I sometimes hate being an Immortal:
That Which Does Not Kill You
by
Justice Putnam
Grandpa was an Immortal; right up to the moment he died.
-- Jim Dodge
Fup
I am an Immortal; that’s why it’s so hard to admit my life has been a mistake. But if you’re living forever, you might as well get used to it.
The problem with being an Immortal is that early on, when you just start being an Immortal in your youth; you think all mistakes can be rectified. But that is just youthful Immortal folly. Being an Immortal is recognizing that you make the same mistakes over and over, always thinking that it will be different the next time. And you have the rest of your Immortal life to ponder that.
It is very tiresome, pondering that which cannot be changed. Even when your children tell you that they always know you’ve loved them, you know the truth. Because an Immortal means not being tied to time and space; loved ones are ultimately neglected. Of course you embrace them and provide when you can, and they profess appreciation that you care. But an Immortal knows the truth.
Like the time a photography gig took you to Honduras. An Immortal always knows the danger. That’s why you went. And when the military broke your camera and your arm, you knew it was no different than surfing over coral, or hang gliding off El Capitan.
Or the time your son was ten and you left to work on a tuna boat in the Gulf of Alaska. You figured the experience would round you as a writer. Plus, the danger was as good as the money. Too bad money isn’t as immortal as you are. But an Immortal can always make money.
At least that’s what you told both of your wives. An Immortal knows that no amount of money can justify the absences, not really. An Immortal knows about these mistakes.
In time, an Immortal will ponder these dangers of the past, these mistakes. None of them killed you, after all you’re an Immortal; but the scars are there, for the rest of your Immortal life.
© 2005 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
I hate that questioning the material construct of Religion is deemed tantamount to Atheism by self-proclaimed theologians:
In Answer to Fundamentalism
by
Justice Putnam
It is not right
To elevate Her
To the status of
Goddess
Rational man
Would refute it.
A material world
Critical of
Class and place
Would find
That elevation
To be demeaning.
My Heart
Does not beat
In a material world
Though
I be nothing
More than
Flesh and
Bone.
In a sky
Of light
A universe
Of gravity
A galaxy
Among the void
And plasma
And yet some
Would question
Whether another
Would doubt
The Power of
God’s hand?
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
I hate both the fear and exploitation of The Other:
On Starlight and Fire
by
Justice Putnam
The tribe that Herald was part of was not the one he was born into. That tribe had long ago been scattered by the violence of nature and other tribes. Herald’s birth-tribe was once strong and many. They traveled through various and divergent regions. Whether it be woods or desert, coast or mountain-top, Herald’s birth-tribe not only survived, they flourished.
It wasn’t that in those early days, there was no violence of nature and of other tribes, quite the opposite. But Herald’s birth-tribe survived because they were strong and many; and instead of attacking any tribe or person they came across, they shared what they had.
There were times that they were attacked, and nature spit down raging waters or burning liquid rock, or white-blue bolts of fire that killed many strong women and men. In time, Herald’s birth-tribe were no longer strong and many. In time, other tribes fell upon them in the night and kidnapped one or two. Other tribes had names for Herald’s birth-tribe; some called them the Teachers, some called them Heroes. Still others called them, Those Who Know. For it was rumored wide and beyond that men and women of the tribe knew the secret of starlight and the making of fire that warmed and helped nourish them.
The rumors were true.
A tribe looking for secrets and the making of fire kidnapped Herald one such night; but he was not yet a man and had not yet been taught the secret of starlight or the making of fire.
He knew how to collect fire and carry it. But the secret of making fire was more than a few suns away when Herald was kidnapped.
The tribe kept him for a few suns because he was big and hunted well, he knew how to collect fire from the burning liquid rock and from the woods set ablaze from the white-blue bolts of fire. But in time the tribe acknowledged their mistake and realized that Herald had been too young to know the secrets.
When the tribe banished him, Herald saw it as freedom. It was not the nature of Herald’s birth-tribe to be held against their will. So Herald happily left the tribe behind and was free to roam.
He met many women and many men as he traveled, who seemed to know the secrets, yet had not been part of his birth-tribe. They proved to be generous and soon he learned that they had been visited by Herald’s birth-tribe many suns ago.
They encouraged and nourished him, but the secret of starlight and the making of fire was not divulged to him until one night, as he sat with a woman a few suns older than him, his fire went out. Rather than search for fire and collecting it, she taught him the secret of starlight and the making of fire. She liked his humor and they hunted well together, but after a sun and several moons had elapsed, she reminded him of his birth-tribe’s legacy. He was now truly one of Those Who Know. She reminded him how the Teachers were also the Heroes, of how they wandered wide and beyond sharing what they had; encouraging it in others through their generosity.
The tribe that Herald was currently with proved to be more established in superstitions than tribes previous. Herald felt frustrated in their unwillingness for his help. Though they looked strong and many, they were not anything like Herald’s birth-tribe.
They had their own secrets, but not of starlight. They didn’t make fire, they collected it and a strong ritual had arisen out of that. They shared, but not as part of their nature. Their tendency was to horde what they had. Herald understood upon the first meeting, that what they knew was enough for them. But Herald knew, that what one knows is never enough; yet everything can be reasoned out and discovered in time.
That is the secret of starlight. That is also the secret of making fire.
Herald had also learned another secret he simply called, the secret; one can find in every tribe Heroes who can also teach others to be Those Who Know.
Herald was sure he had many suns left to do so.
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
OK, I admit, maybe deep down I hate finality:
The Off Ramp to Terra Azul
by
Justice Putnam
"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’s 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’re 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."
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
And like anyone, I hate being misunderstood:
What Has Happened To Me
by
Justice Putnam
I am a 52 year old broken down athlete, suffering the ills of society in the SF Bay Area, while basking in the unholy glow of self-interest. I am living Neruda’s dictum that the Poet is both a Force for Solidarity and for Solitude.
I began my writing "career" in earnest during my twenties, though I had published poems and stories since high school. I taught History and English at private schools while coaching football and track briefly. I have worked at various jobs while traveling around the world; sometimes surfing, sometimes fishing, sometimes to learn, sometimes to love; but always, always I wrote!
I have climbed up Mount Rainier and I have bicycled the Pacific Trail. I have chipped glacial ice in the French Alps and taught English on Hokkaido. I was the cook on a tuna boat in the Gulf of Alaska and I have seen the gutted remains of Honduran peasants desiccated next to red bougainvillea, as green hummingbirds darted and stopped at delicate petals and darted away again. I have seen the blasted remains of the last hospital in Sarajevo spilling stone and beds onto the street.
I have held my own son at the moment of his birth.
My son now, is almost 30. He has given me two grandchildren and a step-grandchild. I have two ex-wives who remain dear to my heart but don’t know it, no current lovers but many loving friends, no dogs or cats; save for the neighborhood ones that know I’m a soft touch.
Wild finches splash in the rough stone bath in my little garden. Their songs fade as they fly to the cottonwood that stands as a monument in the neighborhood.
French lavender, lemon thyme, rosemary, and English sage await their certain demise in a skillet on my stove.
When sated, I curl up with an ancient author I choose from my shelves.
© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
