July 2004 Cabin Diary
- 3 July 2004 -- It is all turned off
- 28 July 2004 -- Out in the environment
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July 2004 Cabin Diary |
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28 July 2004 -- Out in the environment
I drift along, wondering what is happening next, while the sun once again moves off into its hidden finish below the incredibly-lush trees that rise beyond the western ridge. There has been a lot of rain, so naturally, the bugs are on the increase. I take time throughout days like this to douse myself so thoroughly that one would think that DEET is inherent to my endocrinology. Thus have I a defense mechanism, thanks to Johnson Wax. In the enclosed and grubby clamminess that I carry about on this kind of sultry evening's approach, I stop for a minute and just appreciate how fully the clearing and its scrub form the basis of the perfectly-set setting of the Cabin site. It is encampment in the finest sense, in barely-tracked land that people thankfully forget about, as they drive by the hidden entrance 4.1 miles away on Highway 735. I just want to settle in, on a night like this, only I am currently at a loss as to how to generate the fine internals and resonance that a properly-inspired time alone should have. I am sick of being driven nicely along by circumstance; I need some of the "real stuff!".
But nothing is real here, so I decide to step inside and light the kerosene lamps a little early. Oh, yes, there is nothing like good, solid incandescence, to remind us, after all, that the Big Bang background temperature is in fact on its way down. Were I of the more congenial experience at this point, I might launch into a stanza of "this little light of mine", as I watch the guttering flame. But I have the crickets, and the frogs, plus the knowledge that this is bear country and a land of the raccoon. I suspect there are wolves out there as well, only the right dose of political correctness tells me not to fear them. It's kind of damp tonight, actually; a strange experience at the elevation of 3765 feet. I'd expect this in a city summer setting, down there so close to sea level. I see I'm getting nowhere with all of this consideration, so I might as well move on. I sigh at last, being all I can do.
"Bo"
3 July 2004 -- It is all turned off
Evening is fully in its process, up here in the clearing, and the woods are now nicely lush. I do not have a whole lot "to do", in any purposeful way, though perhaps I could drag the chair out to the fire ring and have an evening of flames and embers, in the traditional "camping" motif. It looks as if it will be clear outside tonight, with the stars and all. The better folks, of course, will launch into their romantic fantasy, typically involving other human beings, in such a setting, claiming that "it doesn't get much better than this". Actually, that's a statement of significant merit, when a person reaches some of the tracts of despondency that I've seen lately. The classical man sees nothing in particular; he has to be swayed by objective reality. The larger thread is so abundantly "out there", and I really wonder if I should have a greater "footprint" in that susceptible and ruinous gambit.
But not tonight, and not for me, will any of that be. I sigh as I walk around the darkened, somber interior of the pine-paneled shed, realizing that I need to light the lanterns when the true pitch of dark arrives. I guess I kind of like pitch dark sometimes, for it is a privilege that so rarely befalls the city. I sit on the sofa, with a strong inclination just to stretch out, and perhaps cry a small tear for what might have been. I have plenty of insulation about, with all the comforters and down accessories that make the Cabin complete. It is total removal, and one that even asks me to deny myself, for whatever that is worth. "What is there about me that is so worthy of celebration?" I ask. The "greater unity" wins every time. It is so strange, to possess sentience in a setting like this. I was generally "lazy" throughout the heat of the day that is now ended, so something keeps me perked up, as if I'd actually gone "nocturnal". It is the night, and I am alive, so this is the "night life".
Darkness grows in here, in the grand way that it always does, and without needing formal proof. There are inescapables about earth-bound reality that are a comfort at times, when everything else is sinking sand and relatively-defined. This is not to say that I'm one of those "seekers of truth", for even with right discernment, the results of the search might draw nothing. I get a little tired of all of this nothing, as it arrives at my input terminals. Sometimes, I don't even hear the static on the line, as if it were cut by some counter-insurgent, closer to the source. I let my practice of off-turning turn off for awhile, as it continues to grow darker. The senses are so deprived, but what good are they, anyway, in all the overly-loud media that are my assignment for city life's feed? It is tough, to be turned off, and then the challenge is doubled, when I'm called to turn off what is doing the turning off.
I breathe deeply, in those exercises advocated by the "relaxation" specialists in the vast neurocracy down there. I pick my bare feet off the floor and drop my head into the pillow on the sofa. I feel my weight, and the reaction of the bedding against my roughened exterior. Perhaps with the passage of time, I'll enter a more favorable condition, the kind that does not need explanation or apology. That is the search, I remind myself; for the involuntary control from without. The world can, at times, put quite a punch into one's experience. It's just not getting through at the present, so all I can rationally describe is nothing. I breathe some more of those abdominal breaths, as the room grows so dark that the windows are no longer the dominant features they are during the day. I should like to pass into the profundity of the mind that does not form internal thoughts; the one that is closer to the final union with the unity.
But let's face it, stress is taking its toll, even now. To be driven so completely out of the fanciful response must be extravagantly expensive. That's what the stress-experts further say. It is a forced and supercritical equilibrium, of the kind that has a large punch packed somewhere that will eventually escape containment. There is a little knot inside of me, I'm sure, that I'd do well to let dissipate. And dissipation is the central feature of worldly reality. You cannot escape it; a true runaway response will eventually suffer from its solid presence. It is pretty much pitch dark now, and my eyes are strangely open. I will have to find something to do, for this condition does not even have the common courtesy to project fanciful, hypno-psychedelic imagery. It is just a blank screen, and would receive 0.00 on any Nielsen scan.
"Bo"
Ahead to August 2004