suck it up sweet cheeks - the sonnet

It's sad to lose a job, worse still to lose,

so if when the ax falls, you opt to give up,

where's the good if that's what you have to choose?

Doubt me, ask the banker who messed it up.

Now is not the time to lament what ain't.

What you do now is stop what is bleeding;

get a brush and cover what has no paint

or paint over scribble that is breeding.

There will be time enough to send the bill

to those who have hijacked the public fund;

all can see whose fingers are in the till,

it's just memory lapse that gets rotund

Regard what's left of our humanity

and defend the future with dignity.

jts 12 February 2010
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Running on the Great Wall

It was Christmas  and I was in China

If not inscrutable, they can be mute

Many humans - what is the formula .  ?

Once a wall saved them, now they are the brute.

The thing about walls : they’re everywhere

and most people can be found on both sides.

That Christmas, it was fun to run mid-air

Can’t know what it means to future yuletides  

I know that holiday - I made no walls.

Still at the Great Wall; one is in or out -

For those who rule; I would be invader,

For those who attack, I am emperor

Little has changed since they made up countries,

They who would like to rule, use flags - not peace .

jts 12/25/11

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

my friend Lyle

Or as Val would say " Lyyylle.!! " My first apartment was sharing a place with Val - Lyle would ride over on his Vespa; he always had cool shit like that. One time he and I went to irrigate his Marijuana plants at UC Irvine; we drove in his Henry Kaiser; it may be as close as I ever get to being an actual outlaw, though I have grown my own and even traded in the demon weed. Lyle was a man of his own design; he did not seek an approved role in life, he was an explorer. Like all explorers he was powerful - even legendary, but I was never afraid of him. As a kid, even though he and his brother could hit baseballs over the fence consistently, Lyle did not demand that everyone else should, or that you were less if you did not. He was decent early on in life and only grew more so as years went by. It wasn't until much later that I grew to appreciate what a kind man he had become.

Maybe a decade back, I was living far from where we grew up. It was an old home in much need of wiring expertise, he was the expert. About this time, I was finishing my Bachelor's in English and through conversation I had learned Lyle was dyslexic. What struck me about Lyle at that time was his feeling for people; he had an author's understanding for the motivations of the human experience, but Lyle's smarts were from the streets, not from academic training. His higher education came from the push and shove at the margins of conventional life, nor did he always ooze warm fuzzies. He could disappear from access and leave you wondering if he was swimming for the bottom or just blowing you off because he could. That is part of what made Lyle special - he was not fake, almost as though he didn't know that was an option. Maybe Lyle's heroic demons were there to match his warrior ways.

He did battle with things that break other men - betrayal, addiction - even the most profound of questions "the meaning of life." Lyle stared into the abyss and did not shrink, he did not sacrifice his own confusion for an easy answer, almost. Lyle refused to be categorized, yet he was the "common man." Not by today's meaning of some stereotype cutout, but the common that includes strengths as well as weaknesses - Lyle had empathy, and it was always a surprise to come upon it. Like most "men" Lyle did not wear his feelings close to the surface, rather they would peek out around a subject like a shy kid. True story: I'm making a statue of a woman that has taken many years to complete; early on while she was still looking at how to fit into the stone, Lyle came over. Because one often gets too close to something, I've found it useful to hear other people's take on works in progress. Lyle looked at it with some enthusiasm and said, "it's really neat" at the same time he was leaning over and peering under her forearm to see how it rested on her chest.

The reason I share this and why it is important is that it describes Lyle's way of experiencing the world - he was a poet, an artist. Many people have looked at the same piece, but few are drawn into the experience of finding the "woman" in the stone and how she carries herself. It is a level of awareness - a way of feeling the world that few possess, and I will miss that about him. Queen Victoria said "artists associate with all classes of people, and for this reason, they are the most dangerous." If this essay is read at his memorial - look around at the people you see and you will know that is true of Lyle as well. His friends were legion and he was loyal to them all; so much so I'd be surprised if each who knew him didn't feel at some level that they were his closest friend - I'm hoping what he felt toward me was as an ally in his war with mediocrity.

Some 10 years or so ago, we quit smoking together. Later I liked to tease him about the money that he owed me from that agreement - but it is more I am the one who owes him. For though I am breathing and he has passed, his courage and inspiration are of those things in life that have endurance, and I'd doubt seriously that I'm alone in this feeling. It was frustrating to not be able to return the same level of inspiration I felt in his company; I even threatened him with a beat down if he did not let go of the tobacco ( I don't think he was afraid ) - Lyle was a stand alone human being. There are so few left on the planet that are capable of living on their own terms, for me to have known Lyle and even to call him friend has made my life immeasurably better - how many of us will have the same said? May you rest in peace Lyle Jeffrey Sears.

more @ http://stoneartist.com

Election

 
My president is Barack Obama.
He took office after we were ransacked,
and made it better in spite of trauma.
For his trouble his name has been attacked.

We’re now two thousand years from Christ,
seemingly no closer to loving hearts
Using vile hate, our land they’ve tried to heist,
maybe to break us down and sell for parts.

All of everything does not change the fact
civil culture breeds a civil leader
" I will not comply “ can be done with tact,
for without peace, why be a crusader ?

The objective remains how to elect
leaders who’ll honor the people’s edict

jts  5 November 2012

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Family

How to write about family, warts and all, without sounding - bitter, hostile, selfish, or worse - fake? These are all the lesser traits that come from being immersed from birth in a cauldron of emotion sharing DNA and toilet paper ? Yesterday I wept at a memorial for a cousin, a twin - survived by two sons a twin sister, nephew and younger brother.  Their parents had died within years of each other far too early in their children's barely formed young lives, and I drifted away. Our "extended" family for these orphans was of little help, so 30 years later I sat mute at my deceased cousins' memorial, next to my mother and oldest brother, I am estranged to them. I doubt that I alone am in this modern maze of who, what or where are the remnants of childhood. The people I describe are not evil, nor without many redeeming qualities; so why is it that we as a species have become so impoverished in our ability to effectively provide the most fundamental human emotion of compassion for loved ones - and just who are "loved ones?"

The memorial service was in a Church, one of the "well-funded" mega-salvation centers that has come to characterize the business-end of today's spirituality, and I felt a benign appreciation for the comfort it surely must have provided to my cousins who had suffered too much too early. If I had different parents, I too might have found solace and family after mine own moved without forwarding address - kidding, sort of. I exaggerate, and maybe unfairly, for without my family's influence and memory, I'd have little reason to write this, to grow, or search for ways to improve the world, and redeem myself - all traits and ambitions I acquired within that cauldron of DNA and toilet paper. How does something so formative and nurturing de-rail? Where is it that jostling for the last scoop of peanut butter becomes lethal as Bob Dylan sings about brothers in Tempest - "they fought and slaughtered each other in a deadly dance." More importantly, how do we get back to the love and nurturing whose echoes and mirages seem to inspire so many dead-ends in human spiritual evolution?

It won't be from muting our expressions - "the homicidal bitchin' that goes down in every kitchen" Leonard Cohen sings about, for each must be heard. In the case of parent and child, that person who grows up in front of another will never be right with the inequity of the relationship until the child can know and understand at some level the suffering of a parent; nor will a parent ever accept that their child is grown until there is nothing more to show that child, or that child is busy bolstering the crumbling edifice of the loved parent. Are siblings different ? those people who acquired the visceral knowledge of surprise, delight, betrayal from watching or evoking your gasps. Siblings or no, we learn of human response at the fountain of family knowledge - there is no superior anything, ranking is an illusion driven by the myth that any differences within a family are greater than marginal attenuations of the same chord. Whether you speak, shout or lack communication of any sort with your family , fact - we "know" more about them, and they us, than is comfortable, especially if one has survived the modern age by shutting down self-awareness - cutting oneself off from those dicey aspects of self that are less than appealing, or intolerable within some circles of society - lust, aggression, cruelty, cowardice. I mean how do you act when a sibling you know to have a cruel streak a mile wide turns all mealy-mouthed and friendly to old people and children - you want to shout, "run for your lives - you're gonna get creamed !" - right ?

Kidding, but what if this cruel family member becomes unrelenting and destructive toward you? Remember you're cut from the same cloth with the same "super powers", and just maybe you have found your own cruelty to be a defect - a useless inclination while the sibling, or siblings are so keyed to your perceived powers they battle a mirage? What can you do, stick around, fight back, what? It seems to be all about filling in the empty places using battles, food, drugs even substitute families. How many of us have gone in search of a replacement parent because ours is no longer available - replacement siblings, re-creation of a home long abandoned ? It's not a trick question; to my thinking there is no substitute for that magic of family, or - and this is important - what if all the world is our home and each other human is some shade of a family member remembered ? That means that if there was an interruption between you and your older brother - an unresolved conflict like a suppurating wound oozing pus and infection, then older peers in your world may unknowingly cause discomfort. However, what if these avatars of family became part of a personal quest for growth; a path toward equilibrium and balance? What if as an individual you have come to the belief that there is no wound that cannot be resolved, either through death or recuperation - that our existence more closely resembles the world around us with its constant circle of life - decay and rebirth? If it is the latter, you begin to see each human interaction as a page in your lesson book of the human family.

Whether you grew up in Foster Care, or your Mama was June Cleaver - the idea that your blood relatives are significantly more than a rehearsal for the countless performances making up a single lifetime is arguable; what is undeniable is that any effort made to understand a difficult family member; understand what a sibling is never having had one, or imagine what your parents want, or wanted - you will be a better person for it. My cousin Caron who through circumstance and happenstance was torn from my life years ago and has now taken refuge in the great eternal leaving much more than a grieving family, she has allowed me to view my own existence with more loving eyes than before I essayed my thoughts on family. Now I am grateful that a woman I knew as a child could touch me years later such that my feelings have become more recognizable. Now rather than sorrow, I feel fortunate to have been some shade in the world she lived - a memory of some kind, even if it was only as a source of discomfort that promoted the human instinct toward wellness. If there is a compassionate consciousness capable of transcendence, my hope is for Caron to know peace and for her family to hear her echoes of love evermore .

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Mean People Suck , but you knew that . .

                             

Yesterday there was a public massacre in Aurora Colorado, and this morning there were actually human beings calling for more guns. Albert Einstein, Rita Mae Browne, or some other very smart person generally described a tenuous hold on reality thusly: "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results." Those asking for more weapons in the wake of Aurora's tragedy are prime examples of that species of moron who still believe there is a legitimate war, anywhere. In the face of greater restrictions on personal freedom our handlers have hit on the brilliant, albeit bloody, solution of goading the herd into thinning itself. Though this is like most ingenious human ideas - warmed over gruel from some previous epoch. Today's handlers with superior communication and herding techniques have most people believing we are on the "brink;" exactly what we're on the brink of is never made clear, but something. So we strive to prepare while the hairs on our necks remain on end and our trigger-fingers become more and more sensitive. 

As with any violent population - someone has to be in charge, otherwise things spiral into wanton waste of personnel and ammunition which simply won't do, especially in this time of austerity. The grand puppeteers understand this principal all too well, constantly searching for the appropriate empty suit to project onto whatever billboard of whatever political spectrum the "media gang of 5" is goosing at any given moment. This competition to be "the" empty suit is how the 1% motivates the public, like David O. Selznick's search for Scarlet O'Hara in "Gone with the Wind;" except now we're looking for John Wayne; Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith from the "A Team," or whatever echo of America's greatness that fits the moral cavity left by empty shelves in this ravaged economy. It is not difficult to identify wannabes running for leadership roles in this leaderless culture, they have tattoos; shaved heads and pit bulls on their wrists like batons from a "Keystone Cops" comedy gone wrong; or "White Bread" with his manicured nails; Brooks Brothers Suits and best wines sipping from the balcony at the right zip code; or "Bubba" and his King Cab with latest labor saving tools and more free time with which to wage epic battles on his brand new x-box annihilating foreigners with high scores, or obliterating objects with NRA surrogates for his or her flacid phallus - free from finesse or craft.  

Appearances can be deceiving, for however sheepish we've become; remnants of gumption and independence percolate everywhere; individuals surface from the pack; especially ones that want to call the shots. Yet, how does one rule a people cued to each flashing new distraction flitting across the monitor? For students of media, we are fortunate to live in an age where examples of power are on display everywhere, though one must have an easy relationship with fear - not in the sense of being self-aware to the corrosive effects of constant dread, but an easy capacity for illiciting fear instantly, anywhere in anybody. Scoff, but how else could the leader of the "Free World" be warm and nurturing while targeting our weapons on the huddled masses yearning mostly to breathe the free air of a sacred homeland? This confusion about what strength is has come at a cost; we now wallow in an existential shallow; we become a mean people in nearly every sense of the word, especially cheap . .

adj \ˈmēn\

Definition of MEAN

1: lacking distinction or eminence : humble

2: lacking in mental discrimination : dull

3 a : of poor shabby inferior quality or status <mean city streets>

b : worthy of little regard : contemptible — often used in negative constructions as a term of praise <no mean feat>

4: lacking dignity or honor : base

5 a penurious : stingy

b : characterized by petty selfishness or malice

c : causing trouble or bother : vexatious 

Mean seems to have become the elixir of choice for adapting to a world gone haywire, nations daring to challenge this former bastion of democracy, or at least the most highly developed example of democracy; well maybe what had once been a "good idea until greed got in the way" as Bob Dylan pointed out. We seem to have lost generosity of spirit, confusing material generosity with which consumer coercion lines the pockets of the "Royal" 1%, sacrifing the nobility of character which rejoiced when Nelson Mandela gave the world a new definition of moral courage, or the kid with brass testicles in Tiananmen Square facing down a tank - that used to be us. Now we are fat, slack and lazy; allowing ourselves to be ripped-off by the "in crowd" from high school - and I liked some of those guys. But today they are not content to be popular, they have taken what had been a juvenile capacity to zero-out your self-worth and now zero-out your net worth as well as that of your children, their children and their children's children .  .  .

The average shmo on Main Street USA was at one time a pretty savvy character - savvy enough to demand and receive a weekend; a living wage; and a place at the table. "Working stiffs" didn't get the seat at the head of the table, but the-powers-that-be were forced to keep their attack dogs on a leash. Today those attack dogs have become the ministers at the Ruling Class Church of Hate. We are now so effectively polarized we cannot accept or even entertain valid points the "other side" makes. This unwillingness to concede a position is at the heart of our breakdown as a civil society. We have given so much credence to the 5 corporations controlling 96% of all U.S. media that we no longer seek knowledge from each other, much less learn from our "bitter" enemies. Rather we more and more resemble the Taliban with our assault on women and our slavish adherence to the rigid ayatollahs inhabiting our spiritual vacuum. It is all illusion; the guy at the local market or woman standing across from you at the gas pump has more understanding of your world and its challenges than any talking head, newspaper, or big shot demanding, and getting your fear and obedience. The people in our daily lives are not the enemy, we must stop treating each other as disposable waste and learn to cherish our common history of overthrowing tyrants of all stripes, scale and stature. Like the old adage, please keep in mind "there is no such thing as gravity - the earth sucks;" so too, my friends, do mean people.

pain

I caused my mother pain before i knew
i’d be delivered folded at the waist.
My lungs filled with fluid before age two;
the one thing i wanted, i got no taste.

Bob Dylan - “behind every beautiful
thing there’s been some kind of pain.” he is right.
If i could have chosen what kind of school,
I would do the same, even with foresight.

To see beauty is good use of my being;
to not hurt others, would be beautiful.
If not me, others will be born in pain
Mother and child, with or without prayer pull.
 
Maybe in time, with love and tenderness,
we’ll find beauty sweet minus bitterness

jts 19 July 2012
hbd ma

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Watering the Fountains

At 57 I have made the leap into my future in such a way as to prevent any real escape, as though that was possible. My early life was spent in service of the practical measures of making my own way as we all must. I was armed with self discipline as my grub stake and an exaggerated belief in the force of my talent. My great good fortune was to have been the child of cogent parents along with all the misfortune that comes from learning - doubt/certainty, fear/arrogance, strength and frailty. Now that these qualities have been beaten to a mash that nourishes the simple hope for a future for our species, I am no longer thrall to the illusion of significance, yet I have become acutely aware of the importance of doing something - anything. It will not be enough for me to live out my days knowing if there is cosmic royalty, I am the fool for that court. The outside chance that I will leave something other than dust from this rich human experience compels me to reach beyond my convictions to that intangible intersection of human understanding and the void in which we are suspended.

The future in which I have landed consists mostly of work, a deliberate move on my part; it seems to me that of all the improvements to our human condition, none has "manifested" without effort. I also accept my position flies in the face of conventional wisdom where labor saving has brought us such innovations as efficiency without a love of the craft; jobs that we pay to have; communities to which we must have an internet pass, and ideals that are only honored by donation. Nor does my future align with consensus; generally if agreement is the cost of admission it becomes more of a spectator sport. My thinking is if I am to spend so much of my distant future as scattered remnants of the rumpled eccentric who conjures these ideas before you, then I'd better get well and accustomed to being in the elements as they say. It is not a real problem, for my learned parents also imbued me with a warm affiliation with the earth, digging and rolling around in it comes quite naturally to me, far more so than the contortions I need to go through when in society.

So, though I have lept into the path of my rapidly onrushing future like some game of urban chicken with the subway trains, I've allowed for the remote possibility that my buffoonery for our celestial deities is more pointed than simple humor - that there may even be a higher purpose for my fixation on things creative - carved icons of an age gone by. Nor have I limited my existential product line to high art. During the financial rigors of my last marriage I assembled the principle parts of a small fabrication shop in which I could build stacked rock water fountains. People being comprised largely of minerals and water seem mollified by water cascading over stone, whether this novel product will ever rival the hula-hoop or the NBA for the elusive consumer hunger which so effortlessly finances the conspicuous consumption of our new earthly royalty - the 1% - that will just have to play itself out. My responsibility is not to change the course of human history, but to change the course of my own life. To that end, I have removed myself to a remote location at the southern foot of the Sierra Nevadas, and am in the process of casting my lot with the vagaries of chance, rather than remain on a path of incremental security and it's incremental death.

This choice serves multiple functions; I am well aware of my special place as fool to the g_ds, for without their laughter my tenuous position, only becomes serious. What could be funnier than an old man taking a run at the profile necessary to sell high art in a low world? Not only making a claim for significance of an art that heretofore consisted as an aside to the important conversations of the inner sanctum i.e. "yes, well you know, he carves stone," or "yes, but he iscreative," and the ever useful "I like it, but not for my house," but throwing my lot in with the characters living in the margins outside the easy urban containment of modern culture. If I am the only one who sees this as funny, it won't be the first time that has happened, nor the last. But I have done something, I am not waiting for the noose to tighten slowly innervating my belief in a better world; strangulating every better impulse I have used to slog my way through the decay and misery of a collapsing culture. I have only myself to blame for any misery I find, and if there is no moisture, no wellspring or g_d forbid no energy left in my arm to search for beauty - who wants to live like that?

So my days are spent shedding the notion that creativity is for others, the anointed. I must continually correct the language which castigates my higher inclination to find beauty through my own efforts rather than subscribe to the special approval of the teacher, the market, the gang and even the exalted opinion of one's parents. Nor do I have the luxury of turning my back on the very good intentions of my upbringing, for it is that upbringing which has allowed me to arrive at this happy junction in my life. The nexus of my history and my future which includes the abandonment of hope that there will be someone, somewhere that is more important to me than I am to myself - an elusive concept which brings us full circle to the contradictions of most thought. For though there is no one single person as important to my interests as myself - all people are vastly more important to me than I could ever be to myself (regardless of D.E. Tuppins' admonition" after me, you come first.") For just like my fountain; once it is made; once it is on and the water begins to work its magic for all, the entropy of the void prevails and the water is returned to its source. We humans for all of our hubris, for all of our weakness, for all of our ignorance remain the only ones able to replenish our own wells.

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Model Companion / Business Partner / Muse - sought

I am a writer/artist-stonecutter/draughtsman-engineer elder gentleman of questionable merit .  .  .

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

. . . of the pleasures I have discovered in life, the finest is the company of woman. It may be simple good fortune or superior planning, but my work requires a woman: for modeling, understanding, and business expertise. It is not fair to a wife that she be expected to pose in addition to the difficulties of raising a husband; and after three marriages, I've come to believe I may be too docile, or not compliant enough to be a good husband. What I seem able to do well, is work and make art; what I'm not so interested in is marketing - so I seek a "Model Companion / Business Partner"

I have presented my business model to a host of women - all ages, education and cultural backgrounds (including my mother who remarked  'like looking for a needle in a haystack'); there is no single response. Many have complemented my candor, some have equated my ideas to pimping, for certainly an exclusive mutually creative intimacy would be key to any solid partnership. My partner will gain access to 17 hand-carved stone art pieces (13 for sale) 50% of all proceeds would go to her - fuck the "art industrialists." I have formulated this partnership concept as a plug-and-play business model to foster creative partnerships worldwide - fine art needs to become self-sustaining - rise up art cadre. 

As artist, one of my greatest challenges has been how to depict the indescribable nuance of the female character and subtlety of her anatomy. How could I develop a keener understanding without a woman? Yes I am very specific about the svelte physique I seek, nor will I get it, but I can get close. There is considerable revenue available for drawings of a savvy partner proud of her position as model/business partner. She would share half of all sales from anything i might engineer - : stone carvings, hyper-realistic landscapes as well as colored pencil portraits and figure drawings - work is a blessing. I live low and am frugal. I've worked hard and long - from digging ditches to driving horse cabs in NYC to putting the finger on probate thieves in L.A. It could be a lot of fun to identify and seed "post-empire" art markets within our rapidly transforming world - the newly emerging cultural centers - to provide handcrafted, high quality fine art product which is not easily followed. 

A woman interested in a life as a Model Companion / Business Partner would be sustained by the simple - very simple. I choose to work with what time I have left. This means, simple fare, minimum entertainment expenses, lots of reading, music, research and when there are surpluses, travel. I say this now, because I will not oppress; it is not my place to persuade another about the wisdom of such a lifestyle - if anything I hope to be improved in the company of my companion; however, this does not mean I wish to re-learn the ways of society.

I am searching for a woman who sees a business opportunity in what I've described; who is not averse to living with an older man and who sees a path to personal growth in some of what I've attempted to outline here which is by no means a rigid framework. Much of what I picture relies on a fluid shifting of priorities revolving around a sincere desire to simplify. If you, or someone you know, are interested and want to discuss the possibilities, please contact me at stoneartistevens@gmail.com

(if anyone has been offended by my proposal, please accept my sincere apology and go in peace)

post parenthetical parenthesis: ppp (covenant: no stone carving of Joseph T. Stevens may ever be owned by a Trump or any person, entity or concern which cannot establish and maintain for the duration of ownership a less than 50% net worth sustained wholly outside all relations to the .1% HNWI.)

moved and moving

I'm so lonely I could spit - last night I watched Taxi Driver with Robert De Niro. When young one of my dear friends, turned passing acquaintance who swore up and down the movie was from a conversation he had had with Scorsese while my friend had been driving cabs in New York. Amongst the credits and fluff that is now included with each passing iconic image was the idea of taxi driving as a metaphor for loneliness which according to Scorsese was the key to this film, also included in the commentary was my friend's dismay that it became so popular, and he without credit.

Yet here I sit talking to a computer screen, as though someone might care about what I'm feeling. There are people who care, just as I care about others. What's of concern to me is the diminished occasion for mitigating those feelings as I age. I will shortly be moving into a home in which I have planned long for. It will be my studio and hopefully the seat of much good work. Sitting here in a windblown trailer waiting for escrow to close I'm having a hard time just putting pencil to paper. There is no ideal occasion where all the flags line up and the signals are a "go"; it is that certainty which distresses me.

The doubt which becomes so paralyzing is not always assuaged by the exertion of running; the cold claw of depression grapples with my determination to be an affront to all the hatred and fear in the world today. Yet awareness of the percentage of humans eking out a living selling art sits like a parent - cajoling, sometimes gently - sometimes with guffaws. I can only go by feeling at this turn, so I write to no one, I load my phone's updates because it grants me the illusion of forward progress and I peer at the face of the sweet Swiss woman who graciously allowed me to draw her. 

It cannot matter whether what I make sales, what must matter is that the lifestyle I've chosen corresponds with someplace in the future where sanity has been reinstated and the forces of hate and fear have been relegated to the uninterrupted soothing which responsible parents provide loved children. I would no more abandon my path than I would commence a way of living that doesn't account for and accommodate the weakest, most fragile amongst us. It is not for purely selfless reasons I feel this way, for every excellent feeling I've ever enjoyed has in some way owed part of its savor to the ability to share with one other, preferably those i care about, but that is because i am weak. So logically, if I do not make every effort to secure freedom and hope for as many humans as I can conceive, then what good is all of the personal striving in the world if there is no one to share it with?

This pertains to moved and moving because like the metaphor for loneliness, the illusion of changing much by altering one's location depends entirely on the reasons for the transition. In my case, the hope is to become more efficient - streamline, eliminate and focus on the core mission. Funny that martial tone; it is a welcome remnant of having been raised by a WWII bomber pilot who chose to pursue poetry with the life he gained in the struggle. How he would feel about seeing his legacy systematically dismantled by self serving agents of greed may be the only real upside of his absence. And again with the ironies of my existence, for his absence simply shifts the onus for responsible living squarely into my lap. So I will continue to adjust my living arrangement to produce what I can with the freedom he and my mother beat into me - not the freedom to seize as much swag as can be had, but the kind of freedom it takes to look out into our collective future and throw something useful to posterity as far as can be done by one alone.

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