I sit for a spell on the rocks at Donner Summit, CA, Tahoe National Forest, August 2002 October 2002 Cabin Diary |
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7 October 2002 -- A suggestive sort of calm
Well, the conditions out in the clearing and into the trees are beginning to achieve some of the true "crispness" one would expect of autumn, though the air is not quite as cold as it "should be". There is a bright and inviting sun this mid-day, though its advance through the zodiac has been enough to suggest the more severe angles that will apply in a couple of months, at solstice. The early leaves have begun to accumulate, and the color shouldn't be far off--the first killing frost may have already come through when I wasn't up, in the middle of the night. I'm out on the chaise lounge next to the fire ring, taking what I can of these last warm days. The campfire outdoors at this site no longer seems proper, but I have started to employ the coziness of the indoor fire on several recent evenings.
So let's see--it would be a good day to work some more on stacking wood in the woodshed, since the fellow came out over the weekend in his 4 x 4 and dumped my order on the path from the front door to the outhouse. It is fortunate to be so far out in the country here, for I'm sure that firewood in such bulk would be much more expensive in the city. The forest, in its vastness, produces this product beyond the capacity of the scattered stoves and hearths to consume it. This is pre-industrial America in its finest, I suppose--resources stretch beyond the horizons of any reasonable man's imagination. This, too, fuels the essential premises of this "out of sight, out of mind" exercise, where I do not expect nor am I explicitly expected to submit to the miserable controlling shortcomings of middle class competitive mediocrity.
I lay back, heavily, in the canvas covering of the chaise lounge cushion, closing my eyes against this rather strange day, full as it is with sun and greenery but also unavoidably near the descent into the inclement times. Taken for itself, this present moment is not such a terrible thing, especially since I can come out without donning my field coat. Had there been more rain, there would be the unmistakable and "earthy" smell of ground preparing for a new growing season, only this scene is still recovering from being parched by so many hot summer days. Though this land is too far north to participate in real cycles of "rainy" and "dry seasons", the luck of the draw or the excesses of chaos place a more intense character on individual spans of time than one would expect. Perhaps, indeed, I am missing some set of clues that the more astute outdoorsman would have long ago recognized.
The setting is so calm and bright, even through my eyelids and upon my exposed flesh! I am sure that the bulk of meaning within this context is escaping me, as it also does in city life when I close my eyes during my waking hours there. How is it, anyway, that the task-mongers ever make such a case for committing one's self to that abject drudgery that is the lot of the typical working stiff? Is enough inserted into the lives of the humble and would-be humble that the situation almost becomes one for pride, as in the scenes of archetypal "relaxation" found in beer commercials? I wind up so terribly "exposed", and on such frequent occasion, because of the temperament and disposition I've been assigned at my making, 40 years ago. Ideally is the mind well-transported on a train of thought that does not stop so frequently, with the implication being one of abandonment in an empty land between station stops.
Somewhere there plays a "program for living" that would not require me to act. I am amazed at how often I stumble into its welcoming ambience, with every intention of staying, only too upset and agitated to sit myself fully down. Is the "clock" inside my head running too fast? If it is, then I might derive confidence from knowing that I shall see many more places as I travel along, even if a number of them are frightful and traumatic. The empty stage that threatens the onset of tragedy, however, is one of the more perverse among the many acts authored for my interpretation. This is what "playing it safe" is all about--avoiding death's direct process but still standing in its shadow, and uncomfortably close. Well, at least the others will not stumble upon me, in my state of exposure. To the extent that they are diverted from my approaches, I am given a chance to think of how I'll handle my next trip down there.
"Bo"
12 October 2002 -- The many parts of the self
It is another evening during which I've "hung around" in my concise living quarters here in the hollow, and it is nearing the time to go to bed. Since the Cabin is part-time only, it might seem strange to write in the details of sleeping, which imply that I'm really "never there" in my city life rounds. I suppose my character in this authored world might be here all the time, except that he must live out a lot of time on "his" own, like the vacation home that is mostly rented but occasionally used in person. Is it good, I wonder, to force a split like this? If I were prone to extremes, I might well develop some sort of obsessive fantasy, where I declare the Cabin to be real and "real life" to be fake, as in The Matrix. Ever present are the choices, but it's all me, so I should think that a self divided against itself is still, nonetheless, a self. I am a unit, whether I like it or not, and my fanciful tales of the highland woods are still firmly bound to this solo entity. It is amazing, what one man can build, all in his own name.
Yes, the fire is getting near its end stage in the hearth, and from my last trip to the outhouse, I can confirm that it is cold tonight. There is, of course, the added excitement of beating back the harsh conditions out there, all on account of my one-room shack with its two wings, kitchen and sleeping area. It is a pretty nice little "unit", this structure. Oh, but if I could only capture something of this wild and wonderful spirit in the accommodations I have actually attempted to develop in the real world, where literary license is essentially useless. A small amount of significance back there puts a much larger charge into the system than some rambling exposition on a cedar-sided, timber-framed lodging. The real world, actually enough, has a lot to offer a man who is only 40 years old, even if he happens to be so misshapen as not to be qualified for the "wide world of sports". It is a huge struggle back there, but then my character there, Raymond, has found his share of treasure in that game where he has a role. Bo, on the other hand, just sits quietly, waiting for the process of being asserted.
I should really be back in the city now, with my full attention there. Still, I'm sitting in the armchair now, watching a set of coals that are entering the end game in the fireplace. Those coals, of course, will still work for me in keeping up some of the heat overnight. I suppose it is an inexact science, this heating with a wood fire, and probably not a very efficient one, even at its best. Well, I'll be burying myself soon under layers of flannel and high-loft comforter "dead space". Bo, as I can tell, is getting up at last, with just that destination. But wait a minute--I can't be describing myself in the third person, since I am not British royalty or a USMC recruit at Parris Island. Am I losing connectivity, by seeing my character's presence as something or someone separate from my own conscious process? I can go back to first person readily enough, only I have rarely seen this as merely an option for the implementation of a daydream. Come on now, it's me, and no one else. Clad with the shell of Bo, I resume my time alone, and head for the sack.
I still have the kerosene lamps burning in the living room and at my bedside. I am hesitant to extinguish them, for the presence of even a small amount of light allows me to see the familiar layout of this interior. It is a self-contained container, this dwelling place. As I settle in to the ample covers that hold back the chill of this far part of the building, I leave the lights going, since I need to affirm and re-affirm the legitimacy and harmlessness of my long-occupied "second home". I am here, going to bed, and I shouldn't forget it. The boundaries of my particular portion and instance of "soul" are sufficient, by definition, to incorporate whatever my own mind will allow it to visualize. This is all a structured set of extensions to the basic and central conscious nucleus of the whole mess, the part that actually understands what it is to see. I am no doubt guilty of choosing leisure at the moments when good works are clearly indicated. Yes, James, I seem to have faith, on frequent occasion, that is characteristically lacking in the kind of works that are thereby inspired.
I sigh deeply, as I picture myself in this twin bed, with the increasing chill attempting to drain me out through the part of my face I choose to expose to it. I continue to cobble and craft the personal attribute of the woods, the river, the ridge and the clearing, realizing that such pristine surroundings would probably require a trip to the former Russian S.F.R., riding, perhaps to a camp in the watershed of Lake Baikal. There's nothing I can occupy in America that has these grand properties. Were I somehow transplanted in real life to a mountain retreat, one that is fully "my own", the response of my system would likely be overwhelming. So there we finally get to it; the matter of what my nerves permit, encourage, or disparage. That's the winner, since experience in the flesh has components of the kind of intensity that requires careful planning many times when I'm out on one of these visits. I must operate a regulatory clearinghouse for all of that traffic, much of which should be diverted or removed. I guess I'm just dealing with issues of hypersensitivity. It is sometimes my friend, and it keeps me out of trouble.
Well, this character in this tale, be he Raymond, Bo, or someone else altogether, is indeed quite tired. I certainly don't mind being here for the night.
"Bo"
19 October 2002 -- Paying attention to my sources
It's a rather "cozy" feeling to be within the Cabin enclosure at the present moment, especially with the kind of cold outside that is now so prevalent. The fireplace and/or kitchen stove do their part in supplying heat, but I also find that being dressed warmly is a big help. This evening, as I've shut off the media to let myself think for myself for a change, the rather dim lighting that I settle for from the kerosene lanterns is strangely a balm, all to itself. Most electric lighting is used at higher than necessary intensities, so that there can be no doubt as to all the flaws and shortcomings of man and thing alike that happen to be in the room. Nights that I spend at the Cabin are true and classic examples of authentic night. With the modest incandescence of the lantern flames, I am reminded of assorted camping scenarios I've found myself in, where a basic D-cell flashlight takes on central importance, as in walking out of the tent to the campfire or walking a ways further to visit the corresponding sanitary unit.
It has occurred to me recently that I picture myself in my Cabin visits more and more at night, for it contains the sweet resolution of finally going to bed, where I try to get what sleep I can in these notoriously "interesting times" within my life. To pass into that restful oblivion seems so much the goal of a man whose position within real life does not offer such lucrative pauses in the action. The dim lighting in the living room tonight is of course a component of this base-level containment vessel and living space, one of such finite and well-known boundaries. I do enjoy tending the assorted fires that burn under this roof, for it is a pure ambition that is not sullied and corrupted by the authorities that enforce "proper" economic and emotional entitlements and their disbursement. I am aware as is typical of the constraints and restrains that would never actually give me the luxury of a small, secluded shack, surrounded by such a boundless extent of trees and underbrush. As author and publisher of my own daydreams, I need not talk with the "editors" of the higher organizations' output. I have none of that here in this room. It's mine, and more importantly, mine to adjust as the daily "emotional weather" obeys the paradoxical predictions of a classic chaotic system.
Thus I see that I prize the Cabin not because it facilitates any great discernment of "good and evil", but because of the kind of present-moment enrichment that comes from such a basic structure and layout. Well, I guess I'm growing tired here tonight, as I would predict I would be, after such a day. I'm about ready to lay myself at the feet of whatever surprisingly real effect the Cabin can deliver, as a result of 5 years of development. The space in here, lit and heated as it is, will carry me through. I'll wonder someday, I'm sure, why I didn't make more of my "principal years". Indeed, that is the central "problem" that seems to require frequent examination and critical review of my set-up: "the desires of the duly constituted members / are essentially infinite, / yet time and money are so dearly limited, / and they are consumed without qualms / by the latest central planning scheme-- / most dreams die out for lack of funding."
Because the operation of the Cabin is not understandable in the way employed by a kid who has been given some piece of junk to disassemble, it all becomes just another matter requiring "faith," even if subatomic phenomena eventually turn out to be the explanation of a goodly portion of that which is attributed to divine intervention. May this is a call; to return to a more reasonable use of my time. I should take the considerable stock of items I've already collected with some vision of use in a design plan. Within myself, I seem to have the basics, but these do not account for disruptive power-mongers that need to consume men the way a brown bear takes fish. The wonder of the Cabin is that I can experience seemingly "magical" works, and all on my own, though I do not find much reason or capability for smiling. Indeed, I am well informed and provided for by the communications drops that represent the contrived disciplines so raucously preached. Still, very little comes over that pathway that affects me in the ways I most need to see an effect.
I suppose I can rest now in some sort of "peace", since my ascent to a real living wage by selling my capabilities in the crass economic marketplace is a sign that I have a fair share of the entitlements being dumped by the bushel from heaven. It is a tough, however, to live with a mind that is the unpredictable wilderness contained in my oversized cranium. There is an enforced rationing system, owing to wartime conservation efforts, wherein one part of the cortex is fully supplied, instructed and functional, while another feels lucky to draw even a subsistence level of those potent flows of understanding and inspiration. There must be the equivalents of ghettos or bombed cities in there, where it is a struggle just to keep out the gangrenous septic contingent that is waiting for its chance. My mind is so old and cantankerous, yet its job is so simply defined that it can continue to run on a crippled platform.
It appears that I need only let myself contentedly "ride" on the craft that has been dispatched to carry me home; I need not understand how it works.
"Bo"
27 October 2002 -- Perched above the struggle below
With the bright sun upon the increasingly-open area of the hollow, the transition to the truly colder times is readily apparent. The essential bulk of the leaves; oak, maple, poplar and aspen, have fallen towards their final disposition on the ever-carpeted forest floor, and at this time of year, they do indeed crunch when a man walks through them. I suspect that with the cooler condition of a day like this, I could take a walk up the trail to the summit and the hidden spring with a minimum of sweat, though the actual path is likely obscured by all the fallen foliage. The color that I see, as I sit on the front porch chair, is one in which the "browns" are winning, and when victory is theirs, the next real call will have to be for the snow. Thanksgiving, Christmastime, and trips through the wooded-and-open rural framework in the back seat of a drafty old family wagon were the fruits of all of this, as a child of the North, a continental character that even finds its way here. It is a putting away and also a bringing forth, according to some acted-upon hearkening to a generalized European past. Thus it is, that I am.
There's not a whole lot to do up here today, as is my typical observation, and I know I'm "wasting" time that I could use getting caught up to the standards of my city life, which really wouldn't be so strict if they weren't so mind-numbingly inane and mediocre. Why do they make me swallow such a well-measured dose of that admixture of vitriol, venom and virtue? How is it that ongoing civilization and the having of a great deal of "fun" can be entirely built on such a subsidiary circulation as the business world is based upon? Is it that I do not approach it at its more congenial interface, the one that connotes its connectivity to what is indeed good, even of the task-master? My call for "freedom" will be answered readily enough, I suppose, if I have the nerve to "drop out", only it is a terribly long way to fall. No, I must find my peace, while trafficking in the hideous underflow, for the brighter side of all of this is indeed the champion, in the contest of pre-eminent light. There is a stability that the better-heeled seem fit to practice, and which is taught to the attentive K - 12 membership, and this balance is for them the best as can be.
I watch the trees in the slight-but-cold wind, out at the start of the trail and the edge of the clearing. There are still leaves left to go, and of course, the ones that somehow hang on all year, perhaps because the wind did not finally win out over chance structural character. I am indeed at the bottom of much higher realms, as I recall from the time I found a good spot for a sub-camp at altitude by the spring, a couple seasons back. In the metaphor I am sure I've beaten several times to death, I recognize how much higher this dwelling is than the vast foundation that spreads forth towards the north and northwest of this indentation and chance levelling out of the otherwise unbroken ridge. My effluent is the gift I send, with the considerable impact I have for a single man on the upper river. I guess I'm simply "downstream" of a good many more in real life, which I shouldn't really consider a curse, for their work is a continuous and assured "gift". Harder it is, for the man who sets himself on high and must draw against the flow made characteristic by the undeniability of "up and down".
I seem to be in one of my more poetic moods today, though I'm not sure how that's going to pay any bills when I've driven back down the two-track road and returned to my ever-active desk in city life. Oh, but the mixture is being readied, and I can smell the cauldron even at this height, from which I'll be commanded to drink my measured-yet-disagreeable portion when the system has pinned me in place, once again. All that survivalism talk will be in the record and used against me, for I dared to have a private life. "Privacy?" they ask incredulously, "that is but a gift of the ones who have freed themselves from the firmament by finally owning a piece large enough to support an independent man." The wages currently on hand will certainly pay for a lot, but not yet for freedom. I know well that I am not grateful for the vaunted chance to take the dose of noxia that I am ported to receive, in this high-stakes game where I live because I work. Sometimes, too, to get the view I have now of that silly mechanism is enough to reduce it to "childs play", like pushing the Fisher-Price popper and making the wooden balls jump in their endless circuit.
No, there's nothing that's truly bad about what faces me, except for the nastiness that befalls anyone fortunate enough to have been set in a place by the unseen hand. There is an order to it all that is of such compelling determinism that it seems at odds with the libertarian extremism espoused by its Ayn Rand-clutching constituents. The more time spent trying to be free, the tougher it is to face the exact prescription for that liberation. It is not a matter of believing, but rather, of doing. What is done is done; what is imagined is, by definition, yet undone. Thus are defined the essential extremes, as sure as up and down, only I'm still a bit dismayed that lofty ambition and proclamation are so thoroughly supported by such ridiculous and arbitrary treadings of the terribly-deep water that is the river's final destination. Maybe it's just time for me to begin drifting down, for that path is, for the moment, not one with the directly-present peril of "falling behind".
"Bo"
Ahead to November 2002