I rest for a moment under a tree at Pinnacles Picnic Ground, Shenandoah NP, VA, July 2002 August 2002 Cabin Diary |
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1 August 2002 -- Revelling in the emptiness
The sun is now well past the far ridge behind the ravine, and the incredible cool of a mountain's evening is about to assume its rightful center place in determining the "atmosphere" of the hollow. I have lit the two main kerosene lanterns in the Cabin, of course; the one over the stove in the kitchen and the one beside the sofa in the living room. My fanciful time of "camping out" is well in swing, in the best of the tradition of the rustic reconstructionists. I suppose that the typical American "camper" would want a little more in his or her quarters and evening entertainment space, as with the gentle-yet-persistent influence of incandescent bulbs burning bare in porcelain-steel fixtures. I don't know--maybe I should set up a power supply out in the shed or out on the back porch, so as to have the wonderful comforts of a summer vacation's accommodations at hand, including, even, that great Satan, the television.
But what do I have this evening? The light of kerosene wicks and perhaps something to read, though I'm not sure what. Reading is one of those sure-fire activities; the elementary school teachers all give implicit "asssignments" to do it during the summer break. I don't know--my attention could be well-captured by a number of things up here tonight. I guess the notion of driving back for failure to achieve some esoteric fulfillment really doesn't look good, for I am getting rather tired. I just want to drop my tired body in one place, such as "here", and let the various neuroses that are my dubious friends have their time to themselves. I'm listening out the front window right now--this is the month where the crickets really learn their "way". There is no hint of the impinging cross-imposition of the others in a place like the clearing this evening. It's all "wild".
I finally retire to my bunk, realizing that I'm closer to real sleep than I think, after an ardent day's work back in the city. The two lanterns burn on, though not to the point that they threaten a general conflagration. The screens are open, and the air that grows cooler and cooler keeps pouring across. Sometimes, I'd have to wonder if a country sojourner might even notice that there is a well-established camp at this location, since the lamps are so dark at night, in comparison to the quantity of night there is. This is not the haughty domain of a city-dweller who couldn't leave it all behind, though some of those left-behind amenities might sure be appreciated at times. No, the folks in the Village below must look up, across State Highway 735, and know that there is this quiet place, miles away and up near the top of the ridge, where sits a man who just likes his empty space.
But what is this, a preference for nothing? Have I joined the currently-fashionable camps of the cynical nihilists? Nietzsche might come by this very evening and see confirmation of his predictions of ruin, in the society of conformance. "Look at this man, he prefers his solitary wanderings". That sure is a hard way of facing the world; where one's initial remark is that it is all following the wrong path. But then, I don't know enough to talk of such things. I am only a frightened being who looks for continued shelter for his soul, lest the menacing ones out there convince its greater proportion to quit the game and thus leave me a spent man. Oh, but it does feel good to cast off that heavy urban load and just assume an "authentic" position as to my meaning and aspirations, even if it is an impoverished one. I guess I'm just seeking to identify, but not with an authority so great as to demand change of me.
I sigh deeply, knowing that the night must advance, and I roll to a position of deeper commitment on the down comforters that I shall be under this winter, should the charade continue. Oh, but it is a "purification", to spend a night in deprivation. Perhaps I've learned the rule of social reform that has made American penal procedures so complete. But then, and why, this is supposed to be some sort of "vacation", and not an exercise in atonement. Have I become so perverse in my yearnings that I'd actually take a goodly whoopin' over an escape to an empty place? It seems that in emptiness do I find my greatest portion of punishment, and it is to emptiness that the desperate soul proceeds. But what can a man say about nothing, except for what it isn't? Well, the setting in the outdoors across the clearing is what it was at the outset. Maybe the moon will rise tonight. I haven't consulted the almanac.
"Bo"
7 August 2002 -- Apart from full refuge
Though there is certainly no shortage of warmth up here in the hollow this afternoon, the summer season is wearing a classic appearance of something past its central and defining "point". I am so tired, from all the running around on the job, and also from the guilt of being so far behind on the things the master of a home should have under his mastery. Why is it, anyway, that all the worthwhile objectives in that hustle are at the end of fearsome and treacherous paths of work, in quantites beyond what ever looks "reasonable"? I must be talking about more than the "usual" degree of exhaustion here. I just want to let my system lose speed, except for how difficult it will be to regain that speed when it is needed later. Have I truly bought into the post-modern conceit that says a person is so splendid as to "deserve" whatever his mind can picture at the moment for a reward? I'm fairly sure that the whole mess has a rational set of underpinnings, one whose intrinsic simplicity even Einstein might appreciate. But to "boil it all down" means spending some time in hot water.
Even in the relatively low haze that is present across the clearing today, I feel as if someone has punched each of my eyeballs back into its orbit, so that I can be effectively tormented by staring too long at single mis-samplings of what's going on. This is the point where someone looks to "clear his head", with every assurance from experience that there is a more lucid standpoint that is currently going unmanned. I suppose I can say a lot about the wonders of appreciating the "other sides of things", when a more circumspect attitude is allowed to prevail. I just want some of that fresh illumination, which always seems so new, to come upon at least my senses, if not the cognitions that are based on them. Sitting out here on the chaise lounge near the fire ring, I close my eyes in the stance of those "relaxation" exercises. It really is just as simple as deciding to let go! It's just the residual cranial tension, which is as difficult as a cowering pose to maintain, that will not let me escape at last, with no dangling connections for my foiled followers to use for their benefit. A clean break is what I want.
But then, as I drag along my old hulk against increasing worldly friction with the coming of years, I doubt that any re-emergence into the "true light" will be a clean one. Maybe the best look I ever had at it was when I was 17 or 21. It does no good to go rousing the ones that are that young, and I seem to recall that this was the kind of charge they brought against Socrates. I am therefore being advised to close off all chances that the last of my internal glow, which by now has probably degraded into the microwave frequencies in the thermal black-body model, will ever join the greater light that is still "day" for the better-endowed. I've often repeated what I've heard, that "it isn't about me", or "just me", at any rate. I haven't the kind of inspiration at present to see the great "assimilation" that is promised in the realm of the beyond, when the history of my members has been one of consistent and progressive denial of standing. Someone out there is still standing high enough to see the bridge, the one that allows a time-disgruntled and isolated being to return to a world that, if anything, is still brighter than what was left behind in youth.
Perhaps I'm caught up by the wrong "attractors", to borrow from the chaos theorists. The model of an inherently better and essentially open place of grandeur would not allow for such influences to exert real sway on its temporarily lost citizens and sheep. Oh, but we're talking a dark and gaping pit there, when we allow for such a potential outcome. This must have been the vision that confronted the Hebrew authors, when they spoke of the depths of sheol. The champions of the new covenant, of course, could write me off as not having jumped through their particular hoop; the act of contrition and/or ecstasy whereby the bridge is finally joined. It occurs to me at this point that the clearing out here is a rather somber and unremarkable place, though nothing to suggest death and destruction. Is it simply my assignment to work up more and more of the internal theory of what glory may be, as I attempt to cut my losses amid the very real forces of reality? Oh, that's right--when I say "reality", I'm referring to subjective experience, as known by a man of little light.
Well, I guess I'm just going to have to let some time pass on all of that. I know that time should not pass without constructive result, but it seems that the designers of those great economic engines intend for the entropy to remain embedded in me, and not some insignificant sink. They want me to be at attention, despite the disconcerting nearness of ultimate ruin and the collapse of exhaustion. Faith and the testimony of its witnesses tells me that there are still paths left, through admitted wilderness, to things that even I can feel as well as know. It may just be more subjective rubbish, only there doesn't seem to be anything else to do.
"Bo"
12 August 2002 -- Reconciling my influences
Along with warmth that one would consider "substantial" at this altitude comes a rather thick haziness, to remove all but the basic silhouette from the high ridge's visual suggestion. Though I know that the growth is lush throughout the hollow at this advanced stage of the growing season, when the foliage begins to lose its identity through such an effect (or even at night, for that matter), the setting does not seem as "alive". Walking around the dooryard and out by the stone fire ring, I note that the soil has baked to the point of yielding considerable dust, which is rarely something I associate with the forest and the vegetation-choked clearing ahead of me. I have my canteen with me, as sort of a symbolic "defense" against the heat, only I know that I'll most likely sweat out the bulk of what I drink, and this air does not cooperate well with that mode of cooling. It is bright today, however, and that is one of those components of cheer that I frequently seek during the winter months, which are closer than they seem right now. I finally let my typically-tired body come to the rest that appears indicated today, on the chaise lounge that I have sitting here in the open. I pull my boonie hat over my face and settle in for a snooze.
It is a wonderful little world that the civilized and domesticated human can still enter, when enough limiting factors are removed to allow this kind of empty repose. I hear assorted sounds here and there, though significantly muffled by the current atmospheric conditions, only they do not contain the klaxon-like urgency of urban imperatives. Indeed, to live in a city, a man must be ever ready to obey, with the most cherished of powers residing in the capability to make another move. A society founded exclusively on gentle persuasion and genuine interest in participation would be a sweet thing to see, I'm sure, but force is a much more convenient and concentrated agent in advancing one's position. Oh, but I am out in the warmth, sweating as it is true, but at least with shade for my face and a healthy chunk of distance below to keep out the pestering ones. The outpost continues, and after more than 5 years of reports. Why, it is coming to be a "tradition", though certainly not in the sense of the patrician East Coast youth who get shipped to the socializing mill of the same summer camp, year after year. How real, anyway, can the fruits of imagination be, and am I enough in terms of the artistic to do any good at such an effort? I don't know; I guess I can't go be someone else; this is all I've got.
I feel myself begin to let loose to that point where a solid awareness enters about what's holding me up; in this case, the canvas duck cover of this lounge. I know that I have a good bit more freedom than I use on a daily basis, but then that could be the result of the mongers of interpersonal influence that count me among their "own", back in the collective. Not much is moving today, and I suspect my body is following along in that pattern. There were days in my youth where I treasured the ability to jump up and get rolling at a moment's notice, only now that looks like rather "low" living. But then there is that wondrous virtue, as the learned would advocate, that comes from one's own ability to move one's own self. So long as agent and acted-upon are the same person, then no one can bring a charge of overbearing and abusive "use". I feel the sun really starting to work on me now, and I shall soon need to change my tolerance for sweat or go inside and look for a cooler place to hang out. I wonder if perhaps this is some metaphor; the sun, for an overwhelming presence I cannot quite face in real life. Could it be that I can adapt to that more urban load in the same way I have discovered to accept the heat of a day like this in August?
I begin to wonder if there is any "fairness" (e.g., as an example of divine justice) in a real world that makes me fight so hard to stay in the action. Passive acceptance will not work there, for I'll just wind up falling behind and falling out of play. The matter of life's adaptation is a grotesque form of game or test, where each man sits in the intervening moments, readying his equipment and analyzing his strategy and recent failures. I breathe deeply, in a sort of fatalistic sigh. The ones who plot my contests are not really looking to exert loads for their own sake. No, the proper human resources attitude is the one that regrets each and every necessary insult to body and spirit that is nevertheless a part of the job title and duties. There is no hanging around and shirking when the great machine decides to let me plug into a bit of its sweeping power, to use Rand's metaphor from Atlas Shrugged. There has to be the powers and the mighty ones, even if they take on the alien duty of professional or pure capital. It seems "unjust", of course, that influence must ever be levied in that way, but then even "justice" has coercion as part of its execution and disposition.
I am in the clearing and it is so warm today. I know I can return to the air-conditioned world whenever I like, except for the many reminders there of what I owe. It's all for my own good, and I'm sure it hurts them more than it hurts me to inflict the reins of corporate governance. A man, it does appear, is best defined by the particular position he occupies in the stratification that places one above another. Only in situations like the early church in Antioch can one be the first by being last. Indeed, I wonder how soon it will be before I am told to take a lesser seat at this enormous banquet that is American commerce.
"Bo"
26 August 2002 -- A properly bestowed rest
I guess it has been awhile since I've been able to concentrate fully upon the world of the hollow and the Cabin, though it has certainly crossed my mind at a good many points since my output 2 weeks ago. Maybe I'm getting to some sort of "stage" where I'll be "weaned" of the need for this running-away destination. Oh, how good it would be, to stay 100% immersed in what is real, but this directly counters the arguments of the aesthetics, who hold "fantasy" in high regard. Indeed, it is almost the definition of the vibrant young mind to enter these private places at will. What am I doing here today? Well, I suppose I could walk around the outside of the building and see what might need repair. I've had to call those guys up from the village on numerous occasions, for this is a frame house with an asphalt roof, just like the excuses for "homes" that sell for so much back near the city.
I'm rather tired, as usual, but it takes me time to pick a place to crash. I've built so many resting stations up here, as though I have some narcophilic yearning, to sleep for the sanctity that sleep is. I finally enter the front door, leaving it open, and I let the screen door "bang" behind me. Oh, what lovely hardware accompanies these doors; the sheet metal handles and rough-forged latch. This really is a glorified "shack". I might as well set up a bunk in the woodshed as well, since I haven't ordered my winter wood supply yet. I amble slowly towards the sofa and the bed on this later afternoon. Maybe I'd pass into a sleep so deep that I'd not even wake up in the middle of the night, to the wonderland of cool air and crickets. Yes, I think it's time to crawl into bed. Most times, if I'm tired enough to produce a real-time description of my activity here, I'm also tired enough to fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
I have my GI poncho liner as a cover, with all the winter bedding below me at the moment. This is what it is like, when motion is voluntarily suspended. The absence of a final judgment concerning this evasive tactic means I can do it as I please, for there is neither jurisdiction nor codified regulations concerning the use of my "free time". I just don't know. But that's all right. I let loose my many muscles and practice the old routine of "relaxation", as if I really needed it today. I am held here, at 3765 feet of altitude, with the vast forest as a supplemental support. I have finally achieved a robust yet serene stasis; the kind of result that demands nothing and provides everything. I have this physical sub-firmament that seems willing to do the basics without being asked. It may well be true that the optimal human output is one of simply doing the minimum that the situation demands.
Two whole weeks without providing a written description makes my Cabin coverage rather spotty, but then it will always be here, at least in my mind and as transcribed in this volume of 0.25 million words. I may well have created something that I need not encourage for it to thrive. Did not the earth itself form the land through plate tectonics and glacial activity, then cover itself in fine photosynthetic agents as a virtually spontaneous series of events? I doubt that I would seek to advocate a real deterministic view of just why something should be done, but more importantly, of what actually does happen. This is the interspersal of sentient will, I suppose. Yes, I need to give thanks for my wonderful sentience, ambitious and also carrying the potential for ruin. I am indeed tired, and I feel myself starting to drift off. This is the pleasant interval at sleep's door, where I turn my will over to the processes that carry me; those gifts that have the wrappings of divine origin.
I am falling asleep here on the bed. I still have my eyes open enough to perceive the wooden interior of the building, and those windows that have had their sashes open for so many months now. It's just winding down now, towards winter and towards my deeper repose. Everything is all right, yes, as Webber and Rice reminded us so many years ago. I must be getting some input of those wonderful neurotransmitters that are a more physical gift to a man with aches and anxieties. I do like it. I suppose I'll find myself waking up in the middle of the night, for having gone to bed like this, but then the challenges of the city schedule do not apply when I am here, and I am here a lot. It is some form of balm, the quiet clearing, granite rocks and tall, wooded mountainsides. I have entered into its confidence, for its presence can only be a sign of blessing.
"Bo"
Ahead to September 2002