I sit for a spell on the rocks at Donner Summit, CA, Tahoe National Forest, August 2002 January 2003 Cabin Diary |
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3 January 2003 -- The utility of the moment
It is decidedly gray again outside, with those clouds that have detail only within their own unbroken layer just above the highest of the summits along the ridge. The temperatures have remained below freezing for quite some time, so that one's predominant experience on a trip to the woodshed or the outhouse is one of ice, in its varying forms of deposition. I suppose the feeling is "bracing" enough, especially after a long stint near the indoor fires, so I doubt I'm ever arriving at the "true" and "equilibrium" nature of what the outdoors are like, so long as I have something of a structure in place for the purpose of long-term hiding. It has been enough days without new snow that the existing surface has had chance to pick up a significant quantity of debris, mostly from the trees. This certainly lends a different feel to any particular accumulation depth, when compared to the freshly-arrived variety. The "settled" character of the clearing and the Cabin compound today is therefore one in which the mind is tempted to wander to other details, so as to punctuate a rather bleak outlook for any part of the day or the week. Out of weather's chaotic output, there arrive such examples of the predictable. I can imagine the Cro-Magnon sitting at length through these times, and inferring nothing less than true significance.
A stretch of time such as I've seen over this unremarkable end to "the Holidays" is something that looks ready and fertile for the development of some grand project, of the kind that other parts of the year oppose with their own breeds of distraction. Thus is the way made for those idle resolutions to be fielded, if only to be exposed for the unreality that is at their own core. For one who choses commentary to characterize his output, it can be difficult, for suddenly he has few subjects other than the folly of his own composition. In the style that is a well-developed habit, I note that the fireplace is starting to lag, and I load a few more pieces of that hearty oak that is such a part of the local landscape. The new arrivals there respond in a fury of vapor and smoke, a sure sign of a vibrant coals base. I feel "warm enough" today to place myself at a larger distance from the hearth; in this case, over on the sofa, which has its own methods of insulating and containing what warmth there is at hand. I should like it if the whole interior felt as much like the inside of an extreme conditions sleeping bag as does this sofa and the bunk against the far wall. Then I might better encase myself in a lasting example of "reverie", perhaps even protracted sleep. The situation has told me that it will be holding in this pattern for awhile, so I can let a substantial amount "go".
So little will change, and I have that on relatively good authority--the indicia derived from nearly 41 years of experience on this side of the natal signpost. The process continues along, for time when marked is time that must pass, and it is left to me as something of a free-willed, if not indeed free, citizen to exploit what I have been given for the greatest overall gain, within the strictures of morality and the practical extent of the law. When I am not left to fend off some absurd imposition of custom and practice, it is assumed, by someone, that I should be conducting some immense and self-aggrandizing "enterprise" (or should that be "scam"?). Though aggression is not condoned in its pure state by the codified statutes of socialization and assimilation, to leave a man without fetters is to suggest that he find something in the way of personal pursuit. That means, "for me", but hopefully not with the zero-sum complement of "not for you". Oh, but there is a grand expansion underfoot in which a proper increment of one's own participation is in full keeping with well-entrenched intuitive propriety! It is on the order of the rising tide of the supply side (who is able to concentrate only on that part of the cycle), or even the expansion of all that is, in a red-shifted universe that a pop astronomer might paint as galaxy-blobs onto the surface of a latex balloon left over from New Year's.
I seem to be straying into the influence of one of those great hopes among the many that can compose a man's dream-state; the upholstery has resulted in some fine gestation today. I am ready to latch on to a modest-yet-steadily moving part of the dynamic infirmity, where my own behavior is not only predicted by this single presence but is by definition a functional component of it. When I think of what richness there is, all these years after Malthus and his followers declared the "scheme" unworkable, I can only feel grateful; that something so base and worldly can have manifested itself from the inescapable canonicity of the one heart, the one love. I suppose it is no great act of erudition to glorify the singularity, when one's own fractional portion needs so much stewardship and upkeep. Still, direction and affirmation is always needed, so as to keep the radial progress implemented by tangential proliferation to allow the closed form to grow with the greatest symmetry. Throughout all of what has been, however, it is the whimsy of creation to install local aberration, as if outcomes of chance were always needed to confound the tyranny of deterministic planners who would dare to define the "center". It is a terrible expectation of someone of no particularly overwhelming "conviction" or "passion", when a playing field such as this becomes the entire setting of his life, for sport, spirit and business as well.
Yes, I should be off to some scheme or another, only the beauty of a gray and empty day is that none of the "officials" will be in the range where they can rebuke me for spending awhile in this inactivity. Oh, how sweet is the moderator, made and advanced of the hour not specifically spoken for! It is here that the husbanded seed of imagination and inspiration is finally given its full chance, even if that chance contains large admixtures of the same old nonsense that was specifically avoided in arriving at such a state. There is a setting and a space, a time and a place / Now given me as it was always present, / And should the gift be of note, / Then so much greater was the presence / In its resources for continual renewal. Of course, there will be an end to this chapter and this moment, for that is how time variation works. I just need proper adjustment, as comes from a significant level of perception and appreciation. These do not come easy to a man who cannot reconcile in a rigid framework the many vain utterances of the temporarily-tempted co-participants. Though we talk of a malformed and disparately instantiated blob of "quantum goo", there remains the very irrational transcendence that is the partial portion of each. Life without prediction one can know is still full of predictable instances one can feel. Yes, they've said all of this. It is simply what's crossing the marquee display within my own head at the moment.
"Bo"
12 January 2003 -- Called to duty, before the fire
It is still plenty cold outside, so I must make another series of trips through the recently-fallen snow to the woodshed to refill the depleted indoor bin that feeds the home fires. That box holds something like 1/4 face cord and is consumed surprisingly fast, but when I reach the shed in the declining light of a relatively short day, I am reminded that my total supply is indeed extensive; I am unable to see the far wall. I stumble back with each rough load along the set of footprints to the front door that is developing into something of a real path. This is where I appreciate my full-leather boots, which I have had time to polish, wax and seal on earlier visits. This is the land of Gore-Tex, no doubt about it. I realize that I'm working up a sweat out here, since it isn't bitter cold, so I patiently endure the many trips at a measured pace, to avoid overheating. It never feels quite right to return to the fireside with a sweat--that's something more for a hot shower, which I haven't yet built here. When I'm finally done stacking up the wood-bin, I spend some time over on the sofa, after I've shucked my down parka and woolen hat. The fire is decent enough, and the stove, too, is well-stoked. It is a challenge to operate enough flame, but then it is a starting point for so much else, and therefore work worth doing competently.
I lean back onto the plush upholstery of the slipcovered sofa, watching the last of the sun through the rear window near the bedside dresser. I have plenty of cover-ups here, such as my GI poncho liner and the down comforter from the bed. Oh, yes, I can get squirreled away into a really fine pocket here, but I need heat of some kind to be able to get around. There is not a whole lot to do tonight, as per the original premise and plan. I find consolation in this particular time alone because I am not actively hurting someone, that objectionably transitive treatment of a direct object. No, I just do a few inane things, here and there, and the structure remains as it was when I return. I am beginning to feel cooler now, so I migrate towards the sleeping bag, which I've left on the throw rug before the hearth. This is the focal point of the settlement, right here beside the wood-pile and within reach of the fieldstone masonry. The heat for ongoing survival that I can keep best is found relatively near to the source. I chuck another piece of oak onto the open fire, watching it build up to join in a new stage. It's essentially a matter of economics and accounting; incoming heat must balance outgoing heat at a high enough temperature. I'm really an amateur at all of this.
I've had enough time where it has felt livable during winter at the Cabin that I can assume the system to be sufficient. I take for granted the bounty of wood and ways to burn it out here; my typical complaint is that I cannot do the same to establish comfort inside my own head. I work my way along, through such a grand quantity of inane inactivity, this being inherent in the structure that supports and opposes me along a trajectory of temporary equilibria in city living and personal balance alike. I feel a bit like one of those Celts or Norsemen; the ones who lived in glaciating continental conditions by building aptly-named bon-fires for their outdoor places of rudimentary congregation and celebrated folk-practice. In a landscape and land that is swept clear of livable outdoors sun and air, I need to punch my little hole in the darkness with these flames, which begin to look like an extension of my own living self. Only a small area; indeed just a part of the 440 square feet above the softly-sanded 2 x 8 floor planks, is within the radius of comfort. I am suspended, in my resting place between flame, the cold far room and the unthinkably cold outdoors, in a position to which I have become centered; the locus of acceptable and ongoing comfort. It is growing truly dark outside now, so the fire builds in its prestige as my hope against those dread "elements", even as elements per se are necessary for my own constitution.
This, I suppose, is really no place for a civilized man to hang out, since the heating is inefficient and I'm often short on properly-absorbing work. I see no secret in the desire of the typical inmate to be occupied during his stay. Oh, how I love the approach of the truly engrossing matter, that one that makes time pass without question of its proper use. When the job comes along, the parameters of thermal comfort are widened, since the mind is no longer "on" that more basic factor. I should find some thing to fix, while I lay here on this Hollofil-led shell, the one that can become a mummy enclosure in dire emergencies. Little occupations can still fill the complete mind. Things appear to be in good order, though, so the suggestion of the scenario is that I close my eyes and be still. Something may then come through, with all the superfluity weeded out, and this be taken up as the central object. Indeed, the occupation must always have its controlled workpiece, even as this drifts into that distasteful realm of imposing one's influence and implementing coercive intimidation. The wood is whittled as the whittler chooses to whittle. These internal constructs, however, can build to whatever impractical level they want, and when they collapse, no one is hurt but the envisioner. There is no binding indictment of the self-inflicting subject.
What do I wish to create, then, using the big play-set that is stored within my central cortex at varying distances from the frontal promontory? I love it when fine ideation just comes to life; when my passive internal agent can be seen accomplishing his artisanship. Here at the center, proximal to the prime movers established by the fires, is my development accomplished. The Cabin is like a tool, for the betterment of those faculties that have real world use. I think now of what it is like to request passage from others who have the dominant role, vis-a-vis my own station. The best way to slip under their thresholds of acceptance is to wash away those vile tendencies towards the demonstration of satire and contempt. The idea is to pass through their mechanisms with as inert a pose as possible, hoping not to get noticed. The arbitrary authority will indeed strain a gnat but allow many camels their stealthy passage. None of these controllers can truly live up to the full commission of their rank and classification, even as they wildly wield their official implements of opposition. Thus in the cerebral game before the fire, I should picture these foes and/or friends on the most basic level of polite acceptance. "Just cool it," I tell myself, "though you do still need your basic allotment of heat".
The opponents, partners and other contacts are not here to experience, but they are there to be seen.
"Bo"
19 January 2003 -- A time of partial darkness
Oh, yes, but the bitter chill is out tonight! It has become late enough that the barely-past-full moon has risen from the coincidental ecliptic zone that also is the sun's. As I linger for a moment on the darkened front porch of my vermilion-stained, cedar-sided shack, I note the confidence it exerts in taking over in defining the mood of the stark woodland that rises from the clearing. The snow that has been here is going to stay that way, now with the kind of crunchiness that has no suggestion of its future liquid state. All is crisp and emplaced, only I do need to go inside soon, for this is the kind of cold that could have me concerned for my extremities, since I do not have the full battle-gear cladding that I'd need on a real "expedition", such as on snowshoes. I sigh out a cloud of condensate that I'm sure will soon be frozen, then turn from this kind of eerieness, into the alternative reality I've built so as to live with a bit less caution. The kerosene lanterns, like the moon, are certainly enough to get around with, though I am amazed at the quantity of darkness I'm still willing to accept.
I sigh again, as I plant myself in the armchair before the ubiquitous fire, covering up for the moment with a crocheted blanket I bought from one of the ladies who makes them for the craft store in the village below. I am aware that I am seeking the path of lesser load on my conscious process by making this visit, so there was probably "something wrong" with the way I'd been living this weekend. A man does not readily cease his connection to what on frequent occasions seems to him "complete". I must be dealing now with the chaotic and stochastic state that confers the experience of mood, that decidedly single-valued function that defines what will "do it" and what won't. When the connection is patent, the arrangement is a wondrous resource to call upon, only I do not seem to have a very good duty cycle at present, when it comes to this endowment. Oh, but to be satisfied; therein lies the man, who is made relevant and proper. Doubt, indeed, defines the frustration in this exercise in "being". To be riding through such a chasm conjures visions of the very shadow of death itself, only I don't see that particular outcome in any of the cards I continue to be dealt. Thus I must lay in wait, for I am destined for other regions of the cognizant state-space.
I wonder what it is, really, that has me so transfixed on this nasty little authority inside that I can never quite "defeat" by my own wiles. Why, even prayer doesn't chase this impish scamp too far off course, for he leaps back when the room is swept clean and the battle is again enjoined. I am asked to present a representation of will and intent, as if this is all that makes me a living man, yet my magazine of campaign instruments is so characteristically controlled by this rogue "state" that has set up camp among my synaptic entirety. I must be kept down, yes, though it is a delusion to portray actual "demons" in my melodrama, unless I mean myself. Oh, yes, it's all my fault. I hear you, O great keepers of the fully emancipated will. You wield and wield fully, and great is your victories. The champions and the victors are indeed valiant, and should be hailed. I object, however, to the notion of "diversity" being so expanded as to include the arbitrary assignment of realizable volition, as if it could be seen as an attribute of my very physical body. The hucksters sit about, watching me try to get up, only I've done plenty to keep them at bay. It is better, I've noted as a matter of course, to be enslaved to one's own self, than to the hapless promoter whose seminar was at the right time and place.
So I sit up here, gaining what heat I can from the fire and the stove, where I should, in fact, be cooking up some chow soon. I seem to be in the mood for some of that modern marvel, canned stew. Yes, the better enabled man might open the hatch to a root cellar and spend the evening enticing the proper juice to be embodied in his stock-pot, perhaps, even, the land's produce in the form of ethically harvested game. But I have no such enterprise. Chow is chow, and I'm not even that hungry, when I come to think of it. There just isn't a whole lot coming along from the cosmic card-shoe, and my chip-pile dwindles as the house has ordained through definition of the game. I close my eyes and listen to the crackle of these seasoned logs. One thing folks up in this woodland do well is supply quality fuel when they cut their cordwood. I feel the heat at last, as it establishes dominion over my planted hulk. This state-variable is one I can work with, at least, while rest just has to be lived with, in some sort of bowed posture. Yes, I see, I'm working up the pitch now for non-violent acceptance, in accordance with the holiday and all. But are not some men's actions, though not canonically violent, still in their assertion a rather brash handling of those before them?
I get up at last and start that order of stew, nasty and dog food-like as it comes from the room-temperature can. There is always distaste in certain phases of what later is epitomized taste. I check on the fire in the box as I lift the heavy lid. It will do, though for heating I'll eventually need more. I stir the cast iron potful, which is beginning now to look like real human victuals. If I were a little more on the ball, I'd find some way to bake biscuits, perhaps to use as dumplings, even, though my taste is not currently craving that much in the way of carbs. I finally take the whole pot from the stove, when everything is bubbly, and set it on the rough wood of the table in the "dining area". A bunch of folks could sit here, actually, chowing down at this station. This is good to know, should I ever be enamored of the notion of hosting a party of travellers. It is dark in the room, to the point where the moon makes a useful contribution through the front windows. This chow hits the spot, I'll have to say. It won't put to rest the wild antics of my internal controllers, that vagabond crew that will never do what I want. I want to feel whole, 100% of the time. Old man doubt should not have such a forum for my abuse. I will move on tonight, though to where I'm not entirely sure. Knowledge of cosmological astrography, indeed to the point of identifying each locale in one's index, still does not allow ready passage. I can imagine, but the internal gates must still open.
I sigh again, as I finish eating and proceed to process the pot near the clean-up area. This all feels so "colonial"; where I live as a vassal within a decidedly crude but wily fiefdom in some other place.
"Bo"
25 January 2003 -- The question of what is next
I have come to the Cabin today in another of those moods of "desperation", the one that cries out, "enough!" It is entirely possible to place an unacceptable load on a less-than-sufficient man, thus resulting in the dropping of each. They pummel me and dangle their entanglements for my consideration and adoption. Life in the city just doesn't take time out. The fact is, it's still pretty cold up here in the hollow, and there is fresh snow, which is more than enough to enforce the simple condition of being squarely held in the "pit of winter". No time is as empty as the end of January in the Northern Hemisphere; I'm convinced of that. Still, it is the season to be busied, on the basis of earnest matriculations and confident ambition. I cannot tell, really, if I have simply fallen into another "funk". Oh well, let's see--the snow is a lot to get around in out there. I do love the months when I can walk with my calloused feet across the gravel path to the outbuildings. There are immersions that do their own job, should the soul and the cognitive projections be ready, and the seasons clearly qualify. I know that I've placed myself somewhere on the property, as my mind switches over to the alternative mode. But where to crash...I seem to have another choice in my hands.
Really, it can't be as bad as my worst complaints insist. Most any situation usually has several good "outs", though the condition may indeed be a state of "check". I'm now in this simple room, with the distractions put at a distance. The fires are going and it is livable. What is there to do, but continue on, spending the evening as it arrives? The living room and the sleeping area; the kitchen and the porches; these are the spaces of the Cabin. Since I feel so entirely distressed, I seek solace in the bedding on my bunk, knowing little else to do. I sigh deeply. It is dark outside those windows, and there is no doubt of that. The kerosene lanterns do what they can to provide the basics of visibility, only the real immersion is nothing less than one of darkness. It can feel, at some of these times, like the darkness is some sort of "sink" for what's bothering me, for the dark does not talk back. I am a sentient being, who is being allowed by his aging physical constitution to live some more moments in a row. No, there's nothing at all "bad" about that. Goodness, but the thought of what it is to have integrated nearly 42 years of experience following the instantiation of my sentience! It's one huge and gangling package, yet it always comes down to "what now?" Memories and developed settings do indeed stand, only they cannot always fill in.
Am I ready to pick some kind of fight with God over all of this? I get driven to a point where I just want to close my eyes and be away, yet to spend time like that is almost an act of denial, since the big clock is still ticking. Is life supposed to encapsulate itself into some crowning glory, or is creation cruelly taunted by ultimately losing everything? The creator sure likes to play around, even to the point of letting his creatures loose with wills of their own. Perhaps in the mighty halls of justice above there sits God as the house, with the lesser heavenly entities gathered around to wager on the spectacle he has dealt. God, indeed could well be playing a game of dice in which I am the source of random outcome that so tantalizes everyone involved. "What will he do in this situation?" the craps players wonder. "It's a long shot, put this bundle of ultimate quality over on the hard ways spot." I suppose to the outside observer of my chaotic trajectory, a true element of chance is being expressed, and not some pseudo-random algorithmic determination. This "noise" of mine must have a character that soothes my overseers, so they continue to keep the boundary conditions of the green-felt table high, so the game can go on. Let's see now what will happen. I do not even know myself what the outcome will be. Will contentedness come to join me at last in this darkened room, with only flames to supply visual stimulation? Or will I walk away in disgust, yet still have value for anyone who was counting on me to do just that?
Things are getting quieter now, "success" as I define it may be closer than I think. The fluctuations in my introspective spectator's impressions are characterized by a rather high bandwidth and amplitude envelope. This may not, in fact, be a "healthy" load to impose on such a system as mine. Yet the city cries out, "pick me up; my content will free you in ways transcendant to your former delusions as to freedom. "Being there" is hardly caused by the will, but fortunately for me, it does happen. Oh, yes, but it is quiet in here, and the snow-layers all about outside have fixed me in place. Winter, as a concept, is well-established and immutable, even as it has its deterministic end in sight in 2 months. Oh, how I want to cross over the line, into the fully-settled place. Perhaps the times I do "get there" I am so excited that I lose track of how I'm managing myself, as in the metropolitan Orlando area and its famed money-sinks. But what can I reasonably do, when true "fun" is upon me? It is just another of those transients in the game, and nailing down transients has inherent difficulty--they're slippery things. Am I here tonight just to damp the excursions to a point where I can regain command? I know pretty well that I'm operating this created hulk of aging biomaterial, with its prosthetic enhancements, outside of the ratings that must be stamped on a steel plate somewhere.
So then, I guess I'm just looking for a lighter load, as any good organized worker will do. Forget the role of the master speculator; I am no good at playing hunches. I need a safe haven, and the room here will eventually contain me. The question is just what I'll get, like when the kid puts two quarters from his mother's change into one of those prize machines. Just what will be in the plastic bubble, anyway? I sense that the simple act of living can be a painful procedure for someone who is oriented as I am. The moment must be serviced, so that it can be savored. Work on the master edifice can wait, when inspiration to further new accretion is at hand. I am torn between wanting to see a better picture of who I currently am and wanting to see the actual processes that make it better. It's all so silly, and all so tentative, to the cynic and the pessimist, who consistently picks the branch of game play with the lowest score in considering his options. I must at times just stand still and realize what it is to walk, talk and act, all through some grand coordination of motor skills. Well, the fire looks like it needs tending, plus more fuel. The woodshed will ensure that there is something in the way of heat. The fire, even, is an example of my negotiated expression. Sentience implies action, only that action cannot be invoked until the central actor is given his motivation.
It is dark, and I continue to live. This should be good enough.
"Bo"
Ahead to February 2003
