Christmastime in Romblon

for the geography challenged - that is in the Philippines

I wouldn’t know either if it wasn’t for a series of unfortunate circumstances; the greatest of which was the untimely death of my father. It was through his suffering that I became acquainted with this culture, for his primary caregiver was a Filippina. She made living with a broken leg for 10 months as tolerable for my father as anyone could have. I will never be able to sift from that misery whose was whose; what was what or how much was her, him, my family, myself - it really doesn’t matter. What is important is that in a time of great need, there was great care - the same dilemma we are all faced with today.

I came here to Romblon because of how my father taught me to live - he imparted the importance of values; he didn’t necessarily dictate which values, but that I live a life of worth. Early on, I was lucky to find carving stone fit my nature, that and a deep affection for beauty of woman sealed my fate. The problem is my father had a wonderful sense of humor - the kind you have to follow carefully to make sure you got the punchline, or whether you were the punchline. For example: in the preceding sentence fragment I change tense, looked twice, and let it stand (did it again)... The keen ones amongst you are asking how this pertains to Christmas, or values for that matter.

It was by having fun that he made his point, and he was quite fond of making a point. You might even say my father was the most competitive man who ever walked the earth. It is what he competed for that is significant, for though he is no longer here to cajole; mock or jolly his magic, I am. Whether there is a nether world of afterlife in which he is chuckling at this instant is unimportant, for though he does not animate this vale of tears his influence will echo as long as I draw breath. That is an important value in an age where it is almost demanded from birth that you neuter your outrageous individuality; if you don’t believe me, try shitting on your boss’s desk next time he pisses you off or putting a “cap” in the thug when he refused you a seat on the subway. My dad earned my greatest regard for not advocating dominance, retaliation or any of the sundry responses to frustration.

I would rail as a young man still formulating my plan to carve while being frustrated by all the restrictions of “life.”  He would listen to my rage and say simply, “you’re a lover, not a fighter.” Nor was he wrong; every step of the way violence of any sort, be it mental, physical or spiritual has come up short compared to the unrelenting force of love. About now the keen and determined amongst you are saying well enough about “values” but what in hell does Romblon have to do with Christmas? My reaction to his suffering has been a renewed determination to honor his gift of life, and because I carve stone, I have sought the ideal circumstance to accomplish that end: Romblon is an island of Marble; it is remote, inexpensive and populated by beautiful women and hard working men. Yet here I sit more certain than when I left my home it’s not circumstance that carves stone.

Anymore than it is a nation which is “the” cause of all good or all evil. Nor is any one of us heir to the all of anything - blessings or otherwise. We are here for an instant; there are ways to live which nurture, encourage and accomplish as much there are ways to live that are destructive, coercive and dishonest. Here is the challenge - we can do much. Just as the kind Filippina made my father’s last days tolerable, or my family stretched to tearing hoping to remove some ache from his tired body, we humans will always accomplish that which is necessary to get through to a better world. So while doing that, please have some fun and remember to love whomever you can; wherever you are; whenever you can.

more @ http://stoneartist.com

Grandpa Joseph

My mother's parents were Joseph and Maude Vernon; a week ago while cooking my weekly fare of beans and chicken, mom said to me "have you ever been in a situation where you weren't a victim." She was responding to my explanation of the ethical conundrum I faced on my last job herding dead people's estates through the Los Angeles Superior Court. I had been a probate analyst for a private investigator out of Tucson. Because the "marks" in this racket are dead and unable to fend for themselves, and because it is the largest court west of the Mississippi, "flowing shit" doesn't begin to describe what passes for ethics within that unique community. When she made that comment, I wanted to slug her, but she is my mother, so I finished cooking my beans and chicken for the week. That morning we'd been to where I had created a cairn for my recently deceased father - her first husband. I gathered the majority of stones while on every-other-day runs in parts of the Southwest and Northwest where I had been searching for a stone carving studio; my older siblings having made attending to my father so difficult, this activity was the most constructive way I could see to spend my time. My father knew what I was doing and approved - though he couldn't quite understand why I was not always at his side, he knew I was doing the best I knew how. I brought mom to the wetlands at Bolsa Chica where I have begun the cairn, so she could know better my heart and maybe see i do not hate on my brother and sister, but honor my father's memory; when we arrived that morning, all that remained of my effort was sage and incense. Nearly all the stones I had collected had been stolen. Bob Dylan has said, "every moment of existence seems like some dirty trick…" - I was not laughing. To understand this essay you will need to know the living people I describe are for the most part, loving, caring individuals manifesting as much good into the world as they know how - 10 months before his death, pop broke the thigh knuckle at his hip socket. The wound was inoperable, so he set the bone himself like some desert animal in the scrub - mending it enough to take 22 steps, 22 steps at 86 years old with a broken leg. Yes this is an essay about my grandfather Joseph…he, like my father, and like myself are not amongst those my mother considers to be strong men.

I cannot speak authoritatively about my orphan grandfather, for he died 10 years before I was born; I do know that my own father was all about questions, so I can't think of a better way to honor them both than to begin the process of learning about my grandfather by raising as many questions as possible. For any investigator, much less a rank amateur such as myself: rule 1) what are the facts?

Grandpa Joseph was an orphan from a largely Bohemian enclave in Montour, Iowa; his adoptive parents were reportedly abusive; he fled while still a teen ending up in Nevada, by way of Utah; married twice - two children from his first marriage; he married my grandmother in 1925 - a college educated woman 20 years his junior. She bore him 3 children whom were largely raised in the midst of the "great depression"; he was an itinerant miner and a gas station manager/attendant. He set off the first explosion breaking ground for what was to become the Hawthorne Nevada Munitions Dump the same day my mother was born - July 19, 1928. He provided for his family through the depression; left a job in the Highway Department secured for him by his sister-in-law; was abandoned by his wife after ten years of marriage; died from cancer at the home of that same estranged wife in 1944. He spent many years in the Nevada desert, has been described as voluble. My cousin, his eldest grandchild recently wrote an outstanding sixty page research document on my grandmother's exploits in which his existence was defined within a dozen sentences.

Not a lot to go on…; my mom was 16 when her father died, and I've only just begun to get a sense of the emptiness she may have felt. I was 56 when my father died; I'm not sure which would be harder - knowing someone many years and having to say good-bye, or never really getting a chance to know someone and having to say good-bye. It matters not, for all we can do is say good-bye - again with those thorny facts. Is my effort to learn about a dead relative just the denial part of the Kubler-Ross paradigm? Am I resisting grieving for my father and diverting myself from the messy interior work with this essay, or is it an honest reaction to what I feel was a weighted effort to exalt my grandmother's role in the family history, while giving short shrift to my grandfather's lesser accomplishments? Already, I have more questions than I have answers, so I must be on the right trail. Much of what is difficult about this essay centers around the kinship I feel with someone I never met. For example, using a quote about the men of those times, my cousin describes my grandfather as, " - a chaser of rainbows." I am a stone cutter / artist who makes 3 dimensional objects with 2 dimensional vision. I understand 3 dimensions, but due to a congenital anomaly everything I see is one eye at a time; I am an artist - a cyclops, who at the end of his career, has no significant following, yet I refuse to quit. One doesn't get much closer to rainbow-chaser than that. Herein lies the rub, is it inherently wrong to chase rainbows? I can appreciate my cousin's defense of my poor sainted grandmother whose only real crime was to be seduced by a feckless miner in the wilds of Nevada during the "Roaring 20's." Yet from everything I have heard and learned, one doesn't approach the Nevada desert with anything but a keen sense of determination and no small measure of self-reliance. What I am learning about my grandfather is that he was not educated; his in-laws were not fond of him, dismissing him as an uneducated "Yankee," ~ a working class stiff - a rough cobb; he did not assume personal responsibility for his short-comings, rather accusing others for his continued job changes. He was inappropriate enough to comment to his fourteen year-old daughter that her mother had "gone to seed" by the time she was 30 - an accurate description according to her middle daughter, but no less inappropriate; attentive to his children, relishing the "kiddy's" mealtime - a mealtime that was often subsidized monthly by his sister-in-law, my "maiden" great aunt. He was also indulgent enough with his middle child for her to quip "what's on your conscience," when he would rue out loud about the interest of young rakes for his too-beautiful-for-words daughter. One gets the sense that my grandfather was a perfect subject for the patronizing behavior which my grandmother and great-aunt resorted to - possibly as a buffer from what certainly must have seemed the very judgmental world of the 30's, 40's and McCarthy 50's of these United States.

So how do I evolve out of this scathing, pernicious, gratuitous judgement that oozes throughout the legacy of my grandfather's dumb luck? This is my 3rd attempt at an essay about this man. Began over 3 months ago, I remain no less determined to find a more balanced history for this human without a champion - that I am his namesake feels more like one of Mr. Dylan's "dirty tricks" than any real psychic burden, though I'd allow some uncomfortable parallels between our two lives, including multiple marriages; a checkered job history and an affinity for rock formations. But, more than rehabilitating his good name, or giving a voice to this man, I want to attenuate my own knee-jerk-fire-from-the-hip-judgement - judgement of my siblings, my mother, myself, our world. I feel strongly about this because my own father believed it possible to make a better world and that doesn't square with a myopic view of the world. He also was a chaser of rainbows able to leap tall buildings at a single bound, except he actually lived the part; when I am dead and gone, it will be a part of my eternal pleasure to have witnessed him, armed with a broken limb, recognize someone else's pain and search for ways to alleviate that person's suffering, or to make humanity smile, one person at a time for no other reason than to see a smile emerge. I sit here now smiling, for I may be able to finish my life doing what I believe I am meant to do - create: in stone, on canvas, on paper ~ out of thin air… Pop synthesized his ideas into simple terms about where one puts one's energy. For example, when mom wanted to relegate my ethical struggle with a complex socio-economic financial racket to "victimhood" I could have figuratively engaged in the violence of her thinking, or finish cooking food? acting on any destructive impulse is a long road to nowhere - same place I'd land if I were to attack my siblings, my cousin's scholarship, even … (and god help me I have to say it ~ grufyti ~ ) the results in each case differ only in dimension from what has happened as a result of the hatred focused on the twin trade towers… there just isn't time enough good feeling to waste if your desire is to make, create, contemplate or admire anything. The simple inexorable physics of existence drives this point home most effectively the day you die.

From this position I seek ways in which a more generous reading of Grandpa Joseph's life might attenuate some sadness in the twilight of my mother's complex history - a history rich in contrasts, but deficient in satisfaction. My mother has done her best with the cards she was dealt. I believe the same thing about her father & mother, my father and my siblings. So what happens to all this good intention? Grandpa Joseph, by all accounts, was not a stupid man, uneducated, but not stupid. At some point after his wife and children fled for the safety and comfort of the more conventional life available to them in 1930's Los Angeles he had to have asked himself the same question I have asked myself on more than one occasion - which is, "what the fuck is going on?" I'm only partially kidding - self awareness, unfortunately is not the privileged domain of scholarship, or even a guaranteed outcome of education; certainly not a reflection of business acumen, but can be too often found in the misery of life's more difficult experiences - I believe my grandfather had more than his share of unhappiness, self-inflicted or otherwise - it just doesn't matter… What does matter is that his life was defined by the desire to improve his lot; I don't know about mining gold, but there is little question in my mind that if I am a better man today - it is because of the women who have helped me; is this the reason that my grandfather took on a young quiet unassuming college-educated woman from the deep south - a woman who was to subsequently abandon him for the economic and emotional sanctuary of her sister's home? Did my grandfather want nothing more out of life than to perpetuate his DNA ? Is there a thread of human logic which dictates that a solitary man requires a woman to comprehend the complexity of human existence or were his choices just to make his life tolerable? What about the role of education? Did what my grandmother learn in college inform her choice about an orphan Bohemian miner as husband and sperm donor in the unforgiving badlands of 1920's Nevada? Too soon my mother will not be available to answer questions concerning my grandfather or the larger issues of life - how to reconcile unfavorable public opinion with self-respect; what is the nature of conceit; what is humility? If my grandfather was a decent man, why is he not more honored within the family constellation? My father had confidence about the person I have become, this was the result of much exchange between us, peaceful and not so much - ultimately my father demonstrated that what he thought of me wasn't the key, but how I think of myself that bears scrutiny; does my mother need special assurance about her self worth because she had so little time with her father, or do we all of us need to help the other know that it is alright?

jts 15/9/2011

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∞

Peace 4 Pop

Dear Pop, You're going to laugh, maybe not, but just as I opened my computer and began to write about the concept of peace; sitting surrounded by old growth pines on the veranda of the Rabbit Foot Trail Inn located in the township of Pine Flat on the western slope of the Sierras, the proprietress came ambling up the tired wooden staircase with a gray cat following closely; my soggy sandwich was lying open - exposed to the bugs and the cat. In the span of 15 minutes, I learned that she had cancer, that her father was a stone mason (she clued me on how to hand carve stone spheres using cones) and her husband suffers from a severe heart condition. Once she understood the reason I'd come this direction was to evaluate a laundromat in Strathmore, CA and had only been diverted from my journey by the local Hot Springs, she suggested I open a laundromat in Pine Flats; she then wandered off to give this idea more thought, the cat following - not closely enough, apparently wanting to make sure there were no morsels from the sandwich that might fall her way, but leaving simultaneously as the too close neighbor dog hit its barking stride - barking that was to continue for the next 2 hours…. Are you laughing yet? Well how about this - the nice lady reading this to you is my mother, and your ex-wife - Martha…

I knew I was going to take a whack at writing about peace, even before I spontaneously banged a right at the sign pointing to California Hot Springs at the southeastern corner of the Central Valley. I had started another essay ahead of this and generally don't work multiple projects based on an admonition from you about finishing what I set out to do. But I find with writing that each piece requires time to sit - a time where the rough ideas can germinate and shoot out growth as though the language follows its own patterns and pace from the initial seeding. I have learned that writing for me is very similar to the many conversations we have had over the course of my lifetime; I am becoming able to chew on ideas clamoring for discussion - hone them like the edge of a blade. Yet I find peace with even the most contentious ideas when I employ the logic you have shown me over time. For example, while this woman was pitching the laundromat, I had to ask myself why it was so important to her. Not because I am overly suspicious, but for the simple reason I am a stranger to her, so why would she be trying to help me? I digress - the next afternoon, 20 hours later… I've just returned from visiting the business in Strathmore, CA. This is one of a number of properties I have made inquiries about. And though this laundromat will satisfy someone's investment portfolio, It won't be mine. While my evaluating laundromats in the Great California Central Valley may not necessarily give you great peace - it does wonders for me. I am doing what you trained me to do - explore, ask questions and make decisions. I can't begin to tell you how comforting that inclination, and skill is to me, but I'll try.

Given all of the changes that you face, and the remarkable limitations in my capacity to participate constructively in that adventure, creates for me tremendous determination to prepare for my own future as well as you have prepared for yours. I know from those important moments which we have shared, that you continue to search for meaning in your world and to share your discoveries with others. I can't know precisely what your world looks like, what I do know is that I am providing you a "5 paragraph essay" on what I am pursuing. Peace is what I work toward; peace that is without concession. This does not mean I make no concessions, but that my objective remains intact as I press on "down the road." Nor is my objective rooted in any obstinate ambition that does not acknowledge the realities of my existence; rather, Pop, I chase that prey which nourishes my feeling of well-being irrespective of how the world reacts to my diet. Let me clarify; I know that stone carving is a decent activity, which I am fairly good at; I know that I am getting old and loosing strength, so I adapt and expand to those areas of creativity that will accommodate my changing abilities - much like I have watched you adjust your life over these past number of years, nicely done. I can't say what others are doing, but I am paying attention.

What I am finding is peace - a peace which people sometimes drag themselves away from kicking and screaming… kidding pop. I do find your notions of not "getting in concrete" have wonderful correlations in buddhist and other eastern philosophies dealing with notions of peace. I just watched a show about the Universe and contending ideas about what makes it up - whether there is a 4th dimension of time, or if in fact there is a single dimension which more clearly accounts for the behavior of gravity; Morgan Freeman - the black actor that was with Jack Nicholson in the movie "The Bucket List" was the narrator. The point of all this is that science is chasing philosophy, and philosophy continues to return to that element of thinking which sets the individual free - non-attachment - "not getting in concrete." For myself, who can confuse obstinacy with determination like others confuse love for hate, it is comforting to find good examples set by people such as yourself. I am better able to separate myself from activities and patterns of thinking which do not contribute to what I have learned about peace - for me, creativity is essential, but there is a secondary pursuit which has come to fore. Over the years I've watched you resort to joy as a choice of expressions. While carving is rich with the sublime, if you're looking for exuberant joy: carving stone is a little like watching paint dry. Me, I like to sweat - get my heart rate up, anything that yields the nifty byproduct of joy - this may account for the genuine pleasure I take in hard work and good sex.

And as with all good things these proclivities fly in the face of non-attachment and consequential peace. So how does one locate that point when pursuing peace beyond which there is no joy - when feasting on chocolate becomes an ache rather than itch, or where running just numbs rather than awakens? For me, that point of abiding is found in the act of giving; just as mom might feel peace in reading this to you, my fantasy is that she might feel this way because she is giving something important to us - I have taken great joy in spending time creating concepts which might resonate with your keen intellect. If my words reach you, even as a rhythm, they do so because I had the good fortune to have parents who pursue meaning in this world at a deep level. And while the Tao does say keep your desires simple and your disappointments will follow suit, this insight also reminds one that peace is within our grasp, we are the agents of our destinies - and if our ambition is to be at peace, then just like the contending concepts of whether we live in one dimension or a gazillion dimensions in no way affects our respective realities, neither can anyone ever have dominion over our peace. You sir are too cool for school, and I hope this was as much fun for you to hear as it was peaceful for me to write…

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Purpose

One of my father's favorite questions, amongst his many questions, is "why are you here, what is your purpose in life?" I have been fortunate in my life to have learned early on that a key to my existence is the act of carving stone. However, what this key has provided is access to more questions. I am unable to know from my father's experience what his quest for purpose has yielded - whether he finds more questions with each discovery or if there is "a thing" to be learned. Whatever "it" is, he hunts it with the same singleness of purpose with which he imbued each of his children to seek meaning in their respective lives. Myself just now, I suspect that meaning has to do with developing a keener process. This would be be consistent with what I learned many years ago from an engineering mentor - Seven O'Clark. His reaction to my enthusiasm about locating some obscure piece of engineering data was "it's not finding it, it's remembering where you found it." On the surface this may sound like he was advocating rote learning, he was not. What Seven was saying is to look at the larger organization of knowledge - see where it is that you located your data; this same concept pertains to purpose. it is not enough to just have an objective, what is important in life is to possess a reason to be, or as the French would say "raison d'être."

Nor can this be simply a case of fulfilling day-to-day objectives, for if that were true there would be little difference between getting the laundry done vs helping one's child gain the ability to pursue a life rich with meaning, or in my case acquiring money vs uncovering the reason why stone carving has such pull on my internal compass. As I've stated, I have enjoyed the luxury of having a "key" to my existence, yet I also suffer from the plethora of questions this knowledge has provided. For example, what the hell do I care whether you the reader see your world in any deeper way - what possible advantage could there be to me, if you find meaning in your life? I'll be honest with you, otherwise my infirm father might rise up out of his repose and smack the snot off my face… This essay is meant to encourage - encourage you, encourage him, encourage anyone trying to understand this maze we seem to have bought our way into and cannot buy our way out of. At this juncture in my father's life, I believe it would give him great satisfaction for me to be honest, not about the day-to-day "yeah, yeah, I'm fine…" but whether I am living up to the expectations which he has assigned to me, the same as he has for every other traveler he ever encountered in his long career as a "student of mankind." Yet more importantly, possibly even a feature in his own quest for meaning might be for him to know that I have developed my own set of standards.

I have been aided by an internal direction in developing these standards - guidelines which are by no means locked down. One of these guiding principals is as Ben Harper stated nicely, "if you're causin' no harm, you're all right with me." Yet we are living in a time of remarkable harm, remarkable indifference to harm and a predictably stupid or just plain dishonest response to the potential for harm. Rather than become absorbed into a "target rich" environment, and becoming a harm fighter, I have chosen to pursue what I feel to be a constructive existence. I am going to arrange a studio somewhere on the planet in which to create. Hitherto, I have attempted to "model" behavior, as Gandhi said "be the change you want to see." I am no Gandhi, when someone doesn't give a rat's ass whether I am to be subjected to their: fill in your own blank _________, music, bullshit, boasting, graffiti, coercion… etc, than I figure they have set the rules and I am allowed any voice I choose with which to respond. Anymore, I choose not to respond, for the time that it takes to explain to someone else that their loudness is rude, or their nonsense is empty, or that graffiti is tired and coercion is for the weak, that is one less instant I have to wonder and one less moment to commune with the awe that is at the core of this mystery called life.

So here I sit struggling to develop understandable concepts that convey the importance of reason and purpose in our lives and to do so in a way that acknowledges each person's journey through this wonderland of opposing ideas. If I were to abandon any effort to contribute to someone else's capacity to find meaning in life, it would reflect a deeper malaise pertaining to my own struggle to apprehend meaning. Of the many fortunate events in my life, high on the list is having been a member of a family where public contribution was expected, even demanded. Yet it was not indentured servitude, more the belief that one's own skill and accomplishments were better described by other's happiness than by one's own declarations - a concept which is far more difficult to realize that it would appear. Nor have I always been able to understand the proper relationship of "enlightened self-interest." As it happens, what General Patton had said is true, if only in a metaphorical sense - "it's not about you giving up your life for your country, but the other guy giving up his.life for his country." The battles against oppression, cruelty, greed; cannot be waged to the exclusion of personal development or the abandonment of one's best interest. We each of us have an allotted moment in which to fulfill our respective destinies; for each us, success or failure with respect to that objective can only be measured by our individual acceptance of our own truth - existentialism.

Now full circle to the "purpose" of this essay, I can only speak for myself. Yet this existential truth does not condemn me to subservience to other's short comings or failings, anymore than it entitles me to the Buddha's wisdom because I can speak his name. My purpose is evolving, and hopefully it will continue to evolve and adapt with each new experience. My responsibility lies in those choices I make about either what I experience, or how I experience what I don't like. And just like Seven O'Clark pointing out to me when I was oh so young and barely able to hear wisdom, much less understand it, while it may be wonderful at any given moment to be full with purpose, that which is timeless in the universe embraces each us and and our unfolding purpose regardless of its shape, content or any other consideration; we are fulfilling our purpose right now wherever we are, whether we stand, sit or lie; we have arrived at our destination - the fast lane of "Going Down the Road Highway."

Rapturious Armageddon

My trip through the Southwest began 3 weeks ago with a can of beans in Amboy California, so the symmetry of ending with a can of beans on "Judgement Day" at Bailey's Hot Springs in Beatty, NV is fitting. I have been driving in search of a studio that I can afford, and one that would allow me to execute a large statue that I have been contemplating for over a year. Because my new idea contains a mother, infant and child, it will be larger than anything I have attempted yet. At 56, I don't have as much time as I'd like to work on a piece of this scale, but then again who's ever heard of existential "do-overs." For all you wealthy patron's looking to score - time is nigh...

The front end of this journey began in Dilia, NM where there is a stone schoolhouse that is "for sale." The building requires more than I am prepared to apply - though for all you out there in "get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-land," I can put you in touch with the principal - @ $30k - The property is definitely worth a look, and the man selling it is an interesting painter making the journey worth it just to hang out for a chat. As I burst forth from Tecolotito having been slapped hard by the certain knowledge there was no way to make this property work, the anxiety became nearly debilitating - but not. I know it sounds like a wash, but that's how it felt. I then headed up the road to Las Vegas, NM, and in an act of defiance purchased a canvas on which to sleep at the local KOA - "high desert, I don't give a rat''s ass about no stinking high desert…? - and the drama was only just beginning, for the wannabe owners and their "letter of agreement" to buy the campground were being squeezed by an insider group hooked up with the current owner who may, or may not have had a history of being "wrong" with children. All the "wannabe buyer" wanted was someone to hold the mirror up so he could confirm what his gut had already told him... get the flock out of there!

After counseling the "buyer" to cut his losses and find a straight-ahead deal, I hunkered back up the hill to my canvas by the side of the road; deep in thought - I wasn't looking for the darkened picnic bench as it jackknifed me onto its surface using my own velocity, or stupidity - your call. For about 30 seconds as I peeled my face up from the prone position, I found my real concern was the large particle in my mouth that wasn't there a moment earlier? Satisfied it more felt more like picnic bench wood, than tooth enamel, I picked up all of my newly charged digital appliances and limped on up the hill hoping at least for sleep - the floodlight wasn't having any of it, and I wasn't going to argue with something that tall. @ 11:30 pm I booked my second lodging for the night, in a room this time. Hoping my tooth would survive, I became only more resolved to see Marble, CO - the same quarry yielding stone for "The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier," and "Lincoln's Memorial."  I woke up the next day hoping to get close enough by dark to make it up the mountain the following day - Welcome to Salida, CO.

If it wasn't heaven, it could have been - 10 units, 5 older log cabin bungalows with another 5 in a modern upstairs / downstairs rustic money maker; yes, as a matter of fact, I did make an offer then and there. She, nice lady that she was, listened politely and bid me "good night" and the, unbeknownst to me, growing purple bruise peeking out from my white goatee. Nevertheless that sleep was of the deepest kind, and for 3 days, including the conversation with the listing agent, this little dream of owning a Motel in Salida Colorado served to do no more than get my motor running, for there was no way this nice lady was getting on any "it's gonna happen" train; I returned to the facts of life choo-choo. It was worth the trip just to see Kay laughing her ass off at the Nursery I stopped in to inquire about the road up to Marble - they had rocks out front, so I figured they'd know; Kay may still be laughing at the image of me standing in running shoes and shorts asking about getting through a pass that was covered in 15 feet of snow… bless you Kay, and bless you some more. I was thwarted but not undone - naturally I set out to visit my great grandmother's brother's grand children Bob and Pete Foster in Lakewood, CO - ain''t life grand?

Fast-forward to honor - May 21, 2011 - The End of Days, I am choosing "An Astonishing Existence Award," and as with most awards, it remains a toss up. In this instance it has come down to the quarry at Marble, CO; the beauty of Pocatello; or stopping to photograph an F-111 carcass at a one-horse-airport just past the "Fish Bait Bar" in Silver Springs, NV, so I could run smack into one of my engineering mentors, Seven O. Clark and his lovely wife Anita. He just happened to be in the process of commissioning the "Cactus Air Force." That I was even at that corner was only because seconds earlier I had chosen to take the long way to Wellington, NV to visit my boyhood friend Mark and his Indian Maid companion, again - If life ain't grand - it is dam sure weird…?

Post Apocalyptic Update: Sunday 22 May 2011 - the day after Armageddon, so in honor of the event I will run in "Death Valley this morning. Last night sleeping on open ground the same as I did at the beginning of this journey, I was visited by deep and profound dreams. Whether these helpful insights are from soaking in Bailey's Hot Springs; from traveling same roads my mother's parents trod in Nevada, or just sometimes hard work results in good information - it really doesn't matter. What does matter is that, while I have not secured a new site in which to carve my next piece, I have explored many new options I did not have before; I have gained new personal insights that may contribute to greater resolve and possibly more clarity for the work I do. My heart is more at peace, while my purpose is more intense. This leaves me rich with emotion that I would share, for if I must be judged, at least I can go out…

…wishing each of you who read this: good health; greatest possible happiness; and if at all possible, at least as much fun reading this as I have had writing it - ciao mes amis

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Hapy Birtday - Mr. Dylan,

Dear Bob,

I have often thought to write and express my appreciation for what your work has given to me over the 55 odd years I've been aware of your existence; you've been a wise influence.

What is certain to me is that my life would have been much darker without the illumination your words have inspired; it is difficult enough to understand fully what you express without trying to guess at what you're on about; your songs describe more life logic than most endeavors I have witnessed.

I sit curious what I could possibly contribute to your well-being, as your work has contributed to mine; what I've arrived at is, thank you; anymore time spent may divert you from that happiness "just around the next bend in the road . . . "

All good things your way, from one human being to another.

Joseph T. Stevens

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

belong - belonging - belongings

Belongings - so much of life seems consumed by items which we have deemed essential for contentment, amusement or work, yet there is so much anxiety about their disposition: moving them, presenting them - what is the meaning of these objects in our existence? Are we talking about elaborate or extensive holdings? For example, I have as Mr. Springsteen described, "a brand new used car." Recently a peacock in the rural compound where I was staying roosted on and about my new used car and shit on it. To manage my anxiety and take care of myself, I parked the car outside the fence - not without some hesitation; after all, it is a 2000 Toyota Corolla with less than 72,000 miles. So there I am in the high desert in search of where I am to belong, struggling with a creature, who while belonging, shit on my belonging forcing me to move it to a vulnerable place; where does it stop?

How does an inanimate object come to occupy a place where it can so easily move one off center? Yes, one's vehicle can be considered integral to one's life especially when far from home, so let's look at an object far less important, say for example my father's last pocket knife. He has been deemed "addle pated, fraught with dementia, senile - pick any modern expression for having gotten old." As a result of this diagnosis he was moved to a special facility qualified to "care" for Alzheimer's patients, and as a result of these new lodgings he was separated from his pocket knife - an item which occupied a conspicuous place in his previous home, having remained open for years on his night stand. Please don't misunderstand, this object to the poet my father is was no more than a symbol for his altering comprehension of the world around him.

Having come into my possession, this object has become a talisman of similar portent; although our two experiences are vastly different and there is no way that I could begin to imagine what this folding blade represented for my father, it has now come to captivate my imagination for all that knives can represent. Yet it remains an object, a thing - a tool, have I been tricked by my own sentimentality to imbue it with greater importance than what it can accomplish by cutting through something - anything? I do know that I would likely be more disturbed by its loss than i would by the theft of my momentarily vulnerable vehicle. Is that weird? Having thoughts like that, you can begin to imagine how hard it might be for me to find a place to belong, or to find one to belong with.

The word belong is based on Old English gelang [ at hand, together with ]. This sense of together runs counter to the "existentialist" tradition in which I was raised, so the notion of belonging becomes a burr under the saddle of whatever search I make to find that place I "belong." For example, just now my ailing father is alone, the same as he was when he entered this world. I too am alone but under much different circumstances - he contemplating the converging meanings of his existence as it draws nigh, while i sit in a small motel in "Heart of the Rockies" trying to string together ideas which could clarify to myself why I would be drawn to the quarry in Marble, CO - which is no more than a hole in the ground whose sole purpose is to provide a particular stone to the world at large - me in particular. And if this is where I belong, rather than "at hand" for my father, how am I to know?

I do know that what is now my knife was so important to my father that he kept it on his night stand - close to where he went to sleep and to where he woke up. This same blade happens to be a near perfect edge with which to shave the last flakes of stone from key features on my latest carving. Because this art work has taken me a decade to complete, and because if I am to be anything more than a poser stone shaper, I have to be able to cut with the same abandon with which one begins a new piece. For if at anytime work becomes so important that one cannot, as they say "bet the farm" on any one stroke - then what is the point to life. Are we to become captive of either those creations which we have fashioned with such love and affection, or even the freedom of our very existence. If it is not possible to move on down the road and belong to wherever it is that we are going, than we as a species may as well squat where we stand and beg the universe to do for us what we have forgotten how to do for ourselves - breathe deeply and welcome our future...

more @ http://stoneartist.com

crossing over - learning to read fact from fiction

fact - i am not in Los Angeles; fact - i am unemployed; fact - i have carved 16 sculptures from stone, and i am 56 years old.

I have been working since I was 10 when my mama told me to make her some "Baked Alaska " - and have been earning some kind of money from 15 on; though from the number of different jobs I've had, one could argue successfully that I'm unemployable. Fact is like the bronco rider who never quite made good, I've kept getting back in the saddle, and like that rider - I'm tired, bone tired.

Last night I learned that the dark horse in Bali, up and got herself with "child," and that she's to be wed. I'm  not surprised, even though as recently as 2 weeks ago she had been keeping me up in the middle of the night chatting on Facebook, I wont go into how dark a horse she was, but dear g_d what a horse... and this is an essay on "fact from fiction." I do know that what I am able to convince myself of has not always been to my benefit, a common occurrence once one begins to dispense with facts.

On my way into Albuquerque today, I spoke with my 86 year old father; it is a fact he broke his leg right at the neck of the trochanter around the end of August 2010, though I have never seen the x-rays, so I cannot say whether or to what extent it may have mended. I was present recently for some 22 consecutive steps, however painful - I will testify to that in any court in the land.

Today I had to explain to him, again, that I am unemployed. I haven't seen him for a month. On that date I had exceeded a 2:00 pm weekend deadline which my sister had set from her office on the other side of the country, so she asked an employee from the facility where my father is a resident to see that I left - that is a fact. At the moment I was told to leave my father's side by a non-family member, I was angry enough to spit blood, and it didn't matter whose. Now I am not that angry, though I choose not to return. I am still upset, but figure the greatest honor I can do anyone in this mess we call family is to do my best. These are choices Pop made, and he has to live with that, my sister is at her limits and is simply doing her best. I'm sure she genuinely thought she was protecting her "Daddy" when she made up such an arbitrary rule, and she will have to live with that - just as I will have to live with the fact that I did not fight my way to my father's side.

And again, this essay is about fact from fiction, and crossing over, so when my father asked me today about work, and when the discussion with his caregiver returned to whether I would come back to my father's side, and when I look around my sub-luxury accommodations I invested in tonight to write this essay with,  I satisfy myself by searching for a future with these meager thoughts; I make hobo stew with frozen black-eyed peas and left-over Chicherones and fresh Jalepenos, and I'm maybe an hour and half away from an acre and an old stone school house that will not break me economically and will allow me to own my time and produce whatever I turn my hand to as long as I adhere to a certain simplicity of existence.

For a number of decades I have nurtured a fantasy that when we are children our time is hocked to the pawn shop in the sky, but if you are diligent, frugal there will come a time when any person with a purpose and some gumption can do whatever they choose - I choose to be free.

I finally recognized the "Big Dipper."

I am sitting in a building sporting the windsock for the airstrip in Amboy California. It is Monday 2 May 2011, at 8:48 pm. Richard at Roy's Hotel allowed me to build a fire and cook beans outside the building. There is a room with a corrugated roof and two windows - all of the panes are broken out the walls are clean and straight. There is a door in the front but it is off its hinges.

Inside the room there are the cement cones that don't go all away to the taper and are too large to pick up alone without some struggle, i am strong, but i am also 56. I ran the airport runway 4 times which is about 4,000 steps and close, or something around 4 miles. I didn't get out of Los Angeles until around 1:30 pm.

The train tracks are close enough to feel the rumble of the track if you are very quiet and still and can listen past the whistle blowing, which I think is a very beautiful sound; there is enough train traffic so's that you can get a different sense of each train. Most of the traffic thus far is to L.A. - perhaps all.

I am tired but i feel good. I spoke with my father from a turnout in Stoddard Canyon just before Barstow. He is digging the trip but wouldn't give me directions for Flagstaff outside of Barstow. It turns out that the Interstate 40 branches just outside of town. Amboy is on an ole length of Route 66 which also contains Bagdad of "Bagdad Cafe" fame. The internet search for Amboy describes it as a "ghost town" - i would say under utilized….

I am heading for New Mexico to see about an abandoned school house made of stone; it is for sale. The layout fits my concept for a simple existence, though I'm hoping it is not quite as existentially isolated as my current accommodations. 

i will check back later with more: notes from the hinterlands

affectionately

Joseph

ps the way to see the Big Dipper is to find a dark place near Amboy on a clear night; lay on your back with your feet pointing towards 29 Palms, tilt your head back toward the Marble Mountains about  22 degrees and look over a little to the right. the handle for the "Dipper" will be on the left hand side… my vision is 90/800, so if you can't see it; get someone to bring you to an optometrist quickly… ciao 

Dear Mom, is it you or the Universe talking?

Just now I watched 45 minutes of heartfelt, however tortured, personal disclosure evaporate into the digital ether. The paragraphs that disappeared were cogent and articulate, but I have to wonder about that "flick of the wrist." Essentially the discussion was this, how can you see me as ever wanting to harm you? I accept that I am angry - who wouldn't be if one's siblings acted in such a way as to limit one's access to a dying parent?

However, that is not the real concern for me; it is not a concern because the choice to place the siblings in charge was Pop's. I expressed my feelings at the time - whether what has come to pass is self-fulfilling prophecy or competent forecasting, who gives a sh_t? I have only a limited time left on this planet, and I do not want to spend that time either attacking you, or attempting to avenge any slight for being excluded from an opportunity to serve my father's dying wishes. If this makes me self-involved,  narcissistic or crazy then so be it.

From where I stand it is a practical recourse, for if your  perception of my efforts to understand our family will be ever construed by you as a personal attack, and if my siblings are only able to see my efforts to alleviate my father's suffering as some manner of torment, or incompetence - what is left to me? How am I to convince anyone of anything when I am having difficulty enough not creating mayhem in reaction to such blatant injustice? I accept that your history is filtered by your experience; unfortunately for us so is my own. Why would I consult or attempt to sort out difficult feelings with a person who is convinced I mean them harm?

Perhaps you and the siblings feel the same way towards me; maybe you experience my efforts to understand our current miasma as personal attacks on you? Here's a fact, if I am attacking you, I don't want to, g_d knows there are plenty of other targets on which to purge my bile; fact number two: I am asking these questions of myself because I am full of self-doubt, and I welcome the opinion of anyone reading this to show me the error in my ways; however, be advised that I can be quite chatty when I'm attempting to learn something, especially if it involves my failings... how do they say, "I'm so wrong, and there is so little time...?"

Here's the last fact, I'm going to die like every other person on this planet, and with the time left to me I prefer love over hate; joy over sorrow; honest emotion over stifled want; closeness to distance and freedom for self over control of others.

oh, and Mom - in my humble opinion, you did a gr8 job raising me, and I'll be happy to share my reasons with you, thanks.

My Father is dying and I am leaving...

I go willingly, though not entirely by choice. If it were left to me, I would remain at his side searching for ways to deflect some small pleasure his way. He is the person most responsible for my understanding how important joy is in this life, however he is also responsible for placing in charge siblings who see no place for me in my father's life. Neither sibling is vile by any stretch, and their behavior underlines how "the path to hell is paved with good intentions."

It is not their hell to which I am referring, though by their behavior, it is clear they are suffering; it is the deprivation of my presence in my father's world - this has caused him hideous, unnecessary discomfort. Yet it would be consistent with his life and his philosophy as an existentialist. He made these choices and by g_d, he is going to see them through. About this time, I'd imagine he is wanting some help from me, for from what I have gathered my siblings are content to allow him the sanctity of his own solitude - they show up when... ever?

Okay, so I'm not as reconciled to the facts as I'd like to think, this is probably why I have been marginalized in his world, that dirty stink of the loud and the imperfect which seems to follow me around like dirty dishes that just won't stay clean. The most solid response I can make to my exclusion from my father's end days is as Bob Dylan said, "I"ll step back..." However, the perversely stubborn man inside of me, will also honor Pop's admonitions - "Don't ever change; don't stop writing," ergo this maiden blog.

I am leaving Southern California, a change that is a long time coming. My future is shorter than my past and that inspires a certain resolve in terms of lifestyle choices. As much comfort as it might provide my aging Mother, the likelihood of enduring what has occurred regarding Pop's dotage is not something I will repeat. I am discussing this with her and she understands unhappily that there is a measure of family pathology which, possibly, is not entirely manifested in my person.

So how to honor the privilege of having been introduced into the creative life by two capable and in their own ways, conflicted people? Naturally, I create. In some form or another for the past 30+ years I have emulated, not one, but both parents. Through this process I have extruded after a fashion my own sense of self which is not obliged, nor yoked, to the destiny of either parent. Whether this autonomy will suffice in any karmic way for the travail and misery which has been intertwined with the ineffable pleasure of joy and rectitude one finds in attempting to reconcile two wildly disparate paths will only be known after my own demise, for if I've learned anything from this life Art is my greatest hope of being heard.