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

more @ http://stoneartist.com

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.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

17 May 2011,2012,2013, etc., etc., etc. ..  ··· ∞

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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 getting older.

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

Last night I learned the 'dark horse', Bali girl, is with "child," and to be wed. I'm  not surprised, even though as recently as 2 weeks ago she had 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 parsing "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 can't say whether, or to what extent it may have mended. I did witness recently some 22 consecutive steps that he took, however painfully - 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 my sister had set from her office on the other side of the country. That day she'd instructed an employee where my father is, 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 called 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 today about work, and when the discussion with his caregiver returned to whether I would come back to my father's side, I looked around my accommodations where i'm writing this essay,  satisfied about searching for a future with these meager thoughts; I've feasted on hobo stew from frozen black-eyed peas and left-over Chicharrones and fresh Jalapenos; am maybe an hour and half away from an acre and an old stone school house in Tecolotito, NM that will not break me economically but 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.

jts 4/5/2011

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∞

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 anything but 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.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

jts 28/4/2011

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

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∞

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.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

27 April 2011

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http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

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∞