A 3D 1:48,000 scale model of the Cybercabin Land, Built of 1/8" foam core board and rubber cement, April 2003 May 2004 Cabin Diary |
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3 May 2004 -- One of the one many
It seems a bit odd, these days, that I once so thoroughly craved "turning everything off", as was the scene in the 1997 Dream. It has been warm enough lately to open the windows and let some of the high country breeze do its typical purge, of the hideousness that any creature's burrough ends up becoming after a winter. This happens well enough in silence, with of course the chill torrent of the river out back reminding me of where the "drain" tends to be to all of this. I suppose I could go on one of my fantasies about topography, that fine metric analysis of what the Creator has created. It is easy enough, just to take account, and there are few quantum mechanical testing dualities that will show rippling currents one time and a cold drink from the filtration output at another. Water is water, just as A is A (to satisfy the Rand folks out there).
Yes, I should be going back to the true "font"; the information god-head, whose polytheism is a necessary requirement of avoiding the Sherman Anti-Trust Act. Who better to inspire a man than another man (or woman, as the case may be)? One good shot like I'm trying today to reach into some of the transcendent echelons is a pretty tough drag, and one that requires that I've "got it" already. The parable is always of the one who already has, but thinks he can get more. Supposedly, when you hit those better heights, you just fall down prostrate, in ecstatic completion. That's heaven on earth, yes sir. It also sounds like an intoxicated affect to carry around for long, however, and the story usually goes on to prescribe further pain that the protagonist can somehow bear. I keep thinking I'm going to ignite one of those intracranial blockbusters, just by sitting around out here in the still-soggy woods, but so often it is, that I just get wet.
The Kingdom Up There, in the Sweet By-and-By, and of course in the monistic nirvana as well, is supposed to dry every tear from my eyes, and make me not care that my flesh took such a whoopin', in the interest of contribution, consumption and commerce. It is the kind of place that the woebegotten sentient cannot fathom, for it is not a place, for it is here already. The establishment of the consicious was a really slick act, all those eons ago. Whoever can look back at himself and see that "he is" has inherited cognition of his own demise. There is, however, the one, and like it or not, I've taken membership in this projection of it. I should shun the marketers of the plural, but then the ones who say they have the one are, after all, plural; that ethnological outcome of the unprincipled in Babel. I sigh deeply on this day, with the skies clearing up from the recent rains. At least I have this season, to put myself a little more in my true place, which is no place.
So then, we come upon the old subject of "pride of place", surely a hubris out of which another unrecorded Homeric recitation might achieve Hollywood immortality. Back there in Achaia, they thought themselves, naturally, to be at the center, though the enlightened Westerner pretty well knows that the navel of the universe is in Orange County, CA. They love their little polis, of course, and all the others are barbarians. Thus they've foisted upon themselves an institutionalized falsehood, in declaring quality to have been engraved in the form of their dirty little collective, forced to sea out of desperation, since their own little hollow is semi-arid and only good as range land, in the little land there is. In the story, perhaps, the world would just leave them alone, and let them peter out. Great would be the frustration, as the rich lands of Ukraine are no longer open for their trade. The world knows that their coin cannot be passed on, for they are doomed as an instance.
So there is none but the many, that set of non-natural integers that intentionally bridges the value one. So long as I am unum amid pluribus, I can only look with admiration, at the undivided unity that also bespeaks the totality. Am I to see in myself some sort of wretched model of that complete collection, like the one a 5th grader would build for a science project without Dad's help? Is there a bridging potential of some sort, in having this pitiful pile of organic chemicals and inorganic lattices still support the remarkable notion of one self? I guess what I'm after is far, far beyond what is human, though I carry a finite picture of it within my one self. This is a comfort, at times, for it laughs in the face of the notion of a "limited" world and the ultimate train wreck of consumption's results that is due to hit the world's industrial economy in 12 - 16 years or so. Though Paul might have condemned as heresy a belief in imminent apocalypse, and the need to continue in one's vocation, the fact is, we're already up to our armpits in it. The kingdom came, and a very long time ago.
"Bo"
24 May 2004 -- Embracing my absence
My visits seem to be thinning out, and just when the season is good...but I have no idea why. Am I being successfully diluted by real-world distractions that soon I will be everywhere and nowhere at the same time? Oh, that is how the "machine" consumes its prey; by distraction. Well, the land is still here, by gum, and I still have access to the 4.1 miles of dirt road that extend beyond the gate down there. Oh, it's a long, long road, once used in forestry, perhaps, but now overwhelmed by all kinds of indigenous second growth. The rocks that have been dumped so nicely along the stretch of the clearing, here at 3765 feet and higher on the borders, is something I'm sure the earlier users found to be an annoyance. There has been just enough of the fragile, stony soil to support the foundation of the Cabin. That stuff growing down in the ravine is probably contemporary in origin, having been replaced within my own time on this earth. Yes, the forest has a program of its own, quite separate from the Cabinet-level Departments back there in the real world Capital.
Yes, it's getting nice and warm now. I hear the insect-noise starting up, with some of the outstandingly-warm days that have now dawned on the hollow. Still, the river is the main background; summer is still some ways before peak. A year is quite the structure to traverse, sometimes, only it is but an artifact of planetary distribution, pretty much an overlay that is nonetheless imbued upon my philogeny. Everything is a matter of the year, it all rises or falls with it. Without the year, it can be argued, I might be someone else, or no one at all. Now there's a sobering thought: to posit the possibility that I could just as well be denied my sentient and doubling-back recognition of all that is. But that's a pointless wandering, another stony fragment tossed in my way by the likes of Kant, Schopenhauer, and all those other dead Teutons. "Can't you see, dear dead ones, that this Teutonic dude is still here, and as lost as ever?"
Oh, how it would be, to ride the mighty high with the innocence of a child; indeed, that is how the holy one of Nazareth advises the Kingdom be embraced. But darn it, I have to be a man at the same time, for that is what my ontology dictates. There's no choice, there are tough things now revealed to me that cannot be revoked; no, it was all lost in April 1975, at the age of 13. I take it that the extreme humiliation that followed in the socialization system was my own rite of passage, there can be no denying that. But what emerged, from that state- and "society"-sanctioned test? Hardly a man, I'd have to say. So, then, I've been christened into the "non-man" category, but expected to act like one, anyway. Now there's a hoot, this bridging of being and non-being. Are the strange fruit of unsuccessful integration somehow the ones that can see both sides? Are these the ones who've already ascended?
I'm getting distracted again. The woods are here, and these scribblings are my hard testimony to the wonder of being "released". There can be nothing more, and nothing less, than idealized liberty. Of course, there is no system on earth that really supplies it; you cynics, rest assured, I'm well aware of that. Maybe I'm just dancing about the two sides of the here and the not-here, so as to form my own little Rainbow Bridge. When I've denied self entirely, by declaring that I have no place in any world, then I stand in them all. Yes, go the koans, you fully "enlightened ones" will laugh, as I toss about the ball you've already laid to rest. OK, then, for the time being, I'll spend some time simply "not being", for this is how I can enjoy the woods best--complete removal, and assignment apart. This is the detachment of affect that suits me best, and it seems characteristic of an autism that unites me nonetheless, for I prance about barriers few can see. They're the ones who think they're in the totality. Ha, ha.
There's not a whole lot to do, as I sit on the porch as I so often have, on the creaking metal chair. I should really pick up some of that cheesy lawn furniture they sell down at the drug-mart in the bigger town on the highway up; it would be a lot more comfortable for this season. Most, if not all, of the furnishings up here have been "found", in degraded estates at lower altitude. That's how it was set up in 1997, with stuff no one would mind losing. It is warm this evening, but when the sun goes off behind the far ridge to my rear, the cold will develop. It will be a starry night tonight, only I'm not caring for the thought of the chill. This is all such a joke, this building of a realm to state some farce of being "independent". True independence will be the awesome subsumption that the acid freaks could only hope to approach. It will be clear, it will be total, yes, that will be liberty. I do envy the ones who walk around with their authentic little pieces of it in their very own souls, however. Blessed are they, yes.
"Bo"
Ahead to June 2004
