A 3D 1:48,000 scale model of the Cybercabin Land, Built of 1/8" foam core board and rubber cement, April 2003 September 2003 Cabin Diary |
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11 September 2003 -- The structures and their processes
I am up the river and near the top on this day, and perched utmost above, at least in the local area of topography. Why do I seek separation, when membership is all so crucial? Think of the countless hands back there, down the river, that would help me out. I suppose I'm guilty of some sort of "heresy", sitting as I am on a rather mild evening with lots of cricket-noise at the open screens of the windows. No one will really get away with dividing the whole, so I must bow, even now, to the fearsome mechanism of man (and of course, woman and child, who are also complicit). Oh, I must keep my place in all of this! A place has been made and a plan enacted. I need only surrender to the multitude, as indeed I am always reminded, even here in the dim kerosene light of the ongoing pine paneled room. It is a single track I've made into this 6000-acre tract of upland, and known only by its downstream terminus, as far as the drivers on State highway 735 can tell. I lean back against the comforting upholstery and slipcover, working as always to reach the hallowed state of acceptance. I can be planted, but only as the farmer in the sky sees fit until harvest. Am I talking "life and death" in all of this introspective nonsense? I would propose that small bits of death are regularly ingested by the one who lets himself drift downstream, conducting trade along the way, until the connections become possible. I think I would not be a very "noble savage"; the city is too widely distributed throughout the receptacles that weigh the soul. I lean back into the sofa, sighing and deep breathing as my slightly-broken physique will tolerate. Before long, of course, I should be putting some chow across these terminals, to dampen these strange artifacts that come of neglect--neglect of the first things that must come first. They exact their shares, the agents of the capitalist republic, and leave with me the annoying burdens of their claim to my loyalty, in as fine a fashion as a Safeway store or a Vegas casino. "You are not 'free'", they remind me, "for you have signed on. You'll get your reward soon enough; you're a 'preferred customer'".
I'm not sure, really, where I want a night like this to go. Given that I have insulation at least in distance's terms, the whole "machine" they've implanted could be parked somewhere down in the ravine and never missed. That's a fine little fantasy there; to go on without regard. It really isn't as much "fun" in reality as it is in imagination. I am still part of the one body, and individualism, paradoxically somehow, has been seen as eternal by those who can see farther than I. What manner of deity would purposefully destroy anything so grand as a sentient being, expressing a thread of context? If I'm toting so much of this septic dross that requires my management, I should have a good glimpse into the nature of death by now. Why, I've got chunks of it, right here, sewn into my barest of garments. I guess that's a rather "morose" way of picturing the whooping I get from membership's annoyances, and its concomitant calls to neglect in its favor. I run away as I have this evening, thinking I can be rid of their tracers, but no, I am a solid member of their assorted demographic classes. Dichotomy has been raised to some immense powers, in all of this. My bravery in standing there and taking it is rewarded with kind words from the business end of the machine, only I have seen enough to know of its ultimate objective. The ones who claim their piece of me are celebrated wildly, as men above men, for that's what managers are. It's a whole pile of hooey, anyway, to talk of human "equality"; indeed, they celebrate "diversity" instead, as if this somehow conjoins the burdened ones who add value by being up front. Do I see myself as having any distinction over the "least" of my brethren? Oh, but the preacher says, "No. We are among the many brothers of the first-born". I should eventually be getting hungry, for the trans-speci-al dominion that is the food chain is there for a good reason. I must be like some sort of twisted version of the true fasting monastic. Do the real brethren follow paths mostly populated with pain as well?
If I keep my cool and embrace the grand procession, I am sure to be swept to a piece of its ultimate spoils. Still, it feels like a steel cage; as strong a cell as Wackenhut could ever devise. Soon enough, they'll realize the profits to be made from my neglect, as indeed does the medicinal maggot when given necrotic flesh to debride. My pain is the coldly calculated source of some fine revenue streams, in the Keynsian model using liquid flow. When they look at the broken hulk before them, they poke him again and wonder why he isn't loving life. Oh, it's all a grand heresy, this condemnation of the intentions provided so freely by the handlers. They are out to sustain me, for they must be on something of a roll. Who knows what I'll eventually prove out for them? They're always after the big bang, in the reckoning of this estate that has bled so piteously into their trough. I lean even further back and sigh again. It is exquisitely dark in the room right now, and with no electric bill. In my heart I feel myself reach a precarious standing stance, as though I know full well of all the fortune that is beyond my specs, here in the mediocre middle. Hallelu Jah! goes the praise nonetheless, for thou hast made for me the green pasture and pure waters, here in this dessicated valley of death. There should be vibrance in the reality formed from the shedding of all those lower stages of the mighty vehicle that has brought me to my current velocity. Consumption, it would seem, is the consolation that makes production look desirable. "Produce, you man, for I have seen what you so willingly consume." The stewards that seek return on their investment are glad to have a motivated ward on their hands. The person who hungers after more will be naturally inclined to render more, and not unto the Lord. What compassion the masters extend is of the inferior material variety, though wealth itself seems to be something that all can enjoy, manipulate, and control; master and servant alike. It all comes to a point where I am broken and made utterly complacent, and at that moment, some of the cloud lifts. The thread I've had to forge through all of this commercial nonsense has many safeguards against compromise, but then it only withstands the awesome might of the material in its admixture of the spiritual.
I seem too tightly "coupled" to that gyrating process, with its hypocritical recognition that goes out, every time I somehow hit another one out of the park and improve my stats for the season. Oh, look at him, he is a champion. The creator above is surely pleased with him. It stops right there, too, without sorting out what might really appeal to the almighty. Man does not live by bread alone; indeed, this is the platitude, but then he does not live by the spirit alone, either. What confounds the picture is that our only exposure to the larger context must be instilled in our faith in others' revelation. Some esoteric text from the 3rd millenium prior is indeed the repository of guidance, for we are too broken to be "saints" ourselves. I don't know what I'll whip up in the kitchen tonight, but I can imagine having an inspirational time before a plate of cornbread and beans. There is a mighty tension within, and it must be safely relieved. Indulgence in the world, it is true, can be quite the balm, but then the thread begins to grow fuzzy in one's sight, and indeed it typically disappears completely. The picture can never be kept whole, in such a life. It is a daunting muse to chase down, that inspiration to spontaneous activity. It so often grabs handfuls of the red-earth clay, and declares the battle to be won, through such possession. Yes, possession is division, there's no doubt about that, but disbursement has its own set of problems. The whole goal, it would seem, is to persist within the rough parameters of the creator's initial intentions. The incomplete mind wields a weapon in its will and its whimsy. What does the master above think, anyway, as he's cleaning up the randomly-directed hulks of dead space junk from all of those ruined missions? I have no real powers of discernment, and only occasionally powers of joy. Oh, well, I'll get up now and rummage through the pantry and light up the stove. I recall how I cooked to my heart's delight as a younger man. I can only hope that I don't cave in to the temptation of the prepackaged and the easy. I will eventually settle into the correct slot, and the night's sleep is sure to change me.
"Bo"
22 September 2003 -- The necessity of exposure
I guess I could qualify as being "tired", on this limited-time visit I'm able to make today, amid the earlier of the deciduous leaves that have begun to blow about in the open areas of dirt near the Cabin compound. It's another gray day, of the kind that yields no particular or notorious inspiration, but then inspiration is one of those great gifts that I should not claim any kind of entitlement to. No, the life of the straight-living man, straight though it is, does not by definition allow for much in the way of "excitement". I'm just "putzing around" inside the L-shaped room, in the dimmer atmosphere that prevails under these conditions, with at least enough light to note that I should really sweep the floor soon and pick up some of the debris I that I have scattered during my less-conscientious late night hours. I'm tired, though, and no rightful tribunal of any justice would press me into service at this point. A growing-older man such as myself is ultimately stymied, when he has to start passing on some of the high-level diversions that are open to him, for lack of the stamina to carry it through. I suppose it's really something of a shame, to know of the lucrative hustle that would stand at the ready, but not with the compulsory coercion that accompanies the assignments of the young and less-outfitted in the world's assorted gambits. I clamor always, instead, for the state of more certain rest, for this is the embodiment of freedom to a sufficiently-decadent American beneficiary. "Just sit", say the authorities. "We'll take care of it, and by implication, yourself, in the bargain". It is a rather fine way of opting out, even with the production-mongers telling me of the ways in which I could have had still more. They do not understand what it is to conserve essential viability; no, they don't. Why is it, anyway, that we do not see enough into each others' mounting woes to know that just one more push will pose real and present risks of catastrophe? No interested party would ever admit that I should "lighten up" for my own ongoing sake.
There is something of a chill in the hollow today, though the thermometer does not fully substantiate its existence. Perhaps it is simply knowing that the Equinox is at hand, and that the curve is inflecting for its final run south, that puts such a notion in my mind. If I get too active on a day like this, the warmth that remains in the atmospheric persistence will get me into all that kind of nasty sweating, the clear indicia of poor living. I'm supposed to be "wise" enough by this point in life to know what I can, can't, should and shouldn't expect of myself or do, only mine is a compulsive disposition. When there rests in my path an obstacle I know I can move, I do not think all the way through to how broken I might actually become, once it is moved. I am being called, it would seem, to an acceptance of the lesser; a resignation to a rather mundane and pedestrian "end game". Natural selection in the holocene has hardly developed any trait of productive longevity, so the way I'm prompted to push myself is yet another of the abominations of that grubby industrial age. I think to my internal affect in this light, and see that I'm still flailing away and punching at things, the greater bulk of which are beyond my control. They don't need such instability in a right and proper citizen, down there in real life. They need just a good and abiding devotion to an entirely manageable level of output, but sustained as a work-performing action, and not a highly-transient impulse. I walk over, amid what few things I've been able to leave on the floor, and assume a familiar position; the one of being crashed on the sofa. Really, the weather is good enough that I could be outside, kicking around the property and attempting to bask in the unquestioned privilege of virtually unrestrained personal space. Why, I should be hiking the rough trails and visiting some of the sub-camp sites I've identified over the years. Mastery of all of that eludes me at present, however.
It occurs to me that I may well have a little too much sensitivity, still, packed into those neurological constructs that trigger the much-disruptive impulses that I must endure, as in a U-boat crew when a torpedo is finally launched. There is a mechanism of response that defines the responsible citizen, only it is ultimately abused, when fired in such bursts. The truly mature among the responders is one who permits all the time allotted for internal discussion, debate and careful commitment, when the stimulus-train begins its manifestation upon the sensory transducers of the machine. There is certainly good to be found, in long, pensive and guaranteed-quiet hours in the "safer" setting like the one up here in the hills, but the better-adapted temperament is able to remain on call and exposed, but in an inherently quiescent mode. I am given all of this equipment, developed as it has been by years of tolerant acceptance, but few are willing to disclose how it is that the truly serene response characteristic may be completely instilled. When I'm away like I am now, I miss out on the action, but I am assured of pardon from the appearances of those frantic interruptions that pertain to my more "exposed" status in real living. The goal of the entire enterprise is not to be sheltered, however; I am instead called to be a resilient, rather than frangible, component in the larger firmament below. Without ongoing exercises of some unavoidable exposure, the would-be adaptation is never successfully implemented. So, then, I should go about, in some sort of tentative acceptance of all of the nonsense, and actively seek out confrontations and invitations, only with the continuous resolve that I am to become the better master of those rapid responses. In that way, too, will the necessary work of sustaining my place be accomplished, if only in a tangential way.
I think, therefore, towards successful integration in the larger "whole", so as to make better use of those inherencies that my ancestry in the longer run of grimly-resolved and -confronted humanity actually has made part of my make-up. I have perhaps been taken aback and embarassed on too frequent an occasion, when my sense of self is either disregarded or openly repudiated, when I dare assert it in the assembly, but to seek the posture of "safety" is little more than craving the love-bombing hypocrisy of the utopiae and the cults. I'd suppose I am mad as hell and would prefer not to take it any more, but then what is that, anyway, other than some mindless interjection onto an empty street? I stop at this point and take a listen to some of the ongoing "tracks" that are playing inside my head, as I lay on the sofa, staring idly towards the rafter-space. They have made such a place for me, and this is my gratitude. But it lacks conviction and direction; it is a rogue flood through an underdeveloped conduit. I finally have to conclude that the best action is inaction, to the extent it is possible. "Yes, yes, I hear you. I will act as is prudent and correct, and I'm sure you'll be satisfied." I will soon have to get back in the truck and re-expose myself, and begin to pay back some of my debts to society. How they've put up with my folly to this point is difficult to understand, anyway. I must not forget, that when I respond to another in the form of an impulsive assertion, there is a strong implication that Newton's 2nd law somehow becomes applicable. There are two sides to each transaction, or else the "trans" would be missing. This kind of world-view must look odd to many of the more "successful" practitioners, who'd come to this squalid hut and see only a potential mess in the making.
"Bo"
22 September 2003 -- The necessity of exposure
I guess I could qualify as being "tired", on this limited-time visit I'm able to make today, amid the earlier of the deciduous leaves that have begun to blow about in the open areas of dirt near the Cabin compound. It's another gray day, of the kind that yields no particular or notorious inspiration, but then inspiration is one of those great gifts that I should not claim any kind of entitlement to. No, the life of the straight-living man, straight though it is, does not by definition allow for much in the way of "excitement". I'm just "putzing around" inside the L-shaped room, in the dimmer atmosphere that prevails under these conditions, with at least enough light to note that I should really sweep the floor soon and pick up some of the debris I that I have scattered during my less-conscientious late night hours. I'm tired, though, and no rightful tribunal of any justice would press me into service at this point. A growing-older man such as myself is ultimately stymied, when he has to start passing on some of the high-level diversions that are open to him, for lack of the stamina to carry it through. I suppose it's really something of a shame, to know of the lucrative hustle that would stand at the ready, but not with the compulsory coercion that accompanies the assignments of the young and less-outfitted in the world's assorted gambits. I clamor always, instead, for the state of more certain rest, for this is the embodiment of freedom to a sufficiently-decadent American beneficiary. "Just sit", say the authorities. "We'll take care of it, and by implication, yourself, in the bargain". It is a rather fine way of opting out, even with the production-mongers telling me of the ways in which I could have had still more. They do not understand what it is to conserve essential viability; no, they don't. Why is it, anyway, that we do not see enough into each others' mounting woes to know that just one more push will pose real and present risks of catastrophe? No interested party would ever admit that I should "lighten up" for my own ongoing sake.
There is something of a chill in the hollow today, though the thermometer does not fully substantiate its existence. Perhaps it is simply knowing that the Equinox is at hand, and that the curve is inflecting for its final run south, that puts such a notion in my mind. If I get too active on a day like this, the warmth that remains in the atmospheric persistence will get me into all that kind of nasty sweating, the clear indicia of poor living. I'm supposed to be "wise" enough by this point in life to know what I can, can't, should and shouldn't expect of myself or do, only mine is a compulsive disposition. When there rests in my path an obstacle I know I can move, I do not think all the way through to how broken I might actually become, once it is moved. I am being called, it would seem, to an acceptance of the lesser; a resignation to a rather mundane and pedestrian "end game". Natural selection in the holocene has hardly developed any trait of productive longevity, so the way I'm prompted to push myself is yet another of the abominations of that grubby industrial age. I think to my internal affect in this light, and see that I'm still flailing away and punching at things, the greater bulk of which are beyond my control. They don't need such instability in a right and proper citizen, down there in real life. They need just a good and abiding devotion to an entirely manageable level of output, but sustained as a work-performing action, and not a highly-transient impulse. I walk over, amid what few things I've been able to leave on the floor, and assume a familiar position; the one of being crashed on the sofa. Really, the weather is good enough that I could be outside, kicking around the property and attempting to bask in the unquestioned privilege of virtually unrestrained personal space. Why, I should be hiking the rough trails and visiting some of the sub-camp sites I've identified over the years. Mastery of all of that eludes me at present, however.
It occurs to me that I may well have a little too much sensitivity, still, packed into those neurological constructs that trigger the much-disruptive impulses that I must endure, as in a U-boat crew when a torpedo is finally launched. There is a mechanism of response that defines the responsible citizen, only it is ultimately abused, when fired in such bursts. The truly mature among the responders is one who permits all the time allotted for internal discussion, debate and careful commitment, when the stimulus-train begins its manifestation upon the sensory transducers of the machine. There is certainly good to be found, in long, pensive and guaranteed-quiet hours in the "safer" setting like the one up here in the hills, but the better-adapted temperament is able to remain on call and exposed, but in an inherently quiescent mode. I am given all of this equipment, developed as it has been by years of tolerant acceptance, but few are willing to disclose how it is that the truly serene response characteristic may be completely instilled. When I'm away like I am now, I miss out on the action, but I am assured of pardon from the appearances of those frantic interruptions that pertain to my more "exposed" status in real living. The goal of the entire enterprise is not to be sheltered, however; I am instead called to be a resilient, rather than frangible, component in the larger firmament below. Without ongoing exercises of some unavoidable exposure, the would-be adaptation is never successfully implemented. So, then, I should go about, in some sort of tentative acceptance of all of the nonsense, and actively seek out confrontations and invitations, only with the continuous resolve that I am to become the better master of those rapid responses. In that way, too, will the necessary work of sustaining my place be accomplished, if only in a tangential way.
I think, therefore, towards successful integration in the larger "whole", so as to make better use of those inherencies that my ancestry in the longer run of grimly-resolved and -confronted humanity actually has made part of my make-up. I have perhaps been taken aback and embarassed on too frequent an occasion, when my sense of self is either disregarded or openly repudiated, when I dare assert it in the assembly, but to seek the posture of "safety" is little more than craving the love-bombing hypocrisy of the utopiae and the cults. I'd suppose I am mad as hell and would prefer not to take it any more, but then what is that, anyway, other than some mindless interjection onto an empty street? I stop at this point and take a listen to some of the ongoing "tracks" that are playing inside my head, as I lay on the sofa, staring idly towards the rafter-space. They have made such a place for me, and this is my gratitude. But it lacks conviction and direction; it is a rogue flood through an underdeveloped conduit. I finally have to conclude that the best action is inaction, to the extent it is possible. "Yes, yes, I hear you. I will act as is prudent and correct, and I'm sure you'll be satisfied." I will soon have to get back in the truck and re-expose myself, and begin to pay back some of my debts to society. How they've put up with my folly to this point is difficult to understand, anyway. I must not forget, that when I respond to another in the form of an impulsive assertion, there is a strong implication that Newton's 2nd law somehow becomes applicable. There are two sides to each transaction, or else the "trans" would be missing. This kind of world-view must look odd to many of the more "successful" practitioners, who'd come to this squalid hut and see only a potential mess in the making.
"Bo"
Ahead to October 2003
