I sit for a spell on the rocks at Donner Summit, CA, Tahoe National Forest, August 2002 September 2002 Cabin Diary |
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1 September 2002 -- Finding a good resting place
I'm here at the Cabin, settling in for another evening's residence and occupancy. I do need these times away from the full brunt of city life, for in this separate place, I am allowed only so many "provisions" in the making of a complete "home". In real life, well, it never ends. So many components figure in to a man's totality that he risks the distinct and bourgeois danger of having more than he can know about at the level of consideration it deserves. What can I say about today? It was still fairly warm; a "summer's" day in most characteristics of the clearing and hollow, and I have the window screens opened to the world of darkness and apparent "nothing" that has come to approximate the building and its kerosene lamps.
I feel a certain overall body-fatigue at this point, as if this were one of the many things I cannot fully attend to when I'm running about in real life. It is a pleasant sort of "ache", actually enough, the kind that calls in every way for a more committed form of rest. I plop myself down on the sofa and put my feet up on the coffee table. The lamp is hanging to my left, over by the books and the magazine rack. The whole scene is rather dim for the electrically-oriented. I feel as if I should have "earned" some sort of peace by this stage of the game, for I am granting legitimacy to so much of the race, that one with the unseen finish line, if there is one. I suppose I'll sleep a good chunk here tonight, with the damp cold of the dew-laden grass and shrubs becoming evident when my eyes open again in the early morning.
There is just the 450 square feet inside this tiny building, the kind that nevertheless is my reserve of trust when the weather gets to being snow in December and the fireplace needs to be employed for serious duty. All throughout this hollow and along the high ridge a land is made, to contain such insignificant plantings as this, so that the traveller who arrives on the 4.1-mile dirt track from the village feels he has a certain "privilege" in just "being here". It is a checkpoint and a way station, yes, to signify when a man has become desperate enough to come all of this distance. It may not even be fair, come to think of it, to call my actions "desperate" like that. No individual concern from the many would be that hard, if it were the only problem. I lean back into the plush sofa upholstery, closing my eyes and listening to the crickets. The Cabin is fully exposed to its environment, that of the woods.
I suppose I could live out my leisure time such as this in a better way, if only I could relax completely. But then this monologue is the one that asks me to pin down a small point, the kind that always gets away. Relaxation is one of those conditions such as the ones that require the attendance of the muses in the literary traditions. It is the receipt of a certain state of grace, to get that far. I sigh deeply, realizing that there are too many knots currently tied in the rigging of my attention and concentration. I made it to the Cabin, though, and that's always a positive sign, at least for the ones who advocate healthy doses of ongoing fantasy to complete one's cognitive repertoire. I will have to hit the sack before too long, for it has been a very long day.
I must look like I'm undergoing some sort of "treatment", sitting so still as I am. Perhaps I should be up and about, correcting and completing small matters of the Cabin's upkeep, for then I will allow relaxation to make a closer approach to a more sparsely-guarded target. I'm so tired that it is hard to keep up the train of internal conversation that occupies my head like the droning voice of the telescreens in Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. Are there really minds out there that have clear channels, when they are left to themselves? Those have to be some prized possessions, to whoever the folks are that have them in their crania. No, but it is enough that I have been successful in visualizing myself in this pine panelled room. It is why I do not want to let go of the Cabin's assorted yet harmonious modes of settlement.
I finally decide to get into bed, realizing as I do so that I might be making a mockery of what the forest and hills have to offer, should I sleep in to an excessive hour tomorrow. If only I could paint as valid a picture of a temporarily-balanced real world on the other side of the dirt road, so that I could sink a little deeper into the soothing potential of this place. It is big and it is open, though nighttime means I have to remember that the hollow is still out there. Sometimes, I don't like to see the daylight depart with such obedient alacrity, once the appointed hour arrives. I am tired, yes.
"Bo"
7 September 2002 -- The predicament of the individual
Another day in the silence is drawing to a close, as the sun moves towards its berth along the far slope beyond the river. It is a rather typical passing, I suppose, for a day, only something makes me stop at this point and wonder about how I could treat it with so little thought most of the time. I have been given my allotment, and who's to say if I've been "wasting" it? Use of ones days, in absolute terms, would almost seem like more of the qualification to be presented at those higher gates than particular qualities of that action. It is certainly true that my "duty cycle" up here at altitude is nothing like the way it goes in city living. I will walk from place to place and rest at length, taking time where needed to cook a meal or attend to some utilitarian chore. There is nothing of the "humanitarian" in any of it, for the others are gone. Connectivity to the great social mechanism looks to be the only way to avoid these doubts, for then I will, by necessity, be running in part according to will imposed from the outside.
I run from such control as that, of course, and many might applaud a man who so fears the tyranny of the collective. They would witness a heroic figure, standing apart in the name of the individual; enough to comfort the laissez faire "winners", in that they did not play the game dirty when they slighted another for personal gain. But what kind of social life do they have, anyway? It must be a mightily-contrived arrangement, made in part by the force of wealth brought to bear. The man who seeks to be feared will find his wishes granted soon enough. So there we have it--the leftist hypocrites are running as much of a con game and power play as the big shots who claim to be their own men. The problem each has is in establishing some form of social cohesion, lest each should lose his stability and run aground on one of the many shoals of doubt that stand outside the main and tortuous channel.
I suppose I'm "fighting" for a similar cause, only I would deny that it is to entice others into some subordinate position through intellectual chicanery, as is the practice with the aforementioned extremists. No, I must remember that I've expressly stated on numerous occasions that the bond with someone not one's self can never carry a person all the way. Brotherhood, indeed--why, even brothers are still separate men. I look within and see so many disarrayed entities that could make for a real internal presence, and this gives me no time to consider what's going on in that larger context, outside the barrier and partitioned as distinctly as the two branches of a hyperbola or the rising place and the setting place of that sun, which is now nearly gone. The hopefuls in the game would tell me that it is the same sun and the same earth, only the separation must, be definition, be there.
Thus it is, that unbreachables and irreconcilabilities place each person in his package, one that cannot be opened but which must be accepted. I do have to admire the stunts that the various performers in the real world will attempt, in approximation of a process that really would make "one" out of "many". They have their parties and they send out their invitations, or they hold their rallies and raise their voices. "Let he who will hear, hear me," goes the call, with the implication that this person must have something in the way of power to be so well heard at all. Thus do we follow, and all the better so, should that person be an officially-designated "leader". Oh, the ones on the right will pump their folks full of the idea that they shouldn't follow anyone but themselves, but there we have an irreconcilability all to itself--no one can be independent by taking on the counsel of another. It must come from within.
So as I head back from the fire ring to the Cabin front door, with darkness approaching with the stars in the west, I congratulate myself on getting away from all of that "dishonesty", when it comes to the source of one's direction. The barriers will not permit the kind of heavy-duty conduction that I should think a real meeting of minds would generate. Eventually the junction would become the central focus, to be cited as the reason for dissolution. I, on the other hand, have unity on demand, right here in this one place. I should think that eventually the atmosphere will grow stale, then rank, without that imperfect contact with the outside, only this seems to be what I have. The phrase "mental hygiene" takes on a renewed meaning, when I think of how corrupted I've grown internally on some of these occasions. It is growing darker now, and it is harder for me to support the kind of thoughts that I should about the others, who obviously transcend the barrier for most of their activity. It's there for them, but not for me.
I figure I'll not be doing much damage to too much of anything by just going inside and flopping out for the night. I am neither following nor (I sincerely hope) being too closely followed. I think I've given them all the slip.
"Bo"
14 September 2002 -- That barren internal expanse
I seemed to have "run out" of the ordinary distractions that would make my life "fun" without qualification, yet all times must be lived, so I figured I'd come to my place in the wooded highland. Here there is little expectation, and therefore, little disappointment. I should think that I have something of a rightful complaint, when it comes to this life--by unyielding objective standards it has its noteworthy attributes, only the bottom can and does fall out. I'm staring idly into the still-green shades of the clearing from the porch chair, on a day that would be good for any number of more "athletic" activities, such as climbing up the ridge to experience the stiff wind that is always at the top. I could well be losing out in terms of those dreaded neurotransmitters, the quasi-independent mediators that they are of my internal fortune. I should be stretching and nearly causing orthopedic injury on a regular basis, for the nerves seem to enjoy watching the connective tissue take a beating.
Yes, this is "emptiness", or in another estimation, the loss of conviction. Spontaneous life cannot be taken for granted in this psycho-physiological wasteland, and I'm obviously suffering for my failure to live without question as the others do. They have had their due fill of socialization and were the kind of seniors still being created to this day, for the vaunted class of '03. It's hard to say, though, if I'd have made it far, had the champions of my so-called "progress" been successful in making me dependent. I would have kicked and screamed, I'm sure, like a medieval serf in his 9th century thatched hut, if asked to take a bath in the middle of his comfort zone during the winter months. Still, I am and will continue to be human, until there is no more to be. Thus goes the call for some sort of "divine justice", as though this were my birthright. The society at large has many places to plug in, only my terminals do not often match.
The sky is full of clouds, and the hawks are doing good business today, as they use practically the entire airspace of the hollow for their operations. The ground is firm yet generally loose and crumbly, from the relative lack of rain this season. It occurs to me that a good downpour would give me a "cause" to embody; that of hanging out indoors under a roof that hasn't leaked yet this year. The structure then becomes a tool in a whimsical game against "the elements", as I know it can when needed. At least it has been getting cold at night now, leaving me that distinct joy of bundling myself into bed against the bracing, fresh air that rises to its part-time authority. Resistance looks like the game I'm in the habit of playing, whereas the minds of greater satisfaction teach all of that non-violence. They would have me walk about with a major lump of some heavy metal in my heart, just holding to God and his powerful hand.
I will take a dose of that familiar religious analgesia, as I imagine the angelic nurse injecting it into this confounded IV. It is possible to be "managed" in that regard without too much commitment to the others, except as the Scriptures tell me I must. The initial requests, however, are for peace and mercy, those gifts that do find their way along, to the mind sufficiently emptied to hold them. This land is so broad, and my place in it so unrestricted, and yet I cannot convert such hard emotional currency into the wherewithal of true delight. I find myself longing for the deeper of "trances" on this featureless day, for I see nothing on my plate that I care to eat. It is too early to go to bed, and that's a sign of defeat, anyway. I look at the entrance to my personal world, knowing I'm at a very basic level at present; barely inside the door. Oh, but to shut down and shut up, as far as the critical internal voice is concerned!
I close my eyes and continue to feel the air that is no longer solidly the product of the summer sun now almost three months old. I need change to come upon me, change as conclusive and complete as the seasons themselves. But the guardians stand at the doors to finer experience, and their training is good. Few men have really had it so completely "great", after all. I have no right in cursing the outcomes that are born of my God-given internal constitution. The empty lands of this sojourn are sobering, with their portent of calamity and asphyxiation, should my lumbering mechanism fail to be ready for the crossing. At least I can still see these territories as only part of all that is, seen and unseen. I sigh, knowing little else to do. When I'm back in better mindscape surroundings, this will all look so heroic. Yes, I beat back what many would call the fruits of a solitary life.
There is, indeed, enough to do. That supply will never run out, though it be kept by wily stewards, lest I go on a rampage and use it all up. My "handlers" deserve good Christmas tips this year.
"Bo"
19 September 2002 -- The mostly-hidden path
I've been hanging around this dwelling of much wood, and for most of the day. I haven't had time to get a real focus of attention until now, but I've been aware of just what it is to be up here in the woods nonetheless. I suppose some could call the vegetation surrounding the clearing, and especially running down the ravine to the river, a "jungle", and it's something I would never want to travel cross-country. The trails that exist are difficult enough as it is. I suspect it will be quite cold tonight, so I have brought in some firewood from the woodshed. I have my order for 5 face cords already made; this wood is last year's. There is something quite "cozy" about having the fireplace and hearth as a "center" of things. It is as if I have cheated the powers of alienation by holding alive the notion of a no-strings-attached dwelling, complete with its own countryside. Since darkness has yet to come, I just stack a proposed pile of oak and maple on the masonry floor of the hearth.
It is so hard, as I've recognized in the past, to know just "what to do"; the implication is one of possible adherence to standards that are truly "godly". There is a path, yes, that the prosperous can see but which the wicked attempt at times without success. I walk over to the dining area, with the table having its two long benches. It is strange that this table is not the center of operations one might suspect it could be--much more tends to go on at the coffee table, since the sofa is so close. The table itself is rustic, to match the other furnishings like it. My path takes me into a world that is intentionally rough and lacking in many of the luxuries people expect of new housing units in the city. The walls and furniture, as basic as they are, do not seem to be as easy to appreciate this afternoon. Maybe my correct path would have me indulge in a little more of the media-choked, commerce-dominated "proper" world.
So it is, that my standard varies, yet I continue to see intrinsic value in a setting that does not change. The fixed and immovable are up against the flights of fancy possessed by that almighty designator of one's way. Activity, by definition, has its differentiation, as a task is traversed from start to finish. I need to be flexible, only the directions I've been given tell me to pass through country that may overwhelm me. The steady-state Cabin design, therefore, is not so much to be hailed as is the kind of relaxation and contemplation that this base of operations allows, from time to time. I get those moments of powerful inspiration and discernment, where the way is visible without trouble, until the "other" times come, and I have to begin navigating by dead reckoning from the last time I had a fix. I've pretty well seen that it's not a matter of consciously invoking the peaceful realm up here at altitude, for by definition, I am suggesting something essential that is "not of myself" in this capricious game.
I sure would like more time above the surface, where everything has its evident place, only I don't have the strength to venture up there often. I suppose it's just like those rock-choked trails that eventually reach the high summit--it's just too hard to live with the entire package, which demands so much exertion in a rather dark place. I really don't sit here often at the table, which should be pulling much harder duty as the central "desk". Where business is manifested and executed, there is the kind of administrative presence that is presumed capable of handling most of the little problems. I do not hear such an authority calling me to order, now that I'm under the surface and battling the many demons of varying reality that like to live in stuffy little places such as the Cabin. I really need more of a connection to the celebrated entities that can rightfully be called "leaders by example". They might actually read from the official script of the "way", as it is published to the righteous.
The sun is visible outside the kitchen windows, now that it is approaching its Autumnal Equinox position on the horizon's broad arc. I am not sure what I'll do to be better justified in my efforts. It is so hard to find those insider sources, the ones that make the privileged among the higher echelons capable of confounding the simple, and especially for one who cannot see very well in the murk. I do not live on the inside of their circle, and their prescription for the "rest of us" almost has the sound of orders to "be there" and "do that" at any time. The true "leaders" should emerge fully and be better recognized by the ones who are stumbling about, trying to keep the step going. I have no idea what I'll see when I finally get out of this holding pattern. It's starting to grow dark outside, so I light the kerosene lamp hanging near the sink. There is that familiar-but-low level glow to these lighting units, but that's all right, for my eyes have plenty of time to adjust to the night's darkness.
I decide at last to go to my rough-hewn hardwood bed, placed as it is in the alcove opposite the fireplace. Sleep might be one of the pleasures that will lift me to temporary dominion in the knowledge of material that keeps highly-paid folks able to keep on earning, despite their silly grins and strange emphases. I plop down on the bed, realizing that something had made me more tired than usual. I should say the prayer of "now I lay me down to sleep" at this point, just like the stereotypical youngster in 1950's comic books. There is still good working daylight out there today, only my activities tend to involve matters and evidence beyond ordinary light. I do not take long to be under, in the great restful gift of sleep, which shall be in effect until rightful duty approaches my attention again.
"Bo"
28 September 2002 -- Designs and their limits
Though it is still mild enough to dress up and get by without a fire, I've kindled one anyway during this instance of my personal seclusion. There is a lot that I value in my private world of dreams, perhaps because I'm not playing with variables that are assigned values at the whim of others in the collective. There is nothing quite so difficult as predicating one's own plans upon the timely cooperation of others. Retreating to within, as "selfish" as it sounds, is about the best hope I have for success; it is almost a "sure thing". Thus it is that I sit here on the living room armchair, fully taken by the idea that there is at least this inner place, where the deterministic filling of my hopeful "prescriptions" is really something of a matter of contractual commerce. These operations are enough to satisfy most quality control consultants.
So where is it, anyway, that my variables are set according to my own desire? The Cabin visit, it would seem, is accompanied by an expectation of unfettered relaxation, helped along by the personally-regulated image of the nearly-trackless forest. It forms something of a "wall" to define the limits of the village, beginning as it does at the far side of State Highway 735. I should consider myself fortunate, in spinning my tale of nominal realism, that there was the 4.1-mile logging road along the river when I set up; the one I now use as a private drive. For the time I've been visiting this now-vacated hollow, there has been just enough plausible detail to develop a persistent daydream's abode. Perhaps the assorted examples of the "normal" in my city life see in their midst a man who is not entirely "there". I should think that where they actually depend upon my cooperative performance, they are as perturbed as I am, when another person does not follow through as per plans.
I see that is is now growing dark, and the massed cloud cover had been threatening another of those periods of extended, cold rain, of the kind that accelerates the defoliation of the canopy when the season is sufficiently upon this land. I've had to close the window sashes for the night, so I now have that fine and cozy suggestion that I'm "holding out" under the shelter of a well-pitched tent, whose principal lighting is of the primitive variety. I notice, upon walking into the zone of relative chill near the sofa, that the rain has begun, and it seems to form a solid and invariant "background", as if to emphasize the separation and solitude that has always formed my planning objectives. I find that I am so thoroughly convinced of my ability to thrive in a setting of my own decoration and purpose that I am encouraged to do so on a regular basis. Still, it takes a conscious and sometimes-strenuous effort to establish the "effect" of the Cabin, and this is always a matter for concern. The truly "authentic" getaway unfolds spontaneously, in the accepted definition of an experience of "joy".
Yes, the steady, chill rain has begun, and I can hear it even through the insulative batting mounted between the beams that define the roof. The fire now seems more appropriate. I have a fine set of initial conditions dialed in to my parameter array, and these preparations always look so grand and visionary, once I've fully realized just what my mind can support. Of course, there is inescapable fallacy in having the editorial control that I do over these surroundings--the "success" of fiat designation can look trivial, and before long, the whole affair becomes empty, rote execution. "No", the "normal" folks say, "you have to face risk in your dealings, so that any victory over it engenders satisfaction of the deep and abiding kind." A healthy dosage of failure and insult appears to define the state of cooperative--or adversarial--transaction.
I don't really think I can find optimal satisfaction by performing these exercises in certainty. I must realize, too, that my own capabilities are themselves weighted by the weakness of worldly incarnation, and the answer that the others so keenly embrace is the enduring outcome of their specific fellowship. They engage in great gatherings that reference the "higher" structures of the heavenly kingdom. Tonight, however, I refuse to discount my internal fabrications, simply because I am alone in this stalwart, cedar-sided refuge. While I realize that the individual organism cannot embody much of a share of higher-order currency, I've still demonstrated that the greater experiences are all formed with risk as a central ingredient, so I will rest for now in the specific certainty that goes with self-guidance and pre-determination. This building has stood up to an impressive array of influences, including rain, and there would be too much distraction and irritation in a scenario that admits error and discouragement. As author, my time is in my own hands.
"Bo"
Ahead to October 2002