2 April 2002 -- Towards the favored pose
With the last few days being mild and generally sunny, I've seen some
favorable impact on the woodland mud, that rather resistive basis for all
that rises through it and rests on top of it. The air is no longer
what I'd call "cold", only it still has a "bracing" feel that makes the
assorted vegetation look quite proper wherever it stands straight.
Yes, the sun is everywhere now, as mid-day approaches, and I can clearly
see the fine beginnings of this year's foliage in the clearing from where
I sit on the front porch. The rumbling roar of the river, a tone
made of so many tones, and far more than "noise" per se,
adds to this brisk outdoor framework that suddenly seems eminently liveable.
There is a bustle to the open space that fully suggests the increase
in life to come, and the mind must work to keep from overlaying it with
some stirring score by Aaron Copland or Antonin Dvorak. I do enjoy
moments and scenes that come together and act to begin things anew in my
tired old mind. It is just a bit sad, is all, that the whole makings
have been there all along.
So it would seem that I am attempting to use the new light of such a
day to catch a fresh glimpse of what is essentially the same old set of
strictures and limitations. There are indeed things I fear to look
upon, in accordance with the warnings I've let myself tell myself for so
many years. I feel my eyelids grow just a little heavy, out here
on the metal porch chair. "Why did I ever think that," goes
the internal cry of astonishment and relief, when some bit of bother is
finally blown free. Perhaps an unstated goal of the contemplatives
has been to accept everything in this way. What a revolutionary
notion; that "it is all acceptable"! If something has gone to all
the trouble to exist, then the clear benefactors of undeniably noble
creation are well served by not turning at once when it draws near.
The tremendous bogs of moss and fallen leaves that stand in so many places
along the wall of the hollow will eventually lose their pooled snowmelt
and leave a growing medium that could do little else but be the start and
finish of life. I do what I can, under such reminders, to withhold
my typical pronouncements upon a forest that really isn't ready yet for
my human feet.
I feel the usual start of weary resolve that goes with this mood, the
one that says I will hold out until this whole scenario is spent.
To consume all of an experience, indeed, is such a rare achievement,
with the public distraction-sources continually opening anew in the immediate
distance. I know there are matters in my life that could "ruin" all
of this; I am not currently configured to be indefinitely pliable in my
acceptance. But as I sit some more, I am left with a deeper-than-usual
"glow", when I think about all that this immense hollow is planning to
do in 2002. These happenings of life are driven along obviously
enough by the "almighty hand", rather than the "unseen" one, and I can
understand well enough the folks who would attach outright deity to earth
and sky both. This is pretty much all there is, at least as far as
the highly-persuasive physical body goes, and it is only my cultural placement
that encourages belief in another set of firm and mighty hands.
I note just the slightest edge of a chill, sitting as I am in the front
porch shade, and it is good to have my field coat with me.
There is clearly a grand "outcome" in the set of possibilities for days
like this, and for the hardier of practitioners, good days can be made
of just about any day. I take a deep breath, out here in the
fresh air. I know much about making myself still, and even the reasons
why I should be that way, only I keep going after those miserable
cheap thrills. When the mind is kept raucous with the ongoing excesses
of that particular pastime, it is always the audacious thrill-seeker who
just walks right up to the shelf and grabs himself another dose.
Every time I feel myself pushing to keep something going, it usually ends
up being that kind of "waste". The better gifts, of course, come
in the silence, or at least in silence broken only by the occasional breeze
and the river in the far background. I keep thinking there has to
be some sort of "ideal" way to tread this land, one in which I am
at a minimum of stress, physical and otherwise. There should be a
pose as reassuring as a caregiver's arms, only without the typical extreme
commitment it takes to have those arms.
Well, I suppose I'll head back inside, since there is far more profound
rest to be had on my bed than out here on the porch. In a month or
so, I'll be out laying directly on the ground, though that, too, has its
share of discomfort. I walk back through the living room to sit on
the edge of the bed, where I take off my shoes. Since I do not know
the "formula" for true simple reflection, I'm probably about as
good off as I'll ever be, just doing ordinary parts of ordinary living
up here at the Cabin. I doubt that peace can be kept for long in
captivity, anyway--it needs to have a net flow across the surfaces of the
assorted organisms that crave it. These states that I manage to reach
aren't much, for I have seen them so often rendered moot. I stretch
out at last on my bunk, which has every advantage over a city bed in being
so knowably far from the excitement sources. There is valor, though,
in resisting indulgence, once it can be done without loss of precious potential
and reserve.
Being still is indeed taking on a new glow of worthiness.
"Bo"
6 April 2002 -- Duty is unavoidable
I am ready for something of a rest, only real life won't let me slow
down that much. How I wish it could all "stand still" and let me
come to some sort of "peace" with it. On this somewhat chill day
in early April, I feel rather "hounded" by urban concerns, and I'd think
that the Cabin could absorb some of that, except that it is its own difficult
subject to keep rolling along. Sure, it's easy enough for a man,
hemmed in amidst a large quantity of sprawl, to say, "well, there will
be my thousand acres and there, too, will be I". The reality of it,
however, is another discipline as certain as anything the city can dish
out. I need to keep on thinking of it, or else it will all fall through,
to be looked at some day among my "archives" as one of those flights of
daydreaming fancy that never could quite hold on. I suppose I'm at
a point where I need commitment that I can truly hold. A long, drawn-out
tale of hanging out in the woods is probably not a good candidate for that.
But then, I have come to the Cabin another time, so I need to
do what I can to keep the channel open. This is the ultimate, after
all; that place above all other places. Though I might aspire to
certain tangible glory on Earth, this is Earth with a twist that it never
will have in the time I have left. It is isolation, to be sure, but
also an isolation that offers the hope of a perfect settlement, and not
some precarious, ongoing perch that requires my constant input. It
all slows down here, and it comes to a central, ultimately stable position.
Am I given any real chance at this in real life? I would almost
think that I am being packaged and hurried along by the others, when I'm
in that mighty midst. I am simply a man who would like a way of life
that has no controversy; one that can be lived without looking back.
So that is what the Cabin, the river, the hollow and the ridge are supposed
to be for me. It is the best I can do, to write this tale, week after
week, to the point where an outside observer would see a man as helpless
as the folks on Gilligan's Island.
Well, just how is it out there today? Let's see--practically
every last sign of snow is gone, and it's getting a bit late in the season
to think it will come back. The trees are beginning to show signs
of green, and it has been warm enough on many days to walk about without
a jacket. There is what I can "see", when I attempt to form the picture
of this "place" in my mind. What is it, really, that I would do,
given enough room to occupy without concern of trespass? I just like
the thought of ambling about, lazily, from place to place, sitting when
I think the sitting is good. That is my most cherished of Cabin images--just
being somewhere because I decide to, and without paying admission
or other forms of submission to governing authority. I like the thought
of being here with no hint that I am in someone else's shadow (or that
they are in mine). The woods here, as the story goes, would never
have been occupied, anyway, because they are too rocky and rugged.
It was just that I found this halfway-level clearing and decided
to erect my shack.
On the land I am today, and because of the intricate series of definitions
and provisions I've made over the last 5 years, I have a certain "claim"
to this land. Nothing happens here unless I write it in.
Thus, I am protected to the extent that I can keep my literary license
current. I suppose that this is truly a "wildcat" enterprise, and
that the "rightful owners" of this woodland will eventually show up.
But just let them try! Time is a slow enough passer-by that it remains
plausible that a land could stand like this for so long, and for a longer
time into the future. It's only 2002, not 2022 or 2032, those years
that are defined in terms of my old age. Creation, it would seem,
implies its share of ownership. As I push out the edge of what humankind
has come to imagine, I have certain property rights. But then, aren't
the best of creative constructs those that people inhabit on a regular
basis? Certainly, Shakespeare would not be the same, if people left
his landscapes to themselves.
I am not entirely sure, at this juncture of my life, just how much of
a piece of the common consciousness I wish to stake out. I seem to
find solace in staking claims to rarefied hinterlands like these woods,
but I know I have to make a bigger contribution, if I wish for others to
take pause when they see my final edifice. There is immense context
to be found in joint citizenship, only that always means I can't sit around
as I'd like, soaking up the peace and quiet. Maybe I'd like to be
"invisible", which means being a part without obligation--I would dare
to request all take with no give. This is the empty promise that
presents itself most often as a temptation. I would enjoy all of
the privileges of membership, but not counted in the roster. Oh,
what a thing "true peace" is, at least in the form of abstract imaginings.
I just want to sit as I am now on the front porch chair, with the complete
freedom to be as I am. Real life, however, is not such a sweet thing.
It has its ongoing list of duties. I seem to have stumbled on some
sort of identity or invariant with all of this--but it probably reduces
to little more than "if it seems to good to be true, it probably is".
"Bo"
10 April 2002 -- Looking to cross over
It is pleasantly warm out in the clearing today, though of course, the
whole place is still quite the mess when it comes to mud and other residual
moisture. I am still kept from "using" the immediate outdoor area
as I'd like, so my life is generally "restricted" to the more developed
parts of the compound having dry floors. Real life isn't giving me
long to engage in this mode of thought, I'm afraid, so I'm not sure what
I'll be able to do. I always like it when I can quiet myself down
to something approaching ground state, only the full life is, by definition,
typically devoid of those moments. I would simply hope that I do
not slight the "proposition of the Cabin" when I let myself get so absorbed
back there in the city. Oh, if I could but have the fullness of all
things, but then who am I to get such a thing? I suppose the
mode of "total rest" I envision most is when I'm stretched out in some
pose that is common to sleep, to compensate for all those hours on my feet,
walking over pavement and that cutesy ceramic tile flooring that makes
those plastic utility carts sound so loud. I worry at length about
becoming wound too tight, only I do seem to get the time I need
for these empty-but-necessary escapes, and for that I am grateful.
I am, in fact, in one of those outstretched positions as I exercise
my options on the living room sofa. There are no pressing conditions
to be met; I can leave everything just as it is. It is important
that one's getaway does not get away from its original purpose, becoming
a whole new obsession to itself. Whatever I care to think or feel,
well, that's all right. There just seems to be the "literary" consideration
of keeping the discussion even from visit to visit. I cannot be unpredictable,
even to myself. The world has too much use for a man who does what
he is expected to do. I highly doubt that I'm going to reach the
extent of "deeper" rest as long as I'm this way, but what am I to do, anyway?
Are those other, real-world enticements "good enough" in their relaxation
that I can simply goof off there as I do here? I like to think that
I might pass over the boundary of one of those fundamental shifts in underlying
assumption and governing mental policy. This is where all the pressure
is removed, with the suddenness of undoing the Gordian knot, if only there
were someone to "let me" do it. But no, the mechanism needs me doing
this work at that time; it can't have downtime except as implicitly provisioned
in the hours I can spend away from the job.
Will I be able to let everything go, to reach out for higher
principles than the shallow ones that define the daily track and rut?
It sure is an unexplored place, that land of lesser ritual. Maybe
the Cabin has come to have too much "ritual" of its own to qualify for
the role any more. It is not always that easy to walk in the broader
circle, as the space engineers know from placing objects in solar, and
not earth, orbit. That is freedom, though, and it so utterly
bankrupts the false illusions and images that becoming part of it can usually
be contemplated even during the worst of complicating times. It seems
to require something beyond sheer, internal "will", or at least more than
I can usually see myself wielding. The 12 Steps folks would nod at
this, as would the local Pastors and even the dedicated, fun-loving humanists
with the "Darwin" fish on their vehicles. I can only gain so much
of a foothold on myself from within my typical limits; action like I'm
after needs an operator with a much greater mechanical advantage.
It really does look like I have to be pried loose--there's no simple act
of deciding I'll get up, this moment, and walk from here to there.
I'm still loaded full of those kooky expectations, such as the time
of television programs and the intervals of similar comfort that I know
to inhabit that other, more certain holding cell. What's worse,
I don't really feel myself pulling far from my bindings there, so I will
have to pack up and go before too awful long. Usually, I'd have kicked
over to the "other way" by now, and I'd not be caring so much just what
the time is. The whole setting of the hollow, the clearing, the compound
and this same old room are part of a use of time that needs to be wedgied
in, unfortunately, like some of those less-than-desirable efforts that
accompany the responsible life in the city. It's all work, and it
is never liberating or rehabilitating. The early 20th century autocrats
were just a cynical old bunch when it came to sentencing people to labor--but
then isn't that what I'm saying about contemporary leaders as well?
Heaven forbid, that I should badmouth the Homeland! I love it a lot
more than I want to leave it. It's just that I keep needing that
assistance to start the "proper mode", but that is not what they care about.
They hear this fool talking about how he matters as an individual,
as one of so very many.
I guess I don't matter that much, except to my own processes
of worry and doubt. Why, it is a happy day, to think that this could
be the final truth! To be in the light, and on the narrow path, not
needing to cover one's prints or hide one's eyes from what lies ahead:
this is how a man should be. If only it weren't so unremarkable to
be that way. The ordinary and the average are just that. I
can see, too, that I am defeating my initial goals in stretching out on
this sofa, though the reassuring hold it has on my heavy bulk counts for
something. Will I keep this daydream alive? It's so hard to
think of this camp becoming a ghost town, with a population of zero instead
of one. Hikers might come by when the trails permit and look at the
barren, weather-beaten structures and wonder, "why is this here?
There is no sign of worthwhile industry". I lay still a short while
longer, before I realize that I should be in the truck and headed back.
Those long, drawn out and delirious interludes of walking about on the
land are for another time.
"Bo"
14 April 2002 -- A man in basic condition
It's pretty nice outside now, I'd have to say; the kind of weather where
a man could imagine spending time at length. Though the sun is not
overwhelming, the earth's progress towards the warmer seasons for the northern
temperate zone has made this a day of extreme hope. It's finally
getting dry enough in patches where a man doesn't get utterly soaked on
a walk through the tall grass. Things are "normalizing" for the summer
season, I do declare, though school doesn't let out for a couple months
more. I'm just out today, "exploring" the wondrous extent of "my"
land up here in the hollow, the kind of "real estate" I could not typically
afford in real life. It just goes on an on--where the clearing ends,
then begin the wooded hillsides, so immensely larger. It is as if
I could never draw real attention to any one of the many rocks and
notable trees out there, for there are so many. Since the ground
is hard enough now to keep down the factor of "squishing", I am able to
venture to the higher end of the clearing, which is not terribly far from
the waterfall. I have missed this country during the winter, when
I was not as inclined to pay a visit.
The land is so incredibly non-"differentiated" up here. Most times,
when one sees property under any amount of occupation, the owners do what
they can to create their own "domains". This, on the other hand,
is an open space that has not felt such influence. Since the highlands
do not appeal so readily to the permanent settler, they have remained "my"
place for the time being. I suppose, in my fictional narrative, I
should have explained that I had clear title to the places I romp about
so merrily--or avoid by crashing out on the sofa or sitting in front of
the fire. I would not presume to trespass. Really, though,
the feeling I have wished most to cultivate is of a man who has entered
into a "wasteland", one not worth writing a deed to claim. Perhaps
I see myself in a world as trackless as Siberia, where the intrepid sojourner
builds a camp the way a Cosmonaut would establish his Mir space
station--in the great unclaimed space beyond. I like the thought
of being the first man upon this site, actually enough, though I know there
have been countless others before me, at least if you count the folks from
neolithic times. Surely has the assortment of game in these lush
woods drawn out the lowland adventurer, to hunt in what for him is unspoiled
territory.
My job in this occupation is hardly to hunt, however. I am seeking
reparation of my tired nerves from city living. In this sense, I
am a rather strange visitor to a place that seeks other attributes in its
most famous occupants. The great woodsman and strategist of the open;
why, that's who's "wanted" up here. I suppose I send out my share
of unwelcome "vibes" when I bring my package of neuroses to expose itself
in a wilderness that expects a much more forthright campaign. I'm
up here in the upper hollow, with the Cabin quite some distance off, and
I realize that I am no "master" of the great outdoors, though I can indeed
recognize them as "great". I am just a beaten-down man, looking for
a totally-insulated experience. Since this place has not been overrun,
it will have to do. Now your real "mountain man" would no doubt be
working through numerous schemes, as I am unloading the ones that I never
really needed to cope in real life anyway. There are men who are
part of their surroundings, then the kind like myself, who are there simply
to be somewhere else. I doubt I do this glorious country much justice,
when I use it so superficially.
It is a fine and open place, though, and it consumes me in a way that
I find beneficial. It does not render judgment any more severe than
the weather, the poisonous plants or the difficulty of terrain ahead of
me. I walk about some more, twisting my ankles slightly with each
step upon the rocky ground. This is all as "nature" had intended
this land to be. The poor soil throughout this region yielded an
opening just large enough to suggest the construction of my Cabin, abomination
that it might be in such a grand scheme. I want to see some enormous
unfolding in all of this, but nature in the wild just doesn't arrange that
kind of show. It is just ordinary, open country, amid many more square
miles of hard-to-traverse woodland. I figure I better be making my
way back to the Cabin soon, for that is where my organized "activity" takes
place. What is the point, for a city-hardened boy, to try to feel
the underlying pulse of a patch of land near wood's edge, anyway?
He will not merge to the point of being held there; no, he'll just take
in what he can of the emptiness and use it as a counterpoise to a reality
of business transactions and goals to meet.
I would certainly hope to be a proper steward, should this land actually
be "mine". By my fiat decree, it seems to be that way, only I can
imagine others crossing my path in a more realistic version. What
is it, anyway, in the lone person who has his range? He is a man
who will not be duped by the one who is inevitably "smarter" than he is
in earthy erudition. He counts on his solitary ubiquity, as he plods
about his generally unremarkable ground. His is an acutely aware
occupation, which I cannot claim that mine has always been. He has
the whole picture of what is "his" and what is ethically "correct" to take
from the place he has mastered. I suppose there are some who would
demote this man to the rank of brute, and Neanderthal, even; an ordinary
worker of a most basic kind, who has yet to show his true distinction from
his lesser mammalian forebearers. To be attuned with the land, however,
is something that puts back in me what the arbitrary city removes.
I doubt that even a rational, "civilized" man can spend long away from
this. I sense considerably "authenticity" in all of this.
"Bo"
18 April 2002 -- The eminence that is life
It has been a good bit warmer lately, and the hollow has also seen its
share of rain. I suspect this could be a "muddier" spring than some
of the previous ones. When it gets soaked outside like it is right
now, the whole of the earth seems to rise in an enfolding effluvium.
It's dirt, plain and simple, and its riding as it can on the moisture in
the air. I don't feel like spending much time tromping around through
such a mess, when it is enough to have the front windows open to let in
some of that air. It makes me lazy, actually enough, as if the very
notion of humus were able to draw me towards thoughts of my ultimate
demise. It's all about the dirt, I guess. Were it not for a
certain worldwide layer of active topsoil, we'd all perish of hunger.
I should be glad that all this fine earth is about on a damp, cloudy day.
It does not matter that I feel "sticky" in these conditions, for I have
gone beyond caring just exactly how I "feel". I am crashed out on
my sofa, with plenty of reminders of just what kind of camp this is--a
stalwart settlement that dares to be dry when nature and nature's god call
for everything to be incubated and germinated in this squishy frontier.
All this talk of what is, after all, nothing more than "mud" has awakened
in me some sort of call to action. The perfect medium, when inhabited
by its likely "germ", has an expectation of full expression. I find
myself being drawn into some sort of "pantheistic" or similarly "pagan"
mode, the way the more adherent practitioners insist is best. I want
to plant some part of me in this all-so-promising realm, so that
there will be more where there had been less. I suspect I'm dealing
with a concept of basic "life", as it has unquestionably been given me
but also quite shamefully squandered. I can assemble myself and my
surroundings into paradise, yes. The pride of place will take over,
and I shall have my bountiful dwelling, to speak what is nothing more than
me. I realize this is frivolous and immodest, so I won't cherish
the notion without question. A man does have some sort of
claim to his own furtherance, though, simply by being himself. That
that is, is; that that is not, is not. I do enjoy when I can be so
confident that I am to be accorded a setting of acceptance among the many
cruel and seemingly indifferent forces at hand.
It is so incredibly wet today! I can only imagine the furious
outpouring of preparatory activity throughout the clearing and the nearby
woods. Oh, but they have their chance now, those wondrous growths
that have proven their mettle! The entitlement is nothing less than
to spread particular genetic content forth, as the prevalent foliage for
their own occurrence. Maybe what this does for me is to build a fantastic
appreciation for the "life" that is so widespread and complete on this
earth. Why, we're just bursting forth, aren't we? People are
not those dangerous wayfarers that will run me down if given a chance.
No, they are their own little nuclei of wondrous existence, each as grand
as all the talk I've had to myself in these woods. Life is not a
matter to be taken lightly, when it is encountered. Perhaps we get
inundated by so much of it, as in those ferocious traffic jams from my
real life, that it is enough to get through, without considering all the
splendid and diverse wonders that is each of "their" lives. I can't
really get too distracted by the unfortunate obstruction they might
temporarily project. Given the time, everything is indeed certifiable
as "beautiful".
What thought, to spring forth from a tired man on a wet, somewhat warm,
spring day in the mountains. The plants across the clearing are really
gearing up. It will be nearly impassable in some parts, and this
is on top of the admittedly poor soil that built the clearing in the first
place. I guess I was drawn to this point by the clearing,
since I liked a view that had some extent. Were I totally immersed
in the woods, I'm sure I'd be thinking a lot more about the consolations
I have near at hand. It is a fully "proper" development; this Cabin
and its compound. I would have it no other way. And yet, I
do little more on so many visits than just lay about inside, thinking my
thoughts. Is this all I've been given as entitlement--the
ability to dream a highly-structured dream that requires work and attendance?
The living being, given his chance at full expression, should not be forced
through such legalistic strictures. I can only imagine that I am
not being "true" to myself, when I continue to dote on this imaginary hollow
as something "sacred". Why, what is "sacred" is the man I am and
the man I can be! Why do I need a hide-out when I have nothing, truly,
that should be hidden?
Oh, but it is wet. I am not sure at this point if summer's
fine, dusty crust will ever make up for this. I know it's only an
exercise in folly to think that the wet and ready earth is some sort of
inspiring motivation to a union I must develop within myself. I have
real life, after all, and it threatens to eat me alive on a daily basis.
I'm not sure I'll ever see the mob in its proper way--as a group that I
simply haven't been formally introduced to. So many of them are so
far off that it doesn't affect me, yet chance brings the one "Bozo" to
bear, and I am thus consumed in his folly--or my own in reacting to him.
It would seem that a man must excuse himself often, if he is to continue
among the many. I just want the sweet calm to arrive, where I can
be satisfied and no longer longing. This state, I do believe, is
when I burst forth from the incredibly-rich set of circumstances I have
been given, to build some monument of my being here that attempts to justify
what my forebearers went through to put me here. I turn on the sofa,
in this incredibly damp room. I have my place to hang out, though
I may not be the best in "development" on my own. The crowd does
not go away.
"Bo"
22 April 2002 -- An assessment of endowment
Though it is not quite as warm as it had been at what was arguably spring's
"grand opening" during the last couple weeks, the vegetation that crowds
around the clearing and Cabin knows full well not to hold back any longer.
It is getting so delightfully green out there, and the undergrowth
is now appearing to break up the "empty floor" appearance that the forest
has had during the frozen months. I'm just lounging about, from place
to place, as is my habit when restlessness takes partial hold of me.
There isn't quite the legendary "baked-in" feeling of a solid "place" that
is always an ingredient in my better summer camping memories as a kid and
a centering solace that allows an older man, finally, to have a seat and
lay down his load. The weather today is decidedly "crisp", even with
the overwhelming cues of the green throughout the trees and the low scrub
that leads to them. Still, I have a picture in my mind of lounging
frivolously about, even on a day like this, for I do not get as much chance
as I'd like to be placed at this point, so central to the high ridge and
the mountain range as a whole.
I have finally come to the chaise lounge near the fire ring, whose pad
has dried enough to be thought of as a resting place. This low to
the ground, of course, my nostrils pick up plenty of the scent of earth
and new plant growth within it. I also hear the river in the distance,
at what sounds like a rather high stage. Luckily, I have not seen
any of the road or its earthen bridges wash out this year, affront though
they are to the waterways they master and mock. Dressed as I am in
fleecewear and a field coat, it is not all that hard to continue at this
position, where I take a number of those deep abdominal breaths.
I am well aware of how simple this would be in city living, only it takes
the isolation and removal of these woods to prompt it in me spontaneously.
I suppose it's only "my fault", if I don't pick up on the many methods
of relaxation that are afforded the suburban dweller and urban worker.
Indeed, and I've seen and felt a wondrous internal "glow" from time to
time, one that looks ready to propagate, except for the internal voices
that say I'd just be wasting my time. This is the glow of satisfaction
itself, a state that requires no apology.
Since I have yet to be swept over by that tide of fulfillment, I figure
I have just been dealt another bad hand. One good thing about that
analogy is that more dealing should be in the immediate future. When
it all "comes true"--oh!, the way it always is, to be the recipient
soul! At times, I think I am simply low on inspiration, as if I were
not doing what I could for my neurochemistry. If only I truly "knew
what I was doing", why, I'd have something of the "glow" within at all
times, rather than the spits and starts that require so much work in the
process of kindling flame. Though times may still "hurt", I'd still
have that little bit of sustaining and continuous vigor, and it would remain
similar in character, like a culture of sourdough maintained by
some far off frontiersperson. I can only think that I am getting
cut completely "off" for some of these spells, or else it would be as simple
as pushing the lever and watching the mechanism return to life when the
time is right, if not sooner. Given some of my emptiness and frustration
over the follies of real life, it surprises me to think that "life" itself
keeps up such a watchful station inside of me. I suppose anything
so self-centered as personal survival would do well in the eyes of a man
who talks so much about himself.
I have to wonder if I do a whole lot of good, tinkering with the broken-down
ruins of my last great moment, as Ezekiel might select a tibia or a radius
from the Dry Bones. Could this creaking hulk that remains from my
last good "toot" really have the stuff to rise again? At times, I
would simply have the whole contraption dig itself a hole in a last great
work, then collapse into it and let me shop for sleeker equipment.
Since the analogy of continuity fails when I consider my infrastructural
squalor, I can only conclude that the working material of the "normal"
out there is a fundamentally different medium, one that is successfully
arranged by the kind of experience that so often goes to waste with me.
They are among the "living", while I am partially bound, and with ragged
connecting joints, to hardware that grows increasingly heavy as the 00's
advance and the "easier" times of the 1960's and 70's recede. I suppose
it is every man's fate to have intimate components composed of the less-than-living,
only the better-inspired do not trust them as I do with such mainline responsibility.
It is one thing to be enthusiastic about what is "retro", but quite another
to be dependent upon it.
I feel quite the wreck out here, all right, but everything will take
on a different "way", once enough time has passed. Nothing so significant
as a living being could be as fully implemented by necrotic vitals as I
am imagining. I would like to think that I'm simply looking at an
underused framework not unlike one of the trees I can see at the top of
the ravine when I look to one side. What a sight it will be, among
its brethren, in a month or two! Feeling fully full of life would
appear to be a privilege for someone like myself. I find comfort
in seeing how much of my living structure holds out when I'm like
this. It is the show I should be watching, as it is stands
ready to deal with surroundings and issue itself further forth. That
minimal, less-than-conscious thread is the hope I have left, at least on
this earth. It is a provision supplied under a great many qualifications,
but then it is flexible. It allows me to lounge about
in the way I'd hope to, only it is probably growing tired of the
rules and antiquated yokes that I have given it. I sink heavily into
the chaise lounge and close my eyes. The river flows on.
"Bo"
26 April 2002 -- The uncertain path to finding rest
It is a generally-overcast day up here in the hollow, and the remnant
of chill makes for an "adventuresome" atmosphere for this visit.
Though it should hardly seem so this late in the season, there is in place
the feeling that I must shelter myself, still, against a climate that will
prevail as an antagonist. I know that if the sun made itself known
a little better out here, I could get back some of the damp readiness of
a summer's morning, when water's vapor phase begins to assume a truly important
role. This is when the vegetation is complete, and threating to take
over what is left to be overgrown. That is the time when the dermatitis-prone
begin to fear for the defensive array within the grass and the undergrowth,
standing ready to inflict misery by contact. No, it doesn't
feel that "alive" out here today, as I stretch out on the chaise lounge
near the fire ring. I still seem to have some power of negotiation
left; I am not "overpowered" by much of anything in the woods. It
is an entirely neutral place to be, which should only be tragic
to those seeking to make every minute count. I, on the other hand,
see better value in being properly rested and prepared for whatever will
happen next.
I hear the few assorted birds, down in the ravine, where the river also
sends forth its indication of "life". It is odd, that I hold as such
an absolute and ideal this notion of being alone and unencumbered. True
idleness would not so often have to arrange for its own occurrence, since
there is nothing of volition in simply drifting. That inner drive
to be up and "at something" is a hard habit to lose. The adrenaline-charged,
gusto-filled campaign that is pursuit has a hard time taking anything
for granted that is not at least theoretically under its effective control.
I attempt to let my viscera realize just how heavy it really is,
prior to its getting me inextricably entangled in something that seems
the logical outgrowth of "excitement" and "inspiration". With each
breath so readily taken in, there is the corresponding expiry. How
vain I am, anyway, when I think I can just keep packing away internal assets
to demonstrate my supposed "strength" in social competition! Greater
immobility would appear to reside in a resting hulk such as I am right
now in this nominal chill. The exterior atmosphere would encourage
me to move on, only I am using substantial personal resources in a stance
of resistance, and I'd be successful if it were not such an active
position to occupy.
It is so hard to be still, on this "intermediate" day of so little complete
conviction. I suspect I am harboring internal resentments that so
much of this life is not being put to the "proper" use, as if a truly "meaningful"
real life career would let me do as I please. I see a certain quantity
of sun find its way through the interstices in the clouds, and this fixes
me a little better in place, only it is the kind of stability that still
requires an active effort. I'm looking to be pinned to a way, and
without all the doubt that goes with thinking it could be otherwise.
Yes, it is a case of the "passive jollies" that I so stridently seek, as
if my internal structure for motivation and motion was all some kind of
cruel joke. Because it always takes such work to for me to
be still, I probably have the wrong idea of what "rest" really is.
But look at this hollow today! It is about the most settled way I
can imagine it, and I do put some time daily into imagining this living
space that I'm now entering; that of the greater outdoors. No concrete
walls; just trees, and above them, rocks. But I get here and still
find this huge, malingering load of fidgeting unrest, as though
the image were something I could ignore. Truly, however the voice
within, and its supporting sensations, cannot be ignored.
The sun is nicely out now, so I am beginning to get faith in the persistence
of fairer weather and drying conditions. I suppose it could
rain again soon, only I have passed into a better "zone" of thought, where
I do not cower quite so pitifully at the swaggering pomp of that dictatorial
"voice". I suppose I should be grateful for whatever had its influence
on me, even if it was a job done internal to my own physical plant.
It is clearly a pose of supplication, when a man tries to get around the
stranger who is within. I find myself yearning now for true
emptiness, which is not a depressive condition but instead a release from
being so over-driven. It is rather like finding a new equilibrium
in some sort of sick set of quantum rules, only closer to the hallowed
final position, "ground state". The transitions are not something
I can govern, except as I craft myself to be in other, proprietary ways.
I am putting up some sort of building or following some sort of self-charted
roadway, but it is the construction that always counts. When the
fullness of summer comes, then the oppression of mid-day will be complete,
rather than this meta-position that could still just as well be "cold"
weather.
You'd think it would be such a simple task, to move towards nothing.
Does my nature abhor such a vacuum as well? The "voice" sure has
talked me out of some pits in the past, I'll have to say, only it never
inspires me to harden not my heart. I could, simply, be "out of tune"
to the more blessed fare that crosses the all-too-real ether. But
then are folks really all that "happy"? Even among the "normal",
that central 70%, there is a lot of pain. Does everyone secretly
seek, yet successfully avoid, the perfected personal void? I decide,
for now, that I will stretch out a little more fully on this somewhat damp
lounge cushion. A whole lot of that nervous awareness is bound up
in motor excess that I doubt I'm fully aware of. I doubt I'll reach
the lower states on this trip, but then this land will be here so long
as I would have it. The sun is indeed out, and I've come to the point
where I can finally "hold" its warmth in my "mind's hand", as something,
and indeed, as someone. There is my own self, and then the
effects that befall it and its interface. Order need not be all that
bad.
"Bo"
Ahead to May 2002
