Walden

I'm a localist, and Walden's right there. I remember the non-beautiful concrete wharf from which one could jump into the water. that's gone, which is better for the eyes, but let's not strike up the flag of Purity. a fence to define the territory of Walden, of course, it's a national treasure after all. a little less easy to accept is the fence around much of he pond at water level, and also preventing wandering into the woods in many places. I know this is to lessen the wear of use, but it does clang a bit against the conception of Walden that WALDEN brings. it's not like Walden hasn't been used a long time. ice houses, and a grand spa sort of place were features of Walden long ago. the commuter train may rattle the respectful visitor, but trains predate Thoreau's venture to the pond. when my legs were springier I used run to and around the pond. now it's impracticable because there are often so many stepping westward on the thin path, just not much room for galloping runners. and god forbid mountain bikes. the pure products of America go crazy, you bet. I used to bike to work, taking a long route so that I could glimpse the pond twice in the day, and feel that refreshment. catch it as the sun goes down. there's a facsimile hut, but it's up by the parking lot, where Thoreau used to park his Mazda. the actual hut site had a hell of a view, especially with fewer trees than now. beanfields, try to imagine them there now. and I frequently think of himself in his doorway, frying up johnnycakes, reading the Baghavad-Gita, writing in his journal. everything was worth seeing, worth invesigating even. I suppose romanticizing is a natural twitch. when I brush aside the ambitious crap, which I can't help, I see my work in that light, of just proceeding in the day with what I have. next stop, bodhisattva, and I'm only partly kidding. one has to respect one's own sense of hope and mission, even as one works to avoid its mastery.