A 3D 1:48,000 scale model of the Cybercabin Land, Built of 1/8" foam core board and rubber cement, April 2003 June 2003 Cabin Diary |
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4 June 2003 -- That strange call to exertion
Good heavens, but it's been hard to "get away" to this more settled scene...it would make the gullible suspect conspiracy, no doubt. It can't be that no one "wants" me to be in that many places at that many times, contrary to my typical complaint about city living. They're all so good, those administrators of the machine, and it is their every ardent wish that I have leisure until I become fed up and go back to work for them. But hey, that is not capitalism. There is only one game now; all the rest of the roads lead to corruption, tyranny and death, the three choices for the unreformed statist-man. No, it's really a very sweet deal they've given me, and I should kiss something every day I go in for another round. Around and around he goes, where he'll stop, no one knows, unless he really makes it to retirement before stress catches up with him. I really do want rid of the influences that are only of my own making, for they profit no one yet weigh a ton, or at least 1250 pounds. A man needs his share of "simple machines" to move that much. I'm supposed to be walking under my own power, like any good constituent of profit-rendering worker stock should do. Employment in a committed vocation, indeed, is all about giving from within and expressing autonomy, for the micro-manager cannot also handle macroscopic and systemic weaknesses in his organization. Yes, just float along, kicking the boat away from the rocks from time to time; that's how to do it.
I can see that I've still failed in my endeavor to have a truly "meaningful" Cabin experience today, one worth posting to the annals of all time; that cache of one's immortal inscription. Look at me, I'm actually creating from scratch, just like the various forestry products of the Cabin building here had to be wrought by someone from undeveloped woodland sources. Creation, yes, so long as it is understood how far I can go. There are loads of repairs and maintenance on this property up in the clearing that I need to bring in real "working men" to repair, like that fellow Zed, down on his own plot along Highway 735. The man is everything you'd expect, especially from an Anheuser-Busch beer commercial. But, as I sit on the porch in an atmosphere that is growing decidedly hazy with summer's unrevoked promise, I cannot really suppose that I am any less a "prole". There are leaders by title, and the others must follow. How is it, then, that the machine can exact the subservience that it does without squashing whatever individual spark there is in the worker-aspirant? I am wielded, yes, like a tool, one with its own function. My internal essence, or Platonic quality apart from interpretation, is expected to fit as its adaptation will allow. Most good tools do wear out, I suppose. Homo habilis is also homo magnanimus, and will not stop until the job is done. I don't exactly know why I have this fixation on work and effort, for when I look about for their boltings-on, I see only free components that I hold in place myself. I have assumed the position, and perhaps I am disfigured, as Wallace's Ben Hur might have been, if he were not allowed to row both sides to balance himself.
I shift somewhat in the squeaky old metal porch chair, a relic I found in 1997 in one of those stores along the road where the city ladies come to go "antiquing". The whole notion of the Cabin is "antique", only it does not persist without regular infusions of creative embellishment. Could it be that the foundation, structure and cladding of all of this is now somehow enshrined, on account of my countless hours of occupation? I am sure to be building individual substance that will follow me at least to the grave, as in the bio-concentration of fat-soluble environmental adulterants that get passed up the long food chain to my rustic kitchen with the iron stove. Maybe I should be getting something to eat soon, only I seem to have a certain internal inertia and momentum that are sure to take me to some enchanted place, farther up the hill. I am thinking again of that incredible spring I found near the top of the ridge a few years back. I do need to find a way to erect a shelter there, only no one can haul much up the trail. Some jobs, by the larger essence of the overall machine, administered somehow by nature's god with the invisible hand, simply cannot proceed. But hey, this creature here (e.g., myself) is far from a downer. They need not scoop up my remains for the other hopper. Bold and valiant I picture myself to be, a strident example of resistance through strategic and tactical cooperation. A man can prosper indeed, in the midst of the machine, for a large mechanism always has lots of inherent strength to tap into. I only hope I'm not found out by the masters of those services, like an illegal tap on a cable that shows up on a commercial-grade interferometer. I believe that's a felony now. I shudder. The law will always win.
I feel a bit "broken" as I stare off across the intensity of morning dew, which will take a long time to "burn off" of the wild, lush and entangled scrub that is low enough to let me see my 150 yards or so into the higher woods per se. Is it a "bright golden haze"? I suppose so, even if I run the risk of disturbing the estates of Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein. Every day that a man is shown sun like this must be taken as evidence of a grand and almighty blessing. Why, I've been given freedom and dominion, and actual assets have been accorded me, lowly though I would posture myself to be. Enough of this build-up and I can strike mighty blows, just like old John Henry, the champion of braun over steam-driven steel. Industry has revolved, even if it has not evolved. I am no man to impart many radians per second of angular change, only with enough of us pulling on the rope, the two sides will eventually mate and traffic flow again. I am thinking of those culvert bridges now on the forestry road. I should get Zed to look at those, if he doesn't already do it out of his own conscience in contracting. His pickup is a lot heavier than mine, and the tubes do not crumple. The rivers flow, orthogonally past, and their own marginally-visible essence must express gratitude, when "Man" decides to do something so bold as enter the woods and keep his supply line open. Many are the images available to me, only the best outcome is that which derives from opening my own storehouse, to bring out what fine arrays of equipment as the unique situations under my stewardship require. Work, ideally, should not hurt, but it does take at least a nominal time at the grindstone and the wheel, and low bodily insult, sufficiently sustained, will injure nonetheless.
But what am I complaining about, anyway? Paradise has opened its gates (George & Ira Gershwin) yet I am such a stranger in it (Borodin & Wright/Forrest). Ah, yes, drama, that caricature of such very real life-content! No one is watching up here, at least. I need not act, but only exist. I will eventually be carried along.
"Bo"
13 June 2003 -- A transient appearance of doubt
I rolled my way out of the sack this morning, after having left the windows open on a decidedly-warmer evening, of the kind where the air passing through the simple screens is not first resented for its chill effect. There is a haze out there, to be sure, only the sun is picking up the kind of power it needs to overcome almost any rogue condition that the local weather might attempt to enact. The sun today is of the kind that inspires lethargy, much as the modern economy will punish the man that actually rests in his time off. With a goodly bit of the fog of sleep adding to the damp residue that makes me question what "real space" is in the clearing, I half-stumble past the front door, in my beach-comber's slippers, to the area of the stone fire ring. I plop it on down onto the chaise lounge, whose canvas duck covering cannot avoid completely the dew that is to the point of dripping in excess from the plants nearby. Oh, it is so empty up here, even with the river's ongoing noise behind me as a reminder that others are downstream. The cicadas for this season have not developed into their full complement, but I'd expect to hear them in a setting as warm as this. It's about 70 degrees F, with the sun not far from its rising into the haze above the summit outcrop, that distant shape I can barely discern above the carpet of now-extensive foliage along the side of the ridge. I would be capable of embodying this degree of rest more often, if only I did not worry so much about the "way I look" in my spare moments in reality. The man with any erudition in efficiency has a rather deluxe quandary, like in the old quiz shows--to accept life as it is currently possible or to strive for an even bigger jackpot and risk it all.
I shift and stretch, lazily, in this cushioned spot, wishing I didn't have to place so much conscious emphasis on "maintaining appearances". One would think that form and interpretation really do matter over all else. What looks good indeed is, say the almighty spin-practitioners, those doctors, priests, shamans and other sorcerors of society. It is possible to patch up what is already a fabrication of "shreds and patches", so that it will last for another round, another day, another season. Who was promising permanence in any of this, anyway? I must be in a state of "heightened" nervous response for any of this trivial accounting to yield significant balances. Why, to plug that level of tone right now into the almighty machine would be a sure sign of allegiance, and of the perfect melding of self-interest with corporate interest. The fallacy of composition is only a partial truth that has enough worse case evidence to remind us that the market, being of humans, is of human weakness, too. The amalgamation calls to me, up the long dirt road, and even into this mild haziness. "What do you want?" I ask. "I see you're playing games again," I say to the representative who's come to call. I can exist for long intervals on relatively little hope, yet the pall of shortfall is enough to ruin even the best of contemplative states. This is a ridiculous way to be, with such an autonomic charge. I would deny the power of that kind of nervous dominion, were it indeed orthogonal to and independent of the kind of things I really need to fear. What can I do at a point like this, when the attention signal is followed, merely, by more of the same old program? Is there a problem or isn't there? Place a homonid in an office and you've little more than a chimpanzee in a shipping crate.
Well, that's the kind of motivation I have in coming out here to the Cabin, for to suppose that such rest as I'm enjoying now has, can and will exist is the great consolation that is built into what is otherwise pointless. The exercise here is often frustrating, in that I'm not also in the correct section of the "zone" or "groove" to mean what I say and feel what I think. I have to walk around with all this dys-inclination, as though I were handling some sort of noxious waste that is nevertheless essential to background functions. I have to wonder what chance I actually have of "breaking through" some of what goes on at levels not ordinarily considered "voluntary"; to pull a "mind over matter" stunt that no miserable set of ganglia and dendrites can ignore. There is so little comfort coming my way, even if the long-term reality holds many treasures and cherishables, once mighty Jordan is breached. I'm thinking through my wretched anatomy, to the origin of so much of this tension. It is almost like being "possessed", when the arousal-mechanism is fired so gratuitously and continuously. It is like a kid who keeps annoying his parents, whether he wants to or not. The flow through time could be so much smoother, and no one has formally enacted any barriers. I try some of the old trick, the one of deep breathing. The heat and humidity are not to the stifling point where the air does not contain something of a renewed vitality. I am made aware that a vocation-in-full is something that relies for its existence on the commitment of a great many hours, but nothing says that "busy work" at one's post does not count in the final paystub.
I turn somewhat on the cover of the lounge, looking in the direction of the moist gravel and valiant weeds that cover even this "open" area. The call I have at present is one for endurance. The smallest bit of any kind of activity that is not against the machine is indeed for it. It sure is a waste of life, though, that the man be at all afflicted. I know that men as excitable at myself need the built-in handicap of a thorn, but I think social justice goes a little too far in my case--the reward for excellence in growth should not be a greater trim-back, just to have that perfect lawn for the neighbors. I guess my breeding has not included enough domestication to accept this bizarre confinement, even if I am well fed. I almost want to go into some kind of "fetal position" and cower in a corner somewhere. Duality and duplicity are the standards that allow one man to live in view and in spite of another. So in such a case, composition does yield a fallacy. A fallacy-in-part is a critical weakness, in full. The sky is bright yet indeterminate today. I simply need occupation and satiety, wherever I can find it in a benign-or-better form for the higher magisterium in the walled enclave. I would simply like to sink in, to this soft bed-of-sorts, and become unwound. I hate to think of how I look, though, when I finally have achieved such freedom. I could be as bad as the quick-kick artists of the late 1960's, with their unadulterated vision of excellence through chemistry and spirituality, in equal measure. I am grateful, at least, in the knowledge that this kind of false alert still burns off a lot of the motivation behind angst of a more substantial kind, when I'm in the actual midst of real productivity.
"Bo"
26 June 2003 -- Custodian to the source
The need I typically show for "escape" has not asserted itself as strongly in real life lately, though I am hesitant to label this as any kind of "progress". The Solstice, of course, is drifting off into the past, but the phenomenon of meteorological momentum is sure to bring on the truly hot weather, as today suggests. I don't care to move around a lot today, and the sun as it has now appeared is the kind that makes dust where mud once appeared invincible. I can see why so many have seen this component of the astronome as something that is not a "thing" at all. I guess we've moved on; it's the new theology of the mature mind on hand, the kind that has recognized the fallibility of even such majesty as that seemingly-eternal hull of the top magnitude of all who dwell on the humble earth. Yes, it's very "bright" out there, and I'd probably have quite the sweat worked up, if I were doing anything of note "out there". I'm in the shade of the front porch, where the planks are so dry as to make every defect in the last stain-coat readily visible. I'd sure like to let things drift along, only they call that "laziness". As small as I am in all of this, they still think I'm capable of decisive action, wielding the incredible and paradoxical implement that is my will. Indeed, it is enough that I have demonstrated sentient independence, even if it will amount to vanishingly little in the collective score.
The heat of this mid-day is now finding its way to me, even in the shade that forms in the porch as the sun passes zenith. That sun, yes, is on its way back, on the greatest harmonic we have in this little system. The mass of air and all that is in it continues to move, and I should be glad, for I could not long dwell in a single whiff of what remains of my presence. The fact is, I'm fully latched on to the great and moving source, the one that knows no comparable sink except the entirety of space itself. If I only knew how to "ask" of this supply, I'd run as though I were one of those annoying "motivated" folks like the ones that have ruled so many high school classes and corporate entities. The way I'm supposed to pose this request is to become St. Francis' "instrument of God's peace", which is part of the nuttiness that goes on as a daily occurrence. Peace, it would seem, still embodies the flow of material according to a model as the implement is best able to create. Imparting order at the ultimate level is essentially a matter of directing this flow, the way the safety official wields a firehose or a firearm. "This is all nuts," I tell myself, as I swat away some of those annoying gnats. "Making a model in this case is just avoiding the real problem of making it work". A small capability, when made sufficiently stable, accrues into glory beyond any transient imagination. Just to keep a small stream running; that's all the acreage needs to know its drainage.
I guess I have the small processes cooking rather nicely, and what is needed now is time to compound and to grow. There is nothing particularly valuable about dreaming about square miles, even ones with imaginary rivers that could sweep a whole automobile towards the sea in a strong spring like we've had. It is vanishingly little, except to the extent that I am directing the much more modest flow that is for real. It is the discharge of duties; the origination of an effluence that should rightly be "regulated" by someone. I look down at my hand, which is developing its small quantity of sweat. This is the embodiment of manipulation, and indeed, its inspiration. Yet I am directed to keep my hands off of the larger glory; I should instead just divert my own minimum through a tiny metering hole. Oh, yes, it is mighty, the supply. There's no doubt about that. It has to be that way, only we could have no hope. The idea of the endless source is often embodied in the majesty encountered in physical reality, only those sources are always characterized by their limitations. Though the cigarette lighter accessory does not drop the voltage of the vehicular battery, endlessly stable volts will not escape the effect of cold cranking amps. Yet the spiritual substance; that essential material in the aether, is not a "substance". It cannot be modelled thus. Man stands before such a source as this and must become the lowest of the prostrate.
The wind moves a little, but not much, on this day to suggest the stifling times of July and August to come. My own small influence contributes to the direction of the larger meta-substance, or its equivalent representation, but it cannot pretend to be any part of the source. This is the mighty fortress that is our God. Nothing deters the main flow, yet it is still "of us", and inescapably so. To think that I have such connectivity in any portion should be the source of solace, comfort and joy. Oh, but to be able to witness what goes on in my background, as I remain plugged into the greater glory! This, I see, is the reckless consequence of suspecting a greater flow in one's channel, at the same time as having the foolhardiness to want to stick a hand into it, like a kid witnessing aerodynamics with his hand out of the car window. This, I recognize, as the call to humility and non-pretense. Being the component that I am, I have characteristics like all the others. My finite substance still wishes to "make this a heaven on earth", as in the Gershwins' Oh, Kay!. It's all been figured out, and the majesty of simple creation will not disappoint the forebearers who have supplied my philogeny. There is a whole lot of land, and even more air, in this little hole in my mind. But does any of "it" flow back? Because I have defined according to known metaphors, I cannot escape the inherencies of their ontology.
What a bunch of bull! Shoot, it is still mine to be moving on,
for relief is far off, and nothing in particular to be desired. There
is a rock that cannot be broken, so one must merely live upon its assorted
immovable precipices. I must be talking about some sort of Temple
Mount, as in Zion. Yeah, that's invoking some mighty modern imagery.
It's the best anyone can do, as far as I can see. I feel the sweat
begin to flow down to my brow. It might be time to leave soon.
"Bo"
Ahead to July 2003
