2 September 2001 -- Along the twisted path
With the weather having cooled some, I have determined that I can make
the climb to the high Summit at 5040 feet today with a "manageable" quantity
of sweat and heat discomfort. Making sure that the gravity-fed shower
above the back porch is sufficiently full for my return, I equip myself
in the day hike configuration, choosing my lighter fabric and suede boots
since it has been dry lately. It occurs to me that I've not done
a lot of hiking this year--simply "sitting around" has been my preference
in "getting away". It therefore comes as something of a novelty when
I willingly constrain myself to the rocky pathway and arduous physical
assignment that begins, once I've passed into the tree cover at the far
side of the clearing. Knowing that I have no meeting I'm rushing
to on the other side of the ridge, I take every bit of my time in this
outing, since I will not be "late" upon any return I make in the later
afternoon.
I am soon into woods having such intense growth and undergrowth that
I have no real "clue" as to how far I've come or when to expect those final
rock outcroppings and scraggly trees that mark the upper extreme.
It's just one hillside, where I've managed to find a twisted, switchback
trail that was never part of the original "design" of the land. I
get the feeling that the woods are actively "resisting" me, as I step over
fallen trunks and pass through well-developed spider webs. On my
frequent stops to catch my breath and take a sip of water, I test the foliage
for any openings that might let me see into the hollow the way I can in
November, after the leaves have fallen. I know it's all there,
spread out below, only I must be content for now with what is right here.
The anxious desire for a sense of "context" is only a vestige of urban
expediency, anyway, and that is not my "deal" on this "day of rest".
With my attention well-focused upon the few feet of rocks, gravel, moss
and wildflower plants ahead of my current foot-placements, I do not have
the full "luxury" of idle worry or fanciful thought. I am thinking,
of course, of the summit ahead, but also the kind of "settling in" I might
expect when this is all over and I get to collapse on one of my assorted
"beds" down by the Cabin. I'm sure to have a more "enriched" feeling
about the hollow once I've returned, though this slow passage through the
repetitive mixture of the deciduous and the coniferous is not likely to
leave the memory it should for having taken so long. I know this
is a departure from the more "relaxed" attitude of the typical day hiker,
and I make conscious efforts to reduce the misplaced, smoldering frustration
over this slow-going trip. It is as if some "fraction" of myself
were already way ahead of me, exploiting its freedom as a non-physical
entity and shouting back taunting insults.
The hike continues at this pace for some time, and I realize I'd truly
be lost if it were not for my various trail markings dating to 1997.
At a certain point, I finally notice that the "soil" is thinning out, as
is the tree cover. This is the "sign" that the end is near.
When I have a good view "out" through the branches, I take a seat where
I can find one on a rock, so as to appreciate being at last "amid" the
chain of peaks that stand above the hollow, like light towers encircling
a sports stadium. My perspective has indeed "changed" by taking the
hike so far today, and I am soon back on my feet for more. Past the
ridge trail junction, my "scenery" is rocks, not trees, and some of the
trail up here is best described as a "scramble". I walk the relatively
short absolute distance amid all of this sparse and emaciated plant life,
where the wind has noticeably increased. Finally, I see and ascend
the high pile of rocks and reach the top.
With the trees entirely below my line of sight, I am given at last the
complete picture of the hollow. I still can't believe I'm
really looking at the Cabin and the clearing in such a single
glance. The hills along the river-cut leading back to the village
are still there, doing their job in defining the run and buffering my "exposure"
to the world that begins with State Highway 735. I let the wind do
its duty in processing the sweat that has developed on my skin and in my
cotton clothing. Eventually, I figure I should go back, so as to
sit out the rest of the afternoon with my now-"earned" sense of accomplishment.
I re-enter the forest in the same gradual way I left it, then begin the
reverse process. I still have a mind too preoccupied with "spatial
coordinates" and conservative energy fields to see the path as its own
wondrous experience. There is recognizable poverty in treating most
of life's provisions as second-hand facilitators of external goals.
Well, the end of the trail should arrive before long. With
nothing else to go by, the picture I now have is of being in the clearing,
with all of the high points back where they "should be". I've grown
warm again, even with the downhill pace, and will appreciate that shower.
"Bo"
5 September 2001 -- The inescapable realm
It is rather "pleasant" outside the Cabin today, with temperatures somewhere
around 70 F and a fair quantity of sun. On a day like this, I can
easily see the way that summer is finally making its exit for another year.
The shadows could well be longer now, at 2-1/2 months after the
solstice, for the corresponding point in spring is at the start of April.
When night arrives now, it does so with a true "authority", and I can imagine
the appropriately-placed chill that will come after the sun sets behind
the ravine tonight. Things are clearing up, after all that hazy,
stifling air that did not really let a man see the stars at night.
The "crisp" times are on their way, and I should only hope myself capable
of enjoying their embracing effect after so many "lazy" days. I am
inside at rest on the sofa, noting the afternoon sun that appears through
the rear window. Everything, indeed, is growing sharper and more
distinct.
I suppose I'll soon wind up with a new "take" on the various matters
before me, both in real life and up here in the hollow, since the contextual
cues of weather and woodland life make a strong impression. I do
enjoy the thought that I will get a different viewpoint, even if I'm not
sure exactly what I'll "see". That will be one of those "gifts" in
my life; the opportunity for better thought that does not require stringent
expenditures of physical or emotional effort. This is what living
in the temperate zones will bring, even if it does get restrictively
cold in the "pit of winter". For today, however, I am still
reminded of how every day has to count on "its own merits", and not with
a view to some grandeur that may or may not come on another day.
It is early September, the commencement of another "indoor season", at
least in real life urban settings, and I think over how I need to be ready
for the "events" that will happen here, even if I do stay alone
all winter.
It would probably be easier to have an ongoing and substantial "agenda"
of activity for these visits if I were not so entirely dogged by the real
world's insistence that I have so many appointments at so many times.
If I were more "proactive" about the whole mess, I could well make it into
a game, like running an obstacle course, only such hijinks as those are
better given to the 18-year-old in basic training. I listen to myself
talk here, realizing that I am typically complicit in those pilings-on
of obligation, so I should do as the "personal accountability" activists
say and just "blame myself". I need the time off, though,
and it never is in the right places at the right times. The sun has
moved a little closer to the top of the window across the room--it sure
seems to be taking its time. I'm studying myself now, wondering
if I have unwittingly let myself be implanted in the style of The Matrix,
moving along under external control--but it can't be that simple.
The hordes of activities in my future are peeking into my closed-off
space as I sit here. "We're ready for you", they state, in
somber yet taunting tones. I turn for the counter-attack: "is
this time mine or isn't it? I will go calmly if you show me
your just cause and give me my due process". Well, you know the social
structure; if it has anything, it has documentation and reasoning behind
its own authority and jurisdiction. Why, six billion people can't
be wrong. This is really pretty low for living, I come to realize.
I should write some other folks into this tale and have it over with.
That might be the compromise that would keep me from all this frivolous
dickering with the things I can't change. Still, virtual characters
would seem rather dishonest, since they'd really just be "me". I
can see that something has really worked me into a "snit" in recent days.
Unfortunately, I'm armpit-deep in those assignments, and there is
little room to move out of it.
As always, the goal is to achieve graceful passage through, if not egress
from, the realm that has made me its own. This is the same man, after
all, who laments a life that has a limit. There shouldn't be any
part of living that doesn't leave me jumping for joy. Look at me;
I get to participate! I'm in the game and a stake-holder.
Do they need me to gesticulate wildly and cover every position on the field?
I hardly think so. I just need to walk my simple line down the street,
observant yet yielding as I must. There is a formula for the level
of resistance I need to maintain, one that is characteristically mine.
I possess this wondrous secret, somewhere, and as other vocal "empowerment"
activists would say, it need only be "released". Why I'd keep something
so sweet in its usefulness under wraps, however, is beyond me. I
sigh deeply, then close my eyes. "Yes, yes," I tell the throng, "I'll
be with you. You know I'm not going anywhere."
"Bo"
9 September 2001 -- Only an approximation
Realizing that the "warmer" days are now specifically numbered, I have
chosen this afternoon to sack out in the knotted-rope hammock that is strung
between two of the ample supply of pine trees in the stand behind the woodshed.
There is still a vague feeling in the air to suggest "summer", and the
insect noise is there to support that conclusion. It's impossible
to "read out" all of the cues I've been picking up in real life as it goes
"back to school", however, and I am able to dismiss the bulk of the
balminess and sustained plant life as spurious and transitional.
The skies have some of that hazy overcast that has so characterized the
summer of 2001, only there is noticeably more wind on hand, the kind of
wind that so aptly signals the entrance of autumn as September unfolds.
Even with the wind and the river and the insects, however, it is palpably
quiet, as I hang heavily over the pitch-scented bed of fallen needles
that hold back the wild, vine-choked overgrowth that typically appears
this close to the bottom of the run.
I take a deep breath as I gaze back into the not-too-distant clearing,
noting the wild grass and assorted flowers that appear to "create" an airborne
layer fully suggestive of life through the blown seed packages and seemingly
random insect trajectories. I have worn enough repellent, I do believe,
to be relatively "safe" out here, though what I really fear are the wood
ticks. I adjust my position somewhat in the hammock and breathe deeply
again, this time in more of a resolute sigh, and I continue to let
myself hang here, out of circulation. This is always the solution
when the city has dealt me too many useless situations; I am not in the
position to learn the fine craft of building a living and majestic personal
legacy out of the debris that is typically strewn about for my intended
"use". Those components of "the good life", such as social organizations
and things of humanistic "beauty" are well-enough labelled, only the final
assembly is beyond the rather primitive stage to which I've ascended as
a "functioning" human being.
I know, of course, that it eventually becomes "my fault" that I didn't
pick up on all of those methods directed towards ever-increasing glory
when I was a kid. I will not blame anyone for this negligence
other than myself. But then I need to examine what, in my own personal
repertoire, has taken the place of the more proper and aesthetic "kingdom"-building
skills that most folks take for granted. I have in place a network
of allied capabilities from the more "practical" side of human endeavor
that I can often run to some effect without impediment, once I get a stretch
of clear, straight time. While I've never been able to create much
of a "good sensation" (e.g., "buzz") from any of this, it does have a way
of holding up the roof, even if precariously and with little self-assurance.
Somehow, I've learned to operate this clandestine personal passageway;
a private conduit for my own foolish proceedings, where no dark
shadow of interpersonal obligation will interfere. Since there are
elements of worldly "success" in all of this, I'd probably be written off
as "eccentric", rather than receiving one of the more critical pejorative
labels from the tribunal of consensus.
I take yet another breath, as I let the afternoon proceed around me.
The ringing cicada noise is loud, of course, as are the larger birds that
occasionally pass through the nearby trees. No one is really "punishing"
me for being this way, and I therefore "get away with it". Being
a fan of laziness, rest and leisure where they are permitted, I take the
path of least resistance. This having happened, however, my readings
and participation in sacred matters tell me this can't be truly
"legitimate", so I suppose I'm "guilty" of some sort of irreverent
and disrespectful abuse, even if I have to wait until the "great final
day" to be formally charged. The silence is the strange part
of all of this. I have indeed successfully earned the privilege of
running a protocol that I can continue more or less indefinitely, within
the overall limits of a mortal life. Still, I see enough legible
handwriting on the forgone and bypassed makings of a "proper" life in the
spirit to tell me I'm falling further "behind" on something I'm sure to
regret. It is never revealed to me just what I've done (or
failed to have done), so the process of amends is necessarily curtailed.
I suppose, on this sort-of-warm day, I just won't let it bother me,
since I have no practical remedy at hand. I have a feeling the central
authorities will issue me highly-legible citations when I really go
astray. Dealing as I am in imperfection, that is bound to happen
before too long, anyway.
"Bo"
*****
13 September 2001 -- A division to be respected
The air is bright with sun and becoming steadily more "crisp", on this
day I've found to drive the truck up the dirt two-track road to my generally
"safe" haven at altitude. Stepping down from the cab, I note the
foliage that is on the verge of being called to autumn's requirement of
"loss", and it will soon look perfectly "correct" to have a column of smoke
rising from the Cabin's fieldstone chimney. I really don't have a
whole lot to do today, as if that were some critical component of
my continued existence. I suppose I could be seen as "selfish" for
withdrawal under such conditions, since there must be something
of a meaningful nature left on the agenda I have temporarily suspended
in real life. One of those undercurrents of American "propriety"
is that nothing go to "waste", for that is an unwarranted and premature
concession to the great unspeakable truth that all things run downhill,
unless previous, localized arrangements have been made in advance.
Yes, I've decided to come sit by myself for awhile, simply because I
can. I walk at the slower pace that's "allowed" up here, noting
that the earth is fairly dry throughout the dooryard and the area leading
to the out-buildings. I step inside the quiet and undisturbed interior
space of the frame dwelling, which looks pretty much as it has throughout
the summer. Though constant change is certainly the cause for excitement,
it also carries with it a dynamic reminder that all created things
are ephemeral, as the ongoing news on the truck radio reminded me prior
to my shutting it off when I left the Interstate an hour ago. The
various social establishments I encounter in real life exhort me to join
in and be "united", only discord is still well-represented because every
formation of a group involves the concurrent exclusion of the ones
on the "outside".
The fact is that division among men per se is indivisible from
their earthly identity as distinct, personality- and consciousness-wielding
individuals. I will admit that I am not helping in this regard by
running off on such a regular basis, only I've directly witnessed that
I lack full fluency in the "more excellent way", as Paul put it to the
Corinthians. I should really minimize my profile, to the point, even,
of restricting my content published in this account of virtual living,
for that would let the truly helpful among the urban population
be better heard in their "leadership" roles. As I take a seat on
the sofa and pick up one of my WWII Life magazines, I am reminded
of the fairly "long" time that is spanned, even by "modern" history.
If "taking it easy" on myself means I come and sit for awhile just listening
to myself, I doubt it will make much impact on the greater course of human
events.
In the habit I've adopted in the last year or so, I take a deep breath
and let out a sigh. Despite the downward pull that will one day make
my tired old hulk just one more piece of detritus, life as a general proposition
and principle stands as a stubborn exception. Here is some propaganda
from 1943 about conservation--"oil is ammunition--use it wisely".
It is implied that the Allies were the only cause worthy of human allegiance.
There were some hallowed causes that merited even the localized
destruction that made the War a fine example of "hell". One can envision
the terrible form of "the devil" himself, walking the earth that has so
many unfortunate outposts of his control. Being still alive,
though, I am not yet dominated in full by the great and ruinous authorities
that gnaw with certain success, even upon my vitals.
I see that I have happened upon a theme I'm sure has been beaten to
death in the "accepted" literature; the balance and partition between life
and death; good and evil; etc., provided these have meaningful definitions.
Up is up and down is down, but eventually the twain shall come to an understanding
that is underwritten on earth by earth's own merciless agents. I
put down the magazine for now and think of what it is to enjoy these moments
of "peace". There is a whole mechanism awaiting my return, with every
intention of putting me through its mechanical paces and making use of
my standing as its component. A finely-balanced craftsmanship, I'm
sure, would make a lot more out of what I've been "given", only perfection
is expected of no one. The "living", in their overall contempt for
the surrounding non-membership, have the advantage of being presumed "correct",
at least as far as living observers can tell. It is in my interest,
while I'm here, to be on that side that embodies true "life".
"Bo"
17 September 2001 -- It isn't about just me
Since folks were pretty well "distracted" last time I was in town, I
was able to get away to the Cabin with relatively few of them noticing
this time. I am grateful, in a certain sense, that eyes have a lesser
chance of coming to rest on me in this current "time", since I am
given to excess in my self-consciousness. To be "watched" by the
likes of myself is plenty. I am just "sitting around" today inside
the dwelling, which is well-lit from the bright sunshine that has prevailed
for yet another day. Really, this is the kind of weather that would
do the scenery better "justice" if the trees were already changing color.
I tend to strain my perception, almost, to see what "orange" there is in
the woods above the clearing and back in the ravine. I have noticed
a couple of colder nights recently, so those days are sure to arrive in
short order. I better take these milder daytime conditions while
I can still get them.
Something in city living has built up a tremendous feeling of
pain and/or pressure in my forehead and face, if nothing more than the
still-active pollen from all of the "weeds" in vacant lots and "unimproved"
mountain tracts alike. The frantic pace and joint onset of so many
events and influences may well be pushing me to this condition. I
decide to move from the sofa to the soft down cover of my rough-hewn bed,
where I take a number of those deep, abdominal breaths. No one really
"wants me" to be like this, and I'm sure my compatriots in the urban run-around
are not in specific opposition to "just me". Indeed, it is a vain
presumption to think such a thing. I am relieved in a certain way
that I can walk with such "impunity" among my "peers", and I decide it
is simply good that my operations have the time they do to be at
rest while I'm on my own.
Still, I am left with this overarching tension, and this
is a sign that things must be "getting to me". I turn my head to
bury it in the heavy comforter, knowing I don't have to put on any particular
kind of "face", "happy" or otherwise, for those who are ordinarily in my
midst. Why, they have so much other business to attend to
that these should count as "golden times" for a man who resents his "social
burden" on such frequent occasion. Collaborative expression requires,
well, collaboration, as well as all of the extrema of emotion and
tests of coping ability that these imply. If I'm going to be miserable,
I can't use the same old reasons, for the larger social causes will beat
them every time; it's a much "bigger game". To talk, even to myself,
I must have more substantial "complaints". How I wish I could have
a "presentable" conscience and disposition, even though no one needs to
see these at the moment.
I continue with the breathing, realizing the immensity of those organizational
entities that rise above me. Though a man might be a "marvel
of bio-engineering", even more so is the overall and coherent group.
There is a mighty mainstream among them, one that would sweep me away in
an instant if I ever were totally immersed. Though "feel-good" occupations
and attitudes are sometimes disparaged in the news media, at least they
feel good. I have seen so many people get buffeted about in
the larger "process", however, that I can't see why it's worth giving up
such a large part of one's precious individual dignity. The various
"authorities" on such matters of philosophy and theology all return with
enough of themselves intact to say that individuals are at their greatest
"freedom" when they are seamlessly integrated with the group. Still
this is certainly a substantial "mystery" for a cynically-bent man to accept.
So then, I need to "bring myself down" a few notches here, for I obviously
fail to understand what every human should know. I thought I could
skip all those hard lessons in the "rules of our species", but this is
where it left me. The time is not often right for men to think that
they can act as they wish, on their own sense of propriety.
Justice and the unshakably-"right" are, far more, the fruit of consensus.
I take a purposefully deep breath and let it slowly out. I am indeed
"one of them", and it is their collective daily concern that must
be working its way inside my hide. I cultivate now a semi-fanciful
picture of things coming slowly to rest, though the actual pattern of the
resultant deposition is imprecise because I'm not well-versed in such design.
It is like the vision of the great and peaceful by-and-by, as one might
see in Revelation. The rule of men is made perfect, since all have
finally come to agreement. Oh, what a fellowship, when the
higher structure is supported and raised still higher by those who know
their trade!
"Bo"
21 September 2001 -- Artistry from predictability
It's still warm enough at the Cabin during the middle of the day to
walk around outside without a jacket, though the nights are another matter
altogether. The mornings are now quite damp, with the changeover
to frost on the grass and exposed wood surfaces not too far off.
I have my supply of firewood in the shed, supplied by the fellow in the
village, and there is also plenty of kerosene for the lamps. I should
be "all right" for awhile now. On this particular visit, I have taken
a seat (or more correctly, I've "stretched myself out") on the chaise lounge
near the fire ring, noticing more than usual the feel of the winds that
come along. Some of the higher trees have begun to change, and soon
there will be that heightened crackle from such wind, as it stirs up the
loose and friable under-layer. I close my eyes, so as to listen to
wind and note just how much it chills my tired hulk, which rarely has much
trouble assuming this posture. Yes, I'm "lazy"; I'll admit that.
I'm sure there are other "things I could be doing", and it is annoying
when I get back to my rounds and see such heaps of neglected duty.
As I concurrently move along through my schedule in real life (and to
a lesser extent, in this "life", too), I am aware of how lightly
I treat the great gift that each day really is to a nominally "free" man.
So much of what I see as obligation is self-imposed, and if I were truly
inclined, I should be able to live much more "adventurously". On
this afternoon, for example, the fully-"freed" version of me would have
a wide-open list of enriching new experiences that could well be his.
This thought is not easy to sustain, though, given the strong and suggestive
cues provided by the 168-hour routine. It's not so simple as just
saying "no" to all of that, for therein lies sufficient comfort to maintain
me in my trips around the track. A life, it would seem, is just a
huge-to-overflowing pile of superimposed "ruts", a collection of cyclicals
that would do Joseph Fourier proud. Of course, the subject person
is highly complicit in maintaining these, for most habits should have a
way of dying out without positive reinforcement.
I sigh as I turn on the chaise lounge, seeing more time lost in this
fanciful model-making, the kind I decided years ago was a waste of time.
Real life, as it properly unfolds, may often reduce to a fairly simple
teleological formulation, only the true "connoisseurs" do not actively
make comparisons. This is how the arbitrary entity is accorded dignity,
by dispelling the annoying human tendency to see patterns and create abstractions.
Thus, "I", as who "I am", can properly deny my classification and placement,
thereby "taking back" the freedom that is centrally implied in the
notion of "free time". Of course, to earn my keep in the great collective,
I need certain predictability to who I am and what I can do. When
someone asks me "what do you do", it is trivial and evasive just to say,
"I am" or "I live". Thus, to be pinioned in a "niche", though it
is oversimplification, at least gets that matter out of the way.
So I go on thinking about how this life has to be spent this
way, as another day slips from whatever grasp I could have had on it.
This hollow has been just the way it is for the last 4 years, only there
are redeeming nuances to gladden my heart, if only I were more receptive.
I'm after one of those transformations of the mind that make everything
look different, while it is still, paradoxically, the same. The steady
state is modulated by creative living and experience into a chaotic yet
artfully sequenced itinerary, the true sign that something significant
of the soul has had its way. I have no real technique, though, for
getting to that elevated condition. I've followed too many dead-ends
over the years, and my door is nearly closed to new attempts. The
life in me has therefore settled towards my lowest point, which is where
I tend to be most of the time. It has formed a heavy, viscous layer
that does not often feel the touch of external currents in the waters above.
Still I refuse to "beat upon myself" today for this apparent
"depravity", for that is not the kind of ongoing input that helps in the
pursuit. I continue to lay on the heavy canvas-covered cushion, with
my hands folded neatly across my lower chest. The leaves will soon
be on their way down, and the seasons will continue on their way, with
their simple harmonic quadrature accentuated by events like the autumnal
equinox tomorrow night. My comfort will continue, so long as I keep
at the enabling rituals that shore it up. I am thankful that I "get
away with" as much as I do in my "professional" career back in real life.
I suppose I'm after some indication of "performance" in my affairs, this
necessitating an objective set of "metrics", to use the management seminar
buzz-word. There is a fine discipline in actually having something
to "measure" that way, but it would appear that the discrete components
of living themselves, and not their "value" or "score", should be the focus
of concentration, after which the numbers are sure to follow as they must.
"Bo"
25 September 2001 -- My personal arena is filled
It would seem that a substantial portion of the deciduous greenery in
the hollow "decided" to turn color in the span of a very few days, so now
the scene outside the living room window is authentically that of "autumn".
There is sun this afternoon, to be sure, only the temperatures and wind
will not "allow" a person to conjure much of summer's balminess into being
from this token presence. Soon, the leaves will be scattered in their
great piles on the forest floor, even making their way into the perimeter
of the stand of hemlock pine, where I am now at rest in the hammock.
Since it is cooler out, and the friendly green of the warmer months
is giving way to "harsher" yellows, oranges and reds, I have more of a
feeling of being "out of my element" on such a day, when the urban population
is encouraged to participate in the upcoming pageantry of football, homecoming
and Halloween. This is a veritable tableau, something developed
in me from my earliest days of school in the late 1960's.
The sky is wonderfully clear today, giving me a chance to focus
my attention long from this suspended perch, far out into the trees on
the opposite side of the clearing. It's all "within reach", it would
seem--the local Cabin compound fits within the same cognitive handful as
the distant base of the hillside and even the exposed rocks up at the Summit.
I recall from fairly-recent memory how easy it was to feel comfortably
"plunked down" in a single, sweltering spot within the hot and hazy atmosphere
of July. Now, my presence at this particular spot looks a
little more "questionable". I suppose I'm always after that wonderful,
"smothering" comfort factor in my life, the one that pushes me towards
oblivious acceptance and ultimate rest, even if it is at the price
of apathy. Well, the sun's headed towards its second portal in the
west, and I just might be able to build a cozy ensconcement before
the fire, on the chill night that is fairly certain to follow.
As I continue to look at the spreading swaths of yellow tinged with
orange, it remains hard to dismiss the tentative feelings of "inappropriateness"
related to my being here today. There is a sense, almost, that I've
"worn out my welcome", as did the splendor of the summer days. The
great outdoor "festival" has concluded, even if it is true that
the "Holidays" are just around the corner and the spectacle of Oktoberfest
is coming to the village at the base of my "private" 4.1-mile dirt road.
I saw the banners across the streets when I drove through today in the
truck. These intentions are generally lost on me, given my propensity
be on my own if I am given a choice. I suppose the seasons on the
near horizon are made their brightest when spent in the reinforcement of
the reveling crowds, even if it is no more than the 500 inhabitants down
there at the crossroads. Still, we are talking about a living,
breathing, writhing, advancing population there, and I am much more
reliably edified when I can pull off the self-directed stunt of developing
"something" all my own, in a setting that does not change.
So the day progresses and perhaps the evening will be halfway
"festive", when I take my place on the armchair before the fireplace.
It is certainly true that "distracting myself" in this way will not make
me the best of "customers" in the almighty fold, once it calls me back
tomorrow. It is a noticeable vanity, too, that I place so much importance
in self-made joy, only the legions of folks running around pursuing
similar goals with copies of Rand's Fountainhead under their arms
would not fault me anything. The ultimate consequence of self interest
is to occupy one's self thus, I cynically tell myself.
The unseen hand should, at all junctures, offer guidance not available
from the less-disciplined examples found applauding home team touchdowns
and well-played polka music. I just don't know--people on the one
hand profess solidarity, only to act otherwise in sport or in reality on
the assorted fields where "conflict" is enacted. What is there, anyway,
in being an individual, who must defend both his dance partner and
way of life, but still "make nice" with those judged to be "friends"?
It is all a demonstration of duplicity and self-negation, where "A"
is far from looking like "A", since I cannot easily accept those "serendipitous
synergies" that make the connected man somehow work for his own
cause as well. I just want the walls to rise, as they usually do
with nightfall, and allow me to pass unnoticed through another "blessed"
interval of true self-sufficiency. I am aware, from the quantity
of socialization that did make it to me during my formative years,
that I'm not being "true" to those who would be faithful in return, if
I had the patience to muster a sustained period of "goodwill". I
do need the enclosure to form, though, and the sooner the better.
I feel terribly unsettled and "loose" in a place this big on a day
so crisp and clear.
"Bo"
29 September 2001 -- A calculated hesitation
The conditions outside today would be well-described as "cool" and "crisp",
about as typical for the entry to autumn as a person could want.
There is now a lot of leaf color on the hillsides and down in the
ravine, though the current overcast sky does not bring it out as fully
as it would be shown in a postcard photo. I'm stretched out on the
sofa, looking at the somber wood-colors in the ceiling framework above,
where nothing commands my solid attention. From considerable experience,
I know this state to be a promising precursor to "quality time" within
my solitude, so my conscious practice is to let things be and wait.
Should better internal conditions finally prevail, I will not question
what I had to do to enable them. I suppose this interval could be
called "sad", only I never see it degenerate into industrial-strength "depression".
No, out of many ways I can and do feel, it is but one.
I am reminded as I lay here of the "spiritual poverty" implicit in looking
to "external" motivation and inspiration towards "true joy". Do the
"normal" down there in city life; that middle 70%, have it any easier than
this? I lament my weakness when it comes to my inventory of usable
"free will", practically to the point of conceding constructive defeat
to a deterministic regime. "It's the curse of the flesh," I say to
myself in reassuring tones, "where I must eventually respect, if not indeed
venerate, the vast magisterium of rampant limitation that is my workspace."
I am well aware that a human mind can only realistically act on a small
fraction of what it can conjure into conscious thought. Since that
fraction does not appear to contain usable options at present, I
stand in the corridor, waiting for someone to open the door to better choices.
Indeed, I eventually will have to get up and move to another staging
ground if this doesn't "work".
The well-meaning observer would comment of this scene, "why doesn't
he just knock on that door?" The Sermon on the Mount was very
clear about all of that. But then we have to admit that that particular
set of teachings is routinely set aside, so as to enact enforcement of
ordinary, worldly expediency. I think to what I see on the city streets
and wonder if I need to increase my output of the strident, the brazen
and the presumptuous. Ordinary folks have a considerable callous,
after all, built up against the excesses that others exert, and no one
can really hope to be "liked" on general principle. I don't know
about that, though--when I run up against this unyielding behavior in real
life, I am only broken a little further by "being in the way". I
should continue my low-profile act of quiet but steady persistence,
fully within the "live and let live" idealism that should characterize
the "better man".
I turn to a new position on the muslin slipcover of the sofa, thinking
of how evening will fall and I'll eventually have to build something of
a fire. At present, I can leave everything just as it is, in what
seems an essentially "endless" time away from sight. While this isn't
active "distress", I still face the "opponent within;" the one who won't
let me enjoy the fullness of real rest. I sigh deeply, looking
out the back window at the swaths of dulled yellow and orange. I
have any number of things I could do besides this, if only I were
willing to take a licking once in awhile. No one can hope to get
a "sure thing" very often, so I take my uncertainty in this form--placing
myself with a tensely calm holding pattern; a generally "safe," if not
indeed reassuring waiting state. If I am ultimately demoralized
by this tension, well, it will only be "just me".
Fortunately, I don't suffer at present from this concentrated
isolation, so it is a viable way to pass an afternoon. When I rise
at last to my next and more "interesting" assignment, I will be doing so
from a highly-antiseptic (though not aseptic) condition. There
will be no need for remediation or reconciliation before moving forward.
It is a "game" I play, I have to admit, and I cannot avoid being
penalized for "unsportsmanlike conduct". Being at least nominally
human, I am saddled with the strange and unpredictable burden of passion,
which means I'm going to suffer in one way or another, in the classic embodiment
of "man's fall" so long ago. I am a motile creation, so provisioned
as to bespeak and fully suggest motion itself. My own "stubbornness",
however, still prescribes low-risk, loss-contained hesitation, for just
as I've known joy, I've also taken my beatings, and each has its final
cost.
"Bo"
Ahead to October 2001
