A 3D 1:48,000 scale model of the Cybercabin Land, Built of 1/8" foam core board and rubber cement, April 2003 December 2003 Cabin Diary |
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3 December 2003 -- The limitations against preference
I'm just sitting here, in the grand luxury of unencumbered time, on a rather gray day that does not seem well-compensated by the supposedly-"cheery" presence of a snow layer and the kind of cold that can maintain it. The fire is burning nicely, and in the style needed by one who relies upon it for real heat, and not merely for decorative atmosphere. I should think the hearth might have been made a little more "central" and "inclusive", like the ones in the colonial dioramas that almost invite a settler to jump in, while manipulating the assorted items of hard-won victuals in hand-smithed cookware. The design here, of course, calls for a separate cast-iron stove; I am most likely stunted in my vision for an all-out survival-space by the vestigial "niceness" that they tried their best over the years to breed into me. There is no honor to be found in the dwelling itself, but rather, in what it facilitates. Oh, yes, and 'tis the season, for those little scenes to play out, with all the faux generosity and good-will among men. I credit in myself, to the extent that it is possible, that my aplomb in laying it on is lacking, 12 months out of the year. Those fanciful seekers of truth, in all of their well-executed benevolence, somehow think that "truth" will become for them a balm, while in reality, they'd merely expose a whole bunch of silliness, were their investigation an objective and equitable one. But then I do not wish to cast stones, for then I'd be stoned. Do I want to know the truth, or am I simply content to be paid off in the disgusting coin of the realm? I think of times as being desirable, when the machine floats along without lurching or the need for impulsive kick-inputs, but then we're usually talking about some pretty fine deception in the whole mixture.
The fire never quite gets like forced-air heating in terms of warmth, so there's always this desperate imperative playing, the one that tells me that things are still not quite "right". It looks so simple, too: just move closer to the flame. But who wants to be trapped in one small place, the whole day through, during his "leisure"? There is, of course, the ever-ready indication, as the conscious being is aware, of what looks better and what does not. We are talking, of course, on an intrinsic level, rather than all of that burdensome-yet-efficient "morality". A man is typically in acute awareness of what the bequest of "his druthers" would yield him. And yet, look at what we get instead: constraint, and much of it fully avoidable, if the avoidance did not cause its own level of constraint, as in the expenditures related to opportunity cost. I am made to tread my way along, in the darkness of the rut, for therein is my utility. From me, it is taken, according to what they can get, and to me, it is given, despite my best intentions of hoarding for other less frivolous causes, while the giving is going on. The thought of free-floating and euphoric release is always at the core of one's longings, and I do have to admire mass-market consumerism, for its delivery of an effect that has such street-drug certainty, at least when it is administered. Those who can pay are those who can play, sure enough. I know, of course, that the best of the "centered" types out there have such inherently-stable equilibria that their efforts at feedback and damage control must only be tempered by their overall definitions as transient hunks of worldly creation. They, clearly, are the better-evolved.
The cold today is something I find to be actually objectionable, and an example of a constraint that holds me where I do not always think I "should" be. In other internal states, I simply don my outerwear and get to it. I am being "run down", there is no doubt about it, but I must be getting so close to the outward fringes of the "normal" that I do not have a valid complaint. But that's silly, for if it were "normal" to suffer a particular condition, that would not the 70% clear majority establish a remedy, so as to suit its common interests? I would gladly prefer to lay there and take what's coming to me, and this would earn also the acclaim of the established authorities and principalities as well, since a docile subject performs best in rendering productive added value. I'm not so sure I'd like having "arrived" near the mean of human distribution, however, if it simply revealed that the best of the conformant examples are no different than I am, in wanting something better. Maybe it's time to look at how the greater bulk of those not-too-distant fellow travelers handle their own predicaments. They are not of the mind that they will be free to indulge concupiscent longing, for they know there are very few free lunches, and most of the eaters ended up paying in some other way, to boot. It is average, I do suppose, to feel crushed and cut off, and thus to lay exanimate for periods that must still be accounted for with professional bearing. The great joy they hold is that "this, too, shall pass", and the problem is simply to process enough time for their own practiced stability to right themselves.
So the resolution, then, is that I'll simply have to spend awhile in the vulnerable and laid-open position of being "broken", and not to take that status as any kind of banner as a victim. Since it has been my recent practice (and typically a resented inconvenience) to develop a deep cushion of remedy and resort for times just like this, I am forced to "trust in" being carried free, as in any healing process. Those looking for the explanation in the transcendental would have to agree that this salvific facility is one of the better indications we have of the indwelling divine. This, too, explains the riddle of pain and struggle as living prerequisite, for it is nothing more than the way of life per se; that the spontaneous occurrence as occurs to the living being is quite often against the vital interests of that being. The living and the dead alike will run downhill, but only the living can run in the other direction as well. I move, therefore I must. I just don't like being so terribly "pinched", is all. I am simply unable to believe, at present, that all internal lives have pretty much the same overall magnitude of anguish as I'm made to look at. I must still be "closed in" upon myself beyond the "normal" amount, for a properly-functioning person would not let a little matter like pain become all of what he or she considers important. No, it is not about just me. For the time that I consider it fitting to restrain my mobility, well, that's tough, because everyone has to do that. This is the strength--and the weakness--of the dynamically-enlivened motile creature.
"Bo"
14 December 2003 -- A defiant dullness
I've had quite some time now, in this "colder" season, and every time the notion of thaw is proposed in the chaotic weather-outcome, the overall constraints win and the hard freeze returns. There really is a lot of snow up here around the Cabin, and it can create a "holed up" sort of feeling, with the proper attention to atmosphere--and most importantly of all--the residence within the neurochemistry of inspiration and inclination. It is night, and with a substantial moon, though well past full, but I do not derive much hope from the barren timberland and rock-outcrops; instead, the central position for worthwhile exploits would appear to be here, with the fire nicely burning and pretty much tending itself. I have the kerosene lanterns burning, here by the stove-pipe and there by the sofa arms. I've not been crashing as much on the sofa as I've been splayed before the fire. This must indicate some change in my constitution, and I hope it is a duly-ratified amendment, and not some seditious mischief. I wait on the muse of the darkness, the one that builds upon any light at all and settles to brighten the soul within. Oh, yes, and the heat, too, will play in. I tell myself that these moments spent in the day- and night-dream of the Cabin are probably times I could be pouring myself out as libation to the material industry that sustains the whole game. One cannot ignore prime movers; it is the high humus of the lichen-rock woods that has enriched the valley down there at 2000 feet, where I pass all those farms on the way up. There are fundamentals and first principles, yes; it is all teleology, or some such -ology. The subject at hand is rather defiant of direct "logization", however. It is prediction that is important to the reliable worker; he will produce as per his assignment, and all will be happy. The prime mover and the portal is some sort of vine, or perhaps an anti-vine, the circulatory return that is demanded of those who are fueled by that "true" and central vine. What is the point of differentiation, anyway, if all must then be made homogenous? Maybe I should go into the kitchen and cook up some grub.
What a day it has been, just lounging along by the fire, reading actual books, instead of maintaining the connection to "my master's voice". I sigh, as if it will help, and think to the many things that the assignment still requires of me. It isn't really all that hard, but it's the impersonality of it all that gets me. It is all some sort of "market", rather than the kind of network that accords the man who is himself. They must sit around, the captains, majors, colonels and generals of industry, dreaming up these roles. They have probed out the aptitude of their enlisted, and built them as early man would shape flint in preparation for the hunt. I'm on the old "subject and object" idea again, with all of that. There is expression in that designation; that rule whose reinforcement is mighty yet arbitrary. I wander over to the pantry to see what I have to munch upon...hmm...dry roasted sunflower nuts...I've not had those in some time. They'll do. I take the jar back to the fire and sit heavily down, letting the fire effect play upon my constantly-changing ideation and sentient proposition. I see it's time for some more wood; the coals base will now consume whatever it's given. I have the feeling of some domesticated stock, as I mindlessly chow upon these nuts, or seeds, I guess. This is what becomes, of the sunflower's search for the sun. Now there's a "prime mover" for you, only it seems now to be portioned out according to variously-accepted principles of propery. "Oh, but the market is good", I remind myself, as I think of the alternative plight of the Yakut or the Evenk, whose rendevoux tend to be with each other, and not the urban plenty of the West. There's not a whole lot to do, of course, when you're holed up, but then it's all a function of just how you happen to be configured. It is the conscious and the cognizant, who know satisfaction; all the rest is just a suburb of the dead. With this ration imposing itself upon me, I see the lights begin to dim, but on my accord instead of their own. This is the regret I'll have, on the great day that is the last: so much was, but was not seen. What a worthless lump I become, once my cutting edge is mis-installed or dull.
Yes, I'm just a lump, with nominal recognition of stimuli, as I remind myself of "where I belong". There are fuller visions that seek out of goodwill to enlighten and enhance me, only they are too consumed with the delight that they, themselves, always walk with. I'm just an amateur, and not particularly athletic, when it comes to viewing and recognizing. I'd just as soon sit in these woods and see nothing, except for the fragment of vision that managed to become lodged within me. I can always play into that bright source, even if it is in reality a sink. Oh, yes, to love the almighty font; there is a mastery! Yes, to have current flow, a man must have two masters, only love each with precisely 0.500 share of the total capacity. That is the way to enrichment, to be plugged in. I finish the sunflower nuts, which I've dispatched in something of a binge. That was not really called for, only it did carry my attention pretty well there. But "now what?" It is life in the batting cage, and within the combustion chamber, the cycles going over and over, yet each one of its own constrained identity. It is the predictable that they want, of course. To marginalize the instance is to glorify the class. I sit back in the armchair and gaze, listlessly, into this fine little fire. It burns around and has its singular registry, though it is but a flow. There is the through and there is the across. That's what I recall from engineering modeling. I manage the fire, and place across it the wood supply, and it abides, as modeled, in carrying the action through. One can predict all of this. It seems to be my grant at the moment, though I'm being quite frivolous with my time and my precious allotment of internalized inspiration. "You will have your rest", assure the leaders, as they stand above and across to push me ahead. "Our requirement is a reasonable one, for we were once servants ourselves". Yet look at their objects of worship. It's time for someone to go down to their camp and crack a few heads together. But there'd be no point to that, for their necks are pretty stiff.
This is all looking disoriented and wasteful, and I must stop now. But if I stop, I'm faced with the "now what?" I just sit still and listen to the fire, with my eyes shut. I hear a certain quantity of wind, which is defied by my stoutly-timbered walls and clapboard front. I sigh again. It is tough, to be put on the spot. They look at me as if I'm a trick pony or a hen that plays tic-tac-toe. "Well, let's get on with it, we don't have all day". But I have no answer for them; I have succeeded in drawing a blank and representing what is not represented. It's just a big old hole, and a dead fault, y'all. This horrific hunk is not the sleek superhero you pulled from the shelf, 16 years ago. Every tool has its lifetime, you know that. But look at me; I'm "talking to myself". The big boys will still chomp their cigars and don their top hats. The holders of rank will still pull it. These are but the vocalizations of a tormented captive beast, and they mean nothing. When I start to perform as per my "role", however, then the reward begins. They think they've rigged the structure to certifiably and reliably reward the conditioned rodent, with its due shot of the alkaloid under test. "Press the lever, that's the way". A hypothesis is inducted into the book of fact. I think I'll be turning in before long, for I'm clearly in the addled kingdom at the present moment. One day they'll kick the right errant flakes from me, and then the action will begin. It is something, how the journeyman years for the end of his journey. Oh, but to settle in, to the single reality that is not divided, master against chattel property! What man has any right to prevail upon his neighbor. The better life, by far, is without neighbors, but better still, when the prevalence is forgiven. Happy is that man, whose prevalence is forgiven. Look at me. Good grief. Yes, grief is good, that's the thought.
"Bo"
30 December 2003 -- A vigilant sleepiness
The sky is quite bright, across the snowfield of the clearing and into the countless points of reflection and refaction contained in the icy branches that build the surfaces of the hillsides. It would look to some like a day for winter sports, especially when coupled with the staying power that altitude gives to snow at this introductory point to many climates' "winter". Today, however, I choose to busy myself as I can indoors, while keeping the fires in the fireplace and stove nicely stoked. I guess there's a certain brisk wind today, only it never seems to howl during the day across the Cabin structure the way it does at night, when it somehow "knows" to be more ominous in that way. I've had my portion of chow, and would rather just progress to a lump on the sofa, except for that nagging artifact of real city life that tells me I have to be "doing something". I am admittedly tired, though, and if I had already paid my ongoing debt to society, I might feel better, collapsing in that familiar and unresponsive heap. I look again at the fireplace, arranging the wood so that it will follow a more ordinary conflagratory path, then stand for a moment at the center of the living room, where the cross-vaulting of the timbering overhead creates a bit more of an "open" feeling. "Oh, yes, but if only the debt were paid, at least to the crass extent of the task-mongers", I tell myself. But I'm just too tired. Sometimes the cruel propensity of human flesh will win out against any case made for virtuous perseverance.
I go to the sofa, where I stretch out, holding a bit of a squint against the intensity of light entering through the back window. Who sleeps in the day, anyway, but the depraved? There is but one course and one way for the politely-social world to behave, and the schedule is an integral part of that. I am fairly certain that I am being "missed" back there in reality, even if it is only by those motivated by pure self-interest, in the fine free market style. I feel just the slightest chill on the portion of the sofa distant from the fire, so to serve the interests of the body, I find some cover-up, over by the bed. For the way the light seems to "shout" at a person out there, it is remarkably quiet in actual terms. It has no reason to bother me, and is generally a welcome property within the rainfall characteristics of the northern-latitude climate. Since it is quite cold, I can count now on the snow to stay in place "a good long time". I really have to say, that when a man has a chance to rest that he can afford, well, he should just do it. I suppose it's a bit strange, heading to Morpheus' lair at this time of the day, but I scrunch may way to a sustainable spot in the slipcovered upholstery all the same. I think to some of those things I've heard said, about how to even out the appearances of fraction between myself and the ones I respect, honor and fear. So little of my process is ever documented or even observed that I suspect I offend myself more than anyone else.
I seem to be dealing again with the issue of resented "constraint", which really means constraint without the inspiration to withstand it non-violently. I see inherent and obvious quality in having fewer constraints, but of course, few get much by pursuing such a route. Instead, I think of the plight of the astronauts in microgravity, with bodies that deteriorate on account of the successful removal of an adapted-to environmental constant. I begin to drift off a little, wondering what could have worn me out like this. I have seen that eating will hit the cognitive process hard, the probable reason that the ascetic prefers to fast. Will I really "get away with" such time away from the machine, if it does not catch me in the act? Does the man who falls asleep at his desk with no one to see him really fall asleep? Yes, it is quite the constraint that is posed to the machine part of some great assembly, once it has been bolted to its proper place, subject to the pinioning of action and reaction. This can actually make the case for constraint, for what good is the component without its having that place? I feel the goadings of the practical out there, who lament daily for the time that I waste. Oh, but they do have it all figured out, I'm sure. These are the ones who live without error, or at least according to the metrics of their inspirational instruction set. When they do make errors, why, it is just because the re-assembler didn't torque the nuts on their flanges well enough. The guidance given from the great outside cannot be much less than perfect and true, or else it wouldn't have so many adherents.
A bit of a facial headache has come over me now, perhaps the remnant of having dared to look so long upon the near-fire of the snowy white. I try the old trick of expanding my personal context to something beyond the 4 walls of what I feel at my sensory perimeter. Though it seems like a burden to become outwardly-concerned as well, at least the recompense earned for other-directed trouble converts at a low ratio, when compared to internal botherment, which hits full strength. I twist a little against the fabric, noting a bit of a mustiness that might even merit a cleaning before spring. I guess I'm about to drift under, for better or worse. Oh, how I fear the embarassment, should they stumble upon my fallen hulk in their assorted rounds. The mode of this individual primping and preening looks like the kind that counts for full duty cycle, in aggravation's scheme, since it primarily occurs internal to one's self, and the outward outpouring to bona fide causes that arise are sporadic at best. It would be great to know every last schdedule of what will really happen, for then could relaxation be confidently assigned. Even in the absence of free will, this cuts down on the level of pain. But I am not given that, for it poses the impossible logical inconsistency of backwards time travel, and logic always wins, relativist apologies aside. Whoever is free, simply does not know.
I notice how little real noise there is in the room today, aside from the fire. Real life can be quiet like that, too, and of this I am certain. Maybe I just have to let myself be caught in the lolligag a couple of times, in the interest of larger-scale viability. I doubt that the occasionally-miscreant creator who brought this reality into being would really want me to run such a gamut of challenge, unless it's just how he/she/it gets his/her/its jollies. It is hard to believe but possible to posit, that God really does "play dice", as he dashes his various production models against the street-curb, like a 7-year-old boy. Perhaps there are influential side bets in play around the craps layout as well. It cannot all be "my fault".
"Bo"
Ahead to January 2004
