ample, utilitarian fire in the fireplace,
I review some of my more recent efforts to "let go" of things that I should
never have picked up in the first place. It's all a matter of acquiescence
to the prudent and the essential, instead of to the vain and the unrealistic.
This, of course, allows me to find fault with the big celebrations that
I've "opted out" of this year, since I see the most distinct picture of
who I am and what I'm trying to do when those distractions are placed at
a distance. There is a sense, in all of that striving, of pulling
too hard and always walking around with an unsatisfied feeling of tension.
Truly, I cherish the notion of inertial calm--a failure to be accelerated
against my will or restrained by the reality of my apparent limitations.
I will not back down from my belief that painful effort is ultimately
a degrading influence, and that it is better to be successful in anonymous
mediocrity than a failure after reaching for larger things.
As I take inventory of the motivations "running around" loose inside
of me, I am reminded that I have yet to lay my burden fully down.
There is a wondrously-simple method of carrying on that I should
be employing in this short life, the one that does not have my eyes straining
to see some far-off prize. Ordinary old experience, even on
a day when hard frost and winter are approaching, takes the fore in this
model for living. Nothing is "forced" in the least, and I walk as
I see fit. The impression I have is of being borne aloft and
provided with curiously "correct" lift and thrust as they happen along.
Such a state is demonstrably easier for me to achieve up here in the quiet,
where I do not need to reach into my bag of erudition at every other moment
to solve a problem or avoid a collision on city streets. I continue
to sit heavily in the chair, looking from time to time out of the corner
of my eye to see if that "preferred" way is any closer to being installed.
I can see that successfully entering the "passive bliss" as I imagine
it (and sometimes even know it) requires an extensive groundwork
of reinterpretation. It requires seeing what is worthless in the
proper light, so as to leave a remaining fraction of personal affairs that
cannot be separated from the central reality of being a person who wishes
to carry on in an optimally lean configuration. The problem is that
discernment like that is both an active and error-prone undertaking.
It is typically easier to take my whole situation and just sit on it, lumps
and all, rather than spend time untangling a mess that has taken 40 years
to develop. Given the quantity of abject "junk" that is in my set
of motivating factors, I can therefore understand why it isn't as simple
as just "letting go and letting God". Such defiance of a universally-accepted
spiritual platitude, of course, poses the danger of calling down the Almighty's
wrath, and I am not in the habit of questioning something so recurrent
and useful as faith. Thus, I have some ways to go.
I close my eyes to the flames and lean back in the chair, assuming a
"flopped out" pose, even with my heavy load of undesirable "baggage".
I am not ready to accept that the "normal" are really that much better
at living in the moment than I am. Sure, they're able to wear those
curious and apparently-unmerited smiles on their face, the ones
that call out for company at various gatherings, but I'm still after the
bigger achievement of feeling "right", no matter where I am.
Heavily, indeed, do I rest in this chair, for I fully expect that the right
methods of vacant contemplation should show me the door to the place in
which the ordinary is its own reward, and not a deprivation. I just
want to walk down the path of my choosing, only the choices that
occur to me have not always been very good ones. It's all a matter
of letting up on the tension, for it seems that any proper description
of "peace" is at odds with the kind of forces and resultant stress that
have left me so ready to leave the others behind.
"Bo"
15 October 2001 -- A variety of appearances
It is a bright yet blustery autumn day, one in which I feel given over
to a measured resolve to address the "basics" and sighingly accept
what has been made of me and that which has been laid before me.
Perhaps I am too wrapped up in my own self once again, as I sit in this
small space that I have designated as such for my personal "coziness".
Perhaps I should see myself instead as the vanishingly-small feature that
I am, both within the hollow and its surrounding hills and within the immense
and moving structure of real life "society". I'm not sure what
has to be done, only I know I can't comfortably stay here for long.
I could well be out on foot, along the somewhat leaf-hidden trails that
are nevertheless drier than they'll be when warm weather returns in the
spring. I suppose I'm dealing with the issue of "control", as one
who enjoys having it--or at least the impression of having it.
The better-informed among the "normal" tell me that passive acceptance
is the real ticket to the "better life"; to trust one's self to the overwhelming
"flow". That practice takes a lot of faith, though, and my eyes feel
particularly clouded at present when it comes to seeing what is not immediately
visible. I should rather knock down the acute yet redundant facilities
I've developed for "observation", to live in blissful ignorance, if not
indeed innocence. I would like to see the "curtain" draw shut
sometimes as well, given what I've seen of what lies beyond. Still,
that would predict drawing into a shell of indifference and neglect, and
no grown man can expect to dwell long in such a place. I can see
that I've "let" matters assume an "importance" they never did deserve,
since they are only the petty afflictions of one person among billions.
It is rather stifling at times inside this small frame structure,
when so many wide and open pathways and vistas are arrayed across the land
outside.
Maybe I have fallen into something properly described as a "disease
state", where I should predict "recovery" if I am suitably strong.
In such a case, I should therefore "be strong" and "look beyond" where
I happen to be--to claim what is good and also my own. I think this
is one of the annoying aspects of life in the flesh, especially flesh that
is beginning to accumulate some real time on this earth--I never "know"
until after the fact. Why is it that things have to
be "hidden" like that, anyway? I am not asking for anything like
the discernment of "good and evil"--only what time is worth spending and
what can be safely ignored. I would like to know when I'm
likely to enjoy a trip outside and when it will just be another parade
of unimpressive scenes of woods amid the wind of the oncoming winter.
But then I realize that I'm just being "greedy" to want that much out of
something so "grubby" as an ordinary old human life. Who do I think
I am, anyway?
I have clearly appropriated more than "my" share of scarce goods when
it comes to my aspirations in getting away and passing into the more sublime
of possible states. Though my "failure" looms large from the standpoint
of my cramped personal realm, the real space up here for such endeavors
is large, extensive, and essentially without the danger of exhaustion.
Even if I were sitting out on the chaise lounge by the fire ring instead
of inside enjoying the limited "greenhouse effect" of the front picture
window, I would be put a little closer to what might really be "my
place". I think again to what I have postulated for an "ideal" surrounding,
and cannot ignore the square miles of forest and their endless variety
of seasonally-changing locales. It would be an all-day walk, as I
recall, to get to the far side of the ridge and return, and this would
involve carrying on through miles of strenuous terrain and encountering
many new vistas, both close and distant.
Still, my inclination now is to hang around inside this little 440 square
foot dwelling, which occupies only 1% of an acre, because it is so hard
at times like these to form real direction out of outdoor excursions.
This is what I know, and I can continue to play the game so long
as I don't start to "let" my mind range too far into the rarefied space
of speculation. My flights of fancy regarding my mind's eye might
do me some good, if only I could assign proper weight to the better
possibilities as well. I feel something of my headache returning
now, the one that could be allergy but might be something else. I
feel myself pulling away from those "grander" aspirations of the imagination,
hoping only that being a certain way long enough will patch over some of
the portals that now open upon such disconcerting scenes. I was never
"called to" anything so extensive as these depths; I can live well enough
as a man of much simpler preoccupation.
"Bo"
19 October 2001 -- Warm and assuredly right
I am grateful for the time I have this evening for "just sitting" (or
perhaps lying, stretched out) in the small, warm outpost I've brought
to be in the midst of these desolate mountain tracts. As the sun
bids its farewell from behind a treeline that admits more and more of those
final rays through branches that will soon be stark and cold, I do what
I can to encourage that adventuresome "pioneer spirit". I note, in
this regard, the fine role the kerosene lanterns play in this pursuit,
along with water that needs to be carried from a tumbling stream
that would just as soon not be tapped. So as to feel warm
enough when I need to enter the far reaches of the Cabin building, I have
donned my fleecewear and flannel, along with hiking socks over my feet.
In a way, it seems like a "campout" or "pajama party sleepover", though
for one, tonight, and I hope not to become "homesick".
It is dark enough now that the stars can be seen on a night that is
sure to support some solid frost by morning, and I am careful to keep the
"proper" fire developed at the fieldstone hearth. Cooking my evening
meal on the cast iron stove also helped, of course, and I purposefully
have left a fine set of coals in the firebox, so that they might express
their welcome effect and perhaps serve further use in making some tea or
hot spiced cider. I suppose that this would be the time of day in
the collaborative setting for telling tales--of the day just past or of
days long past. The dimmed surroundings from the flickering lamps
would add to the solemnity of such an affair, one that I can only approximate
by "talking to myself" when I'm here. I would certainly think there
are things about my own life that "I" don't know, simply because I've been
too rushed to develop and listen to the makings of a true "story".
In occupying the "warmer end" of the Cabin for the moment, I take my
seat in the fireside armchair, waiting for some of those reports to come
"across the wire" of my conscious intra-conversation. It does not
sound like the campaign back there in real life is going all that "badly",
since there's something I'm doing to reinforce what should
be reinforced in my behavior and my exploits. Personal modesty has
kept me from letting that self-adulatory "voice" go on for long, since
these performances before men have been seen and duly recorded in the larger
annals of all that is. The flames build somewhat, and I push the
chair back a foot or so. I'm sure to be developing fine heat now,
even back to the bed at the far wall. The flames are what distinguish
this particular, hidden space from the much larger, cold and empty space
in which it "rides". With what my internal regulation permits, I
think to myself of the fine splendor involved in this very exercise, which
is steeped in the kind of comfort that I pursue even when I'm going out
of my way for some perceived act of valor.
In the softness and the warmth, I am finally admitted to the sensation
that must be common among the 70% who are "normal"--the self-assured, properly-proud,
"centered" and "grounded" feeling of optimized-yet-effortless "membership".
This is what it means to have "arrived", whether or not a placement in
the upper middle class happens to be included as well. I'm talking
essential satiety here, where nothing more need be done--but where
plenty still gets done, nonetheless, as a free-will "love offering"
to a reputable, reciprocating ecclesiastical brotherhood and cause.
This, quite simply, is what peace must be like, and why so many
walked out of their ordinary lives to pursue it in the 1960's and early
'70's. It's more than just the lifeblood of that one slightly starry-eyed
"generation", though. This is something that must go back to the
beginning of human camaraderie. The "caveman's cave", though perhaps
a filthy dwelling, must have known this jolly rapport, among the grunting
and sportsmanly jabs at one another while picking over the day's forage.
It almost seems too good to be true, this setting of personal comfort.
I am, of course, set apart from the rest of the band, only I have sufficient
faculties to reinforce my continued exercise of rest, as the fire burns
on into the night. It is an invigoration, this conviction that I
hear within, and one I would really like to remain with me throughout my
stay tonight. I do believe I'll get up now and make that hot cider,
from the jug I bought back in the village on the way up. I need to
drink it anyway before it perishes. Whether or not it is "sustainable"
or "healthy", I am reassured that this form of spending free time can't
possibly "hurt".
"Bo"
23 October 2001 -- Consolation in the silence
Even with the moderately overcast skies that have come to rest above
the hollow, the bright colors of the assorted tree species capture my visual
attention today like they rarely do at this time of year. I am walking
slowly in the leaves and the low brush at the edge of the trees above the
ravine, having had an interest in "getting around" some on the "property"
out here. The plant life is heading right on "down the track" towards
winter's lesser resting state, and with the number of leaves in the air
with relatively little wind, it is evident that those days are close at
hand. Perhaps it will cloud up some more and I'll see some of that
cold rainfall, the kind that plasters newly-fallen leaves to the pavement
in the city and does not suggest that further growth will emerge
when it is over. Well, it isn't raining now, and I am content
to be outdoors for the moment, and not sacked out on the sofa or my bunk.
Though it is full of the bright colors throughout the trees, this particular
scene has a noticeable "emptiness" to it, and an absence of answers.
I seem to be a creature that thrives on knowledge, or more precisely, a
lack of uncertainty. It does little good to remind myself that in
the long run, I will be defeated in my worldly exploits. I
am still of the unsullied faith that there is "good", and
that I do not see as much of it as I should. I am not interested
in the "subjective reality" types, who tell me to create my own "good"
from whatever is at hand, though this has the admitted advantage of lessening
the blow of what I now take personally as injury and affront that "I deserve".
I am more the type to shut down my perceptive facilities when so little
looks "worth seeing", letting myself revert to a complacently-simple apathy
that may be nominally prudent but which is never alarmed.
My legs have grown just a little tired at this point, so I figure
I'll have a seat among the lichen and the moss, wherever the rock surface
won't be too unkind to me as a support. The clearing looks a good
bit bigger, of course, from "down here", and the forested hillside
now appears to belong to an entirely "different" set of surroundings.
It really is an empty place that I occupy at the Cabin, and
the "powers" that might "know" the better-yet-latent truth are not volunteering
any encouragement at this point. Were it not for the irregular granite
vertices upon my load-bearing surfaces, I might be tempted to "zone out"
in this spot and stop listening for the encouraging word altogether.
Of course, there has to be something in that vacant, inner,
dreamlike space that works to provide comfort, for the solace to myself
in those times is every bit as vibrant as when I am told from the outside
that everything will be all right.
I finally get back up again, to let my feet do some of the duty of mediating
the interchange between myself and gravity's central origin. I walk
some distance out into the clearing and find a rock I can successfully
climb and stand upon. This is a little more of the "bird's eye view"
of things. Still, the atmosphere is remarkably quiet, and
I'm not doing much to fight off uncertainty's woeful influence in this
position, either. I therefore return carefully to ground level, in
something of an unsettled resolve, the kind that would become moot in short
order if I actually found some of that assurance that carries me
along without effort. I know I have little viable choice but to maintain
the course I've had all along for some years now, the one that often seems
predicated on cynical despair but also a minimum of disappointment.
It is so incredibly quiet up here, I note, as I head for
the front porch and the familiar inside world.
Time is pouring down the drain; yes it is, and I'm just letting it do
so. Other, better days are at the end of that time, but only at the
cost of today. With little left to do, I plop down onto the down
cover of my bed, where it is quieter than ever. I finally hear a
drop or two of rain start up against the front window, to provide the encouragement
that I couldn't have stayed out there much longer, anyway.
I take a deep breath and let out a long, sighing "ohh.h.h". The mechanism
of this life is, indeed, a machine, only one of substantial design
and ingenuity worthy of the finest human effort and inspiration.
Many are the places I've been and many also, are the ones I have left to
see. Since I never will get it all "figured out", there is a comfort
all its own associated with possession of such a richly-textured experience
as an ordinary old human life. I feel myself sink a little more deeply
into my bunk, counting as "good" that I am allowed such relaxation.
I only hope to be up to the "necessary tasks" that are sure to be accruing
in that real life, the one I temporarily do not fully see.
"Bo"
27 October 2001 -- Inspiration at its limits
A stiff breeze is blowing about on this decidedly cold day, as
if to "reach for" and secure the last of the leaves that remain on the
trees. Across the contours of the hills enclosing the hollow, the
forest is now more of a brownish-gray color than anything else. With
the abundance of vegetation no longer present at the woods' edge to capture
one's attention, the lay of the land assumes a larger prominence.
I am reminded that this is no trifling oasis of undisturbed meadowland
that has been planted into an inscrutably-dense container of foliage.
No, this is indeed a "part of" the grander terrain that might even be nominally
visible from low earth orbit, as a wrinkle along the ridge in a false-color
land-use study.
In truth, I have no justifiable "need" to feel "included in" anything
of such major dimensions. The principal influences on the world as
I perceive it (and as it may, in part, actually be) do have mandatory
requirements for worldly extent, but these are slight and usually "affordable".
Today I might happen to be standing on the front porch, noting the high
peaks and the folds of the sub-ridges, only I could just as well go inside
and pick up a $1.00 used paperback from the heap and involve my higher
nervous system in a novel from the 1960's, courtesy of Signet, Dell, Pocket
Books or Fawcett Crest. I should be "patriotic" in that regard and
lessen my need for worldly manifestations of content, for then I could
be a "happy" (and indeed, "know it") in my real life city surroundings,
meager though they are.
Of course, the only way all of this "land" can be here "for me" is as
a construct within my mind, so I can find conscionable satisfaction
in passing time here in the innocuous fashion of your typical media consumer.
Still, while I might "project" this dream-world onto the screen of some
internal visualizer at minimal or no cost, I find, sadly, that my motions
are significantly restricted in it. I should be the ultimate
"boss" here, and the writer of my own script, yet I suffer the humiliation
of an author who must still obey an editor. I suppose I accept these
limitations of self-derived "input" for the reason that other, more celebrated
"sources" need me to ride along without question on their track,
and it's hard to sit still long enough to travel in the style of a fully-invited
customer or guest. In making a connection to a truly "gifted communicator",
I am always faced with an overburden of values having little relation to
"who I am".
Maybe I should go inside and look for one of those beat-up books,
the kind with barely any cover left to judge them by, even if I lose contact
with the imagery I consider to be "original" and "mine". It's not
much of a day to spend long outside anyway, and I need to respect that
this part of the year has to be cold and blustery.
I note that a good many of the titles I've picked up are chocked-full of
technological intrigue--Burdick et al.'s Fail-Safe, Clarke's 2001
a Space Odyssey and Clancy's Red Storm Rising--but I get enough
technology at work. Others, which were favorites in high school English--Sinclair's
The Jungle, Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath and Orwell's
Nineteen Eighty-four--I've read so many times that it's not fair
to the other books. Let's see--here's the one I could never finish--Pirsig's
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Maybe I'm finally
"ready" for that one, though I don't think so.
Deciding at last to forgo any literary exercises, I can see that as
it was when I was 17, it remains today; that I am not the kind of man who
is well-inspired towards those "fundamental things" that "apply as time
goes by". I decide at last just to slow myself down and assume my
supine position on the sofa, where I continue to operate my mind on its
own "data". This "information", though mostly dull and uninspired,
does not take an endowment of supremely-human "inspiration" to come alive.
It is "native" to myself and therefore always available. I see myself
returning for now to my ground state, from which there is no possibility
of further descent. There could well be a wealth of behavior in my
defeat-colored "way" that I could admire, only my aesthetic perception
is slow and I respond better by simply being still.
I am a human being, and I should have enough to get by.
Inspiration as a general principal is pretty empty, anyway, for a man with
few resources to transform what is perceived into actual product.
I hear the steady wind plying the cedar siding of this structure that stands
in the open, or so it seems. It is time to rest.
"Bo"
31 October 2001 -- An evaluation while at rest
It is something of a gray day, in which the substantial new layer
of fallen leaves looks quite "at home", given the concurrent colder temperatures.
Whenever I walk about in the brush of the clearing and the Cabin compound,
I am presented with that solitary feeling of a barren land awaiting its
first snow. The predominant color in the foliage is no longer green
but yellow, and also that dull yellowish-tan that one finds in the straw
of a "harvest" scene. I suppose that if I had a pumpkin stationed
on the front porch, it would also look appropriate, only I expect no "visitors"
this evening to impress in such a way. The main entrance to this
dwelling, by contrast, has more of the appearance of a "closed for the
season" "vacation" home, something put into storage until the better days
for outdoor festivity next April and May.
The skies are dark enough that I have lit the kerosene lanterns indoors,
and this dispels some of the uniform and "unremarkable" tone that
settles in when the sun refuses to shine. I have been busying myself
in the small living space of hearth, kitchen, living room and sleeping
area, making sure that I have everything ready for the kind of "other times"
that I know to be common after such a lull in the action. I take
plenty of time in doing this, since I do not have any of those agents of
authority on hand to "enforce" my compliance with the most "responsible"
and "productive" way I could possibly be in this context. Though
there are various duties of basic living that accord to this or any other
place intended as a "home", I am more interested in "laying low" for awhile,
so as to remind myself of some of the goodness and endowment that I tend
to neglect during the urban hustle.
I am well aware that the features that make this Cabin the "comfortable"
dwelling it is for myself are largely derived from the standard set of
interior design values that most people would look for in a rustic
"second home". Indeed, in migrating the description of these 440
square feet from a personally-held vision to an openly-disclosed specification,
I am probably making a prescriptive statement that I suspect others could
pick up on. Still, if I actually did have visitors on hand,
the solace of the personal hiding place would be broken, for it generally
follows that I would have to provide some form of "entertainment" to anyone
else who ventured up the 4.1-mile dirt track from State Highway 735.
I don't often know precisely "what to say" in the typical encounter, and
I would not rely upon the environmental aspects of this hollow alone, especially
in the "off season", to speak on my behalf.
I just want to slow it all down and get myself fully "together".
One of my ongoing operating precepts has been that the woods and the mountains,
and even the Cabin fittings themselves, do nothing to detract from such
a process of coalescence. What I would seek is a form of minimalism
that is difficult to practice when others are physically near, the kind
that recognizes how little necessity there is to so much of what is said
and done in a city life. As I finally plunk myself down in the hearthside
armchair, I am not called upon to present a defense of who or why
I am. The fire burns on behind the grating, tended only as it must
be, and I am satisfied that it provides a decent livable heat for a single
person, even if it would "serve more". The goal of the exercise
is one of personal conservation, of the kind that is thwarted when social
affairs place such a large portion of myself at risk in ways that do not
appear prudent.
The other precept that this brings to mind is that I am fundamentally
incapable of conducting reliable, meaningful interaction when the others
are around. Maybe I'm not being "fair to myself" when I operate under
such a belief, but I do make enough "mistakes" to know the value of a lesser
exposed presence. I suppose I'm going to extremes and getting carried
away when I "err" so thoroughly on the side of caution, only I am not comfortable
working on the slippery sliding scale of my passion and exuberance, and
thus I need to shut it off like this every so often. It is of course
saddening that I keep so much out of circulation and that my personal realm
might well be shared, given only nominal and reasonable conditions.
I need to take stock, however, of those resources in my inventory and it
is only in solitude that I can have sufficient control to do the job to
my satisfaction. A flowing target is difficult to evaluate.
One day, I do hope, I will not need such caution, only for now the benefits
of secure shelter outweigh the joys of frivolous abandon in the kind of
parties and good-natured gatherings that typify this part of the year.
I am well aware that it is not the dead straw that is celebrated
with the harvest, but the life that carries on through its reaping, and
that life is a moving thing.
"Bo"
Ahead to November 2001
