A 3D 1:48,000 scale model of the Cybercabin Land, Built of 1/8" foam core board and rubber cement, April 2003 April 2003 Cabin Diary |
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5 April 2003 -- There is indeed a place
I sit before the fire in the semi-plush armchair, a laden and occupied man. It is still quite cold outside on these nights, as is the property of the mountains for most of the seasons except the unavoidable summer days, so full of the hot sun. I've been to the outhouse, and also the woodshed, so as to fill the wood-box that fuels both the fireplace and the stove. One day I'll have to bring a mechanical specialist up from the larger city on route 753, to evaluate just how I'm using the wood-heat from my side-by-side "appliances". Nothing says I can't do useful renovations on the Cabin building, for there are indeed times when renovation is all that makes logical "sense". For now, I'm getting by with this combustion-scheme, so I'll put off the grander adjustments until another day, and perhaps next season. I breathe in deeply and sigh as I watch this fire of humble substance before me; that arrangement of wood and flame that I must tend with the tools of final forestry that accompany the hearth. I believe that the fellow down in the village who harvests this fuel is working in the privately-owned area that lines the other highway, 735, after one passes by the "developed area", with its general store and filling station. The "reservation" that is mine would be open to him as well, only the folks down there seem to respect that I have obtained "title" to these several thousand acres, the ones that extend to the large divide above me. That is the one that includes so many entries to the 5000-foot contour on the topographic map. It occurs to me just now that I have "neighbors" that are relatively close, if one wishes to climb the heights and just step across. Not much goes on across that frontier, however. The pass is not the route of cross-country travellers, as it was until the Government grew and decided that this tract should contain its wonders as a preserve.
I suppose I could expound at great length about these woods, and the wondrous way in which they have become my "heritage" over the last 6-1/2 years. Pride of place has never extended so fully within my mind as it has to this expansive abode of so many tall trees and taller hills. Why can't I invest the same quantity of introspective glee to the place I have in reality, that center of activity that has so many rich contacts to the others? I breathe deeply and sigh again, as if I might actually breathe a small part of the many, many acres, too many to count, that this alternative space provides. It is a devilishly "complete" getaway, this hollow, insulated as it is by the mountains that stand below, along the river that now runs so fully. One day, I'm sure, I'll be up on the ridge hiking, and I see some of the population that has homesteaded the other side of the mountain, the meeting of one "bear" and another. I will venture out, to "see what I can see". I don't need any of that at the present moment, however. I am snug in this small place, as indeed I've always intended to be. Oh, but the mud that stands in so much of the forest right now! No one really wants to climb through all of that, just to see this strangely-occupied resident in a place that doesn't really hold that much significance. When a person wishes to stand on such higher ground as the ridge, he knows that a vast network of hollows such as "mine" will have to be below him. What is there can certainly be "seen", but the seeing is usually enough. The fire is burning in fitful defiance at this point, as if something has obtained "control" of the chimney-draft. I should hope not to be too cold when I finally "hit the hay" tonight, over on the plushly-appointed bunk in its alcove.
Yes, the business interests that cut wood on the far side of the river have quite the enterprise, and the population here is sparse enough that the resource is "renewable". Our impact is visible but not significant, in the overall make-up of the countryside. The fire burns, but it burns for me alone, and does not have to be that big. I am suddenly aware of my own entrails, and the physical creation that lies further within. I would so like for it to become properly "settled", though this could well mean making up a late "supper" of the victuals that reside behind me, in the pantry. This is developing into some sort of moral metaphor, a creation of circumstance whose lesson I should probably learn well. I am quite into this breathing and sighing. Perhaps I can perform an act of meditation and inward travel on this visit. The final "peace" is never really that far away. Look, there is the resting place! No one has ever set up a conscious barrier except myself. It should just be, and nothing all that great is demanded. I let myself drift a little in this rather-erect seat. The fire is nicely developed, from those tree-remains that were trucked in last autumn in the robust vehicle that has been made of the woodcutter's F-350, the one with dual rear wheels that signifies a real woodsman and land-denizen. The fire burns and I drift. It is something, when a man can let himself drift to the place that is "intended" by following the shortest path, usually one that goes down, and is delightfully satisfied when it enters a stable "holding pattern" in a hollow such as this. Oh, but real life has its own little plots where a man can properly rest. They need only be approximated through the appropriate exercise of intentional non-intention. Drifting is not so terrible a calling. I am only asked to submit myself to greater authority, to the extent my own, ego-driven constructs will allow. Try as I might, I cannot build anything that is of me, without still obeying a set of external constraints.
Knowing that real rest is so close at hand, I issue what I can in the way of instruction to my inwards. "Peace", I say, "be still". Humanity is still my container-object; I am an instance that must follow its class constraints. I have my place, yet they let me move. I know, of course, that it is an enjoyable game to do things like move the clock ahead tonight, so as to be in compliance. I feel myself settle in a little more to this holding pattern, in the armchair with the obedient fire before me. Indeed, the Kingdom is at hand, in the here and now, because I have been granted entrance to a peace that is hard to acknowledge, since its glory is so complete. Breathing and sighing, I know that the fine attractor of contentment is fully resident in this chaotic action-space. It is a construct that holds me, in the style of the hollow, only using the makings of real, physical life to influence the mechanical "plant" that stands behind any good venture into life, for life has its background, wherever and however it is lived. I am settling in now, to occupy some final stance in which I need no longer fight. The passively-occupied man will be shown his place of rest, for that is how any man having will will be led, from the larger externality. Oh, but the wonderland to which I am now called! It is big and it is persuasive. Real life has a niche that is greater than any river-cut such as "my own". I am but a small "wrinkle", and the system has many ways to lighten my load. Though I may cower in an internal state, it is still subject to constraints that only detract from the soul's progress, should they be challenged and opposed.
I sit before the fire, up here at 3765 feet. Gravity will play
with me, yet I have a foothold. Through all that creation has done,
it has gracefully "let me be". Is this love? Is this God?
I am thinking in the mode of Bob Marley songs now. The greater firmament
is all about, and in my living, I obtain the larger blessing. Everything
is going to be all right. I breathe again, as nature has allowed
me to. I will always have the ability to find my "home". I
need only set down the load and give thanks.
"Bo"
10 April 2003 -- Facing the load at last
It's still pretty cold out there; the carefree days of summer are only suggested nominally, by the trees and underbrush, building themselves anyway. Oh, but the hustle I've been through, as a component in the greater assembly. It looks like an evening for just sitting around, trying as I can to develop meaningful cognition of all that is, and most of it unseen. Is there a great and mysterious underlying "presence" that I squelch so well that no one, including myself, can see him? That's a bunch of bull, I guess. I do the breathing and the sighing again, as punctuation of the ongoing moment-stream. It is easy enough, in this dimly-lit room of pine panel and fieldstone, to set my eyes in one place, such as the fire, and begin to drift along. I feel a tingling sort of affirmation begin to caress my inwards, as though my very "gut" were being placated. I just like to behold, the monstrosity, the pomposity and yet, the generosity of the fellowship that heads up the sub-processes of the mighty "machine". We are tethered to this process; this provision, the vine of which we can be but branches. Yes, it's time for more of that old time deep breathing, like they taught in so many self-help classes among my years. The profundity of rest that an ordinary citizen can nevertheless obtain is always an amazement to me, but then it takes the right underlying fundamentals. Without capital and sufficient land, the labor never comes close to the means by which all is made right. I have to live with what I've been given; it's "not fair" to go around, attempting to stack the deck and fix the game. I am by the fireplace now, in the cherrywood rocker this time, idly moving, as might the buoyant subject who is following some set of waves. A whole lot of imaagery can come from that, I suppose.
But what, really, do I hope to accomplish, in this empty pose that arguably "wastes time"? It's always a search for the core, which some might declare a repository for that grand currency of the contemplative: "truth". Once the situation is certified as genuine, the real relaxation and recreation can begin. I would think that the others in city living probably have similar aspirations, but gosh, some of them might actually enjoy the powerfully humanistic bent of their societal desk jobs. That's "how to succeed"; and indeed, "the company way", for the company is greater in synergistic majesty than any measly sum of its assorted stooge-stewards. I close my eyes for a moment, as the fire burns. I will have to take a trip to the outhouse prior to retiring to the bunk over there, and this means dressing up. Oh, but that can wait. Nothing is all that emergent in my vitals. My time-worn, flesh-bound constitution enjoys the time it gets off. I just let myself be, which is often just what an enlightened doctor would order. Yes, doctor, doctor, tell me of my dolorous decay. Physician, do heal, as your powers allow. I have a few more trips around the block to make, yet the ones who have traded in "truth" tell me that my present moment should be cherished as my last. Life in the machine doesn't really respect the passage of subjects through its positions. Bottom lines always speak the loudest. They need it, need it now, and my misfortune is none of their own. "Get along now," I frequently must say, for management does not stop at the big man's desk. Here at the Cabin, I guess I'm the big shot, and the leader. If I look out the window at the right time, I do declare that a trophy buck will stop here, to browse some of the underbrush.
I feel myself growing heavy, as in the practice of the exercise. It is sweet and it is upon me; I have obviously treated the elements correctly. I am opened and running, just like a sore that would keep the swimmer from jumping into the pool at the Y. To get a nice, thick slice of authenticity; ah, therein lies a great rub. What am I, anyway? Some sort of babbler who thinks his improv act will get him somewhere? Things keep coming to mind, though, and they should not be ignored. Indeed, some of these guidance cues have hit me repeated times. It's all a matter of setting and context, this wild chase. When the setting is good, the seminal presentation will have cause to thrive. But there is little I can do in the larger scheme to affect the parameters of my containment. No, they've got me in a choke-hold, and that's not barred in this match. All good pieces; all symmetrically-functioning cogs, will recognize their place, and it is a dandy! Here should go the chorus of thanks, like any initiate to a higher room should offer. A broken and contrite heart, of course, is a nice thing to have, for it breaks the wild spirit that actually envisions himself to be an "entrepreneur". The capitalist is in all, whether the ordained or the attendant faithful in the pews. There should be the single accord, yes, and the passing on of rich input to the next stage in the mighty enrichment scheme that is our economy. Why, good, hard labor need not apologize, for it is clearly a selfless act, when nothing is held back as dB's lost to insertion and dissipation. I stand here, this stage in a masterful cascade. Who could have dreamed of this? But then I'm constantly in open contempt of the crowd of bozoes who have their pieces of me. When do I get my own piece?
I feel the hard rungs within this classic chair, as they rub against my lower thoracic and lumbar latitudes. I almost think I'm getting to the kind of state where I'd be written off, should I ever get "stuck" in it. The man who drinks of his own well will certainly be thirsty again before long. I need to tend the fire a bit, for it is still cold out there. It is dark, with just the kerosene lanterns. All kinds of carbon monoxide is pouring forth in this chamber, only the ventilation will do. The Cabin is not easily made tight, though miles of woods and rocks and rivers ensure that the influences of the urban way do not reach me. Good God, it's all such a load, though you said the burden would be light. Pain, indeed, is the legacy of one's instantiation as a member of a class. We're not supposed to have those barriers in this country, yet every move is studied in detail by the oligarchy, hidden as usual behind closed doors. Well, that's how I am tonight, too. My doors are closed, to the extent they can be closed. The heaviness is building in me, as if I had been toting a huge bale of mostly trash, in the fine style of the street-corner attendant of a purloined shopping cart. Don't I know, by now, that this vessel I bear is meant for transport of a higher grade of good? Through my doors pass the makings of complete success. It is not hard, this "fully successful" condition. It's all just a matter of saying "no" to admittedly-potent arrivals in the pulse train and waveform. The forced condition from without must be reflected through an inherently-defined response from within. Yeah, yeah, sling that bull. You think you're cute, but you're a worse bozo than the ones you so frequently disrespect.
Function I must and function I will, goll dang it! It's a life, you fool--you let the contained object persist until it reaches its final closing parenthesis in the encapsulated term. I need those background intrinsics, though. Goodness, but what I could do, with a fair dose of fair skies within! It isn't all that hard, really. The wise man develops and cultivates his earthplace, so that the sowing is amply rewarded. Yes, seek first the Kingdom, and the Kingdom is in the here and now! They don't want more than your best mediocrity, repeated on a long-term basis. Cascaded mediocrity eventually produces a yield. Indeed, the fabric's humility makes the garment all the more a wonder. So have I seen anything that is "true" here? The amateur collector is soon choked when he embodies depleted platitudes because of their remnant appeal. I just need to sit still and assimilate, as I am also assimilated. I breathe deeply again, feeling what fundamentals there are in my favor. I might actually get some real rest here tonight. How great it is, when spontaneity is vested upon the internal critic's typical disdain, for then he finds what is truly novel and non-obvious. Yes, I have my place. It sure seems small, but then I can make a difference that is large enough to keep me there. I'll just park it for a few; my wilderness days are behind me, except as a fanciful artifact of the imagination. Renewal is underway.
"Bo"
18 April 2003 -- A participant in the flow
I'm just sitting around inside today, with a whole lot of rain going on outdoors. The grasses of the tangled scrub that populate the clearing out there are bound to be doing well with this. The green is on its way, as if someone reached down and used a coloring implement the way a child would in his SpongeBob coloring book. Of course, the layout and scheme of the land worldwide; that gloriously-proclaimed "ecosphere", is far from being that arbitrary. To everything, there corresponds a season ("turn, turn, turn"). It just keeps on turning, the world, the "cycles", everything. A single fundamental in a series of harmonics is made part of a living waveform with a colorful spectrum, though what one hears as melody is characterized by the higher order notes. I'm just sitting on the sofa, with my chin pressed into the top of the muslin slipcover, and feeling the abundant remnant of cold reaching across the panes of glass and into my personal source of heat. In manners of thermal transfer, the direction is typically clear, unless we're talking about the anomaly known as "life". The raindrops occasionally hit the window and run down, to join the others in the assimilation of stony mud that usually has its own assignment of grass in the warmer months. I should think that this quantity of rain must be raising the river to occupy more of its floodplain, down in the village. The watershed that funnels through there at 1950 feet is so large that every small indication that water "should" flow as it does is formed into a collective that can ruin folks' plans, should their storage sheds be located too close to the edge.
I'm thinking of how it was a couple nights back, when the moon was full. If I were still a subscriber to Atlantic Monthly, I'd know the folk-name for that particular moon. But that wouldn't do me a whole lot of good. The fact is, that the stars had been out, but now they're relegated to legend, as in the pattern of Mt. Rainier's appearance to the good folks of that city by the other sea, Seattle. I can only see now what's immediately here, and the practitioners of enlightenment say I'm "supposed to" live in the present moment. Where is planning in their books, anyway? They deal in an unavoidable duality, just like everyone else. Many are the charlatans, too, who exploit a duality to the point that it underlies duplicity. It would seem that there are pairs of up and down that can live together and others that have been forced to such a condition. But how does one assign labels? Is it that allowing nature to take its course is just an "easy way out"; that the righteous man is the one who counteracts the downward flow and stores for himself a reservoir of whatever has fallen his way? That can't be right. Every description I've heard of going with the flow speaks of the almighty river that is peace, and rivers only go one way, unless we're talking about Chicago or the Stalinist age. So okay, then, down is the way of all things; the earth should properly be coalescent, and life is indeed the grievous anomaly. Immediately I hear the policing authorities of the orthodoxy shudder when I proclaim death's appropriateness, as if it is what happens when life is commended into the most powerful of hands. Up is the way for all things, as in the water cycle we learned of as a kid, even if the freshwater of the world is slipping away into ever-lower and saline entombments.
Water is obviously on my mind today, but then I don't have to look far to see it. It is such a grand medium on this querulous planet, the closest thing we have to an ether of life. Really now, it's just di-hydrogen oxide, or whatever you'd see it called in a book of brain-teasers. I suppose if the hydrogen of the local universe has to be "dirty" with members higher up on the periodic table, oxygen is the way to go. I don't think the alchemical engineers ever had this view, though. Superstition and appearances can be made into some mighty philosophical gradients, ones that make life into the inevitability. It is not for man to understand what something is, but rather, what it does. Agency overrules ontology, every time. Pure research, if it ever can exist, derives its purity from a neglect of individual aspiration and the stubborn initiative of the living. Yes, I know, "science = death". I'd just as soon drift about in those precincts of anarchy's edifice, were this not so closely related to the canonical evil that is "terror". To inflict fear, obviously, is one of the more loathsome acts of the individual, for then he convinces his neighbor of the relative preference of inaction, retreat and demise. No, we need life, and more of it, celebrated and concatenated, built into the mighty structure of the temple that will not be driven downward when it reaches the age of 46. Oh, to stand for all time, in immutability; to cheat the directional flow into folks' back yards downstream, and take the fraction that accords to the "self-interested" fragment, by whatever scheme of apportionment is "correct". To each according to his stubbornness, might be the motto, though this allotment is always offset by the second transfer, using the phrase "from each". The supply side is so rarely in view, from the standpoint of the gates of sacrifice.
The basics really are just that--basic. The Almighty sits, as I am now installed, and observes the sporting interplay of the two gradients that vie, the up and the down. SF will equal ma, so agency is written in to all that is not dead. To be is one thing, but to act is another. This kind of talk can soften one's brain in a more rapid sequence than the most ambitious of mud-slide erosions, though. What am I getting out of all this squandering of my one and only allotment of sustained breath? Where, indeed, is the "life" that some coercive authority has passed to me from above? This is my enduring shame; that I have not lived better where I could. I have not taken the beatings requisite to proper obedience, and instead have let myself slide. What a waste, and oh, the dissipation. I will eventually have to move along from this single sitting-place, though residency at the Cabin implies that I can twin myself off and leave a piece up here on a long term basis, to be the counterpoise to those horrendous hustlings that life in the flesh calls forth. I have been told repeated times that the new Adam was all I needed to be turned around; the single passage was seminal to the passage of all that followed. I'd just like to chuck so much of this frivolous resentment on the rubbish heap, but then that heap just sends its leachate downward, towards folks who will eventually drive their own pickup trucks up "my" road and complain. The sources of the river are not in sight, but fully implied. Where does this leave me? I can go outside and hear the stepped up roar, from the 0 - 1250 feet of watershed above, or I can instead be still and know, for it cannot but be. I do that kind of meditation where I attempt to envision flowing supply and discharge, knowing that they'd likely never find the quantity missing, should I choose to drink of it.
There is the spirit, yes, of air, whose interface with the unfortunate reality of earth's incarnation is the water that both mediates and defines these first two. Two nodes are superseded by a bi-directional link, in almighty covalence. Am I, then, part of the "fire" that such a model then implies? I can't be that far from a decent life. Consumption is predicted by the cyclicalities, for even the finest of note, to be heard, must be subject to damping and decay. I guess I may be growing tired, for with better strength, I'd be improving my physical plant. Sometimes, the right answers are a lot more evident.
"Bo"
23 April 2003 -- A simple pursuit of rest
It is the kind of day today where I'd really like to go out and take in some sun, on top of one of the rocks in the clearing, for it is indeed bright out there. When I was last to the woodshed for more fuel on a decidedly chill morning, however, I noted how much I'd have to bundle up. I suppose that is the "blessing" of the spring season, in that things are obviously in bloom and the sun is abundant, but without the stifling heat that makes it even up here to the hollow. Perhaps my interest in stretching out just comes from being plain old tired. The civil society that claims me as its own seems to have a hard time with sleep; it is one of those things best done out of sight or surreptitiously. At this point, too, there is a "crushing" sensation upon my cranium that could as easily have come from working stress as from the season's new hay fever allergens. Woe be to me, though, if I were able to crash out as often as I'd really like to. They need to find that body, propped up and responding, even if it's all a game. Vital productivity does not matter as much as day-to-day continuity. A "proper" man cannot be so "irresponsible" as to do his work from home at the place designated for "work". The sun is inviting, though, and I sense that conditions may have dried out a little over the last couple of weeks. At this level of fatigue, satisfaction would probably amount to little more than occupying the first vacant spot that does not cause immediate bodily contusion, once it has accepted some weight. I know--I'll go back to the woodshed and deploy the hammock, which needed to be brought out soon, anyway. Donning my field coat and middle-weight shoes, I step into the brisk day, in something of a "drifting" state.
I am so taken by the scene out here in the hollow that I want to breathe deeply of it. I hear the sound of the nascent river, on its way back to the stone culvert highway crossing and the village, so far below. Basically, I know myself to be "on top of" this mountain crest, as though I were sitting in some sort of almighty "chair" with the Summit at my back. I am holding court among the outcrops and lesser peaks, all so unoccupied in comparison to typical slivers of suburban real estate. I am aware of the error implicit in calling any of this "mine", except that in crafting the tale, I had to keep the other folks out of it. I step across, haltingly, into the full sun, then walk with crunching steps to the outbuildings. I pull open the planked door and step in to the woodshed. I note that the wood supply is starting to get low again, in absolute terms. I see the wrapped-up netting and varnished poles, leaning up against a cobweb-bedecked corner. The wooden structure out here has a nice amount of its integrity left after so many seasons. Building on real foundations must make the difference. Still stumbling a little, and wondering what could have placed such a "load" upon my otherwise-chipper constitution, I haul the bundle out around back, where the land begins to drop off into the ravine. I note the way I can still see a strong outline for the ridge that cuts across the back yard view during these months of less-than-full vegetation. Way off, and out there, is the "next" hollow, looking strangely like a campsite adjoining "mine". I reach the stand of hemlock pines, where I secure the hammock and crawl carefully in. I sink heavily now, as if an occupying power were demanding a woesome "tribute" from what strength I still have.
The dark field coat sure feels good to have on out here, though there is really nothing in the way of real wind to agitate the abundant "chill" of this air at altitude. I cannot shake the lingering weight of whatever it is that stands behind all of this somnolent harassment. What do the mongers that manage really need of me? I am picturing some sort of guildsman, in one vision, who continually assesses the quality of "tools" that are in the box. I doubt it gets so proletarian as that, though. We're most likely talking about a "patron" instead, of the kind that seeks the best name-enshrinement that money can buy. This breed of individual has passed through enough hallowed halls not to see his "workers" as defined principally by their moment-to-moment exertion. No, it's all part of the larger opus, even if it does look like patronizing exploitation anyway, when enlightenment has moved on in its sophistication. I'm just a man here, swinging on a hammock, yet my niche remains for me, awaiting my return to full attention. It is something of an irritation, that the 4.1 miles of expressly-unoccupied dirt road from the lower portal up to here is not enough to insulate me from "exposure" to the beguiling expectations of the machine that begins at the village. I turn about within the hammock netting, this time to put my eyes into a stare that takes in the mottled dead leaves and newly-emerging 2003's season's growth. There is some lichen down there amid the many pine needles, and the occasional acorn-head from the oaks a bit higher up the hill. I should be able to become "forgotten" up here, as existentially disagreeable such a notion might be.
Maybe it's just a matter of deep breathing or release; this analgesia I so crave at the present. Worn though I am, I may still harbor serious tension that is keeping me from the storehouses of rest's repose. I seek no profound revelation or mighty high at a point like this, for the sharp is always outdone by the sharper still. I need something of a "retreat", then, to a subdued pose. The man who is groggily dragged to his appointment but keeps it nonetheless is still accorded the lion's share of his dues. I suspect that there is fallacy in the idea of putting up a sham front in order to serve the customer, but they are not interested in the "essential me" so much as the "useful" one. I am thinking now that I should pack up and go inside to my bunk, if I'm going to be this tired, for the hammock always strikes me as a little "contrived". I am after deposition into a position of local minimum, where I shall not roll out and be abraded on the ground. All right, then--I better be moving along. I look, with something of the glazed eyes of the kind that only accord to a man who must use his eyes in order to work, and see the strangely-close higher grounds of the ridge overhead. From this collection-surface of tamped-down earth, eroded rock and continuing bio-material, the river still builds, for the land is in fact very large. I am now in pursuit of the kind of stupor that indeed makes all things acceptable. I know that the seminar speakers and the cult proselytizers would cite such a goal as a "shortcoming", but when I finally do achieve it, I can usually characterize it as a "blessing".
What is this, anyway, that has put such a hold on me, where I once walked so freely among the day's chores? Is this God's way of controlling the proud? I yawn as I enter the front door. The bed is right there. There is little else left to do.
"Bo"
29 April 2003 -- The mastery of the worker
I should really be getting in some of the "quality rest" that isolation so readily allows, only I'm dealing with another bout of this searching, the kind that probes the almighty "wall" for the few portals that haste have permitted. It's still pretty cool outside, and I've been burning a fire. If I dressed in a modicum of fleecewear and cotton twill, I could well keep the windows somewhat open, for this is the time of year when "airing out" seems like a good idea. There is a plan to all of this, that includes the seasons as a quasi-predictable influence on the higher-order chaos. I am searching, yes, for the few visions that inspire and carry forward. The externalities have done well in establishing their interface to my vital juice-flow. The lanterns are burning their typical lowly flame, just like in a diorama one might see of "colonial life" in Massachusetts, the Pennsylvania frontier or the great Tidewater of Virginia. I have reached back and gotten my slice, even if the kerosene hadn't been invented until the 2nd half of the 19th century. Oh, but there was a time, when life on the land was arduous, but still possible. What is this kookiness I continue to dream about, though? There is no sustenance here, other than that which is written in as a "prop". Really, all I get is my 0.21 acre and a LawnBoy mower, with the commercial grade 2-stroke engine. Simplicity is at hand there, at least, where no tappets are called to tap.
I only get so much, and that's the deal. I suppose it's like blackjack, with the finely tuned edge that divides a man most times nevertheless from his wagered stake. Along comes the flow, and I'm poised as the perilous homesteader of all this wild promise. Huge processes may be conducted through my weary conduits, only the channels know nothing more than dead weight, clogging the mechanism and confusing the issues. There are simple formulas for success, once a man knows the full parameters of the table at which he is seated. Again, however, I must return to the topic of this Cabin, and whether I have any humanistic integrity remaining, when I profane the creation as I play the creator. It is always better to stumble upon a treasure already secured low, rather than have to build one for one's self. Larceny it is, I would think, to dip into the mighty traffic that this hulk is asked to moderate. It is always better to keep a distance. After all, despite the Oath, the student of Hippocrates will still preside over much harm. This internal voice sounds like it wants to sing in some kind of verse, of the transient majesty that passes, always outside of easy arm's reach. Generous indeed are the many benefactors / Arrayed on this corner and that / Every so ready to confer in gentility's name / But always they're leaving me flat. There are so many "good" people down there beyond the chained-shut gate, hidden in the deep willows and abundant briers at the river's edge near town.
I am just laying here on the bunk, now with a pair of windows open to give me a nice cross-flow. Praise be to the master garden keeper, that the earth smells so incredibly "alive" at this time of year! The humus has moved on, and the machine works to terraform what is already terra by basic identity. There is such an incredibly quantity of impassable scrub and wicked vines out there in the nearby woods. The clearing, even, can be difficult to traverse, except for its endowment of those tossed-about granite boulders. Watch out well for falling rocks / You man who does not wish / To live still higher than you do / Along the hollow's dish. Yeah, it seems to be poetry time. That's when I know the addling to be on hand in my brain. Oh, it should all be a clinical discussion, this tale of living tall. Yet I turn about in pointless eddies, for the rock beats the river most of the time. I'm listening now to that river. Goodness, but it is consistent, and has set up shop! I suppose the noise is "white", except to the degree that the "noise specialists" may distill further sub-hues. The monstrous flow through that sagging channel-cut, where even now I know small stones, at least to be moving, is a fixture, and indeed my source of fresh water. What is the hollow that lives, anyway, without its river?
On the bunk, on the cool batting that covers my down comforter, I am installed as the superintendent sportsman. I should grunt some sort of sound, like an assimilated woodsman who for the time being is one with the woods. No, but it doesn't really confer all that grandiose "honor". What a fool I've been. They have the course set for me, yet I resist and add to the noise of the discordant dissidents. I should have my instrument instead well tuned, so as to project and to inspire. To be seated in capital's almighty chair, after so much time watching from below, is enough to "liberate" any poor and unfortunate laborer. We are not nodes in the almighty directed-graph network of the many, but links, and indeed, when the fabric is viewed at enough of a distance, there is really no difference. Flow through the links I have posed, like game traversing Davy Crockett's traps, defines the relative positions of the influenced subject and the duly-handled direct object, once the dealing is done. Mighty is the flow, that passes the arbitrary gate. It is unruly yet not without rules. When the rules of any system are sufficiently ferreted, a handsome model may then be built and observed. That is what I have here, "My Model". It is my viewpoint and my worldview, the working media of my occasional callings to the precincts of greater control. There is, of course, in any such temple-edifice, the Holy of Holies; this is really a rather trite and overworn consideration. Oh, yes, when the higher priests emerge and accept the sacrifice as mandated by Moses himself, then will glory be properly embraced.
So I lay here, wondering what fraction will be my share. To the
network, I am a sad case of dissipation and loss, resident on a costly
branch. My Q is very low, as is also, perhaps, my qi.
I still have some recognition of quality when it appears, but it
usually comes down to wielding this excellence within a much-used husbandry
implement. This tool of the harvest has rules embedded along its
length like flint tools in the jawbone of a departed mule. I am thinking
of that book I read here sometime back; James A. Michener's The Source.
Flow passes on, and the more fluid the better. To hone the great
fluence, so that confluence is made; that is the craft of both the analyst
and the synthesizing catalyst. I sigh deeply--Jesse Jackson
never got that far by talking like that--but my gut goes with Powell, anyway,
in '08. I must be tired; I'm sure sleep will greet me with open arms
on a night such as this. The fire is burning itself out, and I'd
do well to close those screened windows before I go too far into the great
lair of Morpheus and his crafted wares.
"Bo"
