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 immodest merit .  .  .

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

. . . of the many pleasures I have learned, 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, business acumen, and etc etc etc.. . 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 able to do, is work and make art; what I'm not so interested in is marketing - ergo. a "Model Companion / Business Partner"

I have presented my thinking to many women - all ages, education and cultural backgrounds (including my departed mother who remarked, "it's like looking for a needle in a haystack"); there is no single response. Many have complemented my candor, some have described my thinking as 'pimping', yet an exclusive creative intimacy would be intrinsic to any solid partnership. My partner will gain access to 13 carved stone art pieces, half 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 relationships worldwide - fine art needs to become self-sustaining; beyond the reach of 'art industrialists' whose business model is to extract creative broodmares to sacrifice on the 'killing floors' of the oligarchy - rise up art cadre. 

As artist, one of my greatest challenges has been how to depict the ineffable nuance of the female character and subtlety of her elan. How could I develop a keener understanding without a woman? There is considerable revenue available for drawings of a savvy partner proud of her position as model/business partner. I would share half of all sales from my creative output: stone carvings, hyper-realistic landscapes as well as colored pencil portraits and figure drawings - work is a blessing. I live low and frugal; labored long and hard - from digging ditches to driving horse cabs in NYC to parsing probate greed in L.A. Superior Court 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 - will require, high quality fine art product which is not easily followed and distinguished from cultural exploitation of so much indigenous craft floating the hospitality industry. 

A woman interested in a life as Model Companion/Business Partner would be sustained by the simple life. I choose to work with what time I have left. This means, wholesome fare, mindful entertainment, 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 search for a woman who sees dynamic opportunities in what I've described; who is not averse to living with an older man; and who sees a path to personal growth in what i've outlined herein, which is only coincidentally 'carved in stone'. Much of what I imagine 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: 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: aka oligarchy)

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

solidarność 

23 May 2o12

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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.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

solidarność 

31 March 2o12

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Christmastime in Romblon - an essay ·

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 hip for 10 months as tolerable 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 the 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.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

jts 15/12/2011

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

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∞

Grandpa Joseph - an essay

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?

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

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…

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

solidarność

13 July 2011

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