1 November 1998 -- Taking a break from social striving
I am in need of rest, once more, as I finish driving the riverside track
and pull into the area near the front door and the outhouse. Stepping
out and away from the climate control of the truck,
I remember why I started out wearing so much clothing, even at the lower
altitudes where I made my last stop for fuel. The cold--undeniable
cold-- has arrived, and it would snow today with the right presence of
precipitation. I carry a couple more armfuls of wood inside to the
bin by the hearth, and waste no time lighting up the fire.
I'm looking about the quiet, undisturbed interior of this room, which
shall soon sit among snowdrifts and blizzards in the months to come.
I realize that getting away like this is the one consolation I have for
keeping my total involvement in "polite society" at a minimum. The
typical defensive response I say to myself is "they have rejected me.
So I'll go away." It can't be quite that simple, though. I
figure I must be sending a number of "leave me alone" signals first, since
so much of the population seems to regard me as not to be taken as seriously
as those fully-social ones.
As the fire builds and I begin to feel more at home up here in my center
of solitude and solace, I can only assume that when a person submits completely
to assimilation, the feeling must be so overwhelmingly "right" that they
do not question their membership. I should think I would try harder
to know some of this apparent joy beyond my current understanding, if only
the collective did not demand so much unpleasant initial commitment.
It is a proposition of considerable up-front opportunity cost, and with
a long time spent between capital outlay and maturity of investment.
I am so tired, I think to myself, as I finally feel enough heat
to leave the hearth and drop on the sofa by the front window. I can
only see the apparent benefit of free time to myself, as I finally get
away today. So few are the joys in this present life to compare with
an uncluttered schedule! But as I have come to know, participation
amid others in the "community" is almost defined by its rigidly-imposed
schedule. There is a fixed pair of time and place for almost everything,
since it is the only way people can be assured of contact. The ones
I see being carried along; who "go with the flow", must indeed be so satisfied
and enveloped in that hypothetical and enthusiastic togetherness that they
do not care about being jerked about, from place to place. Their
unexplainable altruism for the larger group's success must really be paid
for in full, but somewhere under the table, where I do not see.
With the fire fully under way, I am able to remove my heavy outer garments
and feel at home once again at the Cabin. Maybe I should begin working
right now on how I'll offer less resistance, when I get dragged back to
that curious realm of the many, as indeed my real life requires.
The cries of resistance and protest might actually be the very signals
that the others are reading as disdain, and even disgust. I am so
tired, and especially tired of running away. One day I shall have
a real and properly-human home. I know a far-off yet abiding assurance
that after enough of those seemingly senseless efforts in the real world,
I shall sit at last among Family, and no longer at the end of miles of
road leading to nowhere, out in the cold woods.
RB
5 November 1998 -- Settling into a slower day
This has turned out to be a good day to maintain a decent fire, with
the cold-near-freezing and solid cloud cover that had signalled a high
probability of seeing some snow. I did not want to leave the soft enclosure
of my bunk after I woke up, since I was greeted only by gray, and not the
brilliant sun, through the front window. It is a rather strange experience,
compared to my city life, to wake up in my Cabin bed. Back in the
real world, there is that immediate call to duty, and a pile of activity
that is incumbent upon seeing the first light of day. Sleep is a
shameful thing to have done for all those hours, since time passes and
the traffic into town builds.
When I am no longer able to ignore the cold on my face, I rise, find
my trousers and shirt, and attend to the hearth. After I've restored some
heat, I decide that I need to experience conditions outside from a first-hand
perspective. I step from the front porch into the dooryard, walking
tentatively past the truck and into the open. I note that there is
a raw lifelessness to the air under these clouds, as I see the first flakes
appear. Throughout the clearing, the barren stalks of last season's
growth appear ready for the snow cover to come. The true life hidden
below, of course, anticipates the insulation of that great, heavy layer,
something that always seemed strange to me as a biology student in school.
It has been cold for some time now, so this first snow will not readily
melt. I watch the flakes, as they drift down and are slightly carried
by the wind. They come to rest lightly on top of the matted yellow grass-remnant
and wait for their brethren. I finally go inside as a solid layer
begins to form. I feel my cheeks and hands sting slightly, as they
remind me of the conditions they would prefer to know. This is a
time of year I traditionally consume more from the electronic entertainment
media, for to enter into and travel within their vast virtual world, I
need not make such challenging physical passages.
Outside the window, the ground is now undeniably white, in that slightly-startling
way it changes over with the first real snow of every season. There is
something subdued about this day--it seems to carry an inherent,
self-imposed limit upon what can happen. Maybe I'm just missing all
that city "excitement" again, which is an annoying feeling on these visits,
since it suggests I am addicted to something I know will harm me if I get
too much. I fully understand on a day like today why vacation-only
cabins are shuttered and inactive in these months.
But do I really need that unending input of artificial indoor stimuli,
in crowded enclosures reached after sitting in traffic with the defrost
blower running and the wipers clearing the salt spray from my view?
That seems to be the one of the ends towards which civilization in the
temperate zones has progressed--a world of conveniently interconnected
spaces in which a person need never really slow down for the winter.
But in this setting, I haven't the option to enter such a realm.
I must follow more closely what the outdoors remind to do, which in a word
is less. With the outdoor attractions in the woods now so
inaccessible, I'll just have to last out the day on the sofa and by the
fire. But at least I can think things over from my city life without more
new things being steadily piled on top to divert my considerations.
RB
9 November 1998 -- Trying to appreciate the ordinary
It has warmed some lately and the sun returned yesterday, so the near
inch of snow that was on the ground has melted off. Although it is
bright again outside, it is also cold and wet, and the trend towards winter-for-real
is clearly continuing. With the foliage gone, it is easier to see
large distances into the wooded areas, so the clearing does not provide
the comforting enclosure it did during the summer. It is as though
I'm seeing some sort of behind-the-scenes view, like that of a stage torn
down until the next production arrives in April, 1999.
It does seem like an odd way to spend time; these many hours
in the November woodland without more of a real "purpose", such as hunting.
But as events in the world of business proceed without stopping towards
their crescendo, only to let up at "the holidays" that begin in 3 weeks,
I can especially enjoy moments to myself at the Cabin, even in these rather
harsh outdoor surroundings. It bothers me at times, since this off-season
diversion is clearly not part of the "book" when it comes to leisure time.
I know I should be down there right now, getting the most of these
weeks before everyone's attention turns to frenzied preparations for family
visits and various hectic travel arrangements.
But my personal motivation in that regard has been falling behind what
I really need. So much of what is honorably "productive" in their
eyes, and even worth paying me to do, appears pointless in my own
eyes; so matter-of-fact and mundane. It is indeed an ongoing challenge,
to live and deal with the fully-"normal". They learned the lessons
of basic human existence and emotional survival before they were 13 or
14 years old. But I still have much of this education ahead of me
in my mid-thirties. I'm glad I don't need to be back down there in
that city office for awhile, and when I finally do show up again, I can
only hope to have seen a change for the better in my level of inspiration.
I must accept that there is no realistic method of "running away".
That is just the stuff of legend and TV sitcoms; picking up and leaving
everything behind, to make a clean break. There is a greater heroism,
it appears, in maintaining one's mediocrity. I should have pride
in being a well-crafted social and economic "appliance", a black box having
an input and an output and bearing a functional label, like in the textbooks.
I must be ready to perform as designed and configured, whenever they turn
the crank--then I'll have justification among men.
I suppose those who know the basics of coping can harness a fraction
of that output to feed back into turning their own crank. These are
the ones that thrive and can dwell indefinitely within their cozy circles
of friends and family. They derive that wonderful strength from social
contacts that I can only understand indirectly and partially, by inference
and observation of secondary results. They can even repair themselves
when they break down, as any properly-living being should, whereas my rote,
mechanical participation requires intensive hands-on control and constant
corrective inputs. They are alive and I am not, at
least in relative terms.
I have come inside the Cabin, finally, after walking about for some
time in the cold, wet leaves. Perhaps because of the current theatrical
re-release of "The Wizard of Oz", I find myself relating to the rusted
and solitary Tin Man while I sit out here, pondering as I assume my single
pose just how I might find myself a heart. Of course, as the cinematic
parable and the more contemporary song lyrics point out, he really had
a heart all along. So I just need a real reason one of these
days to restore my own idled heart to its proper use, after so many years
of being locked in place by the bitter and cynical dismissal of goodness
that I do not understand. Yes, as in the old folk song, "There is
none so blind / as he who will not see."
RB
13 November 1998 -- Letting things come to rest
Early this afternoon the snow began, and the insistent steadiness of
its falling made it clear that this was no mere flurry. A good six
inches have accumulated, now that night has fallen and I tromp in the front
door, returning from the outhouse. This snow is the kind that promises
to stay for awhile, fairly dry and blowing. It appears to have no intention
of wavering on the line dividing it from sleet, the common real-life mess
I have known during my 10 winters in the Mid-Atlantic.
After hanging my heavier garments and setting my boots near the hearth
to dry, I light the kerosene lamp in the kitchen and add two sizable new
pieces of split oak to the fire. The region of heat seems like such
a good place to be that I decide to use one of the pillows from my bunk
and stretch out on the throw rug. I notice how cool, if not indeed
cold, the pillow fabric feels, from its time spent over in the alcove,
the farthest point from the flames. Sometimes, the relative firmness
of the floor seems comforting to have as a bodily support. The bed
or the overstuffed sofa might have their place and time, but right now,
I enjoy the feeling of being solidly settled, knowing just what it is that
holds me in place.
The new logs on the fire spend time in their hissing, crackling protest,
as they are driven toward kindling by the relentless, orange-hot coals
below. It is a rather difficult discipline to remove my thoughts
from the pile of perceived disappointment I have left behind in the city
after coming here this morning. I envy the people whose power of
forgetfulness is greater than their power of memory. Even in these
quarters of sparse distraction, my mind maintains its vivid and exaggerated
internal model of the "reality" I spend day after day embellishing at the
office and at home.
It amazes me, many times, when I return from an absence and realize
I didn't need to be so solidly concerned. Things do go on
without me, and I have more flexibility to "let them be" than I care to
admit. What matters now is that I have this fire, right here in front
of me, well-stoked and radiant, promising to keep me warm tonight.
Even the snow immediately outside the Cabin walls can be left to itself.
It knows where to fall. I still do not understand how it is that
I have come to be so needlessly concerned about futures that have little
probability of becoming reality. But even a small chance of experiencing
some unspeakable terror seems worth bothering myself about, while I continue
to neglect the more subtle matters that are my true danger.
The heat of the fire has finally gotten to me, as the flames build,
and I pick up the pillow to move back a few feet. I try to begin
dispelling some of those misplaced fears to see a kinder, gentler truth
about who and why I am. It is an injustice, day after day, to impose
the punishment of unfounded fear upon a person who, after all, is human
enough to have a Social Security Number like the others do, and who works
competitively and supports himself--at least for now. These things,
naturally, I can forget--or at least deny. It just makes no
sense, I conclude with a sigh, as I settle in for the night. I don't
think being human was supposed to make sense, anyway.
RB
17 November 1998 -- Lasting out the rough spots
A fair quantity of the snowfall from a few days back remains on the
ground, although the portions that were swept shallow by the wind have
now melted all the way through, with temperatures rising back above freezing.
The paths I first cleared to get to the out-buildings are now completely
dry. This is something of a slow day for any kind of truly "stimulating"
activity, since I would prefer to stay indoors by the fireplace.
I shudder to imagine that I might really be getting...bored...up
here at the end of the long dirt road. I am actually pacing
the wooden floor today, looking out one window after another into the predominantly
white scene.
I find myself leading a "boom or bust" life, where I'll come to a place
like this for a long-desired getaway, only to find the escape too
complete. The typical, "normal" reader out there, of course, has
long ago written me off as one of those aberrant, anti-social hermits,
who deserves what he gets. I believe I have made it clear that I
would cooperate more readily with the accepted "polite society" if it didn't
demand all I have in the way of time, attention, and most importantly,
moments of my own choosing to be by myself. Somewhere, someplace,
and with someone or some group, I still believe, there must be a
practice of living that exhibits such moderation. But for now, I
must break off and distance myself completely.
I stand here, admiring as a spectator the splendor those others
know, while dodging the actual experience of their pain. I finally
take a seat on the sofa and look out the front window, onto the expanse
of the clearing and into the woods in the distance rising up to the ridge.
How many times have I seen this exact sight, even in these very conditions
of snow and light cloud cover! If I were a settler in the days of
Daniel Boone, raising a family on this difficult-to-till land, I would
never have time to feel as I do now. My life would be one harrowing
chapter of responsibility after another, crisis followed by crisis, yet
I would be paradoxically strengthened by my perseverance.
This wilderness scenario I've created is simply too easy, I conclude.
Humans seem to thrive on peril and challenge, though they might publicly
profess a dislike for it and a preference for quieter, more stable times.
I wonder...what is left up here as a real challenge any more, in this building
that is structurally sound, with supplies that are well-stocked by the
decree of my imagination? Well, I am admittedly experiencing
the anxiety of boredom (or its close equivalent), and there is but one
sad solution to that: get in the truck and
drive back down for more confrontations with the "cruelties" of real life.
That's all there is to do; I must go wait things out while accomplishing
useful work of some kind--any kind--until a more convincing call to a rewarding
vocation comes my way.
I look out at those bare patches of earth, where the wind has revealed
random surfaces of gravel and matted growth from the previous season.
Here I have an apt metaphor for the sequence of time-spans I must pass,
or regret passing too rapidly, as the case might be. Up against the
rocks, the snow has piled high in drifts, far more than is needed for cover
and terrible to walk through in boots and a snow suit. Yet, it would
also be hard going on my cross-country skis today, since any direct path
would pass over many of those open spots, and rapidly cause the abrasive
ruin of the bottom finish. And so goes my life, hindered from forward
passage by those random, weakest-link moments of despair, when I must scrape
myself along, hesitantly negotiating the rough surfaces until a stretch
of better conditions for travel appears.
RB
21 November 1998 -- Back in hiding
I was finally able to get away from work yesterday afternoon
and have some time to myself to come on up to the Cabin. The Management,
of course, would greatly prefer a worker who'd put in overtime on Saturday,
rather than goofing off like this. Those various social organizations
that say they would have me as a closer member would probably like to see
me right now, too. But I get a greater return on time invested (or
a lesser loss, to be more precise) by driving out the long road, to be
to myself in these woods.
It is snowing again today, one of those lighter-duty flurries that still
has persistence enough to cause appreciable accumulation over a sufficient
fraction of the day. I'm standing by the kitchen table, looking out
the window towards the ravine, which drops away with its now-barren tree
cover. I have a much better sense and view of the river bottom below.
I can almost see the entire distance upstream to the falls, my place to
escape from the heat of summer. That was only 4 months ago.
Eventually, I leave my position near the kitchen window, since a considerable
draft is present in this part of the building, and head for the fireplace.
Yes, real life amid those others had become too much again this
last week, and I somehow think I can find rest in this place of lesser
commotion. It bothered me a bit, the way I left last night; the experience
almost had a vengeful callousness to it, as though innocent people living
out innocent lives needed to be shown how little I cared for their entire
construct of apparent artifice and lies. They said they wanted
me to be around, but I do not believe that anyone like myself could be
so wanted.
I take a seat in the cherrywood rocker by the fire and absorb my fill
of the heat. All I want is to stop living a life that is nothing
but a single, unending distraction! I know that not much of
it could possibly be their fault. Some would say it is all
my fault, as they attempt to prod me into compulsory action out
of shame. Others seem to have dispensed with accusations of personal
causation entirely, seeing nothing but unfortunate circumstance as bearing
the blame.
I'm looking over towards the front window now, where I can see the slow-but-steady
snow, randomly working its way down across the clearing. On such a day,
I should really suit up in my thermals and parka and go for a walk out
there. It is one of those times of profound quiet outside,
where only the ongoing flow of the river and the occasional far-off crack
of a tree branch are heard, beyond the incessant and scornful playback
within my own head. I might get a glimpse of a raccoon or fox, if
I watch intently enough. They, along with the deer, are my main company
up here.
Since I do not feel that I "fit in", I am left with two difficult options
on weekends like this. I know I can't take much more of the city
and its "society" by the end of the week, but my methods of escape tend
to be those in which I only hear that one internal voice, from which there
is no escape. It is time to stop letting myself think, or even better,
to stop caring what I think. It is time to crawl out and away from that
internal mind's center, to behold some of the essential merit within my
surroundings and see myself from a distance as the others do. No, it does
not really matter how I feel, for a given feeling doesn't last long, anyway.
I suspect the others have learned long ago to dispense with how they
feel in favor of loftier goals in the service of others. I am determined
to drive back down the dirt track one day with immunity to the whims of
my internal criticism. The others do have use for me, and
they must get rather annoyed when I am nowhere to be found.
RB
25 November 1998 -- Sheltered by distance
The sun is out today, and conditions have been warm enough to reduce
the snow from the last 2 weeks to a dense, wet and irregular matting, which
is draped heavily over the clearing and surrounding woods. It occurs
to me today, as I sit on the porch looking at the rising slope that encloses
the high end of the hollow, that I am indeed a very long distance away
from the main road and the nearest phone in the village below. Even
the final drive up the dirt track in the truck
will normally take 20 - 25 minutes because of how rough it gets along the
way. I am reminded that getting out of this location on foot could
occupy several hours, even with the advantage of hiking steadily down,
alongside the river that cuts its rather direct path through the terrain.
Yes, this is isolation; this is "solitary confinement", supposedly the
worst-feared of punishments. It is perhaps to my benefit that I am
forced into so much social contact in the course of my real life. I don't
think I've taken the time to appreciate how difficult being entirely alone
for an extended period could be. Yet, I continue to crave such solitude
out of anguished desperation, being so entirely encompassed by the corrosive
humanity, in that Northern Virginia office complex, on the rage-filled
roads, and closed up indoors in the housing unit on 0.05 acres that I call
"home".
There should be a way to harden myself against such sensitivity to continuous
close contact, like those "normal" others seem to have done. I spend
a few moments on the porch in the creaking metal chair, before the wind
and the cold finally make me head back inside to sit by the fire. I feel
contentment over not having "people in my face", whose way I must dodge
as I negotiate the narrow apertures and passageways dictated by commercial
architectural design and finite budgets.
The others seem so immune to city life--they have some hidden
power to endure and to thrive within those same conditions. It is useless
to ask them how they got that way, for that is how they've always been.
Maybe inside their own minds, they do not hear the ongoing "dialogue" that
I do when I'm by myself and under these open skies. Maybe they are
like equipment that has been powered down and is out of fuel, when they
do not have sustained contact and real conversation with at least
one other person. Such a life must be an endlessly tempestuous affair,
with all that unbroken interaction. I wonder, then, how they can
appear to have any semblance of peace--unless the worst of my suspicions
is true and they've indeed become callous. Perhaps, out of a lack
of sensitivity, the others do not take those daily disappointments, spurnings
and rejections as the intense blows that I do. I suppose they'd deny
they're "callous"--they just have greater "coping skills".
Starting to feel the chill, I take a look off the left side of the porch,
to where the dirt road comes around the last bend into the clearing.
I need not have the standard apprehension that there'll be a vehicle coming
my way when I walk out there. Down at the other end of that road,
in real life, I've learned to put up a guard against the abrasive blasts
of human-generated irritation, holding my hands in front of my face as
they slowly grind away at my soft exterior. It hurts to have such
a delicate epithelium so continually assaulted and inflamed, and it is
a lot of work to restore. But I also begin to think that it is probably
a sheathing I was never supposed to have developed. There is indeed
a large and unwarranted buffer zone of unkempt, trackless and overgrown
emptiness right now between me and the crowd. But seeing life as
it really is would simply be too much--or at least that is how it
looks from this distance.
RB
29 November 1998 -- Seeking to understand my objectives
As I came inside the Cabin when it grew dark last night, I noted the
heavy cloud cover that had moved in, along with dropping temperatures.
There was a decidedly different feeling in the air, after the radiant warmth
of those few days of sun and snow-melt. Cold was now the rule and
it was preparing to have its way. When I finally made ready for bed,
the snow had begun, building rapidly into near-whiteout conditions.
Since I had seen this before during the previous season, it didn't particularly
bother me as I drifted off to sleep.
Now, with the arrival of morning, I wake to see the first light of day
through the front window, greatly attenuated and shifted to a bluish-gray
hue. I begin to get myself under way, heading barefoot across the
cold wooden floor-planks to stoke up the cast-iron stove and fieldstone
fireplace. With the flames building and the heat returning, I take
a seat on the sofa to look out across the clearing. I fail to see
the usual tree-line in the distance because of the intensity of the blizzard.
There must be between 12 and 15 inches of accumulation from overnight.
I have the sense of looking at a soft, rolling white sea, rather than the
carpeting of wildflowers, grass, and low brush that had covered the clearing
during the summer.
As I gaze upon this confined and empty scene, I remind myself that I
have had plenty of time these last 4 days to experience what I thought
I had wanted, and that was complete solitude. Now, the enclosure
of the hollow has an even greater feeling of isolation, whether I like
it or not. My earlier hypotheses about eventually becoming demoralized
by staying here too long are beginning to find solid support. I'm
starting to look forward to, rather than resenting, my return to the "cruelty"
of cooperative urban life.
After "resting" alone for all this time, I sadly find that I have begun
to lose my grasp of having a mission or an objective.
These are the benefits of working a job and belonging to a "community"--those
daily accomplishments provide undeniably valuable service to others, and
ultimately, to myself. Yes, "they" were sincere when they
said they "needed" me and what little I have to offer. But this habitual
escape seems to be my only available response to being over-extended, since
whenever I give to those others, they are never satisfied; they would like
me to give more.
I have not learned to treat their demands with moderation; it is easier
to run than to say "no". Thus, I often tend to lose my sense of mission
down there as well, since the struggle is unending and there is no clear-cut
victory; no conclusion to proceedings. I see no real value in a final,
palpable and singular outcome, since "all glory is fleeting" and will fade
away to reveal a new struggle ahead. I get somewhat disheartened
by the lack of a completion to my work--only a direction
in which my efforts should proceed.
I watch from the front window with a cup of coffee from the stove, as
the snow continues to fall. It is steady, and appears to know its
mission well, even though it will be completely melted and poured down
the river with the passage of time. It is an ongoing wonder to me,
how the call to action with no lasting final goal can still appear to have
such heartfelt propriety. But then, maybe I fail to see what really
does last; those "treasures in heaven" that do not fade but will
stand for all time.
RB
Ahead to December 1998
