Purpose

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

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

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

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

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

Rapturious Armageddon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Joseph T. Stevens

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

belong - belonging - belongings

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

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

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

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

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

more @ http://stoneartist.com

crossing over - learning to read fact from fiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I finally recognized the "Big Dipper."

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

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

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

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

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

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

affectionately

Joseph

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

Dear Mom, is it you or the Universe talking?

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

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

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

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

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

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