4 January 2002 -- A suggestion of more
The fairly-deep snow that so abundantly fills what areas it can around
the buildings of the Cabin compound is something that feels as if it fully
"belongs", since winter is now in its 2nd month. This is not to say
that it does a whole lot to improve my practical living on visits like
today's, only the aesthetic effect is arguably significant.
There was additional accumulation overnight, so that the whole surface
looks "softer", and the intense cold has allowed the upper layer to drift.
There are few things as suggestive of the "untamed" woods as snow drifts
that have their own way, even at the points nearby where they are illuminated
by my indoor lamps. I have a suitable fire burning for now, and so
long as I remain in its influence, the snow can be considered at length
and apart from its obvious effects that run contrary to human flesh.
It would seem that I am either "in" or I'm "out", when it comes to this
characteristic presence.
With the "holidays" now essentially complete, the long stretch of "real"
winter is still ahead, when a person ideally busies himself with some sort
of--business. Weather is not the cause for celebration; it
is just another of the woes in the way of the man who must still be out
and about. I realize, of course, that I am slighting the major industry
of "winter sports" when I think such things, but then I never claimed to
be "athletically inclined". Besides, isn't the person of idealized
spirituality supposed to be "dead to the flesh", anyway? Or is that
a dead-end heresy that has been fought by the better-enlightened since
the time of St. Paul? I suppose I do relish and consume every
bit of pleasure that falls upon me in the ways of the world, and I am therefore
signatory to an implicit contract that mandates my complete participation
in life.
The question this raises is that of the value I should accord to my
time alone in these woods, meager though the experience can be when I don't
get the full use of the outdoor spaces. Am I "wasting time" when
all I look for is spiritual uplift, or is such a result the obvious effect
of getting the physical parameters properly aligned? Are the "useful
arts" limited solely to those that have their foundation right here on
Earth? There had to have been a time when pretty much everything
could be considered "artistic", and such deliberations would not be necessary.
To impose one's will within or to exert it on one's outward surroundings
are most likely the two components of an opposing pair, like action and
reaction. This, after all, defines the "curse" of being sealed into
one human body--the picture of conjoined assimilation is easy enough
to form but parceled-out beings never get the full experience.
My individuality, then, is a possession by which I can accept, internalize
and appreciate what is "not me", but the final union can only be hinted
at, as part of a third realm that is neither within or without. Some
might wonder about the necessity of this conclusion--why shouldn't
man be as frustrated as any other creature? Is it also true that
because "I think of it, therefore it is"? The world of one's visions
is a precipitous jumping-off point, since these tired old bodies always
have the last word. Though I know I need to be a firmly-planted "member"
of the association of the living, I cannot understand how it copes with
the large body of physical distress that was never specifically invited
as a background. The whole lot of them could be in a fantastic mode
of mass-denial, as if life really were for keeps, when we all know
that nothing is ever ultimately "kept".
I guess my plan, when faced with such a cynical set of constraints,
should be to ride the whole mess as if there were no real distinction between
base pleasure and baseless inspiration. It is something that can
"carry me" only so long as it is moving. This is how the living world
expresses and perpetuates the beauty of its bio-content--by keeping a healthy
distance from particular items born of creation, as part of an essential
propagation of vital affirmation across an entropy-ruled medium.
It is a matter of "treading lightly" as a man moves along, but also one
of holding the vision of peace, even if it eventually leaves him in the
dust from which he was formed. Do the others really do this,
with full awareness of their ephemeral course? For now, the best
I can hope to do is hold on to that vision of the larger plan, something
I can see even as I sit in hundreds of acres of frozen woods having different
designs than my own.
"Bo"
8 January 2002 -- Inevitably, a struggle
If this were an autumn day, I should think I'd call the conditions "crisp",
with clear skies and good visibility up the hillsides leading to the upper
ridge. Because of the snow and the temperatures down around 20 degrees
F, however, this is clearly a day to be endured, within winter's
firm grasp. The rough surface of the treetops does not suggest a
whole lot in the way of "life", but then it gets little help from the foliage
closer by, outside the front window. In contrast to the hurried life
that will resume when my attention returns to my urban home and workplace,
this setting suggests the kind of solemn rest that I keep thinking
I will get more of, once my priorities are properly oriented. I suppose
I am mistaken in my impulsive desire to "keep the excitement going", even
up here at the Cabin, in the event that quiet time alone really is
the more important use of my time. Still, the fast pace has its own
attractiveness, even if it does show signs of causing premature "wear".
It is a perverse form of "sport" that has its instances of "the agony of
defeat", to quote the ABC television of my youth.
Maybe I've really "succeeded" in calming myself, after all, if the "load"
imposed by all that activity is something I so readily embrace. It
can't be that I have "nothing better to do", for it is not the common practice
of a comfort-seeking man to dwell long in "pain". There is that certain
quickening that is tonic to the nerves, just as the cold outside will wake
me in a hurry after I've stumbled out of the sack from another of those
characteristic naps. I should be happy, yes, that "liberation" so
sweet as this is at hand and made available in the plurally-engrossing
features of my amply-appointed human place. I could well be perpetuating
what has now become an "untruth": that life in the city is necessarily
lacking and needs redress in these fanciful adventures. Wouldn't
it be the injustice, years from now, to look at how I am at 39.9 years
old and say, "I had it made, but I never knew it"? Something, then,
keeps me drawing the blinding material over my eyes, or else the truth
is something too dazzling to behold for a man so accustomed to the dark.
So as not to have my eyes dazzled today by the intense, glowing white
that is the proper mixture of sun, cold and snow, I have turned to face
the rear window this mid-day, where the direct light will take some time
to arrive from its current position near the meridian. It is a little
on the chill side, here on the sofa, but at this distance from the fire,
it would be wasteful to stoke the flames much higher. I take several
long, deliberate breaths, sighing on each exhalation, fully aware of the
time I'm denying the grand and glorious "chase" in my other existence.
I suppose I am in danger of working myself into something of a "snit" from
thinking as I am now, for it is the thought pattern of a man who would
usually have a "load" under consideration and projects being resolved.
The proper pose for Cabin living is never to engage in this kind
of "deliberate" thought, for the dreadful poverty caused by self-reference
will not take me any further along in my travels. No, I need occupation,
or I should just "shut up" internally, hard though that is to do.
I should so like to launch into one of those delightful and prosodic
considerations of what it is to be "alone" and free of the "weary load".
I stretch to reach those conclusions of awareness that would encapsulate
a bright and beautiful vignette into one of these times apart, only it
just isn't making it. I think back to the burden that I laid down
and have little trouble seeing how it causes the distress it does, only
I also recognize the strong compulsion that brings me to pick it
up, again and again. Thus have I reduced my estimation of living
to nothing more than a shameful "habit"; an "easy way out". The courage
is always in coming here, to stop the noise, and not to continue plugging
away at what I have plugged in. I realize that this is a sad commentary
on something so precious as the one life I have been given, so I am then
faced with the choices of: 1) abandon all this fanciful escape and press
on to some sort of truly satisfying victory in the urban struggle,
or 2) drastically lighten the load and park it somewhere where I won't
find it again.
Why should a man who can argue the case for his "success" still
need to see his situation in such desperate terms? The Cabin, clearly,
holds the promise of a sweet and sacred finale, once I have learned its
discipline to the fullest, while the urban hustle is only a prescription
for degradation and the bitter fruit of stress's endurance. It would
seem that I cannot become sufficiently quiet to fit the former role as
often as I'd like, but also that I'll never be loud enough to win at the
other event, where my handicaps are known and legendary. It is competition
to live, and little else--there's no real escape.
"Bo"
12 January 2002 -- My careful separation
It is something of a non-descript winter's day on this Saturday visit,
with the snow somewhat melted and making a soggy mess of the paths around
the Cabin compound. I suspect the river in the ravine below is picking
up a lot of run-off from this partial "January thaw", and when I last came
through the village, the scene was much more one of wetness, on
account of being 1800 feet below where I sit today. I guess there
really is a "small town" society, alive and well, in that crossroads community,
only I am careful to avoid being swept along into the kind of minutiae-oriented
syndrome that being a real "resident" would entail. Maybe I'm just
afraid of putting on the wrong "display" when I need to patronize the local
shops on the way up, and that explains why I keep so quiet and to myself.
I suppose I am an economic member, only the social
game looks a lot harder to play. Thus it is that my preferred state
is the one of the safely isolated man, who has no chance of offending--or
anything else, for that matter.
I am typically amazed, given all of this concern, over how much I still
"get away with" in those times I do have to make my way through
one of their hoops. If I am breaking the rules, I am not being particularly
penalized. I often complain of being overly "sensitive" to the ways
of the collective, yet I never see strong corrective measures coming down
to set me straight. The world of force and domination that I might
superpose upon the motives of the generally-friendly bunch at the grocery
store or the filling station must be an internal fabrication, all my own.
It does no good to be ready for what never happens, so I should really
be "standing down" from a good deal of that apprehension and posture.
I suspect I have imposed a rather strong regulation, for the most part,
on those tendencies to excess that would get me "written up" as a true
anti-social miscreant, only the better life should not be prefaced on something
so stressful as artfully-balanced sets of whimsy and the corresponding
reasons "why not".
Well, I've come to be seated in front of the same old hearth, and I
can let down my guard. This, after all, is how I've always envisioned
"relaxation" as properly taking place at the Cabin. The world outside
the windows is overcast and gray, almost to the point where I'd expect
rain or sleet, but then this is good, since it does little to inflame
those sensibilities that are knocked off the scale whenever I am treated
to a display of the "normal" in their ordinary rounds. While a simple,
unassuming life at the ground level is obviously the typical practice among
the greater many, I need to build this "containment vessel" consisting
of miles of forest and a separate climate zone before I think I am properly
provisioned. This is the model of "arrogance" to those who'd take
the time to look, only that's just it--they aren't here to look.
I've safely nailed down the possible flaws that would betray me, by dint
of this deliberate excess in the art of personal insulation. I am
certain to be a strange-yet-noteworthy anomaly to anyone who can see through
the shell, though the world doesn't really need a whole lot in the way
of demonstrative non-conformity.
I am reminded, still, that there is a huge economy in the cities
further below and the world at large, based upon unique possession and
the market-based forces that set its price and quantity demanded.
Supposedly, the devoted follower of hard and principled discipline is by
no wise deprived of his notoriety and celebrity, should his practice find
its niche. I really don't think I have anything they want,
though--the matter of having an "impartial voice" by maintaining my abstinence
is really little more than "disability". I am therefore an admirer
of those whose arrogant excess does fit the mold of a proper and
appreciated "performance", whenever it is on display in one of those aforementioned
contexts. Indeed, one could say that such a person is some sort of
"creative asset" to an otherwise bland distribution of niceties, if for
no other reason than providing an entertaining caricature and cause for
gratitude that ordinary life isn't like his. It takes a lot
of nerve and a thick skin to last long in the guise of an openly-"strange"
man.
I think to how the bulk of the others live, right up there on the surface,
embodiments of richness that, paradoxically, mean nothing because they
are so "commonplace". I doubt I have the time left on this earth
to get everything straightened out, so I'll never "be there".
I do think I need better awareness of the kind of worldly influences
I'm writing off as mere "toys" in my stubbornly-separate little spiel
at altitude. If I am to walk softly, I think I'd better ditch
the big stick, for I am no Teddy Roosevelt. I could just be witnessing
the ultimate failure of the flesh when I let my expressions of grandeur
operate unchecked: to one's own self, there is no need to acquiesce
to this notorious and self-evident weakness. It is little more than
an addiction to pure "effect", and I've been taught since childhood about
what it is to share what I have. First, however, I need to
sort out the jumble I have built of mammon and its images.
"Bo"
16 January 2002 -- The one and the many
During those times I've needed to step outside on this rather bleak
January day, the air has had the feel of a cold liquid, at such
places as I've allowed it to reach my skin. It is below freezing
and the snow surface has all its due crunchiness, only the overcast skies,
with their hint of impending additional precipitation, are much more suggestive
of the alchemical element of "water". My attitude on this visit is
rather lackluster, in keeping with the prevailing atmospheric conditions,
and I am not far from asking again the tired old question, "what am I doing
up here, anyway?" It is only by comparative reference to the urban
hustle that I get a workable answer to that, though it may be a bad habit
to think of "their" characteristics most when they are not around.
I do worry about instilling, propagating and perpetuating distortion, when
it comes to the others. It would seem that the anxiety generated
by having "people in my way" is only nominally lessened on account of what
they become when they are not in my way.
Really, I would be accomplishing some of my stated and implied "mission"
in this exercise if I could take the alternative view of the collective--the
one that is full of all of that brotherly philos that characterizes
the good citizen. As I move from one to another of my positions of
unqualified comfort in this limited dwelling space with its fire
and hearth, I should think about the way "they" usually intend to
be. But is this fair, or even safe; the formation of generalizations
about the hearts of men? Any time spent wandering through a cosmopolitan
megalopolis is enough to give a "healthy" measure of respect and/or caution
when it comes to the "representative" individual. I should applaud
diversity, at least in the name of political correctness and national orthodoxy,
and that's including the extremes one must accept without question.
"I am a 'tolerant' person," I assure myself, "for I'd have gone
running off into the hills for real, long ago, if it were not the case."
I can see, then, that I am asked to be intimate friends with an "average"
of the bulk of my human contacts, this proxy-man being an overwhelmingly
congenial fellow, while I also accept and cherish the ones who also thrive
in the great American plurality as a matter of God-given right. "But
wait just a minute", goes my built-in process, "a human being can be nothing
other than good, and unconditionally so. Your upbringing, your tradition,
and yea, even the legal framework that compels you, will not even permit
you the luxury of being a misanthrope." I see, therefore, that I
need to turn at once from any and all intolerance of the social realm,
for my only moral capacity as a man is to lose myself among the many.
If I am particularly irritated, then it can only be my fault.
This, I quickly tell myself, is the remedy--the pose of the selfless man.
Self--what a shameful thing to possess, much less extol and brandish.
It would all be so easy, if only I could erase the stubbornly-persistent
"seams" that separate my own identity from the one identity.
The whole set-up of civilization has been tinkered and perfected by
hundreds of generations before me. In letting a man like me walk
around with such a closely-kept private life, they show what it is to be
"good". I'm still wondering, of course, about the justice in seeing
"them" in the singular, when I'm probably using that fine fraternal order
as some sort of euphemistic symbol for my own internal imperfections.
There can be no valid value judgments as to intrinsic human merit, other
than those I impose upon myself. Now I'm beginning to feel better,
for I'm working over the one who has it coming, for all that time spent
in resentment. The real method of Cabin-based relaxation does
not examine anything so elusive as an "entity" composed of more than 6
giga-components. Unity of focus can only come to rest upon the strangely-formed
person that follows me around--as me.
Because I have the nerve to open issues like this at all, I should think
I am guilty of any number of seditious practices, only I'm clearly the
one who gets hit the hardest. The others probably have a good laugh,
when they hear a man talking about tired old patterns that they don't even
consider applying to themselves. They might have their momentary
reaction of contempt, but then they're part of the unbroken tapestry;
the grand and glorious flow that unites past and future, gone and yet-to-be.
Why, I should even have some respect for how I've been formed, for
to have had this "personality" assigned to me requires...an assignor.
Am I a victim of my own concupiscence or simply wrestling with my deterministic
origin? The population, as a whole of so many parts, does not dwell
long on such matters. They are better acquainted with "the real deal",
and they do not have to ask.
"Bo"
20 January 2002 -- Possession despite loss
Though I am suitably clad in fleecewear and woolen socks on this harshly-cold
day's visit to the pine-panelled living room, I still feel something of
a draft as I lay on the sofa. I suppose I should really just
cover up with one or more of the throw-blankets I have for this reason,
only I am currently of the view that I should have a "livable" space within
the Cabin, something to distinguish from being in the unheated woodshed
or outhouse. Since I am currently able to sit up without much real
effort, I take another look outside, into the clearing, through the front
windows that are responsible for so much of that draft. The snow
has something of an "overwhelming" effect, given the sensation of extreme
cold. At such times, I often think that I should simply pack it up
while I can and move on to a mind's adventure and exercise that does not
pose such a direct hazard to my physical being. Immense and unending
is how the accumulation looks, and I am not helped by an awareness of the
hundreds of acres of the same that I do not see.
Since I am a sovereign citizen and individual, there is nothing
compelling me to sustain this twice-weekly presence--except for the sadness
that goes with putting an end to a project that once had a decidedly "different"
appeal. There was a time, years back, when I'd be enjoying more of
the outdoor world containted in this hollow, where even the cold itself
had its invigorating and tonic effect. I see in all of this the unfortunate
defeatism that declares, "the old days are no more, and look at the diminished
substitute that is in its place today!" I finally do decide
to grab a heavy blanket, after I place another piece of oak on the fire
and let time continue to pass. A man convinced of an inevitable and
monotonous decline does not do well in such idleness, only when I am of
reduced activity, I approach a bit more of the fine comfort that sustained
me during my earlier exploits in camping out. I have the wood I need
to heat these rooms indefinitely, and I just may reverse the trend
over the short term this afternoon.
I note that the afternoon is beginning to advance towards twilight and
dusk, which installs a new element of "despair" in the living room, even
with the skies being essentially clear and the snow-surface substantially
lit. I take a deep breath as I settle in to the plush upholstery,
in a pose that assumes some of the "suspension" of the experience in
utero. While I do not give much credence to the pop psychologists
and religious adherents who would see me living out an actual, "repressed"
time from my past, the thought of being "born" in a continuation of the
metaphor does not sound at all agreeable. It is not a very accurate
analogy, though, for as my years continue to accumulate, I grow more
"secure" in my ability to procure comfort--this is the "reward" for repeatedly
"passing the test" of life's challenges. It seems, therefore, that
I am trading the illusion of security for something more closely
resembling the real thing, but hardly as appreciated.
I turn to bury my head into the muslin slipcover, while I hear the new
wood continue to crackle loudly as it joins in the Cabin effort.
If only I could act with the strength I have left on that which is still
within the grasp of my aging hands! Splendor such as that which I
now carry has never been more certain, and the various attributes that
compose my personal means are something I'd have thought the very enactment
of "heaven" itself on earth, if they had only arrived sooner. Maybe
I've just never had much schooling in the ways of "service", which I have
generally seen as an intransitive burden rather than a form of rightful
conveyance, born of the noble act of "sharing". Everything ends up
being "excess" in the end, anyway, so why not? Oh, but I hear the
religious "reformers" again, thinking that another prospect has seen the
light shine upon what is, after all, some rather unglamorous dross in a
life they have already written off as death.
I toss the blanket temporarily aside, and the room does feel
a little warmer. I need not think to matters as simple as heat,
only this does not excuse me from my duty to gratitude. That could
well be the mechanism of the transitive work--being grateful, and openly
so, is surely seen by others who may be comparably endowed. While
the definition of life may be change, my ultimate reward might just
be to have absolute "certainty" at the end of my years, even if it is without
"joy". If only I had carried this "sober" conviction with me from
an earlier age, I might not be looking for so much in the way of ordinary
surface excitement. I am fairly well convinced that I have been working
for years with outdated definitions of what I should most be seeking.
At last, I feel the heat in the room, as I had predicted it to revive.
"Bo"
24 January 2002 -- More matters before me
I am not sure if I really have the time I would like for a "real
visit" today, only I find it valuable to do something at the Cabin
according to the usual schedule, so as to pronounce my relative immunity
to the time of year and the demands of my real life. It is gray outside,
and the weather is above freezing--maybe 40 - 45 degrees F, and the precipitation
that manages to fall carries with it both wetness and the chill of a winter
that still knows "it's the boss". Getting around out there is no
simple matter, with all the heavy wet snow and the mud-channels that have
resulted from my efforts at maintaining the settlement. One feels
like wearing a parka and heavy boots, only it's warm enough to leave a
man quite sweaty when he comes back inside. Thus, my objective is
to keep my feet on the wooden floor surfaces as much as possible until
the freeze returns, for things hardly have a chance of drying out, as in
April and May.
With a fireplace that usually can support my presence on those bitterly-cold
nights of deep and abiding frost, there is enough heat for me to lounge
about comfortably in nylon shorts and a T-shirt, as if I were performing
the fantasy of making a summertime experience out of the "less agreeable"
months like January. I suppose I will get out the galvanized tub
from the utility area in the kitchen and heat water to take a bath before
I go, though it is a rough deal to consume so much water that doesn't come
from a pressurized city system or a rural citizen's well and pump.
Still, there is something about times spent in restorative activity like
that that give me a chance to think over matters that aren't as
easily solved. It all gets to be a matter of pausing the process
long enough for a good assessment. As surely as haste makes waste,
the urban life leaves a great number of issues without needed answers,
and these are often no real problem to supply.
I am hoping that the roof will hold out in a situation like this.
The foot or so of accumulation above the ceiling planks has begun melting,
thus casting upon the asphalt and its flashing a pervasive load that seeks
to exploit what opportunities it can find, before leaving at least over
the eaves. There is so much water draining off the roof, in fact,
that an observer standing in the damp air of the front porch would think
it to be raining, when the still-abundant snow is not taken into account.
The last real incident of a leak was in 1998, when that ferocious storm
came through, so it is to the credit of the contractor from the village
that days like this only keep such worries in the back of my mind.
I am not sure why my mind is drifting so readily to "calamities" such as
this, except for how I've been rushed along in real life by my many occupying
concerns and threads of activity. Surely, something has been neglected,
only I haven't the ability to go over the situation as thoroughly as I
should.
I sit in the armchair in front of the open hearth, only back a bit farther
than usual on account of the "warmer" day. Since time is arguably
going to waste, I decide at last that I'm going to drag over the oblong
tub, with its stop-cock drain to mate with the hole leading to the drain
field out back, and I put the other pot on the stove, filled with what
water I could hoist that high. Though this is an involved activity,
it is also something I can do to a high stage of completion, as with the
gravity shower near the back door in summer months. Once I've got
the lukewarm base started up, I get in and participate in the novelty of
being wet in a "good way". I am well aware that bathing is never
this "satisfying" in my city home, and that is perhaps a shame. I
would ideally get things so simplified there that these "everyday" diversions
become their own highlights in a process that leaves no matter without
its share of consideration.
Of course, the country folks of times past would often describe this
"solution" to be an invitation to boredom, and I can imagine as much while
I'm sitting here, waiting for the next potful of water from the stove.
"Excitement," it would seem, requires that a man put more on his
plate than he'll possibly finish. These few hours of idle emptiness
will surely look precious, once the chorus of the many voices of concern
returns. I can only think that the more "typical" mind sees a sequence
of "things to do next", and either through structural differences or through
the kind of education I'm getting now in the main part of my "career",
does not dwell on the whole package. I see I have another dose of
hot water to add to this bath, from the vapors above the pot. Some
things just have to take their time, and the nobility of their causes
justifies that such time be spent.
"Bo"
29 January 2002 -- That life of the heart
It is something of a "bright" day outside on this trip, even with winter's
stasis clearly established. Temperatures have grown cold again,
and the most recent 2 inches of snow have plenty of liberty to blow about
in the stiff breeze. This kind of wind will make any tree or bush
in the scrub-growth that is within viewing range appear to "shudder" and
"vibrate", as though the woody framework had grown brittle with the cold.
Stepping outside to visit the out-buildings or get something from the truck
pretty much requires the use of my down parka and full-leather boots, since
the combination of powdered accumulation and crusty earlier layers would
quickly affect a lesser-equipped foot and its overall warmth regulation
system. I am aware, of course, of the intense struggle it would be
to walk down the largely-obscured dirt roadway along the river--the land
impresses me as it is, even when I'm driving up.
The Cabin, on the other hand, stands as always; a stalwart dwelling
in the snow ice and rocks, and certainly "someplace special". I would
declare a new kind of "success" in real life if I could develop and embellish
something there the way I have here. Those--things--that
so clutter my pedestrian reality have such infrequent potential to expand
beyond their presumed banks and become a real "passion". Perhaps
a sign of divine justice is that every man, every where can latch on to
this glorious program, without a "means test". So long as the heart
is alive, it can build its magnificent edifices of conviction and loving
devotion, with every rightful claim to their continued practice.
Really, I suppose that I, myself, engage in the fantasy of the Cabin on
a shoestring budget as well. To be planted in this hollow, surrounded
by non-agricultural or -commercial land simply depends upon my powers of
visualization. Wild country like this, while obeying certain rules
such as the way river-cuts and erosion in turn define the hillsides, can
essentially be modelled as a boundless expanse where one expects nothing
in particular from a given trail or turn in the river.
Maybe, though, I'm "settling for" a mediocre substitute for real world
human aspiration and inspiration. While I might "see" something vividly
enough during my time spent in imagination to make note of it, most of
what's here tends to be essentially irrelevant to the ongoing tale
of my woodland occupation. The ones in real life who do develop
valuable constructs of the heart, on the other hand, have a hard time keeping
the vision from becoming all-consuming. It defines them,
rather than the other way around. This is to suggest that the "properly"-emotioned
man will ratify his participation in the long-assumed "larger scheme",
so long as his earnest motives stay in the right "territory". I think
this over in my empty, quiet camp, with its nearly-as-empty living room.
I know that the central theme of my being here is not so noble as
the inflamed inner motivations that compensate the functional, "universal
man". My intentions are to find "peace and quiet", rather than more
strains of one of those rousing choruses that presume and prefigure the
divine. It is my own way of seeking a teleological re-purposing
of a widely-dispersed set of personal resources.
To seek an example using Cabin imagery, this hearth before me, when
given its proper meaning-extension according to the "more excellent way",
should be seen as a source for the family unit to which it corresponds.
If I were allowed to see myself as a valuable human constituency,
then I would sit here with the satisfaction that a worthwhile enterprise
is being supplied and sustained. But I just got through concluding
that these tortured and strained "mind games" do not really validate having
a warm place to hang out by myself. I am well aware of the possibility
that I'll really latch on to "acceptable" inspiration, of the kind
that removes me from a central location in an overall space having no preferred
reference frame. It just doesn't stay with me all the time, though,
so I can't be doing as well as the others. Once again, I am
dealing with the askance disregard of the crowd, as I speak what may be
intelligible phrases in their lyric language but which lack true fluency
and observance of meter. Fragments are not enough, just as no one
has much use for the shards of a broken mirror, authentic though the individual
reflections in them might be.
I am about ready at this point to give up in disgust, as a notable exception
to the fellowship of the "universal man". Folks may have the gift
of associating with the greater realities without particular endowments
of finance or formal education, but my own situation looks so deprived
as to deny me even this most basic of entitlements. And yet, I get
those wonderful-though-sporadic intervals, where I would seem to
have a fair idea of how to participate in the great brotherhood.
What of this part-time conformity, anyway? I am generally discouraged
from knitting my fragments together into a single fabric, but then I must
be dealing with powerful and repelling resentments, if they can so successfully
dissuade me from the ascendant life. I maintain this "state", despite
the common-sense need to anesthetize one's self to the misery that invades
every life in the real world. I guess solitude is simply easier for
me to hold and use than the less-assured collective life, good though it
obviously is.
"Bo"
Ahead to February 2002
