This road is seasonal beyond this point. See how it dips into the trees and then reemerges to ascend the next rise. And, down in that dip is where I took the other picture in this post. The Hollow Hills again. The hills are full of beaver ponds. Water is plentiful up here. Little unnamed creeks – some of them drying up most summers, but not this year – find their courses through the rocks. Creeks change their courses. I looked at a property about 15 miles out, closer to the Catskills, where the creek which serves as a property line had moved in recent years. This can cause some confusion about where one’s property actually ends.

 

 

The house itself is lovely, but the pictures I had seen on the Realtor’s web site showed it in an earlier stage. The interior had been gutted, re-framed, wired, and plumbed. It was a selling point for me that it should be unfinished. Unfortunately, by the time I got to see it the owner had completed most of the work, using materials that I would not have chosen. I’m sure he increased his chances of selling the house overall, but he decreased his chances of selling the house to me.

 

 

It’s a very simple concrete block structure, more like something you would expect to find in Florida. I like the trim around the windows. It’s a nice touch, giving it a little design feature in a simple and inexpensive way. Oh but what a pity that he finished the interior!

 

The owner’s father lives in a sister house next door. Hmm – could be a built-in busybody. Don’t get me wrong: I like having neighbors… a mile or so down the road.

 

I don’t feel like writing today. I have a few things I’m mulling over that I haven’t fully formed in a way that would make sense. (“So, when has that ever stopped you?” I hear you asking.) I’ve written several posts over the last few days which I haven’t actually posted. They’re not “done,” or they don’t really belong in the White Lodge – perhaps some other venue. But I thought I’d like to share a few pictures.

 

Where the heckiedoodles is TR, by the way? (Pardon my language!) The White Lodge isn’t the White Lodge without him. I’m finding it difficult pulling this together without my co-author.

 

The Squabbler should be back in a few days. That should help.

 

I may post some radio tonight. With McGee and Molly on summer break I find I am longing for September – in that one way. I’d prefer summer went on eternally and the fall and winter never came – in every other way. I’ll have Kraft Foods Great Gildersleeve program starting too in a few weeks. That should be fun.

Last night the stars were out. Does anyone not feel humbled when he gazes at the clear night sky? Humbled and then embarrassed? It’s such a trite thing to say – that you have stared up in wonder at the stars that wander brightly o’er the eternal sphere. It’s really not such a special experience. It’s one that anybody can have. But, there it is. For each of us, thinking something a little different, there is something about it which is fundamentally the same: the idea of smallness and of vastness, and of knowing which you are. To look at the stars is the first and the last work of art. No other experience does what it does. One thinks of infinity, or one thinks of other worlds far away, and one wonders. More wonder than knowledge tips the mind’s scale on the side of mystery, and it matters not at all how much one knows; the unknown is always the greater part.

 

Of course, I think of God. Not everyone does.

 

There were two small airplanes in the night sky as well. I saw the one, with its lights blinking, quite high up, quite distant. And it was only a little plane. Following it a few seconds later there was another. All I could see of them was their courageously blinking lights against the dark blanket of forevermore. At that point my thoughts turned from contemplation of the infinite to the realization that there were human beings inside those planes way up high, human beings – actual people – held within those tiny canisters of metal and plastic, and what-not, under the stars and over the earth. I wondered what they were thinking. Were they thinking of me down here while I was thinking of them up there? No, probably not. But dammit – they were thinking of something. Now, one gathers the same may be said of people passing you by in a car, but it seems so much more ordinary when they are on terra firma. Why? Certainly, flying in an airplane is also ordinary in this day and age – that is, until you give it a little thought.

 

When people fly airplanes do they sing to themselves just as they do behind the wheels of their cars?

 

Well, I understand that we are being asked to take time out of our busy schedules of buying frivolous things to save the world. That’s right – in between the TV commercials for Viagra and Advil and your next new car some chipper-voiced girl is urging you to save the world, assuming of course that it doesn’t interfere with your steady consumption of useless rubbish. And yes, the chipper-voiced girl is also selling useless rubbish – in this case, an idea which is rubbish: that the world needs you to “save” it.

 

Now, if a person is going to believe that he can be the world’s savior simply by purchasing a particular brand of light bulb or buying a particular type of car, or thinking in a particular way without really doing anything at all, then he is a moron – yes. But, I suppose the question is: what kind of moron is he? There must be categories and sub-categories of stupidity that we can chart demographically. Of course that’s exactly what the people who are selling these products have done. You go ahead and save the world, Superman – and don’t forget your pain relieving heart attack preventing erection inducing sleeping pills.

 

The belief that the world needs “saving” begins with ignorance and leads one into even more ignorance, for the truth is that the world has already been saved. There is a Savior, and you are not Him. You may look like Him a little but you are not Him. Don’t kid yourself.

 

When it comes to “The Truth,” and the search for “The Truth,” it all begins with the assumption that there is one. Obviously, one never seeks a thing that cannot be found unless he is on a fool’s mission, or unless he is mentally unwell. It is often said “The Truth is Out There.” Perhaps it is in the stars? People who say there is no absolute truth cannot actually believe what they are saying because they spend their lives grasping desperately onto this truth and that truth, and why on earth would they bother if there were no truth to be had?

 

“There is no absolute truth” is an absolute statement, so it’s the raving of an idiot to say it. “There is no absolute truth except the truth that there is no absolute truth, and I believe that absolutely.” Small wonder you can’t get an erection if that’s what you think. Do you really need one?

 

What people are really saying is this: “My mind is permanently closed to The Truth,” because it is known and it has been known, and it has been told. It has been shouted from the roof tops. There is no one living who hasn’t heard it. But it’s lost in the midst of so many other products, so many other choices. The market is flooded with them. So, if a person wishes not to know it there is a variety of other things to be found floating in that black vastness above our heads, in the darkness between the stars. If a person decides not hear it there are so many other things to be heard, so many other noises.

 

Do you believe in telepathy? I do. Sometimes it seems as if I am reading another person’s mind. This happened to me last night when I gazed up at those airplanes crossing the night sky. Am I crazy? Perhaps. I don’t care for flying, by the way. It frightens me. I’ve done it quite a lot, though not for many years. I remember it well. Last night I wondered what the person or persons in those airplanes might have been thinking, and this popped into my mind. I believe one of those people up there was also frightened – just as I would be – and he, or she, was finding both courage and comfort by thinking this:

 

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him. Whoever believes in him will not be condemned, but whoever does not believe has already been condemned, because he has not believed in the only Son of God. And this is the verdict, that the light came into the world, but people preferred darkness to light, because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come towards the light, so that his works might not be exposed. But whoever lives the truth comes to the light, so that his works may be clearly seen as done by God.” John 3; 16-21.    

What did I tell you about the mountains? There they are, not too far away. This is a hilltop on the hilly side of Rhubarb Valley, about 15 miles out.

 

It’s nice out there.

 

I had to drive by the little hotel where Elizabeth plays pool. It looks like it’s growing out of the small rise where two roads meet, like it’s been there forever. And down the way there’s a public auction I may attend.

 

The Lady will be arriving here soon. I haven’t seen her since October 22. I’m a little nervous because the Squabbler’s out of town, and he has my nerve with him. He’s visiting his first wife whom, you may recall, was accidentally turned into a municipal building in Illini, Illinois many years ago. I think she was the local Dept. of Motor Vehicles, but I believe they have moved. Anyhoo, the Squabs loves her very much. She is… architectural. But it looked like he could use a little more nerve so I let him borrow mine. Talking to a building is a cinch, but listening to one that is talking back can be quite disconcerting, even for the Squabbler.

 

So I must face The Lady on my own. We may be friends. We are friends. But she is a legend, and the most impressive type of legend to boot: a non-non-fictional legend. When the Squabbler is here, standing behind me like he does, I feel almost like her equal. Without him I sometimes feel inadequate. I know a few of you have friends like the Squabbler, and I’ll bet you know what I mean.

 

And now it is morning. She has come, and gone. I slept dreamlessly because we talked until well after midnight.

 

Pictures…

 

 

I wouldn’t mind living in this vicinity. I have an appointment to look at a property which is off the grid up in this area, and another which is hooked up but for other reasons perhaps not as nice – a sort of open floor plan. I don’t usually care for that. By “off the grid” I am assuming it means without electric and telephone hook-up, so I shall have to either invest in a generator or investigate the cost of bringing utilities to the site. As for the lack of telephone – assuming a cell phone cannot receive in the area either – I would have to subscribe to a message service. It may be worth it.

 

It will require a little nerve to live in such a place. So what?   

This might be the front cover of Country Living magazine.

 

I’ve been scouring the countryside for unusual homes. A nearby church is selling for $38,000. No land. The house and property next door is also available, however. I can imagine renovating a one-room church. Interesting.

 

 

A not too unattractive log home is offered in a little town in the other direction. Cheap. Again, no land.

 

 

A fixer-upper in the vicinity of Rhubarb Valley is unfortunately too exposed to the road for my taste.

 

 

Scouring the countryside, I wrote. That’s right, I’ve been cleaning it.

 

The winner is this tiny geodesic dome house ($69,000) which, though it only has 2 acres with it, is adjoined by State land on three sides and is so well hidden from the road by trees, (though not too far from it), a man could sit naked on his front deck all the live long day. Square footage? 453. I had better remain single…

 

 

I’m actually considering it. Dad’s a geo-dome fan. He was always dreaming of building his own little geo-dome, A-Frame, or underground house out in the woods somewhere. While my taste runs towards the traditional, a geo-dome is just eccentric enough to be appealing. (A-Frames always looked rather plain to me, and underground homes belong on television.) I would have to unload some excess furniture, but I’ll bet my stereo would kick butt in a dome house. And – who knows? – maybe I could attract an unusual mate with an unusual house. Of course, she would have to be small.

 

Let us ruminate.

 

 

Another place I saw on-line but haven’t yet visited offers an outdoor kitchen - (I believe it also has an indoor kitchen.) – under a pavilion. That’s a lovely feature. I had been thinking of building just such a thing on another property that was under consideration. Nothing beats cooking over wood. Or, I should say few things beat cooking over wood. Being lifted by angels bodily into Heaven beats cooking over wood. From time to time I fire up one of my outdoor charcoal grills. It is nothing like having a real cook fire. And as for propane, well that’s for back-up heating if you go away for a few days and can’t maintain the stove. It also boils water nicely.

 

I dreamed a ghastly, supernatural Susan B. Anthony with half a head was firing mossy stuff out of her fingers at me. What an extraordinarily ordinary dream! Did something happen to my imagination? Was it switched overnight with the imagination of a normal man named Fred?

 

There’s nothing wrong with the name Fred. I picked it at random.

 

Last night, in the dying light, I went by the church pictured above on my way back from a job. It was very beautiful. The setting, as you can imagine, though it was a little more built up than I would prefer, was quite romantic. Behind the structure, which is flanked by houses on either side but not too closely, was a scenic vista of merit: a creek meandering through a little valley of mainly pasture; behind it a rather craggy march of hills, a division in between them offering a far-flung wilderness into which the setting sun lay down for evening rest.

 

Of course a church would require – well… everything: water, heat, kitchen, bath, etc. It is no more than a single two-story room at the moment. My 15 year-old son, inclined towards the Gothic, as I was at his age, rather likes the church idea. I think he would like it better if there were a cemetery attached.

 

It was apparently a church of the Methodi when it was last used as such. The notice of services still hangs next to the door, as you can see. I think I may have left this one a bit late if I were to have any hope of getting it habitable before the snow flies, but it is interesting to consider nonetheless.

 

Well, that is an update on my adventures. I am a just a caveman searching for a suitable cave. Perhaps my imagination is being applied mainly towards that search, leaving only a little bit for dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

We looked at a $50,000 house in this village in 1995. I see they want $159,000 for it now. And you can’t use it for weekly tourist rentals, not anymore – that’s a Village no-no. It’s insane what they’ve done to this village. When I moved here there were over 80 B&B’s operating in beautiful Victorian homes, and helping to preserve them for posterity in the best possible way, by using them. Now the B&B’s number under 20 because of a combination of new zoning laws and the sudden enforcement of some old ones, and just south of the village the ugliest motels you have ever laid eyes on are popping up like boils on a village trustee’s butt.

 

Well, I’ve lived in a lot of places. This is the greediest local government I’ve ever come across. I really am looking forward to getting out of here, into the hills.

 

The question of the day is this: Why am I not you?

 

Let’s look into each other’s eyes. Concentrate. What is actually happening? The short answer is we don’t know. Simple observation will tell us what seems to be happening, or what appears to be happening: I – whatever that is – am looking through my eyeballs at you – whatever that is – and you are looking back through your own eyeballs at me. Each of us is thinking a million thoughts he is unaware of, as well as a few conscious ones. In some complex combination of these thoughts perception is achieved.

 

Now, let us imagine you and I are looking into one another’s eyes and you are dead. Well, that would be a very one-sided staring contest. You would win, for what it’s worth. From my perspective it would be no different than looking at a wall. It would look different; you wouldn’t look like a wall, but your body would be like a wall insofar as it is only an object, or a thing.

 

I’ve seen dead bodies. I’ve touched them. The effect is disconcerting. Why? – Because one expects to find life within a body. One does not expect to find life within a wall, or else anytime we touched any object it would give us the chills. Spooky.

 

How dead is dead, by the way? In times past people were terrified of being buried alive. (Well, one ought to be.) But, every now and then, before the study and practice of medicine advanced, before machines that go “bleep!” were invented to measure one’s vital signs – literally signs or evidence of life being present in a body – someone would be pronounced dead before he really was dead. Oh dear.

 

Dad told me he was holding Mom when she died, but it was some time afterwards that she left. The machines indicated that she had stopped breathing, and her heart had stopped beating. She was cold, and seemingly inert. One might reasonably observe, with or without the machines, that she was dead. But no – it was some moments later that she left. The thing that he was holding was still her, though dead. But when she left it was no longer her.

 

And that’s interesting. I had a similar experience of feeling someone leave. It is just as if you were to decide to stop looking into my eyes and excused yourself, saying, “I have to go now,” and then left. I can’t assume that you have ceased to exist. In fact, I’m reasonably certain that you do continue to exist. But, I do know that you have left me. (Come on back anytime. My door’s always open – my eyes.)

 

The consciousness within the body does the perceiving – not the body itself. So, it follows that our machines, as sensitive as they may be, are really no more than an extension of our senses. I am more sensitive than any machine I can create because I perceive with my consciousness aided by, but not dependent on, my senses. The machines said Mom was dead, but Dad knew the moment she left, and it was some short time after that. The consciousness is limited to the senses but not limited by them. There is something about us that transcends who we seem to be.

 

When we look into each other’s eyes we are seeing more than each other’s eyes. We are seeing everything we know about each other – whatever that may be. If we were then to touch each other’s faces we would be feeling more than each other’s skin. We would be feeling everything we know about each other – whatever that may be. And where does that knowledge come from? Not the eyes, not the skin.

 

And, why am I not you? And, why are you not me?

 

Things I like: “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,” goes the song. Perhaps you like different things?

 

Actually, I’m not a cat fancier.

 

 

The crowd at the Baseball Hall of Fame Induction is rather small this year. I had hoped to see a few stuffed bikinis, and maybe Buster Keaton dressed like an Indian. No such luck. The architecture is much more interesting, though rather heavily treed. This is down the road, ‘round the corner, across the bridge.

 

 

Then I see there is land (8.3 acres) with a “summer home,” only $58,000? That can’t be right. Must be a trailer. But I’ll mosey on over there – for shits and giggles.

 

Anyhooo, writing first thing in the morning before mass, then adding on as the day goes along. The sun has come out. Time to play.