A 3D 1:48,000 scale model of the Cybercabin Land, Built of 1/8" foam core board and rubber cement, April 2003 August 2003 Cabin Diary |
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5 August 2003 -- Approximations to the promised abode
I feel the old "machine" of this worldly artifice somehow named "myself", as it chugs along with either a lot of thrust I don't know about or a lot of inertia (this second, of course, being the preferred condition). I walk about the Cabin in somewhat of a tentative sense on today's visit, from point to point, in the kind of "flight" that suggests that I am "pacing" or "over-driven". There are a good many motion-related words, it would seem, to describe this current state. Of course, when one is properly "on board", the ride can be right enjoyable, since there are few mortal beings that do not crave a freely-given, escorted duration of spontaneity that does not have to be deliberated and sold to the granting authorities. I suppose it is sad that I have to view my own destiny and determination as something to be "won from myself", in a costly campaign against a wily opponent, since the "other side" is just me. Is it the place of any man to see himself cut asunder by his own hand, when so many other hands would conspire to do the same? This is why the "no-brainer" is such a fine state of mind, for then there is only one operator up there in the control room, that master and monger of the lower-level drives. I remind myself that I'd do well to just sit down when it gets like this, only then the whole machination runs the risk of seizing up. There is something of a dynamic reaction chamber that I'm continually stoking, as might the cryogenic tanks be pumped in a frenzy to the nozzle-works of a modern "manned" space-craft. I should think that I'd do well to have shielding in place, if such a model is a fair reflection of my intra-cranial operations, but then this suggests something like a nuclear pile, which would have to be buried eventually in a place like Yucca Mountain. The flight, instead, should be as close to stability as stability will allow itself to be approached.
I guess I'm probably dealing with an inherently vacuous and insubstantial manifestation here, rather like electromagnetic flux that is no longer directly associated with steady-state charge or flux-linked cores. Oh, if only I could have the assurance of existence in the ethereal, of the kind that no longer needs reference its originating material encumbrances! Somehow, though, I think it is more likely a substance-based phenomenon that gets cooked up in these rare and rarefied moments. The chow as its aroma and sizzle eminate is still at its basis chow, and doomed to passage. I would traipse along in a self-supporting "mode", were I to have some assurance of any kind of longevity, but then the human being appears doomed, as it were, to membership in what has every chance of being eternal, except for the demonstrable bonds to the living that can never quite be severed to satisfaction. I should put my faith in those who've gone before, and who claim to have died as did Saul of Tarsus to the flesh. Perhaps the thumpers of the KJV out there are right; perhaps I know nothing of real second-birth. I've been through enough of what they consider sufficient, however, to see the dead-end they still have to swallow at the end of the day. Quite simply, I don't think anyone has ever figured out a scheme that allows the inherently other-worldly to disinherit its basis and dependence upon the worldly. Though the duality would invite being made seamless, there is no practitioner of sufficient holding to enter the needed working quarters.
In a word, I'm barred from anything so great as a new uncovering that age will not tarnish and death purloin in its final unattended corrosion. When this realization sets in as it has in recent times, it becomes clear that no one should exercise much of his fanciful abilities of imagined flight, for what is the point, anyway? But just as I am kept from liberation, so am I barred from the unknowing bliss of the fixed. Indeed, since the material does not, by definition, have cognitive capacity, it would appear as difficult to approximate now, after my awakening, as the truly "free" condition. Instances are created, either by inspiration or some strange perversion, and at once they become abhorrent, unstable, and ultimately left with two final homes to which no access will be granted. Supposedly, I'm being asked to "jump" the gap into the higher firmament, only no one has produced an effective guide, one that insures the survival of the intrepid voyager at the end of the strange day called a "lifetime". This, of course, is where the properly-agitated sufferer goes for his almighty analgesic formulary, since some fairly effective first terms can be found there for what would otherwise be a filigreed sequence of unknowably-many iterative addends in the series solution. That, after all, is supposed to be the premise behind the Cabin, this place that I seem to see only from the farthest corner of my eye when I attempt to look straight at it. There is in simple symbology the makings of a great outcome, when the practitioner within decides the indications are present.
I guess I'll just let myself continue to slide along down the track. There's not much to do up here today; it is hazy, and still fairly hot. I'll require a significant dousing with DEET, should I decide to spend any time outdoors. The whole structure is reacting to the heat, as wood properly does, only I'm not currently projecting a large enough component upon this "world" to have induced in me any of the wondrous, near-"magical" effect that sometimes comes to call. Is there the real; is there the other? Is a man born once, twice, or once-but-also-twice? It is the accursedness of the one who discerns, that his world is so divided, for he cannot escape the structures that support the distinction. The route outward can only follow using the equipment at hand, and I don’t see transport in the offing to make for me, at least, the "sweet chariot". I have no home, but then all is home. I should like to be the fox, perhaps, and have his burrow, but he does not fare well, once he shows his face even in the few sleepy streets of the village below. There is every right description of the "promised man" in the exploits of the saints, and that is of the one who can step into and out of the opposing extremes of the fundamental "reaction", whenever he chooses. Indeed, in sentient living, we seem to be given little choice in the matter, with the ground so far below but the sky so high above. I take a seat on the sofa and lean back my head. This is all so ridiculous; and oh, but how I seek deliverance without strings.
"Bo"
16 August 2003 -- Considerations of my classification
Real city life, it would appear, has left precious little time to be in these "outdoors" that are so abundantly supplied, even, by the 20 acres of the clearing. The city-bound man does not get to come out like I just did, and dump water all over himself, without caring about where the run-off goes. Everything eventually makes the river; it is no problem. It's pretty hot up here, but a kinder kind of hot, one that has a chance of being begrudgingly accepted by the air-conditioned. There's even a bit of mugginess, which is strange for having so many essentially "dry" days. "I really don't have time for this," complains the impatient cerebral monarch, in an announcement spread via his neuro-lords and -vassals in the colonies below. But what am "I" supposed to do, anyway? Become one of those "undirected" types; a bundle of steel that still doesn't quite have the fittings to pull the worldly load he can? Oh, to be all-out and gung-ho! To be driven by a conviction so strong that it becomes the new head of state and government is not easy for a man who spends his time finding the weaknesses in its puny premises. Is this really behavior becoming a registered peon? I guess I'm "juiced in", back there in the city, as I sit in a sweaty lump on the front porch chair. Why don't I stop worrying and love whoever the central leader is supposed to be? I chafe at the thought of voluntary submission, just because the system still reeks of hierarchy. Where are the "liberating" consultants when you need them most? An Army may well be a team, but an E is an E and an O is an O. We've evolved into a fluid equilibrium; a social deal that weighs a worker's input like a side of beef prior to its dismemberment. Today, I sit in some sort of weird "denial", as if I could really throw off the yoke. True relaxation is just around the corner, but do remember, that this is a negotiated concession on the part of an overlord's calculation and perusal of charts.
There I seem to be, stuck in the old blue collar lament. Work must really be getting to me; I'm sure to have some flavor of "battle fatigue", for the true coward would never have put himself in that place. I look off across the clearing in this late afternoon, noting the community of scrub brush, grass, rocks and their hosted insects. Does the forest, too, have a hierarchy? Perhaps I'll see a wolf up here one of these days. I'd sure like to shake his paw, only that's fraternizing with the one that may not have eaten in awhile. Maybe what we're getting to is the methods whereby roles are "classified" by the operators of the almighty engines of prosperity. I'd have to wonder, using that word, if there is such a thing as "consperity", which invokes images of fiat allocation, flawed and inbred doctrine, and ultimate predisposition to decay. I'm not one of those, much as the ones with pies in the sky would like me to grab for them. Adversarialism is not all that bad, for every real American loves to fight. Things should be settled as men, and also among certain women. But no, the machine has safeguards that isolate anomalous cells within utopian scheming. It is kind of still out there in the hazy sun, the kind of sun that would lull a warmer-blooded creature into a form of sleep-like release. The sun, yes, the sun. That's the leader, as in the Egyptologists' description of the cults of Re. A source that does not discriminate and exploit is a nice one to be bound to. It's direct, too, as I'd discover if I were to step out there and use the chaise lounge at the edge of the dooryard. They want "cooperation" out of me, or is that "coöperation"? But what is it, to co-operate with one who is not your very own peer? Social mobility is a fine option, only it requires a whole lot of motion to be properly executed. Easier it is, to stay in the single role, embodying it and assuming it.
This must all be some kind of rant about power politics, only the problem with real "politicians" is that they, by definition, are on the "leadership" side of the barbed-wire fence. I suppose these lines of thinking will soon have me admiring some kind of vibrant anarchy, wherein the "arch" no longer stands. Still, every deal, even the bartering of goods, has its competitiveness. But then we're talking about a homogenous corps of exact equals, so it boils down to fun and games; a resolution on the playing field, but without the parallel in the battlefield. "Fight, fight, fight you Mustangs / Let's see you kick some rear / Fight, fight, fight you Mustangs / If you lose we'll still be here". I think the sporting outlet (and not involving any kind of "authority") must look to a posited "higher being" like the way I've happened to see gamobling black bear cubs, on rare moments in the thicket. Something is always burning inside, but how difficult it is to go from the level playing field down into the ball-court arena, where the spectators and the king are high above in the amphitheater. You are paid to harass your brother in classification, for the true instigators are careful to stay out of reach. I might well be envying those well-to-do, the ones who've graduated into capitalist posts. Where's my place to have it out? No, not another bout of gladiatorial combat, in competition with someone on another branch at the same level. I find repugnant any idea that I could move across to the good seats, wherein I'd lose my credibility as any kind of comrade. Oh, how Dilbertian this monologue is. Since the battle is already won by the machine, the only way to retain motion is to co-operate. He operates up there, I operate down here, but the bond is quite patriarchal and generous, to the extent that the show doesn't go over budget.
So I come up here to the woods and declare myself "free"--does this have any meaning? There is no freedom of the single being, for he has successfully nullified the influence of the machine's controls and thus stands alone, with no one to turn on but himself. I guess that's supposed to be good for me; this defeating of self. It is the habitual vice of the worker to sit for hours, cooking up plans, when he should instead be cranking out additions to the GDP. "Love" is supposed to ameliorate all of this, but to bless one's captor agent is to heap burning coals where they will soon drop back down and into your own eyes, when he brushes them off. Oh, how the great new entrepreneurs reach out to their mechanism, in so many token ways. "I do not desire these petty sacrifices," I would tell them; "I desire mercy". Mercy is no part of any bargain with the co-operating factors of production. But hey, this is a summer Saturday. It will be getting colder soon, probably before I know it. I breathe deeply, as in the relaxation classes, then slowly sigh. They do not give me more of a load than I can handle, for they, by definition, are the gatekeepers of the godhead. One must listen, for they have a piece of the source itself; that grand and awesome might-supply that can deliver, if it so chooses. They're up there in the stands, as hard as that is to believe at 3765 feet in these hills. They might miss me soon in the city; who knows. I hear the call now to sweet analgesia, but they even have a lock on the outlets of that solace. Indeed, it is patriotic to accept one's ration as "fair", for the authorities have much bigger problems than running out of sugar or lard. They have to drive the big rigs, which they also happen to own. Property is one of those traditions we need, of course, but the very human weakness of the upper part of the hierarchy can rarely allocate scarcity to unlimited demand.
Oh, there will be a final disposition, for no fix that is used upon a man can outlive the man. We are all formed at the legendary potter's wheel, but it's hard to believe that the bozoes in charge are really related to the higher and most unseen hands of all. Justice has a funny way of asserting itself, but the stiff-necked stubbornness of the ones who are ultimately toppled will always frame the issues in the case more convincingly than the pro se bumblings of the offending citizen. It usually comes to settling, for that jury of my "peers", in their orthodoxy, are likely to be the toughest opponents of all.
"Bo"
25 August 2003 -- The school must go on
The summer has just been rolling along up here in the woods, presumably not fully "aware" on the level by which we know "sentience" as humans, of the necessity of September's soon emergence. The heat has broken just a little, on one day or another, so I'm not always after the kind of good overall soaking-down that seems so essential at the height of July. "Back to school", goes the refrain, as if all are contained within an educational continuum they had never left. Is this some sort of attempt by the more learned in the liberal arts magisterium to inculcate the eternal into the very "spirit" of education, so that they might not have to die, after all? A big, rolling, tradition comforts the living, it is true, only the benefits for the later condition remain open to interpretation. Certainly the woods up here are a prime example of a structure that outlives anything that would dare to be an individual participant within its framework. It sustains, yes, but it also does its protagonists an admittedly poor service. This would be the place for the politically correct champions of the noble, indigenous populations to wish for our reduction to such a "harmonious" state, but even those prior to history must have formed their original schools of shamanism, cave art and cryptomasonry at some point. "Oh", but the great and happy professor would say, "you are a child, you have much to learn. You wrestle with the objects that other men have worn and replaced as finely-honed tools." So you want me to develop some sort of classical discipline, now, do you? I am specifically doubting, and right to your complacent face of spectacles and jowls, that I will get one whit of ongoing satisfaction, sense of well being, enrichment of soul or other generally-accepted indicia of "good living" from your enlightenment. They say that science is equal to death, but then science seems to have some better approaches than you do, as to how to go several rounds longer with death in the ring.
I saw the welcome sign at the front of the elementary school down in the village, when I was on the way up today. It seems the school has several very good athletics teams, some of which have even won State titles. "Welcome back, students", it predictably reads, with the presumption that the initiates in grade K probably can't read that well anyway. The school and the Schools all yearn for fresh fuel, as though they actually welcome a good "revolution" once in awhile, so long as it doesn't violate the drug-free zone and set off the metal detectors. But really, now, folks, you don't want it to change any more rapidly than it absolutely must, for it is your "piece of the past"; your comfort. Evolutionary growth in the institutional form will rob you of that one continued vitality whereby you can accept that this year's class looks even younger than the one the year before. I don't know. I suppose I should shoulder the wheel when the spot with my own shoulder-markings approaches, only I just want to be here in the calm and non-offensive nest I have up here in the hollow. Things seem nicely settled, with no great atmospheric rumblings or temperature extremes. Yet I know, as one who has found himself in a fully human form, that the woodland machine continues to turn. Before too awful long, I'll be relying upon the heat of hearth and stove, enduring "wrathful nature" as the students must the iron hand of their modestly-compensated handlers, up at the lectern. I suppose it is the duty of everyone held fast to contemplate those ways in which he might escape. Being unwillingly pinioned is a distinctly abhorrent condition. Much better is it to find an entertaining track somewhere amidst all of the feeds being supplied, by which the subject may cynically proceed with the minimum of anguish sustained. Thus it is, that I look for a track whose entrance is not hopelessly--or even temporarily--barred; just some way to keep the mighty mechanism in motion.
The kindly solar load upon me, as I lay near the fire ring on the chaise lounge, is no longer enough to be its own cause for distress, but rather one of sustaining comfort. That, and the river, flowing on behind me, leave me at least with a serviceable conviction as to continued virtue, if not indeed, the spontaneous inspiration to be out there, doing what I can to shore things up in the equivalent landscapes of real life. I am actually tired enough, at this point in early afternoon that I do believe I could sleep for awhile. I've probably been supporting unconscious processes that go through significant physical resources, in my sequences of hustle-motions to cover all of the stops that make up my picture of propriety. Oh, but they're kinder than that, those guardians and benefactors that would have me cozy to their ranks. They just do not like "subjects" into whom they cannot foist some hideously-gnarled idiosyncrasy, as in the chimeric antics of the transgenetic modifiers. They want an easy target, those market makers and opinion-formers, and usually, the happier the easier. It has occurred to me that by this point in life, I've most likely acquired the substance, in the way of accumulated raw material, to put the process in reverse and begin unloading processed stock the way the "leadership" does in furnishing the masses. But this is hypocrisy, in that even the selfless man, by definition, builds upon himself, when his discarded tailings continue to be eagerly gathered by those of lower enrichment than he has attained. The song always seems to put the emphasis on "this little light", where it should be on "mine". The machine they have back there has not built me proper "fittings", anyway, so I might as well feel as disenfranchised about "me" as would any beast of the field, for whom at least a home is provided. His eye is on the sparrow, and the sparrow does well not to get a big head about it.
Oh, but to get in line and sit down for a piping hot serving of curriculum. Where to go, when to be, what to consider, what to remember--all of it is spelled out for me. By its selection of the soldierable without actually making them all work as vulnerable combatants, a feedback of human volition and yearning into the process of our continued evolution has no doubt been enacted. Indeed, as David Suzuki might say, we have "domesticated" ourselves, so that the continuity we seek to perpetuate is nothing more than some twisted consensus that is hopelessly wrapped into its own traps of circular reasoning. I am so tired of all of this. Have I not had enough of the training that our odd subspecies of the once-savage homo now requires? This is what comes of a mind that wanders, and flouts on regular occasion what he is supposed to interpret as the gentle guidance of his handlers in the conduit wall. Had I boned up on their assorted books, I'd have, well, bones, at least, to stand upon, and not live as a hedonistic hunk of unprincipled soft tissue. I feel my weight sink into the chaise cushion somewhat, at that notion. I turn to my other side. It is too late; my formation really can't take much tinkering, in its current shape. I should like, as I lay here, to enter some sort of fantasy-play, on my own internal "screen". The toy; the object of play, does much, even, to stimulate the grown man, as it paces out its pre-programmed and -manufactured destiny. These, I suppose, are the daydreams, and when they get a decent script, they can captivate the attention quite easily. I'm pretty sure to be the confidently-predicted continuation of some departed instructor's attempt to infect me with his essence, in the trick they all use when hunting immortality and need to do something with the meat after they've taken the trophy. It has all been said, so what I say merely enshrines further the one who said it first.
"Bo"
31 August 2003 -- Scanning about, at the root
I've found a need, this evening in the American Holiday, to come to the land where few feeds reach so fully as in my real life media centers. Oh, to sit on the porch, as I am on an evening like this, with just dim kerosene lanterns! It is a tonic to a soul who's already been through the gin, picked at, piece by piece, in a mechanism full of fully-interchangeable parts. Eli Whitney, what amazing things you've done to this whole land! But I have no cotton here. This is hill country, in the full spirit of Alvin York--or was that Gary Cooper? I'm just sitting, biding my time. The time ticks on, no matter where, since we're not under relativistic stress in any fashion. I'm still in sync, and the clock ticks on. Is this some sort of escapist reverie, like I'd always imagined it would be? I sigh, deeply, under the incredible crush of the insect noise. I've not been the kind who would know a cricket from a locust; I rarely like to look that close. I go for total impression; the breadth-first search. This means the glossing of vast amounts of real reality, down into a cubby-hole in some sort of hierarchy. Why do I dare impose my wicked structure as I do, to fill the caches of the annals for time immemorial? "My, O My, I feel those terrible selfish genes acting up again." Playing with words like "ontology" and "philology" on their barest of surfaces, not realizing the incredible amount of ink that has been spilled, and also onto acid-based tomes that turn, after all, into dust. My little structure touches all of those portals, but as a gawking visitor, amazed at the lands that lie beyond, never to be seen, in pensive study. It is mighty dark tonight, I do have to say that. Darkness has the ubiquity of lights squelched. 4.1 miles of dirt forestry road track, which will probably need some engineering work soon, keep me apart as I am, with my full complement of darkness.
Well, then, will I ever come to a point? Does thought, by its very capriciousness, somehow become transformed into hideous and misshapen forms in the flesh? I dare not to think. No, thinking for me is a burden, and burdens always have their cost. I guess I'm after some sort of sanctity of the "soul", that part they posit as eternal. What it must be, when such an entity, for the sake of argument, becomes fully integrated into the great beyond. The cognitive processes must be profoundly altered, so as to have total synchrony. They say I'll still be an individual up there, in some Teilhard de Chardinian way, but then do I really want him as my Pastor? There is but one "pastor"; all the rest belong to the hierarchy. Dear Lord, there goes the route into the great "connectivity" that needs better maintenance, for the sake of my soul. My trial in the purgatorial realm is bound to be a dandy. I hope the Founding Fathers incorporated enough of the kind of "law" they practice "up there" into our own beloved Constitution, so that I'll have a proper sense of what the instantiated soul truly deserves, on his many days in court. I suppose they allow plural jeopardy in those tribunals. The courtroom, alas, the repository for the intestate "soul". I need a "testament", therefore. That's right, haul your rear on down and find a "family attorney". My effect in the flesh is too big now; it is like a meandering Godzillian terror. But I'm on the porch now, and doing no harm. "Physician", I say, to the practitioner of some strange board that would accept him, "heal thyself". We are all "physicians", therefore, to the extent that we intervene in the "natural order". The genome is so strong that it strikes as it will; concupiscence is its essence.
What is this, then, that will be my "testament"? Somehow, the immense ripples that even a small man makes in the firmament must be properly coordinated, as they pound their way down into the dust. Do not point your will in any direction you do not wish to see it land. Let it dissipate and settle out, for you, dear man, will be in the almighty synchrony then. You will know the beat, whether it be a snappy 2/4-time march and boogie, a lilting 3/4-waltz, or some drawn out ballad in 4/4. The beat should be linked, in the here and now, according to the best witnesses that currently sing it forth. Alvin York, yes, sits upon a hill and establishes his great resolve. He is United, and seeks his newfound "pastor". I guess I watch too many movies; that is how I've been formed. Lives of saints, in carefully annotated texts, should be my fodder, and not this sensationalism, with its bent to profit the owner of the town-center Bijou. It is getting near midnight, but I cannot get off the porch and off to bed. Oh, the comforts I've built, inside that rough-assembled plank-door! It is the same man, who pensively waits out his final glimpse of the day, who by grace and mercy will arise on the day following, with something of his innate joy restored. To feel the labor of the day expended upon one's internal and super-ternal self; therein lies an immense majesty. Following through with one's labors, towards an orderly rest, looks like the way the soul should discharge itself. Maybe I'm about to go incoherent here. Maybe I'll lose touch completely. There's something about time spent at 3765 feet that does not transport easily to the better offerings down there at 405 feet. Yes, folks below, you can look down completely on this old fool, who likes to be above.
I am reminded that I am but a porter, for the larger load that I implicitly influence. By the deeds of the courier, are the transported contents made available to the next relay station. It feels just like operating a machine, when it comes down to it, and I am its mechanic. So many botched repairs should be referred to better-certified hands, yet pride gets in the way. Oh, it's not fixed, you fool, so don't you dare break it! Any cake eaten by this pretentious creature that is "me" will be deducted from that cake-balance I am therefore not allowed to have. No, that's getting into Kaczynski. That's a dead end. There are other portals screaming for attention, in this whole, isolated play-act that I attempt to synthesize, from only fragments of memory. I sigh again, and become aware that I am aware. Well, that's always been there, you know. A kid can tell you that, once he's learned to talk to folks other than his mother. Rose is Rose, and A is A. Oh, you mean Ayn Rand! That's another goose-chase there, that's for sure. I must stay near my own root, formed as gnarled and knotty as it is. This is the only point of discernment that I have any control over. And yet, the controllers reach for me, as though they have seen an immensely greater "light" than I have. The epiphanies accomplished in the flesh, indeed, do fortify it, for the great launch into the beyond. I'm thinking it's getting nigh near bed. It's actually September now. I take the kerosene lamp from its hook on the porch, moving it to the stand near the sofa. Darkness, indeed, is the insulator, only the true dielectric that it is allows no current to pass. I kick myself a couple times for all that metaphor-nonsense. The actual body, and how it is actually integrated; these should be the proper repository for one's acts.
"Bo"
Ahead to September 2003
