1 December 1999 -- Some time away from the load
With the number of distractions that have built up in my day-to-day
real life, especially as compounded by the Holidays and Y2K, I am glad
for those moments when I can take shelter within the cliffs of the hollow
up here, with the only ready access being the dirt track along the river.
I have lately had the sense that I am flailing aimlessly at too many low-priority
jobs, with a predictable degradation in my perceived level of performance.
I should like to have the internal discipline to get my mission concisely
defined and trimmed of non-essential objectives, then get right at this
problem of improving my quality of life. Such an iron will, however,
is more than I can find in my inventory.
The best I can do now is step away and simply not start into new obligations.
This means filling some important stretches of time with innocuous "busy
work", as we used to call it in grade school. Sitting here at the
Cabin, which strangely resembles the evenings I spend in my city home,
appears to be an acceptable assignment, until such time as I can commence
a broader deployment of my various abilities.
Tonight I am most decidedly staying inside; it is bitter cold
under a clear, star-laden sky. I seem to be firmly planted by a weight
that is much heavier than my physical body, wherever I find a seat or a
place to stretch out that's warm on a night like this. I get the
sense that I would wear myself down to dangerously-low levels if I were
to sport a social life like that of the "normal" ones I know in the community.
Maybe I'm working a lot harder on my job than I
am ready to admit. I have time to catch my breath there, it is true,
but there is never much of a lull before I'm at it again. Then there's
the 90 minutes or so of commuting on those dreadful northern Virginia streets.
Sure, it's a living and I can "have things", but is it worth being beaten
so low by the time I get home each night?
I am grateful to be able to spend time up here alone, since it is such
a controlled environment. Maybe I'm a "control freak", something
that goes along with a perfectionism that makes me want to excel in every
wayward endeavor I have the misfortune to encounter. The thought
of sacrificing dexterity and aptitude to stress and exhaustion is a frightening
one. But then I just take one look at myself and I know I can't have
such dominance in everything I do. I must look strange to the ones
who see me on the street or in the halls, rushing off to another obligation
that really can wait.
Here in the combined living room and sleeping area, the fixtures and
appointments are acceptably arrayed, just the way they are. I have
no need to go over "improvements". I just let myself sink into the
overstuffed sofa, where no one is around to accuse me of being a couch
potato--except for myself. It occurs to me that if I didn't have
all that daily hustle of going to work, I could be cast in the light of
a truly disrespectful "lazy" man. That is the image appearing in
the frame when a person is seen so frequently at "rest". "Look at
him; how he's 'let himself go'...," the accusation begins. It seems
a bit strange that someone should be viciously judged for failing to accord
himself a greater amount of inwardly-directed attention.
Sighing as I roll to bury my face in the muslin slipcover, I realize
that any semblance of "respect" I show by the effort I do make is
nothing more than a sense of obligation and duty, coupled with a rudimentary
need to pay the bills on an expensive one-person home. The others
can rightly accuse me of being "selfish", I suppose, but I have seen the
other, more virtuous sentiment of self-respect, and at least I know there's
a difference. How to be considerate of myself without being self-centered
is the new challenge before me. It looks like it's time for one of
those curiously-correct paradoxes, like gaining one's life by losing it.
I just don't understand the mechanism of life sometimes. So much
of it I would call "non-intuitive", yet I do not grasp its intricacies
precisely because of a lack of second-nature human intuition. There
is order beyond the surface madness--and it is as elegant as anything I
ever saw in a math or physics book--but studying it directly won't do any
good.
"Bo"
5 December 1999 -- The hazards that lie ahead
The sun is out again today, its brilliance augmented by the snow that
is currently melting to create mud-spots and open areas of grass.
It will be cold enough tonight, of course, that most of the locally-collected
water will be ice, as it was this morning when I walked to the outhouse
and made that delightful crackling noise as I broke the top layers in my
boots. There is water running from the rooftop, too, creating an array
of icicles to exceed the effect of the ones made of electric light strands
that seem all the rage wherever I travel in real life this Holiday season.
Weather like this, when seen in March, most certainly suggests the imminence
of spring, but knowing from the calendar that the bulk of winter is still
ahead, I cannot trust my senses.
This is a day that has its certainty of immediate definition yet will
mean nothing when superseded by the bigger snows and colder cold that could
arrive tomorrow for all I know. I suppose it shouldn't bother me
much, since all is ready on the most essential level. Today as I
consume some of my allotment of spare time, I keep hunting in my head for
lists of important things I'll later wish I'd have done. Such use
of my time is not very productive, I know, but at least I won't be able
to say I didn't try or care.
This gets back to my intolerance for imperfection, a factor that has
handicapped me from trying new things (or staying with old ones) over most
of the life I can remember. The world appears to give token recognition
to its acceptance of the less-than-perfect, but really, black marks must
still being going down in individual books most of the time, even if they
do not form the basis for explicitly explained rejection and stigmatization.
In continuing this twice-weekly exercise in escape along the riverbank,
I must be indulging some form of bad habit, for nothing "good for
me" in the area of social participation usually happens so spontaneously.
As in Mr. Rifkin's metaphor, I suppose, I could chalk this up to "entropy",
just like the snow out there losing its crystalline finery and running
off the side of the ravine.
Eventually, real life will grow so difficult, according to the model
of the "rock bottom", that I'll be forced to start pulling myself out.
The problem with getting to such a point, however, aside from the real
danger of harm, is that the activity that would drive me to a crash is
precisely that which I would use in living a "better life". The exercise
professionals have their schools of thought on the subject of increasing
one's fitness--the one says "no pain, no gain" while the other says "don't
overdo it so that you experience pain". The second advisor, of course,
must be aware that a certain amount has to be done, but they never
make it clear how to get going.
Well, I'm here today, loafing again in the interest of marshalling strength
for tomorrow's return to the business arena. Maybe that's just the
best thing I can do, for if real life starts to become disagreeable enough,
I will soon balk at essential and elementary functions of maintaining self
and home. At such a point, I will be able to say, "I spent my share
of time trying to get ready for this--it wasn't that I was spreading myself
too thin". That might be a soft landing at rock bottom, rather than
a powered dive from too much activity.
Knowing then the manner of trial I have ahead of me, I am comforted
somewhat when I think long enough about what the others have really
said; that their acceptance of my traits is pretty much what it seems on
its face. I give praise that there is this generally-predictable
property of human beings; that a man can dare to step where he once feared,
slip and fall, and then be helped to his feet. My problem, however,
is that I'm in no great hurry to go someplace where I could slip as though
there were glare ice all about. Those puddles in the dooryard were
enough for today.
"Bo"
9 December 1999 -- Letting it snow
The snow started today in the early afternoon, with below-freezing conditions
that made rugged ice-sculptures of the partially-melted accumulation from
before. This time, it quickly built to such an intensity that the
various hollows and open spots were soon lost under the new flowing surface.
With the approach now of evening, the wind can easily stir the top layer
of this covering, so that my view from the front window is one of an obscured
ground and an equally-obscured ridge rising behind and above. I don't
think that these are classic white-out conditions, but white is certainly
the dominant color in the scenery.
Since there is not much to see out there right now, I turn from the
window and go to build the fire up a little more. I have some time
to spend on this visit, and I am grateful for the chance to replace the
ongoing percussive beat of my real life with the smooth tone of Cabin life.
I always picture myself slowed down and stopping to think, during those
times I invoke the imagery of this place in my day-to-day urban rounds.
"If only this particular pressure (or another) were not spurring
me on," I say to myself as I fast-walk from point to point, "I could live
a truly sane life where I get more of what 'really matters' taken care
of."
Invariably, however, I run into trouble when I try to drop everything
and assume the immediate position of "relaxing". My system becomes
so wound up from the day that the forward motion remains as an undesired
presence, and after I had spent so long in the morning developing it to
get out the door. I am reminded of flying in jet planes, which need
to build all that incredible speed to leave the ground, only to dump a
similar amount on the landing strip when they return.
I look over to the window, after the flames have re-established themselves
with their new fuel. It appears to be snowing just as hard, only
it is starting to grow dark. The process will do as it pleases. I
have noted on previous visits how my life feels like it is riding on the
crest of moving swells over which I have no control, though the commentators
of oversimplification tell me I can control everything I do, think
and feel. Well, by being separated at this moment from the crowd,
I am effectively "not letting them bother me", though if the truth be known,
the residual tension from the day has only begun to drain away.
Humans seem to have a marvellous capacity for implanting impressions
of themselves into the minds of others, such as when parents attempt to
instill conscience and good behavior. I realize I need certain of
these creatures living on in my brain, but they appear a little too autonomous
sometimes. I get to a point where I think I can finally let
loose and relax, only to hear the gentle (and not-so-gentle) chidings of
this small police force, reminding me of outstanding violations.
"You are not going to get any rest this evening", they threaten,
"until you find some way to account for all the work you've left undone".
At this point, whether I've been properly served with my Miranda
rights or not, I feel like I need expert representation before I start
negotiating what may or may not be an amenable settlement for my release.
I return now to my place on the sofa, with the darkened clearing beyond,
outside the windows. Even in the small amount of light from a kerosene
lamp, I can see a lot of snowflakes. I doubt it will let up soon--I
will just have to sit it out. It's all beyond my control; the weather,
my feelings, and the responsibility incumbent upon my particular citizenship.
"Bo"
13 December 1999 -- Routine life for another day
It ended up snowing about 12 inches total last week, meaning I had to
get out the next day and make the first of several renditions of the trench
network that leads between the Cabin and the out-buildings. I try
to use a different set of less-than-direct routes each year, so as to reduce
the impact I've already inflicted upon the soil structure, though it might
be too much to hope that the "side yard" outside the kitchen window will
support a uniform growth of brush for all times.
Today I walk out the front door, on my way to the outhouse, and I descend
into the dirty-white furrow with its above-the-knee side banks. "That's
a lot of snow for this early in the season," I repeat to myself.
Though I'm shielded from the wind while I'm inside, I feel the cold doing
its best to establish a position of dominance. I am certainly glad
to have had the cleaning service done on the vault last month, before the
snow created a less-accessible situation for the fellow in the village
who does that job for me. If I lived much farther north than this,
the snow would become so deep I'd never make it out myself during the winter.
The buildings up here would stand cold and empty, and the drifts would
pile high against the windward walls. It would not matter that the
skies turn grey or that the temperatures become hazardous to exposed flesh,
since there would be no humans as bent on isolation as myself, trying to
hang on in such a setting.
I head back into the open, along the path to the front door, looking
about the sky on this grey day. There is a slight snow flurry starting,
the kind that will continue for hours without appreciable accumulation.
It becomes something I grow accustomed to, this light, blowing-about snow.
It moves to the background in the same sense of the clouds themselves.
I try to find something of true note for the purpose of contemplation when
I step back inside, remove my boots and hang up my coat on the peg to the
right of the heavy solid wood door, which I latch shut against the wind.
It seems rather odd, when I think about it, that I have a craving to
continue on to additional concerns, now that I've seen how the snow and
the sky and the woods are fairing all around. It is a reflex, perhaps,
of an industrial worker; when one piece is finished, look for the next
and move on, maintaining the pace on which ratings are based at the annual
review. I find the notion of coming to completion a rather unsettling
one, actually enough. As much as I'll complain about jobs that are
unending and thankless, at least they're there and I know them.
The typical enlightened practitioner of life, as I understand from the
media, is entirely "goal"-oriented, and driven by objectives that have
been carefully considered and pursued over the years. I would dearly
like to know how they decide what to shoot for--what is possible and what
is not. Perhaps my mind is too much a theatrical stage of exaggerated
emotion and dramatic pronouncements of imminent doom over what would happen
if I actually went somewhere with my life.
The others back there in the city, as I have seen, are not at traditional
"summering" places like this. No, they left in October and are planning
for the Holidays. They will most likely get their "Merry Christmas
and a Happy New Year". I will go on the road and attempt the same,
but I hold no great hope. Meanwhile, I'll do my best to continue
plodding along with the essential structure of 168 hours to the 52-2/7
weeks of the year. I will hold my ground and strengthen this position,
considering in greater and greater depth the various points in which it
is weak. I know it is better to be on the move, but I am unsure of
my strength against what I might end up opposing. Thus I sit, counting
up the cost, waiting for an inspiration towards realistic opportunity.
"Bo"
17 December 1999 -- Inside for the night
It is the end of a day of considerable sun upon the sculpted snow-surfaces
of the clearing, which still support blowing into new shapes because of
the intense cold that has moved in. Evening has come early, since
the solstice
is so near--only 4 days off, and with no more sun to give even the suggestion
of warmth, I have closed myself again into the tiny bit of space there
is in the Cabin.
The layout in here has a sort of "open" feel
that is not found in most homes; I have no one to exclude from what are
normally closed-door activities. From the hearth, where I sit in
my padded rocking chair in front of a nicely-mature fire, I can look at
the same time into the whole kitchen, the whole bedroom and the whole living
room. The arrangement has a sense of completeness and inclusiveness
that I don't see in typical urban and suburban spaces. It's all here,
in plain view, and the most direct path to anything is a straight line.
I am reminded of some of the banquet halls and conference rooms I have
seen, where a person at one side of the huge room can see the other, so
as to facilitate interaction between guests and the event.
Since it is so cold tonight, I would think the Cabin is an extension
of myself; a loose-fitting piece of outer clothing in which I can sit at
length at the edge of the snow-swept open area of the clearing. If
I were looking for metaphors, I might compare this simple wood-beam and
cedar siding structure to my long-practiced citadel of defenses against
the unavoidable "brutalities" of modern life in a crowded place.
I'd initially reject that one, because human presence is open to interpretation
while cold weather is not. Most of the "danger" can be dismissed
as illusory. If the truth be known, however, the path I take myself
along in life might objectively require survival skills after all.
In trying to avoid embarassment and a broken heart, I wander into places
that would drive "normal" people well past whatever desperation I've set
forth in these hundreds of twice-weekly monologues.
I'm thinking now more fully of the self-contained shell that transports
me through a "safe" life of low personal contact and minimized exposure.
The shell has a fine structure, of course, built to precision tolerances
out of engineered materials. There are also more diversions in the
real-life enclosure, such as media hookups and the ongoing game of keeping
my place at work. These impose so many constraints that it begins
to grow stuffy "in there" and I need to step "outside of the box" for fresh
air, even when it's as "cold" as the clear starry sky outside tonight.
Of course, I'm always standing near the door when I try that, ready to
dash back inside when it is clear that the frost is beginning to get to
me. Up here at the Cabin, on the other hand, I do my best to operate
on the initial premise of a place where it is safe, and where I do not
need to feel closed in. That was part of what I visited in the
dream; a place of quiet contentment, standing in country that left
it alone, just for me to live in without feeling I had to do things.
This evening, as I apply heat to feet that have grown somewhat cold
walking around on the planks of the floor, I let myself have the imaginary
indulgence of life in a private place that does not leave me saddled with
guilt every time I run off to it. Being stuck "in my shell" when
I'm supposed to be living amid the others and leaving myself open to their
effects has a terrible bunker mentality associated with it. I can
see now how I've sabotaged my life against their better intentions, by
forcing so many unrealistic or unwarranted constraints upon myself, ones
that call for solitary living. I need to take the lesson of these
times of fewer overall constraints at the Cabin and use their simplicity
as a model to evaluate and possibly discard some of the ridiculous and
convoluted procedure that passes for my "life".
"Bo"
21 December 1999 -- Preferences in comfort
The almanac tells me that the winter solstice will pass by on 22 December
at 07:44 UTC, which will be sometime during the night tonight. I'm
not sure why I am so fixated on this event for 1999--maybe I really do
have aspects of "seasonal affective disorder" and get bothered during short
days. Today has seen clouds, which make the darkness even more pronounced,
and the heavier kind of snow has been falling since sometime past noon.
Walking around outside right now is a wet proposition, reminding
me of the continual need to keep my boots well treated with repellent.
It is a rather odd little place, the warm, dry inside of this cabin,
when temperatures are near freezing and a good bit of liquid water coexists
with the piled-up snow, just outside the door. After I've removed
my boots and suddenly-sweaty overcoat from some outdoor task, this small
outpost holds back the weather, as well as the full effect of the night,
through the use of the kerosene lamps. It is essential comfort, and
at times, even "comfort and joy", as go the tidings to Ye Merry Gentlemen
at this time of year. Of course, since I'm not often "merry", I don't
think they had me in mind.
It is hard to quantify (or qualify) what makes for discomforting situations
in my real life, since there is such a difference between my apprehension
of something and its actual execution. I feel the anxiety related
to undone work lifted from my shoulders when I can con myself into believing
it's no big deal, but then, of course, it ends up being work.
It seems unfair, however, to become resigned to a life where my success
is better suited by seeing the inconveniences, annoyances, and exertions
only for their pain--not their results. Just as an end has a hard
time justifying its means, a worthwhile goal is not easily diminished by
its cost of achievement.
For whatever any of that is worth, I have my time in the shelter here,
with the big flakes swirling about, and I am not obliged at the moment
to action imposed by the outside world. It should be possible, at
least in theory, to enter that rare but wonderful state of satiated complacency,
and not necessarily as "happiness" is pitched on the broadcast media.
That's the other part of being done with a job that I fail to anticipate--the
feeling of accomplishment and the relief that transforms into a deeper
state of rest than was possible before.
I have noted that carrying out my urban life appears at most times to
have a canonically correct course of activity; a task list that someone
has written for me but is only revealed a bit at a time. I'd think
my "comfort and joy" should ideally come from seeing how small the load
really is. Yes, if I had absolute influence on just what my mood
should be, I could drive myself into the range of full-time optimism and
get stuck in that higher groove. But while I am not condemned to any sentence
of hard labor, I have a reflex-like mistrust of the joy-mongers, always
in my face and wanting me to join along. What is really wrong with
giving in to them, anyway? Maybe I need to start out by faking it,
though my first few attempts out of the chute would most certainly show
my insincerity.
I come here often to the wide open hills, to sit unburdened on this
perch below the ridge, only to return to city living with the sense that
I've squandered a valuable piece of time. I could have been exploring
the true wilderness of crowded shopping malls and party scenes.
Well, I'm not going to let that resentment tell me I have less value in
who I am and the life I do manage to pull off. The others
accept my preference for solitude more than I tend to think, especially
when my lack of skill as a party person does not help much in livening
things up. I am this way; it is my expression of "diversity", to
use the catchword. I am thankful that the rest of the crowd will
let me have as much time to myself as I get. My only real obligation
is a polite, nominal showing, out of respect. Half-hearted sociability
is certainly better than whole-hearted antagonism. In the great darkness,
any light has value.
"Bo"
25 December 1999 -- Lasting out what must be
This morning I watch the sun appear over the darkened silhouette of
the ridge, where the trees continue to hold their place in silence until
the correct number of months has passed into the new year. Temperatures
have dropped much lower since the last snow, placing what was once a soggy
mess into what is now a crunchy firmament of ice. This is the kind of weather
that makes the skin actually sting from simple air exposure, so I have
become aware of the serious business I have in keeping warm on my visit
this Christmas Day. I started the fire in the hearth on top of last night's
ash-pile, as soon as I was free of the flannel sheets and down comforter
that create the deceptive warmth of the bunk under the lean-to alcove.
Now, I tend to stay near the fire, since the drafts on the opposite side
of the room are just too pervasive. I am imagining temperatures below 10
degrees Fahrenheit; I should really get a thermometer outside the kitchen
window so I'll know. There is nothing like experiencing the outdoors firsthand,
however, and I've let that be my principal instrument up to now.
Going through the motions of holiday celebration back in the bustle
of real life, I have noticed how easy it can be just to step back from
the main flow of activity and rest up, once I've learned how to accept
the noise of the others, who carry on without me. They seem to find value
in simply seeing me, and I need no further eloquence than that,
especially in the realm of family meetings. The context there is one that
typically involves my entire 37-3/4 years of walking in their midst, and
their memory of the many previous instances of "me" is always taken into
account. It appears, therefore, that my best response to the implicit demands
to report for duty between the 24th and 26th of December is simply non-violent
acceptance. That is a difficult practice sometimes, for it means I have
to let myself drift on their currents, rather than moving under
my own power. They never end up hurting me, though, so I suspect it is
a valuable thing to turn over to the care of the higher power.
I stretch myself out in front of the nicely-developed fire, on top of
my "mummy"-style sleeping bag that I keep for emergency use, wondering
how it is that I've become so entirely cynical about the whole matter of
the Christmas holiday. Might it really be more "my fault" than I am willing
to admit? Ideally, I'd have established more of a life of my own by now,
which would mean less need to be pulled back to the age-old gatherings
that are left as default. There is less for the single man to do on a "family"
holiday when he no longer lives with the joy he once had while celebrating
with ancestral relatives. But then, this holiday isn't just about me.
How I wish I could make the holiday what it was in the glory days, prior
to turning 13! Oh, the magic, oh the wonder. The lights were something
to hold in one's eyes; they had a flavor to them as well as a color. The
television programs all shifted over to the mode that annoys me today,
when the usual grim offerings on TLC, TNT or A&E are not as easily
found. Maybe I was simply susceptible to the raw power of "things" as gifts.
It is hard to separate out the relative portions of material gratification
and recreational value--they were merged. The wondrous marathon of all-out
play
that followed each instance of gift receipt was certainly where the payout
came. When I became an adult, however, gift-giving and -receiving converted
to purely fiscal and utilitarian tasks. Maybe I need to just sit there
and keep on exchanging gifts, only trying now to appreciate the love that
remains in givers that once set off an adventure of play.
It is 25 December and the sequence of events goes on. There is no separation
from family when the family still wishes to make itself known. This should
be analogous to the love of God, from which nothing will separate us, to
paraphrase Paul's declaration to the Romans. I do not give enough credit
in my day-to-day life to those eternal bonds that even make their way up
the 4.1-mile dirt road to this secluded dwelling. There will indeed come
the time when my days start to face a limit and I'll wonder what will last
when I cannot. Certainly, I will not be remembered in the disparaging light
that I usually apply to myself. The others who cared in ways I might
never know will have an image in place of what they saw, filtered
through the generous yet corrective lens of human forgiveness. Well, I
shall have myself a merry little Christmas up here, if nothing
else for 1999.
"Bo"
29 December 1999 -- Illusions in the uncertainty
Temperatures have become milder in the last few days, though the snow
cover is in no great danger of disappearing as completely as it does after
a northern Virginia "snowstorm". The sun showed itself today, low
in the southern sky, and I took the opportunity to carry a few buckets
of water up the stone steps of the ravine behind the back porch.
Emergency or not in two days, this is the water source I have, to filter
into my glass-lined cistern tank in the kitchen area.
I suppose I should find some comfort in the thought of a place like
this, in the event that social order is lost down there. 1
January 2000 has to be the definitive urban legend--people seem to like
the excitement of a good riot, just as all the schoolyard kids would be
drawn to watch when the shout went up: "fight! fight! fight!".
I doubt I'd get much use of this place, really, since those fellows from
town who like to wear camo fatigues and play paintball would soon be making
use of "my" road and would commandeer these peaceful headquarters
for their new society of the strongest. I am so sick of the speculation
and the double-talk--I just want it over.
Today looks just like another mediocre kind of winter day--nothing to
distinguish it. I suppose I'd better play my honorable part and "celebrate"
when the appointed hour comes in real life. That could end up being
a partial antidote to the venom that the fear-mongers have worked into
my already-pessimistic mind. I should take the lesson of the American
people in WWII when these matters start to cause me dismay. With
the cry of "We Can Do It", the hysteria of 1941 - 1945 was re-directed
into productive output. People, for the most part, are able to share
in the sorrow of others and join into a righteous campaign for the afflicted,
with all the trappings of an honest-to-goodness Crusade.
Maybe there is a way to put my whole self at ease, as if I were to take
a course of continuous IV sedation until the whole mess is done on Saturday.
There must still be points upon which my mind can rest that will not flip
over when the big one hits. There are the seasons up here at the
Cabin; even January and February have their notable points. But that
won't do, since it has to become January first. Right here, right
now, I should be able to look at who and what I am and see a base of stability,
where I'll end up as part of the solution, if indeed there ever is a problem.
Today, actually enough, I am rather tired. Sleep is certainly
one of the better ways to pass some of the time that's left. I will
try to slow the upward ratcheting of my tension, perhaps even to the point
of true "sensory deprivation". I should be giving up some of my television,
since every other word now is "millennium" or "Y2K". Television,
though, reminds me of the considerable span of time I've spent on earth
during the 20th century--4 of its 10 decades. Why, I am able to remember
when The Beverly Hillbillies was still in its first running, back
in those days when the world of TV went from black and white to color.
Supposedly, the revolutionaries of that time saw middle class America standing
ready to cash in its chips by 1968, much as we are supposed to be doing
in two days, when the great and unknowable axe falls across the perceived
intricacy of our national and world infrastructures.
I am glad that the bulk of the "normal" population has the ability to
take a certain amount of discomforting annoyance in stride, and not holler
out like a young child who didn't get his package of Nerds or Fruit Stripe
Gum while Mom was busy reading about The End in the tabloid on the other
side of the checkout. It is the plain old stubbornness and inertia
of human nature and the thoughtful consideration of human responses that
save this world from daily and widespread instability. A day on the
calendar will not push too many people too far for too long. I worry
more about the more pervasive effects of every year, the kind that wear
away at a person over the decades until the nerves are finally exposed
and all defense is gone.
What a day--and night--it will be this Friday. Well, unless it
all comes true and my compound is stormed by the self-anointed freedom
fighters, things here will stay as I left them, and that applies to most
of my personal effects in the city as well.
"Bo"
Ahead to January 2000
