Tour

It was now the fiction, which before had always been in-mind, the stuff of thought-castles and books. I-now was the living-book and the fiction was everything out there. I was in a machine. It's all automatic. Food and drink behind glass doors. Self-contained. Could be a space-ship. Wherenot was space. But I have to go back-out-there, outside. "Where do you think you are ?" That had been said to me many times growing-up. Apparently I had been an absurdist. It was a polite way of saying, "Are you crazy ?". The fiction of mind. I had a thought they didn't. The whole thing is automatic. The trees, grass, chaff and grain, rain and rivers, never stop growing-going. Why time-stamp it ? In the long run, it was always going to be in the sphere of where. I did not have to worry about it. It would be there. I liked it as it was.

They did not. The where-conditioning. It was the wrong make and model. They had to remake-it. That was where Thoreau had been great, his farmer with ever a barn on his back. Thoreau was free. How free could he be ? That was the question. He didn't abstract it, in the manner of guessing ghosts by gaslights. He went into the woods and did it himself. But he wasn't free, nor could he be. He depended on supplies from town. He minimized it; but then he was an aristocrat. Only an Indian could be free. I must have realized that early on. If you can live alone with nothing, except what is laying around and growing-things, then you are free of the make or break system.

Means sharing, share and share-alike; but mostly in these modern-times, means not-alike. Share and share not-alike.

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