How much longer are we going to think it necessary to be ''American'' before (or in contradistinction to) being cultivated, being enlightened, being humane, and having the same intellectual discipline as other civilized countries?
-- Edith Wharton
"Letters"
Far off the wind picked up a sound and brought it up the canyon and whirled it away. Then it brought another and another, all seeming part of the wind until something back in the mind separated it and shouted it out for what it was.
-- A. B. Guthrie, Jr.
“The Big Sky”
There's no escaping our Independence. We might take our Independence for granted. We might even turn our back on our Independence; but our Independence will be waiting for us around the next corner, waiting for us down the street; or even as we take...
The Off Ramp To Terra Azul
by
Justice Putnam
11 If thou forbear to deliver them that are drawn unto death, and those that are ready to be slain;
12 If thou sayest, Behold, we knew it not; doth not he that pondereth the heart consider it? and he that keepeth thy soul, doth not he know it? and shall not he render to every man according to his works?
-- Proverbs 24
“If it were possible to know the outcome of every journey, few journeys would be undertaken,” Farouk Hazim said into the cell phone. “But I know the outcome of this journey. There is nothing mysterious about it. So I just hit the turn signal and turn right at the end of the off ramp.”
I could hear an angry buzz in reply from the cell as Farouk held it away from his ear. He looked at me and smiled. After several moments he let a small silence elapse and then put the cell back to his ear,
“Do not worry. I will off-load by 10 am,” Farouk was grinning, “I have my top helper today.”
Farouk closed his cell and put it in the holder. He shifted the big semi and changed lanes. He checked both side mirrors and continued our conversation.
“It is all a matter of what you first notice in life,” he said, “at each benchmark, what do you notice?’
I didn’t hear his statement as a question at first, but finally I realized his request,
“I wrote a poem about that issue,” I proclaimed, unconsciously full of myself, “I wrote about an argument of which came first; Light or Sound. For me the first sound was a heartbeat.”
“Aha!” Farouk Hazim exclaimed loudly, “That is very important. You are a Romantic, be very careful my friend,” he lowered his voice in seriousness, “as strong and intelligent as you are, Romantics have a high death rate.”
He laughed in his singular, Farouk Hazim manner. If you didn’t know that Farouk came from Lebanon, you’d think he was descended from Zorba the Greek.
“None of us escape what we’re born into,” Farouk continued, “we can move from place to place, we can rub elbows with people of different classes, one can do any number of things to escape. But we can never escape.”
“I always felt the great equalizer,” I interjected, “is education. Social mobility is attained with education.”
Farouk laughed loud and long again. His eyes were gleaming when he responded,
“Yes!” he was breathless, “You are very correct. The thing about education, though, is that the more of it you have, the more you know that we can never escape that which we are born into!” Farouk laughed and laughed.
“But I don’t understand,” I said, truly confused. “I always cite you as an example of what can be attained. I mean, look at you, ten years ago you were cleaning offices and now you own your own trucking firm. Your kids go to private schools, your wife is beautiful.”
“It still does not matter,” Farouk Hazim was shaking his head, “ there is no escape. Not for you, not for me, not for my children or my beautiful wife.”
Farouk checked his side mirror as he shifted gears. He was silent for a long moment and then continued,
“The first sounds I heard were bombs exploding in my village. The first pain I had was from shrapnel in my leg. The first thing I saw was a rifle firing. The first time I met other people was at a funeral. Aha!” Farouk suddenly said, “we have arrived!”
I looked up and saw the exit sign. Farouk turned right at the end of the off ramp. He slowly built compression in the big semi and shifted gears as we approached the city limit sign, welcoming us to Terra Azul. Everything looked familiar, as if I was born into it.
We passed the sign and I had a sinking feeling.
Written in small, graffiti-like letters next to the Chamber of Commerce plaque was the invocation,
“Death to All Who Enter Here.”
© 2007 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
Our Independence might be wedded to a national identity of exceptionalism. But no matter how much evidence we might raise to prove our point, we are truly nonetheless...
Not Saints But Men
by
Justice Putnam
Swaying uselessly
In the loose wind
Floating in
Finite expectancy
Of summer without end
To have a great gift
And not know it
To only fantasize
And not actualize
Except on passion
For passion's sake
Caught in spidery entanglement
Of esoteric intrigue
While flowing in consciousness
Of personal design
(Blue River, Oregon 1987)
© Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
Our Independence may sometimes leave us a little empty inside, but not without feeling. We might use our Independece to move from the passive observer, to the active participant. We might bicycle the Pacific Trail, we might hang glide off of El Capitan; or we might find ourselves searching for the perfect wave...
From Big Sur to Malibu
by
Justice Putnam
Are we the dispossessed?
The fleeting minds
Caught in a bleeding time
Seeking fame near
The sands of a
Television beach
Reaching for the stick
Shifting only to second gear
As another stoplight
Halts another long line
Of narrowed dreams?
We displace ourselves
And reach for another
Beer bottle in another
Surfside café
Antique gaffs
Hang from our window
And portraits of Jack London
Adorn the only potential
Bare spots on a seemingly
Aged wall.
A hungry crowd of pedestrians
Line the sidewalk
And occasional paper-bagged
Wine bottles are
Passed around.
We leave and cross the boulevard
To the metered parking lot.
We smell the red tide
Waft through the
Pillars of the pier
Hear the revving of engines
In syncopated time
With the lonely surf.
(Laguna Beach, California 1980)
© Justice Putnam
No one's Independence was arrived at without cost. In fact, our Independence is from the sacrifice others made. Sacrifices not only from Washington's Army at Valley Forge, but also from...
The Four Forty Second
by
Justice Putnam
“Here my first doubt of American democracy crept into the far corners of my heart with the sting that I could not forget. Having had absolute confidence in democracy, I could not believe my very eyes what I had seen that day. America, the standard bearer of democracy had committed the most heinous crime in its history.”
– Joseph Yoshisuke Kurihara, Manzanar Detainee and Lieutenant 442nd.
Thomas Matsui hadn’t slept for almost 46 hours. The Italians had long stopped the fight, but the Nazis kept at it. Mortar shells exploded nearby with a frightening consistency. The rocky Italian hillside bucked and rolled with each explosion.
Battle has an uncanny affect on a soldier; it becomes a kind of tedium. The first month of a soldier’s battle is the worst, it all being so new. The mortality rate is highest during that first month. After six months, with bombs exploding around the battlement, a soldier will daydream.
Thomas Matsui thought of his family’s orange and avocado orchards rustling in the warm coastal breeze. He thought of the smell of his mother cooking rice in the farmhouse just above Pacific Coast Highway near Balboa. He conjured his father in the workshop, standing at the grinding wheel, sharpening the tools.
These were daydreams that made the tedium of battle tolerable. But Thomas Matsui had other daydreams that were not so idyllic.
He saw his parents crestfallen from the notice tacked on the farmhouse. Civilian Exclusion Order Number 33 gave only two days to sell the farm before the Military evacuated them to the camp in Montana. He remembered the offer that came from The Irvine Company later that day. Mere pennies on the dollar for what the farm was worth.
He remembered the drive to the Civilian Control Station in Los Angeles, his mother crying the whole thirty miles. Twenty years growing avocados and oranges; all gone in a day. Twenty years and all the possessions acquired; gone in a day. Only allowed bedding and linens, some kitchen utensils and clothes; twenty years of Thomas Matsui’s life was spent on that farm. He was born there. It was lost in a day.
The Nazis increased the frequency of the mortar attack and shook Thomas Matsui out of his reverie. He knew Marines on the other end of the hillside were getting the brunt of the bombing. The Four Forty Second though, were well hid and dug in. Soon the bombing would cease and the real battle would commence. There would be no time to daydream then.
Thomas Matsui chuckled at the memory of the military recruiter who came to his camp that Thursday in June. How fresh-faced and upright he was; the perfect embodiment of American righteousness. Thomas and his family had been at the camp for a month and life was a brutal series of bad weather and racist guards. The chance to escape that prison, with the hopeful promise of making his parent’s life easier was too great to pass up. If he fought hard and patriotically, maybe the war would end sooner and his parents would no longer be incarcerated.
But the farm and all they had was lost. No, not really lost, in effect stolen. But that did not matter any longer. He wanted this war to end so his parents would not suffer any more.
The mortar attack suddenly stopped. Thomas Matsui shouldered his rifle and aimed down the hillside.
The real battle was about to begin.
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
And what kind of Independence was achieved by these tragic sacrifices, Democracy? Free Expression? I fear that our Independence is to simply choose the next...
American Idol
by
Justice Putnam
It’s not often that a member of the radical fringe gets a chance to revel with the High and powerful. But chance and strategic sexual networking will get you into anywhere in this town; that’s how I got an opportunity to converse with Simon Cowell, the maker of American Idols.
Ok, I admit, I used the Aging Starlet for more than the fun and games, but one benign and totally unconscious benefit was to gain entry to THE year’s social event; "Bestowing Upon One, Simon Cowell, The Governor’s Crystal Medal of Humanitarian Achievement."
I had found out I was on a terrorist watch list for donating to Amnesty International back during Iran/Contra and I couldn’t fly from Oakland to Burbank. The agents who debriefed me after my chat with Simon told me that I was included on the list for, "aiding and abetting potential enemies of the State through the Socialist practice of Humanitarian concern." Since 9/11, I travel mostly by crewing on yachts that sail from the Bay Area to points beyond.
The Aging Starlet, who shall remain unnamed, because after all, I am a Gentleman, asked if I could help with her yacht she docked at the Encinal Yacht Club on Alameda.
"Sure," I said, "I know my way around a Hattaras."
After a few minutes of stowing her gear, she commented on my hands,
"Your hands," she cooed in her pouty-lipped, big-breasted Aging Starlet way, "are the hands of a sailor, you must know your way with ropes and tackle?”
"Yes," I replied. Though the Hatteras is a motor yacht, she had me grind up her main sail and set her block and tackle. We didn’t sail that night. The next morning though, we’re in her Mazzaratti as she’s jetting down Coast Hwy to Pepperdine in Malibu. I was going to be her arm-candy at THE social event of the year.
After attending the event for an hour or so, I found a rest room. I didn’t notice Simon Cowell at the urinal next to me at first, but I felt his gaze.
"So you’re the arm-candy for the night," Simon said to me as I was zipping up, "I can see that you’re more than that."
"Thanks," I said, a bit self-conscious, though it’s still a little nice to hear; even from the flaccid, botox-injected-in-the-biceps Simon Cowell. "She’s owns a Hattaras and I’m helping her motor it to Cabo next week."
"Yes, she does like to motor," Cowell lasciviously said in his slithering English accent.
I chuckled in that way guys do who know a common secret, "Thank God!" I finally said.
Cowell couldn’t keep from laughing.
"You must not watch my show," Cowell accused.
"No, I don’t. Why?" I asked.
"Because you’re not damaged," Cowell whispered. It was then that I noticed he was a little drunk. "My show has been discovered by scientists to put holes in people’s brains! No, no! I’m tellin’ the truthhhh," he began to drawl. "That brain-dead girl that everybody said was alive, you know?"
Cowell sort of fell onto me; I helped him up and said, "Sure, Terri Schiavo."
"Right! Right!" Cowell said a little loud, Tarrieee Sheeeaaavvvvohhhhh, If you cracked my audience’s heads open, their brains would be mush, just like Sheeeeeeeaaaavvvohhhhh."
"Mr. Cowell" I said, trying to rouse him, "Mr. Cowell?
"And you knnnnnoooowww what?" Simon‘s head was wobbly and his eyes a milky blur, "the President knnnnnooooooowsssssssss."
Just then a loud bang came through the doors. Several men dressed in black and wearing radio ear-sets entered and scooped Cowell up. They escorted me to a holding cell for a few hours and then let me go.
The Aging Starlet later found out that I’m good with horses and I know my way around a saddle.
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
But the greatest Independence I've achieved on this day honoring Independence, is exemplified in the following fable. It is an Independence that was thrust on me for sure, but it was also a lesson; a lesson of...
The Princess and The Frog
by
Justice Putnam
By all means marry; if you get a good wife, you'll be happy. If you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher.
--Socrates
She said she chose me because I was the best behaved in the whole pond. I guess those etiquette lessons my frog aunts taught me when I was a tadpole really helped. All those Saturday night Brown Derby dinners dressed in my little tadpole-sized frog tuxedo, my frog aunts in their pearls and gloves, all seated in our special Brown Derby frog booth, somehow all that prepared me for the chance of a frog lifetime; to be kissed by the most beautiful Princess in the world.
I must tell you, everything we frogs heard was true. The sun back-lit her dark red curls, her full ruby lips touched mine. I remember she tasted of lavender and orange. The transformation was magical; I was no longer the ugly frog. I became her handsome Prince standing tall and strong and happy!
Oh, sure. She had to change my wardrobe and make it more diverse, as a Prince’s wardrobe must be. I was mostly into turtlenecks because I thought it would hide my frog throat more. But she liked the open collar look, she said, because she liked how manly a strong neck was. I always thought my best feature were my legs! Such is the mystery of the most beautiful Princess in the world.
She insisted I grow my hair longer. I took to sporting a goatee and wearing little round sunglasses. I grew accustomed to jet lag on royal visits to her ancestral homes in Europe.
I became her Prince, but she seemed unhappy.
We had just returned from a weekend at the home of my best bullfrog friend. His property included some of the best mud baths in all of Sonoma County.
“Your frog friends are ill mannered and uncouth,” she sobbed, “they smack their lips when they eat and use terrible grammar. You must choose them or me and if you choose them, you will not be my Prince!”
I didn’t know that the spell could be reversed. I thought, once kissed and transformed, a Prince forever you would be.
“Are you serious?” my Bullfrog friend spit at me later when I told him of the ultimatum. “You think you’re a Prince? She’s too good for you, man. She’s way out of your league. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You might be a Prince, but in your eyes, not hers! What made you think you could keep a woman like that happy? I hate to hurt your feelings, but at least you have feelings to hurt!”
All of my frog friends practice “tough truth,” but knowledge of that has never lessened the sting of their observations.
A note sat on the table when I came through the door that hot afternoon. She had gone and would not be back. I went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror there.
I knew which fork to use for the salad and how to swirl a vintage red to check its legs. But there was no mistaking it.
I had always been a frog.
But now I was one with a goatee and little round sunglasses.
© 2007 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
Happy Independence Day, my fellow Kossacks! Every Day is my Independence Day. Every day is yours. Here's hoping for many more!