1 May 2002 -- A peculiar position
It is what a person might call a "nice" day outside today, with everything
nicely green and growing, the kind of atmosphere that makes a man who thinks
of death realize there is more, even if he will not dwell in its parcel
of directed creation. I've been wandering around some over the hundreds
of acres in this hollow, and even up the trails, now that the weather has
broken. It's all so incredibly green and overgrown! I am amazed
at what nature does, having no real property interest in this land.
It just goes on and on. I know that I have fabricated a mighty "tale"
in all of this, and that no man who must put his shoulder to any reasonable
"wheel" can expect such surroundings. Why, this is a dream where
I'd revert to "mountain man" days, where the lone adherent could possibly
think that a whole upper river is "his". But perhaps those souls
heard something of the Native American indications that a man must be humble
and thankful for his part in something so grand. We read in the history
books that "ownership" was an alien topic to such folk, but I can see their
point.
Thus, I am glad this day to have this viewpoint on such a splendid realm,
even if the details of the title may never be known. I have conjured
into being something that I cannot claim as my own, yet that's pretty much
all it is. I doubt there is much of a dent upon the collective consciousness,
even from these voluminous writings, so I am still essentially the
"man" in this space. I insist, of course, that it is plentifully
adorned with all of nature's finery, realizing of course the travesty I
make of real nature, who must expend so many resources, every time
she deigns to establish countryside so enriched. I am a rather vain
and presumptive man, when I think of it in those terms--the grand creative
"force" must have but one "true" domain, and that is the one that is.
Yet I can picture all of this empty land to some effect, and tell myself
that I am wandering over it and feeling my footsteps. Does this indicate
that I have succeeded in actualizing some part of me that is derived
from the greater natural whole? Am I tapping in to a font of some
sort, only one whose denomination is nothing more than my own presence
as a created being?
It is something, what I man can think of himself. I'm sure there
have been authors of far greater imaginary, pseudo-realistic realms, such
as Faulkner and Michener. I will never approach the kind of dedication
that shows I am thoroughly devoted to a vision of something that may not
have been seen. I have to look through a half-opened, single eye
at something so immense that the written word would simply not do.
This is a land that I'm sure exists for real in many remote places on earth,
most likely outside of the United States, where tourist interests quickly
absorb anything so luscious. The very "unremarkability" of such an
expanse is its precious core value. What do I have in the hollow,
anyway, but hundreds and thousands of trees, a good many large rocks, and
finally, a string of Summit peaks that frame every morning's sunrise?
I keep putting energy into describing all of this, perhaps in the knowledge
that nature will one day catch up with me. She will sue me for infringement
of intellectual property rights, for I have appropriated a central design
and dared to call it my own.
All is indeed alive and growing on this, the Worker's holiday.
Might it be my infraction, one of many, upon nature, to snatch up its plan
and build my little world? The man who labors, indeed, is transforming
one component of land to another, at the behest of capital. This
is a scheme that I'm sure is peculiar to "man", for it does not ring very
truly in these woods today. I have made my mark by building the Cabin
compound, and my run-off, slight though it is, is more than an elemental
man would ever produce. I have the very spirit of exploitation, buried
somewhere in my motives, for I am one of the corrupt; the Westernized man.
Oh, that I should run amok on even an intellectually-developed landscape!
But then the advances that make a life so "comfortable" are hard to come
by in any other way. I must detract, in order to add anything, to
what I hold internally. This is life and how it is parcelled.
The being loves itself, and thus ignores what it is doing. It does
its thing, only death is there to keep it from getting out of hand.
The escape route, of course, is the theory of eternal life, something I've
been taught. This rings far too truly with nature to be dismissed
out of hand, for a creation is no small thing.
I doubt I will get far today, for the knowledge of what I'm doing lies
too heavily upon my soul. I take what is holy and give it to the
dogs within. There should be some way of making myself into
a truly "worthy" man, only "worth" is a relative assignment. In some
corrupt frame of reasoning, I am already "worthy". Or it might not
even be that corrupt. I am a man, simply, who has been advantageously
exposed to nature, wherever it has sprung up in my daily life. Yet
I realize the heavy hand I lay upon it, as I live the way I do. How
did it ever get this way, anyway? A man can "get by" with
so much less. And yet, here I have what I have, and only, for the
most part, under English common law and its modern day descendants.
I just want to be "here" today, in communication with my surroundings and
not in command.
"Bo"
6 May 2002 -- In search of the proper level
It has certainly grown warm up here in the hollow in recent days,
and in combination with the remnant moisture from assorted sources, the
effect is decidedly becoming one of a "lush" landscape for hanging out.
There is a hazy sort of sun today, one that is hardly enough to drive off
the dampness that is so much more noticeable when a person becomes overheated.
I don't feel like doing a lot that would require exertion today, but then
that has been a bad habit of mine for some time. The triumph of the
green is certainly in place, even in the sparser areas like the clearing,
which are essentially "vacant" during the winter months. It has
dried out enough that one's casual meanderings around the beaten-down surface
of the Cabin compound are not instant trips into guaranteed mud.
Still, the intense humidity under even this early-season sun is
enough to suggest the truly "stifling" days in July and August.
I have to wonder, though, if some of my reluctance towards action is
more a part of my own willful laziness, as aided by the onset of this decidedly
subdued 5th decade that I have been given to live. So long as the
load is not "too great", than it seems an easy matter to have ongoing philosophical
monologues about many things that in fact require the kind of effort that
would break me in an instant. Once, I was given a mighty legacy and
implied birthright, as ambitious child of the middle class, only no one
ever said I'd get to keep any of it. Things come along, true, but
they are, after all, things. I suppose that my eyes
are bigger than my figurative stomach, when it comes to estimating the
amount of responsibility I can swallow--and also hold down. Without
intense challenges that take every bit of what I have, though, I'll just
see myself slide further down the curve. He who is satisfied with
inaction will be rewarded in kind. These are indeed some morose thoughts
to have on a rather nice day in May, and if I would dispense with circumstances
and appearances, in the fashion of St. Paul, I would walk with a decidedly
lighter step.
It just can't be that the warmth and the dampness are putting
any load on me like the one I feel within my own heart. Am I simply
worn to some point close to exhaustion, from the intense struggles that
have characterized my recent real life? Does the world expect of
me to have "superhuman" capabilities? Or is my vision of what it
is to be "human" so low that "ordinary" life looks like an impossibly
high calling? Sitting as I am on the front porch, with the earth
and the botanicals rising to greet me like something invoked in a consumer
toiletries commercial, I call on the one who made this crashed-out lump
to restore some of the inspiration that makes for the "successful" life.
Oh, to be strung along, "riding the mighty high"; up on the crests rather
than stuck in a trough! Work becomes just another stimulating "hobby"
at that point, from which the eyes see so differently as to be another
set of globes altogether. That is the time when youth does not look
so forgotten, only the current dosage of my miasma doesn't let me stand
long enough to see that far.
"It should all be so simple," I say to myself. "I need only listen
to the 'one day at a time' folks and make this day the only one I'll 'let'
affect me". The danger with that attitude, I suppose, is one of complacency
and temporary overindulgence. If this is the only moment I have,
then why not be outrageous while it lasts? I get the feeling that
the forces of physiology may eventually "force me" to follow a more sensible
track, this being some sort of "bodily defense" against working one's self
to death because of the loss of vital capacity. Laurels, I should
think, will make at least a good temporary resting place.
The "fear of success" proponents would jump out at this point, with hardly
a sense of surprise that I would chafe at being made to toe the same old
line with weakened motor responses that aren't as steady as they once were.
Success, it would seem, puts a man into a whole new framework and set of
constraints--and restraints. The hapless mendicant is thus
the happier, as he goes about his sparse day of business.
But come on, now--we're talking about a preference for sustained disability
and inactivity. These are not worthy goals. The problem may
well be that I have had to judge all of the expectations that are upon
me on the basis of theory and conjecture. It is little else than
the community of my fellow men that have cued me in to what the probably-"correct"
setting should be for my ambition. Their powers of compulsion, limited
though they are, will eat away at what I've built in the style of unsleeping
corrosion or the rarefied atmosphere that causes the decay of a low earth
orbit. I need to obtain re-supply, obviously enough, and I can only
call upon the wonderful "anti-entropy" that befits a living being, when
faced with this harsh certainty of ruin. Life, indeed, is all about,
only it is too easy to overlook the struggles of other individuals in this
race against death. Have we all become tightly-wired, "desperate"
creatures, who all have good reason to fear? To have, it would seem,
is the surest way to lose. No, I don't feel much like moving around
today, and there's no one around to correct me in this taking of leave.
"Bo"
11 May 2002 -- The many sounds of the earth
I'm just "hanging around" the compound today, rather content in observing
the new growth in so many of the plants around me. One would not
think this could satisfy a man so completely, only whenever I see something
new and emergent, it tends to grab my attention these days. It is
really something, when I look at it long enough, the way the additional
leaves burst forth among the ends of the many, many trees and shrubs that
have found their way to something of a "maturity" up here in the hollow.
I just like it, is all, to wander about on the unimproved dirt of the compound,
looking at the immense quantity of less-than-fully cultivated plant life
that has found its "proper" place in this rather-poor and rocky soil.
It is all so much an expression of the soil, first and foremost, then,
to the incredible amazement of those who'd call it "dead", the plants that
manage to germinate and issue forth up here, as if it were the eminent
right of green growth to establish a foothold in every corner of the earth.
I like it, indeed, when something so incredibly "primeval" as the humble
botanical species can catch such a claim to ordinary old earth and water.
I don't know, really, what I have to do around the Cabin today.
I suppose I can just "be here", in the cool shade of the building when
the sun grows hot. It has had such a tendency to be warm, now that
the mighty month of May has emerged on the scene. Warmth, as I have
noted, will slow me down. There is every bit of that wonderful "fragrance"
of the earth that I would expect in weather good enough to elicit it forth
from the soil, and especially soil that has granted its leeway to the assortment
of plants that make their home each year in the hollow. I should
just sit back and breathe a calm sigh of relief--the land is properly ruled
by its natural inheritence, and by this, I mean the wondrous growth that
is so vigorous in its advance across the unclaimed open. I am now
on my bunk, but the windows are open. Perhaps I anticipate those
long days of summer, when no one would close windows. There has certainly
been the sense of chill in the mornings recently, only the days are coming
when the whole night, even, will not seem "cool" enough.
It is such a splendid "realm"; this land, which is fully unencumbered.
I am talking, of course, of plain old earth and plain old sun. We
specifically disclaim the many wonders of the city, when we talk of a land
like this. The land is rough, it is true, only it has a certain "softness"
to the stranger who plants his foot for even a moment. No more is
the set of expectations that so fully govern his "civilized" travels in
the world of the many. It's all open and fair game for his tired
steps. I do not know how long this image will keep itself open in
my sights, except for the wonderful way that even the suburban sprawl seems
to guarantee the high esteem of the wide and the open. Dirt, it would
seem, is a precious commodity in that world. Its crowning
glory, if not in true woods primeval, should be the well-planted yet fully
"wild" botanical items, even if they might only come from the nearby "garden
center". No man likes to think of his ultimate fate as the one of
concrete, asphalt and deceptively-floored ceramic brick. Dirt, why
dirt. What an immense return this represents to the overly-cultivated
soul.
Well, I am indeed planted in a soft and splendid place, for the Cabin
has its immense share of wide-open and un-planned space, space so entirely
full of the woods as nature intended that it can't be much else.
I suspect I'll head out and wander around some more of the very many acres
that stand, even, in the relatively small clearing, being glad for the
wondrous expression of each plant that has somehow managed to establish
itself for the 2002 growing season. They sure are coming up out there,
as is the promise of their germination so long ago. Each and every
tree I see among the many thousand will manage to "glow" for me, as I look
at its morphology and agree that it "has to be" this way. I'm currently
before the fireplace, it is true, looking at the darkened hearth where
I spent so many a winter's evening thinking of the weather we have now,
only I can well think ahead to the green, abundant and almighty, that will
take over. What a sight that will be, when all is pre-eminent and
fully in my face.
I still wonder, though, what I'll actually be doing here today.
Really, it is the curse of the modern man to be so "keyed in" to the various
pre-recorded media, so that he does not adapt himself in a more proper
way to the instantaneously "growing" world about him. I am not sure
how to reclaim any of that capability; it is something that gets lost when
a man is "civilized". I could just "be", listening to the sounds
of the river in the ravine, only that would eventually "grow old".
I suspect I am doing a fair bit, just by visiting the Cabin at all today.
Despite what the urban world will give me, there is still in my mind a
place so wide and so open that it will never run out of room for amazement
and exploration. Though a man may be given small fragments of the
great and wide open, his pitiful suburban plots will only be the suggestion
of a real wilderness. I turn to look from the sofa, which
is where my indoor wanderings have taken me, and I see the wide-open world
of nothing more than plants. Such a scene may have greeted the 19th
century settlers, though I think, in retrospect, it may have been more
typical to the 18th, when folks were spreading out into the Appalachian
hinterlands.
Well, I'm not sure where I am headed, only I'm here. This is my
view, for now. There are no tracks here, except my own.
"Bo"
16 May 2002 -- In considerable motion
On this generally "agreeable" later-spring day, I have found a good
place to collapse in a heap from what real life has heaped on. I
walk from the truck to the front door on earth that is finally starting
to show signs of being "dusty" in places, only this cadence is slow and
determined. The whole world would look a lot better to me,
if only I could be so settled, as I must take on the assorted duties of
a man employed in the city. It occurs to me that I could spend some
real time outside today, and without a jacket, but instead I choose the
living room, where I am able to open the windows and give the Cabin a good
airing out. I suppose some of this exhaustion is of my own making,
and even of my own choosing, since the road to fitness and spontaneous
"energy" is indirect yet painful. I land heavily on the sofa, wondering
about the ultimate course of a life so characterized by desperation and
depletion.
The land is out there, and it used to be much more my habit to
go hiking up the hillside to the rock summits, standing as they do in their
council around the clearing and this tiny wooden hull. Inclination
towards action is certainly something that can drain away, and this could
well form a new cause for fearful vigilance. It can all vanish before
my eyes, and before the appointed hour. Some may say that my faith
has swung to some sort of new relative minimum; that the properly-inspired
man cannot see anything but "purpose" in his being. Such days they
were, when I knew that God would take care of me. Well, they
haven't come to cart me away just yet; my established place is still relatively
firm. I have seen that it is folly to defend the structures of that
particular support, since that battle is not mine alone. What is
needed, then, is some sort of cooperative between myself and the Almighty,
since I claim to be among the many brothers of the firstborn. I still
don't know, though--common sense tells me to slow down, yet the breath
of the Spirit says to get up and stand up.
Thus I plod along in this set of excursions, up to the heights of exertion,
if only of the mind, then away, to the depths of this "laziness", a path
in which the middle ground is never a resting place. Oh, but if I
could dampen the amplitude of that sinuous sinusoid! It's all just
a matter of refusing to absorb the constructive interference that seems
to comprise the bulk of my hype. Such a system can hardly be called
stable, bumping as it does with each new extreme against limits that most
humans do not consider a rational outcome. Well, I'm supposed to
be on the "low" side right now, and by the above analogy, that would really
be something "negative" in character. It is hardly a splendid thought,
to imagine that my tendency so often takes me into this nether-space, though
the ones who offer common sense counsel and advice would simply say I'm
heading too far into a place that everyone goes, or at least everyone with
a decent claim to membership in the 70% who are "normal". I note
throughout my members the restless stirring that means I'm not really "resting"--only
attempting to superpose restraint on a person who was moving with too little
restraint on the other side of the cycle.
Well, the dampening process does eventually occur, when I let
myself ride far enough out the axis of time without interference.
Perpetual motion in violation of the second or even the first thermodynamic
law would be the predicted outcome otherwise, yet I have already seen that
I do not have what it takes to refrain from pouring on the coal from that
great external bin. I breathe deeply, as I lay on my back, held in
the big bucket of this overstuffed sofa. Just as the man sees the
single set of footsteps on the beach, I'll one day be able to look at this
structure's footing along the river's edge and realize that I had been
assisted in being held. Will there ever be any of the fine and fully-socialized
colloquia in my remaining years to pick up where I left off, once I'd outgrown
the ones I was forced into as a kid? What a story that would
be; of an ongoing, rollicking, way in which the devil most likely does
care, but is overruled by the grander principles in play. But something
drives me from one wall to the next, and with considerable efficiency,
in the vacuum within. Most men my age just don't get to jump
about like that, even in their activities of male society. There
is always the civil edge, yet this is a highly-permeable barrier.
I suppose I'm at something of a true crossroads now, one I can even
admit I'd seen coming for a number of years. I am no longer left
with such an available choice to be alone so much of the time. Without
being carried, I will indeed be stuck, only with all of the anger and despair
of a failed life to keep at me. I would not think such thoughts if
they were not so entirely possible, for I refuse to believe that
I really have that much in the way of mis-directed "will". It sure
does seem like everything should even out, only I have built the most diabolical
of resonators out of my mind and what's left of my body. Mechanically,
I should find such a feat to be halfway interesting, since oscillation
is typically an active process. Really, though, that's a gross
over-simplfication, stolen right out of a 2nd year engineering school book.
I doubt it helps much to have vivid and possibly elegant "pictures" of
something so full of difficult outcomes. It's all just a big old
bundle of nerves, and one who has been so privileged as to look at himself
for hours on end, when his eyes should be elsewhere.
"Bo"
20 May 2002 -- To enter the mighty current
I'd guess it is probably getting time to crawl over to my bunk and get
to sleep, since it has been dark outside for several hours now. There
is a solid chill in this night's air, and I have kept the windows all around
in the closed position. It is funny, how temperature can be measured,
yet one's response to it is so subjective and context dependent.
It is difficult, I can see, to continue in that high-powered life back
in the city. It is as if I need to step out of the picture and "let"
everything resolve, on the basis of accumulated merit. But then,
what is a man, to one other than himself? He is the only person
who sees himself as "exceptional", for it is his body that carries
the brain that looks out rather than in. I think myself worthy of
a fantasy wilderness that encompasses square miles of unspoiled timber,
but that's "just me". I do what I can this evening to dispose of
the extraneous threads that operate in my mind, to get down to the "real
deal". There is an underlying current to be joined, one that is typically
just beyond reach. I sit in my armchair, looking at the small fire
I've built. It is mine, and in the editorial mode, I can say
that it is significant.
Yes, I decide that I will go to bed, after judging the potential
of the fire to last any part of the night. I'd prefer not to bank
the coals this time, for a fire in motion seems to speak something about
the secondary realm, where spontaneity and energy gradients are allowed
to pass through the tortuous channels of expression. It's a small
fire, only I do feel the chill in this room lit by kerosene lanterns
when I walk away to my bed in its alcove. Oh, it is a soft bed, there's
no doubt about that. It seems that the man who is trapped into a
restraining harness of sensation will always appreciate sensory input that
does not threaten. I turn back the down comforter, then get under
the flannel sheets. Oh, my. I suppose I'll run through quite
a gamut of internal conversation in the time I have left before I fall
asleep. With the lanterns out and only the slightest crackling from
the fire, I am placed into a nearly pitch-black intermediary place.
It is the legend that the contemplatives will seek out such empty surroundings,
so as to allow a less-encumbered expansion of the mind. All that's
missing from my times alone is admission to the great undercurrent.
It is the vine, of course, and I am a rather gnarled and sporadic branch,
on account of my convoluted ontology.
The night is sure an interesting thing, if dissected properly and used
accordingly. I will get enough sleep, prior to my forceful return
down the river and into the city. There are hours at hand, though,
that should do much to anneal and regulate the mess that is one's thought
pattern. It's all a matter of assuming a suitable position and then
letting go, as is happening to me as I sink into the quantity of bedding
it takes to sleep the whole night in the dead of winter. I close
my eyes and breathe deeply. I suppose that's really a "sigh".
What, really, is left for a man who has gotten himself so incredibly stretched
out, so that his resupply of required tasks is through channels with apertures
nearly closed on account of tensile stress. Surely there will be
necrosis in some of that set of assumed obligations. They
want heroic advances and prodigious outcomes, and look at me in a strange
way when I complain. The "struggle" is indeed my life. Yet
to struggle does not sound consistent with a life dedicated to control
by the higher principles. There are indeed times when I'd just pitch
the whole mess over a cliff, to watch it smash its way down into the forest
that is "mine". Oh, but there remains a glimmer of potential
in my strained and beaten "professional" assembly.
I don't seem to be drifting off in the usual fashion tonight.
Maybe I'm dealing with some sort of "existential crisis", of the kind that
asks a man to explain himself until he runs out of arguments, then defend
himself against a large and skillful opponent. I am no David, to
be commemorated by an anatomically-explicit piece of statuary. It
is the defensive pose that I now assume, for I see their band, out at the
edge of my vision, just sitting and biding their time. There is no
beating them, for they are of the world. The world, indeed, is the
great jailor and taskmaster. I have no choice but to push with what
strength I have left. But that will be another day. I try instead
to find some kind of deep and abiding peace, and in this instance, it seems
that prayer is about to take over. Yes, the wonderful counselor and
prince of peace is not afraid of my battleground, and he does not wander
hungrily about like a Homeric dog on Priam's plain. This is my repository,
the powerful hands that are yet under such exquisite control. I know
that this form of regulation will not carry very well into another day,
but at least it's here now, in my one refuge, and in my most developed
of solitudes. Why can't something so strong just reach into the world
and do for me what I cannot do for myself?
I drift some more, finally entering the half-awake mode that forms the
temporal periphery of actual sleep. I think, in a sort of half-thought,
that the battles to be won out there are certainly clear-cut, and the effort
needed is within my grasp, provided certain minimum factors of inspiration
are in place. I take another deep breath, as I pull the covers closer
to my face. It is all so silent; so empty, yet I am here to
experience it. I know that simply positing the Cabin and writing
about my time there is not the approach to the true and ultimately benevolent
mainstream. From higher to lower, it spontaneously flows, and its
motion will not long be thwarted by us puny men. It is as simple
as realizing that some things will happen and others won't,
but there is usually a way out in the latter situation. I can hardly
imagine the kind of guile that will be needed to defeat the enemy, as I
drift further from the scene and into what will be a secondary dream world,
since I took the first step reaching this staging ground. "King of
Kings," I finally pray, looking for the suitable request, "I must commend
to your hands my gnarled and fractured spirit. May your will be done".
God, indeed, forms the bridge that allows a man to escape himself at last,
to be one of many, rather than the one who appears to count.
"Bo"
25 May 2002 -- Privileges, earned and denied
It is a fine May day in the Cabin compound and the clearing, with some
excellent endowments of warmth across the generally-damp foliage that establishes
worthwhile growing conditions. Soon, indeed, will there be the full
complement of greenery in the scrub and in the undergrowth, as the assorted
plant life flourishes where it can. I'm wandering from resting place
to resting place, but outdoors, and I'm currently at the chaise lounge
by the fire ring. The sky is so incredibly blue overhead,
yet the scene is decidedly stolen by the layer of woodland that rises above
me here in the hollow. Laying back the best I can on this piece of
patio furniture, I assess the various needs I have for solitude in the
current situation. It is always "easier" when I do not need
to share another's schedule. Oh, but if I could only sleep here a
fair piece, though I know this puts an early finish to the grandeur that
is a "holiday weekend". I would rather persist in some sort of intermediate
condition, wherein I am at once sedate and happy. This is
not an easy state to achieve, yet I know when I'm in it, and it needs no
apology or explanation. There is a lot to be said about a man who
claims satisfaction, no matter what the route.
I'm so tired this afternoon that I close my eyes, to listen to the bits
of breeze and the sound of the river back behind the main building.
I suppose I could be out and about, logging further wonders in this
wonderland, and I do not deny the value of an opportunity cost measured
in rest. I suppose I'm in another of those generally "apathetic"
states, the kind that can't persist for long without disenfranchising the
social participant. I don't know--I have my private life, richer
than most, I'd imagine, and then there's the life with the others, where
I have basic survival skills but that's about it. I shift position
on the cushion atop the chaise lounge. "I should really clean
this grubby thing," I tell myself. I feel as though I could launch
off into one of those unconsciously-mediated times where the more basic
powers have control, as "finished" by my training in living off the land.
I might conclude that everything that comes along is a matter of money
spent -- or lost, and so long as the money holds out, so will life.
This is terribly materialistic and contrary to the deeply-held convictions
of those groups that did so much to make the ongoing picture of places
like Pennsylvania.
Still, I am far too much ready to equate financial prowess with implied
automatic membership in the world of the Elders. "They must all carry
their cards", I tell myself, "to go for still more booty on the next event".
The thought of random visits by assorted scavenging bandits and the like
is enough to make me pay a little more attention out here. There
are elements calling upon me here in camp, and they mean no good; they
aren't that far away. Oh, and I am so tired today!
My eyes are so heavy that it is difficult to compose this text. I'm
just a man, stretched out among a bewildering quantity of plant life, even
if the summits are currently restricted to day hikers. Maybe I'll
end up drifting off for a few minutes or several hours, right here on this
spot. My life is so entirely disheveled that I can't follow the ordinary
"cues" for breakfast, lunch and dinner. In this sense, I've broken
my ties with the others; the "many". I suppose that this is an example
of false pride, only the authorities I hear now in a good many pulpits
say that nothing is wrong with doing what feels right. I look at
the blackened stone fire ring, with its insert of hardy ashes from last
season. Obviously, there was cause for the dream there, the last
night I sat out late under the stars like in those "go RVing" commercials.
So I seem to have developed the essential dichotomy--intellectual stimulation
that builds the person's confidence, and internal stimulation, which is
just a wild ride for my soul to spend what it deems socially correct.
They can't really seem to exist together, so I need to spend time in the
grim neighborhood of high finance--to the extent I'm allowed to enter its
temple precincts--as much as I can spend time up here in the nearly-boundless
woods. I suppose I'm really quite the "landlord" and "steward" for
this space, to keep the leaves raked up and the grass mowed, at least,
to borrow the equivalent in suburban duty as a metaphor. The wild
is an interesting course of study, wherein I should ordinarily have a supply
of those books by Herbert Zim, only that is not really my "business".
Instead, I'm only after a "comfortable" room somewhere, an effect that
will actually work in a month or two, when the fullness of summer is upon
us. It is hard to know, just how far I can relax. The experts
say to "let go" during stressful times. It's all a matter of money
and the right ways to throw it about. This may be best for me, for
I have a chance of outliving the modern Roman mess that is an American
City.
After all that thought, though, I'm still dealing with the same old
same old. Here I can imagine a real, hunting or sportsman's
lodge, where we might have been raucous as kids in earlier times; indeed,
a solid structure and its associated contents and content look the way
to go. Goodness gracious, but I could go to sleep right there, in
a true state of satisfaction, if I were as much of a reading fan as I was
in 6th -8th grade. I had the ability to picture all those
glorious realms as set forth by Arthur C. Clarke and Robert Heinlein. Back
then, I might have been stuck with "Journalism" or some similar "soft"
profession, where sentiment truly "counted". But look at my struggle
now, to hold open the tiniest of viewports. Thus is a man ossified,
'till his status as a fossil is made complete, one way or another.
"Bo"
30 May 2002 -- The necessity of the new approach
Though the weather is finally getting good in the hollow for outdoor
activities, I am having trouble these days arriving at the requisite level
of "gumption" to put in a good period of contemplation at the Cabin.
The sun was out today, and it really felt "warm"--there was no hint of
chill that so commonly marks one's experience of these elevations.
I suppose I can just hang around on "the land", admiring its dirt- and
vegetation-dominated surface, only there has to be a bigger "game" in motion
to make this look like a real effort. Is it good enough; that a man
simply makes an appearance, and not that the appearance is some competitive
"performance" that one would expect to see in a competition? I may
be pouring far too much in the way of personal reserves into things that
simply don't pay back. I suppose I could justify such expenditure
with the comfort of Scripture--it is good, yes, to give with no expectation
of return. But the return is still somehow implied in all of that,
for if the man is made holy, then there are the benefits that accrue to
that particular membership.
I count myself as fortunate, since there are so many things I often
"feel like doing". This is the blessing of the life that has been
sufficiently lived to see something of the final ironic picture that is
sure to make me a rather crusty old curmudgeon some day. It's all
a big, fantastic, fabricated yet well-founded stunt, to have reached this
point. I lose track at times of the work that goes into any
of these opportunities for recreation. Would I have the picture I
do of the Cabin and the clearing, had I not been so involved in its description
over these last five years? I don't know--it's sure a hard thing
to think of shuttering the entire enterprise, even if that was the result
achieved by Thoreau and Kaczynski alike. I do not do well to make
a stand, yet there is a wondrous sense of "holding out", the longer I keep
this old machine moving. What is going on up here today, anyway?
It's the same, single scene. Well, I've shown up on something of
the old schedule, though I note that the visits tend to be 5 days apart
now. It would seem that a mighty testament might be laid down, if
only the choicest of words were diligently inscribed on at least a daily
basis.
There has to be a point to my interest in "rounding things out" in my
handling of this overgrown fantasy indulgence. I know it is all right
for me to do a great many things that I do not do, but the better part
of an evening spent settling in is its centering calm. The sky is
now quite dark, with stars, over the high ridge, while the "back ridge"
has just the slightest hint that the sun had been there. It is certain
to become bracingly "cool", and I will appreciate my warmer clothes when
morning arrives and I'm stumbling around the kitchen and the fireplace,
looking for a little heat. The atmosphere of the mountains is so
entirely different than the more uniform city offerings for weather.
I do not know what a "proper" visit is to such a place, though. Living,
all in itself, may well be enough. In here on the sofa, under the
kerosene lamp, I sigh deeply, and with full awareness that this is a limited
dwelling in a virtually unlimited setting. The adventure, yes, of
holding on at this point is supposed to be invoked when I come to this
place. Here, I am able to do a certain portion of what is so much
simpler in my city home, and thus go on living, and as I've seen, that
can be most sufficient in any number of scenarios.
Well, maybe I am starting to shut this whole procedure down,
at which point I can take my words and analyze them as I see fit.
There is the game and then there is the commentary that follows.
Describing an ongoing process is inherently difficult, though the journalists
do their best at it. I ride at the fore of a craft that is plowing
along, with the news breaking to both sides like ice to an Antarctic explorer.
I cannot really extend this to a metaphor descriptive of a proper life,
however. This means that life, which by definition cannot take real
"time out" intervals for assessment and analysis (for one is still living,
and it all counts), has to end before it can be accounted for. The
humble person, of course, will not think this a difficult matter, for he
thinks not of his experiences in any self-glorifying mode. I don't
know. I have this moment, here, and I've added it to my recorded
impressions. I may not be much of a contributor to "history", but
I do like to think there is something in the way of authenticity at hand
in this visit. I just keep plugging away, as if by compulsion.
There is a central authority in my system that does the compelling, only
this also gets a lot of work done, so I leave it alone.
I have put my mark upon the landscape and the rustic interior here,
which is difficult to perceive in lamplight; this day is accounted for
and can be re-opened within the context of the grand "archive" at any time
I so choose. I do wish the whole mess would slow down, though.
I collect and I record, so as to present this oddly-shaped body of distinguishing
residue. I will have to go soon.
"Bo"
Ahead to June 2002
