Faust Part Two

Making Castalia Real
Fall, `76 pics

Adolescence

At the end of Part One, the impression left by Goethe was that Faust
went off to hell with the devil, but in Part Two the Faust story
continued. Faust, after awakening in the Greek classical period, found
himself being nursed back to health by the Spirits in the forest
glade. He resolved to push ahead with life in spite of the fact that
he held himself responsible for the death of all that he had once held
so dear. While convalescing, he learned from the regenerative power of
nature that remorse and pity had no place in the healing process. He
had also learned from watching the rainbowed hues dance above the
waterfall that truth was a subtle quality. Indeed, it could not be
grasped directly. Now more mature, he continued to search for what was
worth looking for.

In the open air of the Greek classical period, Mephistopheles was out
of place and uncomfortable. He was a stranger in a strange land. The
ugly and profane were hard to find, but every once in a while
Mephistopheles was able to indulge himself. Faust, and Mephistopheles
took some comfort in the halls of courtly power. Courtly power
impressed Faust, and, in this new land, it was everywhere. Faust took
his quest right into the center of that power.

Teenager

The pomp and status of the royal life disappointed Faust. He found
the power there to be illusionary. War brought devastation and
destruction. In the end, it all came down to ashes. He found no value
in that power. It only recycled war and hate. Demoralized, he began to
doubt the usefulness of the "might makes right" doctrine, and he even
began to doubt the usefulness of Mephistopheles.

Young Man

When Faust said to Mephistopheles, "In your nothing I hope to find
everything," he showed his new found direction. The more Faust denied
Mephistopheles, the more Mephistopheles' power over Faust diminished.
In fact, the devil's waning influence over Faust took on added
significance when, in a chance meeting on the road, Faust saw Helen of
Troy. With one look, Faust knew he wanted her. He had to have her.
Showing decisive action, he grabbed for Helen's wraith, but before he
could make contact with her, she vanished before his eyes. After that,
Faust set out to find her. More than carnal desire motivated Faust in
his quest for Helen. As a captive of the Greeks, she bore her dignity
well. Her queenly tapestries became an object of scorn and ridicule,
but she was not bowed. In spite of all her tragedy, she was the
personification of dignity. Because of Helen, Faust discovered a new
lease on life.

With help from many, good and bad alike, Faust rediscovered Helen
and, once again, was overwhelmed by her queenly stature. Faust—"To see
her made the empty hearts of men whole." Her beauty had a softer side,
too. As goddess of poetry, she was a giver of life. She was the
"ideal" of beauty and grace. Faust—"I tremble, scarcely breathe, my
words have fled. Space, time, all gone. I live a dream instead."
Helen—"I feel my life fordone, yet I live anew in you inwoven the
unknown true." Faust—"Brood not, the destiny of truth to trace. Being
is duty, were it a moments space." Their love for each other, fueled
by the regenerative power of the earth, created duty out of misfortune
and affirmation out of privation. Made whole, Faust now followed a
path that only he could walk.

From the union of Faust and Helen, a child was born. Euphorion was
more than a love child; he was a "child of pure love." To aspire, to
evolve, love had to be set free. Love was never born free, its freedom
had to be earned. Something had to be sacrificed. With the birth of
pure love, mother and child had fulfilled their purpose—both Helen and
Euphorion vanished, leaving Faust alone once again.

Faust About To Drink Poison

Mephistopheles Materialized To Faust As He Was About To Drink Poison
Making Castalia Real
Fall ’76

One month after I arrived at CMU, I became employed as a food service custodian.
The job wasn't permanent, but I had a good feeling about it. After five years,
I had arrived; I was working at a university-- a dream come true. Feeling
secure in my job, I went to my old Professor, Dr. Gill, and asked if I
could sit in on his mythology class. We had a pretty good relationship
going back to when I first started at CMU. He was my Philosophy
Professor when I took a class on Plato, but that class was short-lived
because I dropped out of school and moved to Arizona. I finished my
'73 class with him, the one where I studied Goethe's Faust. I loved
that class. I even kept my final exam-- an essay on Faust's growth. I
got an A in the class, and my exam did a lot to help me get that
grade. Here’s the essay, the quoted parts I pretty much memorized from
Goethe's own words:

Child

The play began with a despondent, old scholar huckstering over the
worth of words. Faust searched so hard for meaning and substance that
he was willing to give up his life for "the right answers." He had,
for many years, thrust himself headlong into the pursuit of knowledge
only to find the written word empty and valueless. Defeated, he gave
up on everything—books, sensuality, hope, and faith (the play was set
at the time when the Catholic Church reigned supreme). In desperation,
he was about to drink a vial of poison when Mephistopheles—the devil
materialized. He got Faust to participate in a wager. It didn't take
much coaxing, though. "While I abide," Faust said to the devil, "I
live in servitude, whether yours or whose, why should I care." Losing
the bet was not a major concern for Faust; winning did have its
allure, however. The devil had promised Faust a moment of bliss that
would be so blissful that he would be willing to give up his soul in
return. Faust agreed to the wager.

It wasn't going to be easy for the devil. The problem was that Faust
did not seek pleasure. When Mephistopheles began to tempt Faust with
his bag of sensual pleasures, Faust replied, "Have you not heard? I do
not desire joy…To sound the heights and depths man can know, their
very souls shall be with mine entwined. I'll load my bosom with their
weal and woe and share the shipwreck of mankind." Faust entered the
wager without knowing what would make him happy, but he did know what
would not make him happy. Mephistopheles was irritated at first, but
once Faust met Gretchen, the devil's confidence beamed.


Puberty

Faust, seduced by Gretchen's charm and sweetness, fell in love with
her. Mephistopheles saw the whole affair as a "puppet show," as the
pursuit of physical delights. Faust, on the other hand, used this
physical relationship to explore the transformative power of love.
When Faust fell into a passion, however, Mephistopheles rejoiced.
"Flame is still mine," he exhorted, "the power of flame alone, or else
were there nothing I could call my own." But Faust wasn't satisfied
with just passion; he managed to turn his love for Gretchen into
something more than a mere love fest.

Forever the "seeker," Faust's striving confused Mephistopheles. In
fact, Mephistopheles never did comprehend Faust's desire to "go beyond
himself." That striving got Faust involved with Gretchen, in both a
passionate physical way and a non-physical way, but no less
passionate. Out of his love for Gretchen he forged himself a new
identity, an identity that came with the realization —"To seek, as in
the bosom of a friend, beholding the train of all living things, to
learn to perceive my brothers in the sky, the stream, and in the
silent glade." His passion took him to a new high, but, as everyone
knows, "the higher you climb, the harder you fall," and it was no
different for Faust. For Mephistopheles, "demolition man
extraordinaire," it was easy to take advantage of a vulnerable Faust.

In conjunction with Gretchen's unplanned pregnancy, the devil's
influence over Faust resulted in several other tragedies. Overcome
with guilt, Faust fell into Mephistopheles' waiting arms. The devil
diverted Faust away from his higher goals by using a young witch to
tempt him. Faust was on his way to life of debauchery when, in a
passionate embrace with the young temptress, out from her mouth ran a
small mouse. Faust, at that point, was shocked into remembering his
quest for a higher purpose. Before it was all over, however,
Gretchen's brother, mother, baby and, eventually, even Gretchen
herself, died as a result of the entanglements of Faust's relationship
with Gretchen.

At the end of Part One, Faust, tricked by the devil, handed Gretchen
what he thought was a sleeping potion to give to her mother. The
potion turned out to be poison and Gretchen was sentenced to death for
her mother's murder. Faust tried to rescue her, but when, on the day
of her hanging, he burst into Gretchen's jail cell, he found a
completely transformed woman. Gretchen, no longer the sweet innocent thing he
fell in love with, rebuked Faust. Her pain and guilt just too
overwhelming to live with, Gretchen had chosen death over suffering;
she had crossed over into infinite resignation. Out of pity, Faust
still sought to rescue her, but Gretchen didn't want sympathy. Her
terrible suffering had left her with no hope for redemption. She had
sinned and she had to pay. Death was her only salvation, and Faust
could do nothing to prevent it. As Gretchen was led up to the gallows,
Faust turned his back on her, and walked away with Mephistopheles by
his side.

Faust, in his love for Gretchen, had found what he was looking
for—that anything was worth looking for at all—but he also found, as a
result of that love, unexpected and unbearable suffering. Kierkegaard,
in his response to his own unfulfilled love relationship, put it this
way, "Ah, it is a wretched man who has never felt the compelling urge
of love to sacrifice everything out of love and accordingly not be
able to do it, but it is precisely this sacrifice out of love which
causes the loved one the greatest unhappiness." Faust bore his torment
and guilt well, and, although despair became his constant companion,
he was not, surprisingly, damned for eternity.

Castalia, At Last

Mt. Pleasant, Michigan
Fall 1976


I gave my boss a two-week notice. I told him I was going back to
school. He wrote a really nice letter of recommendation for me. Just
before I left Deadwood, I called up, Terry, CMU's personnel director,
and told him I was going to plant myself on his couch until I got
hired. I didn't hear any laugher on the other end of the phone. C.S.
was okay with me going back to school. I guess she knew that's where I
belonged. Everything was fine up till the time when I left. After I
took my artwork off the walls, words began to fly. It was on that sour
note that I left Deadwood.

When I arrived back in Mt. Pleasant I moved in with my old friend,
Mike. After leaving Arizona, he enrolled as student at CMU on the GI
bill. When I dropped my backpack on his trailer kitchen floor, I
considered myself moved in. "Mi casa es su casa" was his greeting to
me. I was surprised to find him so determined. I guess he had been
bumming around the country long enough. He was following in his
father's footsteps; only he was going to teach in Elementary School
instead of High School. I was in for another surprise, too. Mike, a Vietnam
Veteran, was President of the campus chapter of the YSA (Young Socialist
Alliance). He and his girlfriend, Val, headed up an organization of university
radicals.

Mike and I had grown up together. We were best friends, but his newly
acquired political ideology put a distance between us. It almost felt
like he was pushing his beliefs on me. I found his behavior totally
out of character—first, because I felt our friendship was stronger
than politics, and second because I thought he already knew about my
"leftist leanings." Hell, he even read my Marxist term paper that I wrote back
in '69. I aced that class on the Soviet Union. I just couldn't believe I was
being tested. Maybe he needed to prove something to Val. He certainly
didn't have to prove anything to me. He was, and always would be my
best friend. Things began to settle down after a week or so. After my
visit to the Personnel office, things began to look pretty damn good.
In fact, I was told point blank, "Don't make waves. Follow the rules.
Be patient and I'll do what I can to get you hired," and all that
coming from the guy who once told me I would never find work at CMU.

Being God And All, Why Did You Stack The Deck

Drink'in With The One On High
Black Hills, South Dakota
Sept. `76

I needed time alone. I was glad I had left the party, and there were
at least three hours of sunlight left. The fifth was still half full,
and once I reached the trail, I put the puppy down, and took a long,
choking, drink. I had never hiked this part of hills before. It was always
exciting to hike in the Black Hills. You never knew what to expect.
You might stumble upon old bottles, Indian artifacts, or even
abandoned goldmines—all leftovers from the gold rush days in the late
19th century. You had to be careful, though; the allure of the
unexpected could get you in trouble, especially if you were already
half drunk like I was. In fact, in no time at all, I became helplessly
lost. Hoping to see something that would get me back on the path to
the cabins, or at least to civilization, I climbed to the top of a
mountain. The climb--not to mention the fear that overcomes you when
lost in the woods-- sobered me up. I had carried the puppy most of the
way, and it seemed that I had been lost for way too long. The puppy,
for sure, wasn't up for this kind of hike.

From the top of the mountain, I could see trails below, as dark clouds
were rolling in above me. I was apprehensive, but not yet ready to
panic. I decided to walk down to the trail and follow it, but first I
would rest. I took another drink from the vodka bottle, and looked
down at the puppy that was fast asleep at my feet. I looked up at the
sky and started to move slowly around the puppy. I did not want to be
lost; I wanted to be home, in my own house, away form all the
tension that had arisen between C.S. and myself. I continued walking
around the puppy, looking up at the clouds, and then back at the
sleeping dog. The vodka started to go down easier. I felt like I was
in some kind of trance, and then my head started to spin. As I
stumbled, and fell to the ground, I became angry. I looked up and
screamed, "Hey, big guy, what are you looking at?


“Some poor lost drunk, or a joke for your amusement? Do you even care?
Is voyeurism your thing? Aw come on, everybody has to get their kicks
some way. I'd offer you a drink, but that's kind of hard to do. I
guess I'll have to drink for both of us. Wow, that's good stuff—too
bad you can't enjoy it too. Tell me; am I really worth your time? I
mean, malcontents abound. I'm sure there are more interesting ones
than me! Do you hear me? Admit it! You don't need me. And, I sure the
hell don't need you. There, now we're even!

“Wait. Before you go, before we end this little taa-do, I have a
question. Why so shitty a job with creation? What were you thinking?
Being God and all, why did you have to stack the deck? Why so much
unfairness, unhappiness? It's first class for the few and table scraps
for the many! Talk about shortsightedness! I mean, take me for
instance, when you handed out brains, why so stingy? Talk about a
short shift. Oh, by the way, you missed me in the "talent line" also.
You must have been on coffee break. But, hey, we need all the Mr.
Mediocres of the world—right! Maybe to make you laugh? Forgive me if
I'm not amused, though. Down here there's not much to laugh about;
know what I mean!

“You just love playing with loaded dice, don't you. We get a heart, and
then you fill it full of holes. Why so little contentment anyway?
What's that all about? You'd think just getting through the bad times,
the hard times, would make us happy. But noooo! No satisfaction there.
For Christ's sake, there's only so much to go around. Those who can--
Take, those who can't, get diddly squat. You did that—what a guy! Oh,
by the way, I haven't forgotten about love. Your generosity was
overflowing there, or is it lust I'm thinking of? Excuse me! I know
the real thing exists. I got a crash course in it. Remember? But why
is the grass always greener on the other side of that hill? Of course
it is. You should know! You created it that way.

“`Lucky in love, unlucky in life,'—bullshit--if lustful urges and
roving eyes don't sabotage love, then the lust for wealth, fame, and
glory will. Where's the fairness? Where's the justice? Survival of the
fittest you say. Believe me, if I was given just half a chance, I
could have created a better world than this--Don't give me that crap
about freedom. Right over wrong, good over evil, that's all bullshit
too! Brains, brawn, and cleverness—determine good and evil. That's the
way it's always been. Reinventing good and evil has always been the
privilege of those who rule. Go ask the Indians! Blankets for land! Oh
sure, smallpox infested blankets for the white man's manifest destiny.
The `good guys' won—right! Don't get me wrong; I can appreciate a good
thing. We wouldn't be having this conversation on a beautiful Black Hill’s
mountaintop if the Indians had got their way.

“But wait, you know more about that than I do. The church, Your
Church, burnt the `witches,' and `heretics'—right! In the end,
advantage always goes to the clever, the powerful, and the cruel. And
what for—a better life? An Afterlife? There's a trump card if ever there was
one. Things may be shit now, but wait; in heaven everybody gets their
reward! Is that it! Is that your `Sola Scripture promise,' your
Christian message heard round the world! `Trust in the Lord,' and
rejoice in the glory of eternal life! Really! Trust the one who offers
a never-ending feast of the weak to the strong. Yeah, that makes great
sense! But no thanks! I don't feel very trusting today. If its trust
you want, trust in this: Keep your false promises, corrupt henchmen,
and Love, unconditional or not! I don't need that shit anymore. To
false hopes, great expectations, and love gone sour—I say goodbye,
good riddance. Enough already! You can stay in your precious `Paha
Satva Mountains,' You and Carole Sue both. Not me. I'm out of here.
That's my pledge! With this drink of vodka I seal that oath---let it
be done. It is done!"

Einstein Was Busy Pondering A Fifth Force Of Nature

Black Hills Cabin
Sept. `76

"So," Tom shot back at Sara, "you're telling me that all the stars and
galaxies are speeding away from the Earth at close to light speed.
That's really hard to believe. How do you know that anyway?"

"No," replied Sara, "I said distant galaxies are speeding away from us
at close to light speed. The stars aren't going anywhere by
themselves. They're held in place by gravitational attraction. It's
the light from the receding galaxies that tells us the universe is
expanding. Red-shifted light is like the sound of a passing train whistle.
When a train passes a stationary observer, the pitch of the whistle
drops, as the sound waves lengthen and it's the same
with receding galaxies; only it's light, not sound, that tells us the
speed and direction of the galaxy. The red wavelengths of galaxies
flying away from us are extended, and that shift in extension can be
measured."

"But you still haven't told me how you know that." replied Tom. "How
do you know red- shifted light means galaxies are moving away from us?"

"Because," said Sara, "forty or fifty years ago, the astronomer Edwin
Hubble figured out how to measure the distances. When Hubble's
distances were combined with Vesto Sipher's measurements of different
galaxies' spectral line shifts, the linear velocity distance law was
deduced. Applying that law to the known red-shifted light of distant
galaxies resulted in a perfect straight line graph of the
galaxies--the longer the red-shift, the more distant the galaxy, the
more distant the galaxy, the greater the recession velocity."

"You're going to have to do better than that to convince me," replied
Tom. "All that tells me is that when W, X, and Y come together, Z
follows. How am I supposed to know that Z is a galaxy moving away from
me at the speed of light, or close to it? Why couldn't those
red-shifts be caused by something else? In fact, Hoyle, Bondi, and
Gold, all astronomers and physicists, suggested that they might be
caused by the continuous creation of matter; matter created out of
empty space. Their theory is called the "Steady State Theory" and, in
that view, stars and galaxies are born, go through life cycles,
die out, and new stars and galaxies replace them,-- continuously.
That's why the universe looks the same today as it always did, or ever
will. According to their theory, the universe is not evolving."

"That's ridiculous!" said Sara, "matter can't be created from nothing."

"Why not?," Tom replied. "Where did the `Big Bang' come from anyway?
Where did the `exploding energy' come from? What exactly existed
before the `bang' occurred? If everything started with a `bang,'
wouldn't the distant galaxies, the oldest galaxies, be clustered
together? When they were created the universe was much younger,
smaller, and, according to your theory shouldn't first generation
galaxies be grouped together? Of course, there not. The universe is
expanding uniformly. And what about quasars? It's their red-shifts
that have made them such enigmas. If they really were that far away,
then, according to your theory, they must be emitting as much energy
as 1000 Milky Way galaxies. How can an object packaged in a body much
smaller than a galaxy emit so much energy? Those objects cannot even
be imagined, red-shifted spectral light or not. If you ask me,
Einstein should have stuck to his original cosmology. He was much
closer to the truth when he looked at his equations and saw a static,
spherical universe, a universe where moving in a straight line meant
you would eventually return to your starting point. A bunch of red
lines have kicked us out of that universe."

God, it had been a long time, way too long for me; I really missed
conversations like that—the kind of talk that, if you’re really
lucky, you might find in a bar full of university students, but hardly
anywhere else. In Deadwood, conversations with more theory than facts,
more questions than answers, just do not happen. I looked at the
steady state theory guy, Tom, and said, wasn't it Einstein who said,
"The static universe was the biggest blunder of my life?" Before Tom
could speak, Sara jumped into the conversation with the answer.

"Well, not exactly," she said. "It's true that Einstein didn't
immediately accept the idea of an expanding universe, but he was
distracted by another problem, one that kept him from pursuing the
implications contained in his own equations, implications that
supported the experimental data that Hubble had already gathered. The
problem was that Einstein was too busy to notice. The Russian
physicist, Alexander Friedmann was the one who finally concluded,
after his own investigation of Einstein's field equations, that we
were living in an expanding universe. Meanwhile, Einstein was still
pondering that other anomaly that followed from his equations, the one
that suggested there was a fifth force in nature, a force that hadn't
been discovered yet.

In addition to the four forces-- electromagnetic, nuclear, weak, and
gravity another force was needed to keep the universe from collapsing
in on itself. Newton had the same problem, as Einstein, but he solved
it with the hypothetical method. He reasoned something like this: in
an infinite universe where stars were distributed uniformly, there
would be no overall center for the universe to collapse into;
therefore there would be no collapse. But that explanation wasn't good
enough for Einstein, so he postulated a fifth force, a force that was
repulsive rather than attractive, -- a pushing force to balance the pull
of gravity. As it turned out, in an expanding universe, that force
wasn't needed because the expansion itself kept the universe from
collapsing. The fact remains, though, that Einstein's equations
suggest that there is another force in nature. Someday, maybe,
Einstein will get credit for yet another incredible discovery. If that
turns out to be the case, I suspect, as blunders go, Einstein's
preoccupation with the static universe concept won't seem so stupid."

Glancing over at C.S., I could tell I was in trouble. She was sitting
alone and I was sure she thought I was ignoring her. I told Sara and
Tom that I had to go to the bathroom, and then went to see how C.S.
was doing. By the look on her face, I could see that she was not in
the best of moods. "Can I get you a beer," I said. "I'm going for
another one."

"Yeah," came the reply, "and while you're at, why don’t you get one
for that girl you’ve been talking to. You looked like a kitten going after
mother's milk. You embarrassed both of us. Apparently, your vocabulary
lacks the word “discreet!"

"We were just talking, that's all," I said. "What did you expect? This
is a party. If it bothered you that much, why didn't you come over and
join us? You probably would have gotten bored, though. We were talking
about astronomy."

"You didn't have to tell me that," C.S. shot back, "From all the way
over here I could see the stars in your eyes. Why is it that guys
drop to their knees and become asses, especially some guys, when a new
skirt shows up? Why is that, anyway?"

"Shit! That's not fair," I said. "She, Sara, is an intelligent, not to
mention talented, girl. You know, every once in a while it's nice to
talk to someone different, especially when she knows what she's
talking about."

"What the fuck is that suppose to mean?" C.S. shouted back. "You don't like
talking to me? Or is it that talking to me doesn't make you drool.
Shit, next time we talk remind me to hold up one of your Playboy
centerfolds. The problems of the world ought to get solved with that
conversation!"

"Fuck this. Go get your own beer!" I said. "I'm going for a hike."

"Take the puppy," C.S. shot back. "Do something useful. Don't worry
about me. The party is just getting started."

Holding on to the dog, I walked past Sara who rose to get a better
look at the puppy. I was embarrassed. I told her the puppy and I were
going exploring. She nodded, and handed me her fifth of vodka, "Here,
take this," she said, "I think you need it more than I do." I thanked
her and took a swig. "Yeah, I think you're right," I replied, and then
I walked on, holding the bottle in one hand and the puppy in the
other. I never looked back.

That’s Very Curious! But Everything’s Curious Today

One Said The Universe Had A Beginning; The Other Said It Did Not
Black Hills Of South Dakota

Sept. 1976

Working at the Novelty Company gave me new life. At least in the
beginning, I was actually trained to do something. I had my candy
route to take care of, but I also had to fix the coin changers, and
occasionally, I had to fix pinball machines and video games. The other
guys (four route men, two tech people) mostly took care of the repair
part. I got along with everybody. In fact, everybody got along with
everybody. The boss even sprang for a Holiday Inn weekend for "his
boys." It was his way of saying thanks. It was a bit embarrassing,
though. My boss, Bernie, got drunk and belligerent, so they kicked him
off the premises.

Carole Sue and I were getting along okay. The summer passed without
incident. By then, living in Deadwood had become routine. There were
the occasional sixty-mile trips over to Rapid City, the largest town
in the area, but for the most part, we just stayed put. It was hard to
keep from getting stale, though. In order to get the blood pumping again, I
planned another trip to the mountains, but my trip to the Tetons was a bit
disappointing. I summed up my disappointment in a journal entry before
heading back to Deadwood.

Aug. 14, ‘76

I find myself in the wind and rain, at the foot of the Tetons, with $13 in my pocket. This
trip has been full of disappointments. One more surprise, and I'll pack it in
and go home. I use to write about disappointments; these days I do not write at all.

Back in Deadwood, it was the same old stuff, and then the cast of
"Godspell" came to town. The New York City theater troupe was on tour.
C.S.'s brother, Denny, an entertainer himself, became friends with
some of the cast members and got all of us invited to the cast party.
The troupe had rented three cabins in a beautiful spot in the Black
Hills, south of Deadwood. C.S. and I really I enjoyed their
performance and looked forward to going to the party. When the time
came we even took our new puppy with us.

The cast, a bunch of talented kids, was pretty laid back when it came
to partying, but that was the way I liked it. For the most part, we
sat around picnic tables talking, eating, and drinking. I was going
for another beer when I strolled past a couple of cast members who
were in a heated discussion. The female was drinking vodka straight
from the bottle. They were talking astronomy; a subject I had never
heard discussed in Deadwood before. At first I thought they were
talking about exploding stars, but it soon became apparent that they
disagreed on the origin of the universe. It wasn't a religious
argument, though. They were arguing about two opposing theories in
astronomy. One said that the universe had a beginning; the other said
it did not.

After I got another beer from the cooler, I sat down in an empty
chair. It was fun listening to them. I knew a little bit about what
they were talking about, but they knew a lot more than I did. When
I got to speak, I told them that I found the subject fascinating, and
that I had the best seat in the house.

What A Curious Feeling! I Must Be Shutting Up Like A Telescope

That’s A Funeral In The Mirror And It’s Stopping At My Face
Empty House On 5 Cliff
Deadwood, South Dakota
Dec. 20, `75

By the end of the week, I was finally ready to accept the inevitable.
C.S. was leaving me for another guy, but I would survive. After things
calmed down at home, I found another job, one on top of the ground. I
liked that; I liked sunshine. I worked a service route filling and
servicing candy vending machines. My route, in addition to servicing
Deadwood, also took me to Spearfish, Sturgis, Belfush, and Lead. For a
while it looked as if C.S. and I might actually get back together, but
then she left rather suddenly. Her leaving to go back to Michigan did
not come as a surprise, however. It came after she found out about a
one-night affair that I had with another woman six months earlier.
After that I became 5 Cliff's solitary resident.

Learning how to live in a house that held so many memories was
difficult and painful. In the daytime I had work, and at night alcohol
helped me to forget. I worked with some good people. I made friends
with the sons of my boss. Mark, the oldest, came over one night to
listen to music. He wasn't impressed by my record collection, but he
was impressed with my loyalty to the musicians. Once I got hooked on
an artist, I collected all or most of their music. I was drinking
before he showed up and really drunk when he left, so I did something
I had promised myself I would never do again. I played Leonard Cohen's
album Love And Hate. When the song Dress Rehearsal Rag came on I let
it play. After that song, I experienced terrible emotions. I can't
describe them, but the words Love/hate pretty much summed it up for me.

Dress Rehearsal Rag

Four o'clock in the afternoon
and I didn't feel like very much.
I said to myself, "Where are you golden boy,
Where is your famous golden touch?"
I thought you knew where
all of the elephants lie down,
I thought you were the crown prince
of all the wheels in Ivory Town.
Just take a look at your body now,
there's nothing much to save
and a bitter voice in the mirror cries,
"Hey, Prince, you need a shave,"
Now if you can manage to get
your trembling fingers to behave,
why don't you try unwrapping
a stainless steel razor blade?
That's right, it's come to this,
yes it's come to this,
and wasn't it a long way down,
wasn't it a strange way down?

There's no hot water
and the cold is running thin.
Well, what do you expect from
the kind of places you've been living in?
Don't drink from that cup,
it's all caked and cracked along the rim.
That's not the electric light, my friend,
that is your vision growing dim.
Cover up your face with soap, there,
now you're Santa Claus.
And you've got a gift for anyone
who will give you his applause.
I thought you were a racing man,
ah, but you couldn't take the pace.
That's a funeral in the mirror
and it's stopping at your face.
That's right, it's come to this,
yes it's come to this,
and wasn't it a long way down,
ah wasn't it a strange way down?


Feb. 17, ‘76

I will make this short. I am embarrassed to relate this experience (but
in order to make sense out of future journal posts it is necessary).

C.S. had been gone for two months. I was coping, but then I had
another one of my infamous bad days. There was too much suffering. The
house had a dining room, which was sealed off from the rest of the
house to save on heating bills. However, the room was equipped a small
freestanding gas heater, and it was time to use it. I created a cocoon
around the heater by draping blankets over the unlit stove. To prevent
gas from escaping, I sealed off the chimney. The project completed, I
turned on the gas, crawled into the cocoon, and went to sleep. It was
that easy. I wasn't even frightened. For me, it was about leaving
behind misery. After three hours, though, I woke up, alive. I was mad. I
turned the gas on full, rolled over on my stomach and propped my chin
up over the burner. Three hours later, I woke up alive, again. My
mind wanted to think, but it couldn't. I climbed out of the cocoon and
turned off the gas. Through the window, there was only a glimmer of
twilight left. “I had just lived through a whole day of grave
digging," I thought. "Maybe, I'm not supposed to die." I pulled
open the upstairs door to the bedroom and using the hand railing, I pulled
myself to the top of the stairs and fell into bed. When I awoke it was
the night of the following day.

Do Cats Eat Bats? Do Bats Eat Cats?

Lead Cut



Working In A Goldmine
Lead, South Dakota
Dec. “75

Once I got use to working 4200 feet underground the job became pretty
routine (heavy, dangerous, noisy, routine work). I would eventually get
assigned to a contract crew of 5 to10 people (the crews contracted for an
anticipated amount of rock removal. If they met the production estimate
bonus money would follow). I was put on the mucker, a small
steamshovel that travels the rails into the stope. The drillers dynamite the
rock and the mucker moves in to shovel the rock that gets deposited in
the rail cars which transport the rock to the processor. The gold content of
the ore varies, but after processing tons and tons of ore the reward is gold.
However, every once in a while miners find nuggets (none were found when
I was there). The miners told stories of being searched before returning to the
surface. The Homestake Gold mine is closed now, but they still keep
water removal pumps working to keep the mine from filling up with water.

Back home, Carole Sue had waited until I was working before she told
me that she still planned to return to Michigan. I continued to work
in the mine, but found it difficult. An emotional wreck, after a couple of
weeks, I called it quits and turned in my gear. My boss said, "Don't
feel bad, it happens to a lot of men. You're either a miner or you're
not." I just let his comment slide. I couldn't explain.

I Wonder If I Shall Fall Right Through The Earth?

The Blackest Black I’ve Ever Been In
The Aftermath
Dec. `75

On that awful night, I broke into Brad's room, removed three large
Arsenic crystals from his rock, and swallowed them. After coming home and
finding his room broken into, Brad came down to see if I knew anything
about what had happened. He discovered his rock along side my empty
bottle. C.S. arrived shortly after Brad called her, and the two of
them woke me up. Brad immediately called his doctor friend, and to
both his and my amazement, the doctor told Brad that that amount of
unrefined digested Arsenic would not be lethal. I guess I was lucky,
but, at the time, I didn't feel lucky.

After I recovered, I moved out of the Syndicate and back into the house
at 5 Cliff. The short, of the rather long story, was that I did my best to prove
to C.S. that things could be different. I wanted to marry her. I told her
I would pay for her divorce. She liked that idea, but she wouldn't
commit. She said, "We'll give it some time, and see how things go." As
far as I was concerned that was a reprieve. Before the week was out, I
applied for a mining job in Lead, the mile high mining town above Deadwood.
When the Homestake Goldmine hired me things were looking up.

Working in the mine was a new experience for me. On my first day on
the job, I crowded into an elevator with forty miners. We dropped 4700
feet. That was pretty close to the bottom of the mine. Most of the
miners got out above me. I hopped on the miniature train and the guy
dropped me off at the end of the line. I was told to go into a stope
(a small tunnel that forked away from the main tracks) and look for
water seepage. The only water I could find was running in the
pissditch (literal and metaphorical) and that was normal.
I was psychologically prepared for that duty, but being abandoned
within the bowels of the earth was another story altogether.

After an hour with no train in sight, I started walking down the main
tunnel. Blue lights gave off enough dim light, so I could turn off my
headlamp. Back in the stope, where there were no blue lights, I turned
off my headgear, and it turned into the blackest black I had ever been
in. When the train finally did arrive, the driver was mad because I
had left my spot. By the time we got back to where the other miners
were, my shift was half over. Apparently, the other miners were happy
to see me. They were fighting amongst themselves to see who would get
me. Nobody wanted to work with a guy who might flip out. Abandoning
new hires in the mine's darkest corners was common procedure, and I had
passed the test.

Dinah’ll Miss Me Very Much Tonight, I Should Think Dank Hotel Room

MV Conversation Continues
Dec. ’75

"You don't have a clue, do you? This in not about depression," I said.
"If anything it's about love. It's about seeing through to the other
side where love is everything; that is, until it's gone, and then you’re
left with this horrible nothingness. It’s just too painful."

"Alright already!" MV replied. "Problems can be dealt with. Admit it!
Problems come and go. You had a problem in San Francisco. It went
away. You're still here--right!"

"Yeah, I hated myself back then, though, and you can live with hate.
Some people even exist on hate. I don't hate anymore. In fact, there's
nothing left at all. My life is over."

"Are you going to kill yourself?" responded MV.

"Why should I go on living?"

"Well, if you screw up, remember that I tried to talk you out of it.
Screw ups," replied MV, "cause vegetables, and you probably don't want
that do you? So what's on your mind, Eh?"

"I won't screw up," I replied. "What do you want, the blood-letting
particulars?"

"Sure! The way I see it," replied MV, "this room looks pretty safe—no
stove, no windows--not even a knife."

"First things first," I said, "After I reach the bottom of this
bottle, sayonara, au revoir, ariva derci. I won't screw up. Just down the
hall there’s a rock full of Arsenic and, according to Brad, just one
Arsenic crystal will kill you. The rock is covered in crystals."

"There's nothing I can say to change your mind?" demurred MV.

"No. Nothing," I said. "But don't leave--Stay! Please, please, stay! Do you
get it: the two of us going down together. That will make things easier and
more satisfying! Life, my life, won't be so much of a waste that way.
(Laughter, soft at first, then louder).
"Bastard! We'll see who gets the last laugh."

"That we will," MV softly responded.

What’s The Use Of A Book Without Pictures Or Conversations?

Voice In My Head Again
Dank Hotel Room
Dec. ’75

"Cry, cry, cry, "whispered a very small voice in my head. Instantly I
knew it had to be MV. He was back. I rolled over in my bed and faced
the wall. "What the hell do you want?" I said.

"Nothing much. I just thought I'd drop in," MV replied. "We haven't
talked in quite awhile. Did you miss me?"

"No," I said. "But since you're here, do something. I’m sick. I need
this sickness to go away!"

"No magic here," said MV, "I can see you're hurting, though. I wish I
could help! Words help sometimes, but sometimes too, they just get in
the way."

"What! The all-wise MV has nothing to say. Isn't that a contradiction?"

"Not fair," replied MV, "you're the one who should be doing the
talking. You're the one suffering, and, if you haven't already
noticed, it's you're life that's a bit joyless right now."

"Oh yeah! Whatever happened to all that talk about being in this
together," I said. "'We're a team,' I believe you said. Didn't you
once tell me that I could count on you! Well, do something!"

"True, we do go back a ways," MV replied, "it's just that your
affliction is not something that can be fixed easily. Believe me, I
would gladly help if I could."

"Wow! Isn't that sweet," I said. "Remember when you told me that my
life would turn around with your help. You said I would discover
meaning, joy, and purpose. How absurd! Through you, I have discovered
absolutely nothing, but in spite of you, I have found everything. The
problem, unfortunately, is that, like the wind, it's all gone."

"That's about right," responded MV. "Love is fickle, but it's not as
fickle as some people. If love were as quick to depart as some
beloveds--swish--your pain would be gone by now. Unfortunately, in a
love unrequited, agonizing pain cannot be bought off. It's a dirty
business this thing called love. But, given time, all things pass."

"But I really do love her," I replied. "I spent my entire
life searching for this. I can't live without her! The pain is too
unbearable."

"Love's cares and concerns linger," said MV, "but you will survive.
You may even love again. It's not impossible you know!"

"There's no heart left in me," I replied. "Without love I have no
reason to go on. Love gave me life, made me whole. Living is
impossible without her. I would sooner die than carry on. Without
love, I am nothing at all."

"Lets not overreact," responded MV. "After all, she's not the last of
her kind. Be patient. Do I have to remind you that you almost `bought
the farm' entertaining those same kinds of thoughts once before. Dying
for love is so stupid! There's good medicine for that kind of thing
you know. Why don't you check it out?"

Spartan Living All The Way

It begins to tell,
'round midnight, midnight.
I do pretty well, till after sundown,
Suppertime I'm feelin' sad;
But it really gets bad,
'round midnight.




Syndicate Hotel Room
Deadwood S.D.

The Syndicate was one of the oldest buildings in Deadwood. The
entrance off Main Street went up a flight of rickety steps and down a
musty corridor. The rooms, situated along the upstairs hallway, made two
right angles before coming to an end. The floors were crooked and
rickety. An eighty-year-old lady managed the place, barely. She was
nice, though. Back when C.S. and I stayed there, our room was right
above Main Street. At least we had windows, and watching the people on
the sunny street below made it all worthwhile. This time around, I got
an inside room with only a skylight for a window. That was it-- a bed,
a place to hang clothes, and a table just big enough to set my alarm
clock. The communal bathroom was down the hall. It was Spartan living
all the way. There was hardly enough room to pace back and forth.

I went to work in the morning and, typically, came back in the late
afternoon half drunk. It was a sobering experience, however. I was
going through more than I cared to think about. I loved C.S., but I
couldn't make her stay. I had to get on with my life, but I couldn't
go back to the way things were before I fell in love with her. That
thought felt like a dagger in my heart. I didn't have a life before
C.S., and I sure the hell didn't want to repeat that. Unable to sleep,
trying not to think, I would frequently reach over from my bed and
grab the emergency bottle that I kept in the end table drawer.

Twilight fading into darkness was the worst time for me. It was then
that I fell into that nightmarish reality that I hated so much. I had
to confront the fact that my twisted, distorted, maybe even insane
journey, had born out my worst fear. Alone, with only my death to look
forward to was the last straw for me. It was Harry Haller's fate all over
again. He was the protagonist in Hesse's book, Steppewolf, a depressing
read that I had read a long time ago. Now, however, it was easy to see
myself as Haller, a loner, who with age, grew ever more isolated and alone.
If my memory is correct, he ended up dying in some dank hotel room. Just like
Haller—whatever options I had ever had could be written on a short list.
It's been quite a ride, though. Throw in a little C.S., failed expectations, and lost
love, and that list now includes my own personal hell. Maybe it was my
fault? Maybe I blew it? I was alone; that much I knew for sure-- four
gray walls and darkness alone. The question is: What can I do now?

A Dirty Business This Thing Called Love

Now somewhere in the black mining hills of Dakota
There lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon
And one day his woman ran off with another guy

Rocky burst in and grinning a grin
He said Danny boy this is a showdown
But Daniel was hot-he drew first and shot
And Rocky collapsed in the corner.


Deadwood, South Dakota
Late Fall, `75


C.S. and I were getting along, but not great. A distance separated us
like never before. After one particular nasty argument, I became so
frustrated that when the mail came, I opened a letter sent to her by
her girlfriend back in Michigan. Opening other people’s mail was a
terrible thing to do, but I was desperate. I thought maybe I would
find a clue that would help me figure out what the hell was going on.
After reading it, not only did I discover that C.S. had been carrying
on a love letter correspondence with her old boyfriend, Rick, she also
had plans to leave me and return to Michigan. I was stunned. I sat
down and drank a couple of beers. When she came home, of course she
was outraged that I had opened her letter, but she denied nothing.
Apparently she had given a lot of thought to what she had planned, and
I was coming in on the tail end of it. All of a sudden I felt sick,
and I was absolutely certain that my sickness would get worse before
it got better.

When I found out she was leaving, it was late September. She wouldn’t
(or couldn't) tell me when she was leaving, though. She used her leaving as a
"carrot on a stick approach" to our relationship. I got progressively more
agitated; we hardly had a civil word to say to one another. Finally,
in mid November, I moved out of 5 Cliff, and into the Syndicate hotel.
Brad, C.S.'s cousin, had been living there since the beginning of
summer. In addition to it being a cheap place to stay, the Syndicate
gave me a reprieve from the inescapable mayhem and bitterness back at
5 Cliff.

Pretty Pink Trout, Firm, Juicy, Thick, Delicious

Fishing Pole The Stick--Trout On Top Of Backpack


Yellowstone Wilderness
September


When I got up this morning, I thought the weather had turned. A wet
cloud touching the ground greeted me, but the day turned out to be
even nicer than yesterday. It was a no-shirt day, and I even
jumped into one of the creek's deep pools. It was a little too cold
for that, though. In the afternoon, I found a stick and tied my line and hook
on to it. To my surprise, I caught three beautiful Rainbow Trout. As I
fished, a pack of coyotes howled in the distance. They didn't worry
me, but on the way back to camp, I heard a distant roar. That did
worry me, especially since I was carrying dinner-for-two.

Sept. 18

It's nice to have someone to talk to, someone who listens without
affirming or rejecting what I have to say. My journal grows fat in
times of solitude.

For dinner last night, I had the best tinfoil cooked trout I had ever
eaten. The fish was juicy, firm, and thick. They were also the
prettiest pink you've ever seen. I ate two for dinner and the other
one for this morning's breakfast. My coffee and last night's leftover
biscuits with jelly on them put the finishing touches on a great meal.

I just washed my blue jeans in the stream, and am now lying naked in
the hot sun. Before I get dressed, I'll wash up with my sun-heated
water. Later today, I plan to hike up
the mountain and see what I can find. I'd like to get some animal
pictures, but so far I haven't had any luck in that department. The
elk didn't come back last night, but I still could hear one or two off
in the distance. I guess the large expanse of grasslands acts like a
soundstage because I never seem to be out of range of some distant
animal cry. Right now the experience is one of community, not fear.

I think my sensitivity is slowly coming back. Yesterday, when I was
washing the fish smell off my hands, I lost my Hawaiian ring. I was
very disappointed. That ring was the only material thing that I had to
remind me of living on the beach on Oahu. I hadn't realized how much I
valued it until it was gone. After a while, though, I began to feel
okay. I even felt good about it. It turned out that losing my
attachment to that ring was even more important to me than the ring
itself. I'm really enjoying my stay here now. Tomorrow I will be ready
to go back to Deadwood. I feel good.

He Did Not Know How To Simply Feel It As It Is

Yellowstone Nat. Park
Sept. 17

After a breakfast of coffee, toast, and some of my camping buddy's
oatmeal, David was anxious to get on with his hike. Our chance meeting
was nice. He was a very interesting person, and, in the middle of bear
country, he was also a welcomed guest. He was just as surprised to see
me as I was to see him. He hadn't seen anybody for two days before he
ran into me. He was from Arizona and had been hiking the Yellowstone
Lake area for the past week. He told me it would probably take him one
more trip to Yellowstone before he would complete his goal of hiking
every major trail in the park. That was a lot of hiking.

We listened with great delight to the elk. The bugling of the bulls
differed one from the other. By the time we had finished our dinner,
the elk were all around us. About seventy-five yards away stood three
large bulls. David had been listening to them for the last three
nights, but on this night, he actually got to see one. It was a
fantastic experience.

As far as I could tell, David had pretty much hiked all the major
parks in the country, and was an expert on Death Valley. "I got so
well known in Death Valley," he said, "that my maps and notes (he was
an amateur cartographer), were filed by the Park Service right next to
the official maps." David was a walking encyclopedia, too. I could
point out a plant, and he would give me its scientific name. He was a
bit perplexed by me, though. He couldn't understand how I could enjoy
just sitting. We were opposites in that regard. We both loved nature,
but for him it seemed to be all about showing off his "notched hiking
stick," while for me it was more about escaping "the need to show off
anything." It felt strange to feel close to a person on one level, and
yet be so distant on another.

As it turned out, though, quite by accident, he did get a glimpse of
the difference that separated us. This morning, he asked me what I was
reading. When I told him Alan Watts, he said, "I never heard of the
guy." He looked at the book and on the front cover were the words,
Cloud-Hidden, Whereabouts Unknown—A Mountain Journal. He then turned
it over and read out loud the blurb written on the back cover:

These ruminations, assembled in the form of a journal and here
published in paperback for the first time, were written at Alan Watts'
retreat in the foothills of Mount Tamalpais, California. Many current
themes are discussed, including meditation, nature, established
religion, race relations, karma and reincarnation, astrology and
tantric yoga, and the nature of ecstasy, but the underlying motif is
the art of feeling out and following the watercourse way of nature,
known in Chinese as the Tao. Watts suggests a way of contemplative
meditation in which we temporarily stop naming and classifying all
that we experience, and simply feel it as it is.

He handed me back the book and said, "I'll check it out sometime when
I've got more time," and then he was off on another one of his
twenty-mile hikes.

Bugling Bull Elk

Pelican Creek, Yellowstone Park
Late September

After saying good-bye to Denny, I started hiking the trails north of
the camping area. In the beginning, I had a good idea where I was
going, but I got lost. I ended up on Pelican Creek instead of on the
Stringent Creek Trail. It wasn't a major problem except for the fact
that I didn't know where I was. The hike was longer also. I never did
find a camping sight. When I came to a boarded up ranger cabin, after
walking nine miles, I decided to camp there. I didn't feel guilty; the
trail signs were the worst I had ever experienced.

With mountains at my back and the creek meandering some ten miles down
the "Serengeti plane" in front of me, I began to hear the bugling
sounds of the bull elk. It was rutting season for the bulls. Their
bugling sounded like a trumpet; maybe even a Viking horn would be a
closer match. It was really something. I hoped the elk would come
close enough for me to see them.

The elk broke the ice for me; before he started sounding off I had
been feeling pretty paranoid. The terrain I hiked through was full of
neck high, golden grasses. Something you might expect along the
Serengeti planes of Africa, but not here in Yellowstone. This time of
year the bears were down in the valleys eating berries, getting ready
for the hard Yellowstone winter. It was understandable that I should
be a little frightened, but until I heard the elk, I was a lot frightened.

As I am writing this, I can hear more elk, two or three by the sounds
of it. They are somewhere behind me, and father to my left. There is a
small valley in front of me, leading to the larger Serengeti. There is
a good chance, if the elk are making there way down to Pelican Creek,
that I will get a chance to see them, maybe even get a picture if it
stays light long enough. That's another good thing about this place,
it's ten after seven and the sun has another thirty minutes before it
sets.

I haven't seen anybody since Denny and I split up, except for right
now. I'm about to meet this guy walking towards me.

Grizzly Just Mauled A Guy

Yellowstone National Park
Sept. 16, `75

Denny and I had a good time. It took awhile, but on the last full day
(I spent that day hanging around the campsite), I began to feel more
tuned in to nature. The weather was great. In fact, the weather was
the main reason I decided to stay on in the parks. Denny had to get
back to his music gig in Spearfish (among other things, he was
a really good musician), but on our way through Yellowstone,
I had him drop me off. We stopped at a ranger station to ask
where the last Grizzly had been sighted, and coincidence had it
that a sighting was phoned in while we were waiting to ask the
question. North of the Fishing Bridge area, a Grizzly had just mauled
a guy. That was where I headed.

I had no reason to go back to Deadwood. Late in September, with sixty
or seventy degree temperatures staring me in the face I had many good
reasons, however, to stay in the wilderness. I hadn't been really
satisfied with this adventure, and I wanted to give it one more shot.
I didn't really know why I felt that way. It wasn't Denny. He was
probably the best camping companion you could find, easy-going and
non-obtrusive. He didn't like bears, but I couldn't fault him for
that. No, there was something else bothering me, I just didn't know
what it was.

Enigmas Get Embarrassing

Idaho Wilderness
Sept. 14

Writing about the same enigmas over and over again was getting
embarrassing. Why did I always find myself asking unanswerable
questions? If I didn't ask these questions, though, I would feel out
of touch and guilty. My creativity was failing. I might even be
losing it altogether. Life would be pathetic without a quest for
something! Stagnation was poisoning my energies, but I didn't
want to change anything. It would be too much hassle. Apathy
had soured my innocence. Beware of taking too many things for granted!

At least I was grateful for my perch on this overlook. I had found a
beautiful spot to muse and reflect. I was being teased by the soothing
murmurs of the creek below. This time the creek taught me that everything
had to be recreated and re-affirmed—just to experience the loss. No
thing could ever be mine, -- borrowed or blue perhaps, but not really
mine. The creek still spoke of the "path of least resistance," but
today that message came with a slightly different bent. Substance came
from action, not rhetoric. The creek's mantra "less is more," now came
with the chorus "less is more, but only after the more." The creek
found its own direction.

Up here in the canyon my thoughts had wandered as I had hoped they
would. Perhaps now I would appreciate my nausea more, or, perhaps I
would recognize it less. Time would tell on that one. All I really
knew, however, was that I would be the sole beneficiary of whatever
came to pass.

Just An Empty Emotional Kid

Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
Oh I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I’m so hard to handle
I’m selfish and I’m sad
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on.

Revisiting Non-Drama Philosophy
Idaho Wilderness

At one time, I had a keen eye for recognizing drama. I had
deliberately kept myself aloof and unattached in order to avoid it.
Eventually, I realized by doing that, I was creating more drama than I
got rid of, so I just stopped fighting it. I found that by letting it
happen, my inner awareness of drama grew. It was a reorienting
experience for me. I compared different "dramatic postures," one to
the other, and that is why I knew now that drama had once again taken
control. This sojourn into the mountains had proven both timely and
beneficial. As my old friend Mike once put it, "If you don't watch
out, you'll go stale and don't even know it." This time contemplation
did not alert me to my own "staleness." Rather, I became aware of it
by not feeling the awe that past mountain experiences had produced in
me. This lack of exuberance became the "dramatic posture" that I used
to compare and contrast past dramatic postures, and the result was
disturbing.

The intense feelings that the sky, brook and mountains used to invoke
in me were there, but they were growing dimmer. The very worst of it
was that I was beginning to feel like I was enjoying nature's beauties
because I was "supposed to." I had never felt that way before. The
truth of the matter probably was that I didn't have enough resolve to
practice non-drama. Maybe I never did? Maybe, drama and non-drama had
to be experienced, but that was the end of it—something like being
forced to live in a smog-filled city. You just had to endure. What a
depressing thought! Perhaps I will wake up one day and say to myself,
"Look, I was just that very emotional kid back then." All I can do is
what I have done in the past—live with the consequences of my own
actions. I can only hope that I will greet my future with a student's
enthusiasm; if not, why even be here?

Idaho Wilderness

The water is wide, I can’t cross over
And neither have I wings to fly
Oh, love is gentle and love is kind
The sweetest flower when first it’s new
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like morning dew.


Campsite
Sept. 13

Before I forget again, I want to acknowledge the genuine hospitality
of Denny's Aunty Lois. We stopped in Butte, Montana to see her, and
she and her husband put us up for the night. She was concerned that we
would get cold, so she rummaged up an extra jacket for Denny and a
sweater for me, a warm wool sweater. I would like to return that
hospitality someday, but for now I just want to make sure I keep that
memory alive.

There was something special about being in the mountains, not just in
sight and sound, but also in body and soul. The weather had been
beautiful. It was a warm sunny afternoon, and I was sitting somewhere
west of the Continental Divide. Denny and I had found this place quite
by accident. Pretty much on a whim, in southern Montana, we had
decided to explore a wilderness area just across the state line in
Idaho. We found a place to leave the car, and then hiked up this
canyon. After about four hours of hiking, we camped. The mountains
were smaller here than in the parks, but the sense of the wild hadn't
diminished, in fact it had increased. With no people to worry about,
Denny let his dog, Jackson, run free. Jackson was Denny's constant
companion. Part shepherd, he was golden brown with a sweet
disposition. He was everybody's dog, but his bond was with Denny.

After spending our first night in the wilderness, Denny went fishing
while I went climbing. Animal signs were everywhere. I only saw one
cow moose, though. After a few hours of climbing, I reached a ridge
and followed it. As I was hiking, I was also thinking about how drama
had entered my life again. I realized that I was hardly in control
anymore. It was like being buffeted by a stormy sea. It's not that C.
S. and I were having problems. Things were okay. Things were just
okay. Maybe that was the problem.

In Pursuit Of The Illusive Grizzly

Backpacking Idaho
Sept. 1975

It was a crazy summer. I kept working for Gary and it was impossible
to finish work without a heavy beer buzz. Come fall, when Denny asked
me if I wanted to do some trout fishing out west, I was up for it.
Denny needed a change from the streams in the Black Hills. He was an
avid trout fisherman. The two of us made plans to go to Montana. As it
turned out, we ended up backpacking in Idaho, just over the Montana
borderline.

Sept. 7

Over the past year or so my journal entries had been sparse, the
outcome of settling down. Getting back into the wilderness had livened
up my creative juices, however. Escape, freedom, solitude, there are
many words to describe my need to get back into the wilderness, not the
least of which was the grizzly bear.

After Setting Up Camp
Sept. 9

My obsession with the grizzly bear had driven me to take excessive
chances. Equipped with a camera, I sauntered off the beaten path in
search of the illusive growler, and I found him, well, at least I
found a fresh pair of tracks. The chase was on after that. I stumbled
through chest high deep grass expecting to see the bear at any moment.
It was extremely exciting, but also very stupid. Eventually my head
cleared, and I stopped the madness. I asked myself, "What the hell
are you doing?"

The wilderness invited the fear of the unexpected. I guessed that was
why I liked it. Back in Deadwood, everything was so in its place. I
was C.S.'s boyfriend, Gary's helper, or that kid with the beer in his
hand. "That person" was a far cry from the one experiencing the vast
and incomprehensible wilderness where Homo sapiens were mere visitors.
I preferred frequenting the bear as opposed to walking around with the
living-dead, the people whose lives were already "old ink." I was very
aware that my ink was dying up fast too, that was why I was so grateful for
the bear.


Life had to be brought to life through passion and fear. The bear made
sense out of nonsense. The bear put substance into existence. But,
for that experience, I shouldn't have to pay with my life. The fear
born out of sharing the wild with the bear should be enough. It should
be all that is required to make me aware of the "false security" that
suffocates life, suffocates the magic and mystery that is life. Dying
for that experience, I’m sure, would be counterproductive. Today, I
tracked a grizzly; tomorrow will not find me in hot pursuit of this or
any other bear. Fear is good, but it doesn't have to kill you to make
you whole. Perhaps I will get lucky and see a bear in the future. If
that happens, it will not be a result of irrational behavior. It will
be the result of simple chance.

Critiquing Jean-Paul Sartre’s Being And Nothingness

S.D. Badlands


For Whom Do I Choose?
Concluding Thoughts

Because of the freedom, which I am, I am condemned to face a world of
content as a nothing. I am not, so the world can be. Because I have a
hole in my being, worldliness, spatiality, quantity, temporality, and
instrumentality lie before me. All knowledge is found everywhere
except in the for-itself. What did Midas do with all that gold? Midas
possessed the one thing that he thought could make him happy, but it
didn't. My knowledge of the world is a consequence of my nothingness,
which, in turn, is a consequence of my freedom. "But am I more joyful
because of this freedom?"

That question could be better answered if I first could answer the
question, "Joy for whom?" I believe, "For whom?" is the essential
question here. Without a "who," enjoyment is a mere response, a
response appropriated from the outside world. "I ought to enjoy or not
enjoy something" provides the "context for enjoyment." That's not
freedom; that's behaviorism. Sartre has led us down a long and winding
road, but has he taken us anywhere? My lack, hole, nothingness (it
makes no difference how you say it--all are equivalent) allows me a
certain degree of freedom, but this freedom works its magic on already
determined soil. How am I free when my choices are given to me as
already conditioned by my situation?

We are not free for something; rather we are free only to be not
something. The negation of being is our most potent freedom. All
positing is conditioned, and therefore falls short of freedom. We are
only really free in negation. What is negated, it seems to me at
least, is a product of my environment. It is through "acts of
negation" where I experience my real freedom, but what is that, more
gold at the touch of a finger?

Man is free, and freedom is perhaps his most cherished possession.
Yet, what exactly does this freedom do for us? Are we really nothing?
What we recognize as identities the Hindus call Maya, or illusion.
The permanence that we attach ourselves to is simply the putting on
and taking off, of the "stuff" we find in our environment. It's all Maya.

What can we do with this freedom? Again, we must pause. We can do
nothing with freedom. Freedom, however, does everything to us. It
establishes the connection between our body and things. It allows us
to access our beliefs. Is there a conflict here between the knowledge
that comes to us from the outside world and our inner emotional states
that often times color that knowledge? "No," says Sartre. Given that
the body is my contingency, freedom still manifests my choice whether
I choose to act with passion, or with reason. Freedom is everything,
yet it cannot be apprehended. It just is.

How do we appropriate our own freedom? Freedom is all we are, and yet
it is not ours to determine. We are the being that is what it is not,
and it is not what it is. We are that being because freedom negates
the being we are, and as such, we are nothing, so we can become
conscious of everything else. We are the lack that continually refers
to the lacked. These conditions permit Sartre to define our
consciousness as: "Consciousness is a being such that in its being,
its being is in question in so far as this being implies a being other
than itself." With all this, can we be surprised to find in our
experience so many unresolved issues, unsatisfied desires, and
questions? I think not.

Finally, is freedom worth the praise lavished upon it? We cannot
determine freedom apart from the determination that makes us be. We
are inseparable from our own freedom. We are confronted by what Sartre
calls, "A point of view on which there can be no further point of
view." The legitimacy of this point is brought home with another
question, "What if we weren't free? And here we're talking about
consciousness where consciousness as we know it ceases to exist. I
suppose Sartre, here, consoles himself with the belief that death is
mere being in-itself. Yet, I am moved by the sheer absurdity of it
all. We do not have a choice not to be, but then the absurdity of
absurdity occurs, and we die. Sartre poignantly describes life when he
says, "It is a wait for a wait for a wait." I'll let the
metaphysicians have the last word here, but not until the matter of
Jimmy gets puts to rest. Sartre is probably right. Human nature
doesn't exist. Our destiny is a product of choice. Jimmy is free to
choose himself. Good or bad, right or wrong, happily or sadly, Jimmy
is free to choose himself. God help us all if Jimmy was
other-determined---a mere puppet on a string.