Jim Putnam - Thinking Through My Fingers

TTMF On Israel

Once, a long time ago, a very insightful woman told me that people often become very alike to that which they are most afraid.  I've watched myself and others since, and there is a lot of truth in what she said.  This afternoon reading news reports and columns about Israel and Gaze, I think it is even more true whan applied to nations.

My knowledge and understanding of Mideast politics or history is sorely lacking.  From what I do understand, however, I can not believe that what Israel is doing in Gaza is moral,  Nor can it be justified in any way.  To me, they are bombing simply because they can, knowing that no one is going to stop them.  Not the UN, nor the US.  Not their own people, nor the opinion of the rest of the world.

If I were to compare today's Israel to Nazi Germany, I would find some disquieting similarities. 

• The Nazi regime meant to exterminate the Jews.  Israel seems to be trying to exterminate Hamas.
• Jews were considered less than human, and some of the hatred I read seems to have Israel considering  that Hamas specifically and Palestinians in general are less than human.
• Jews were forced into ghettos in Germant.  Israel has made Gaza a ghetto, among the most densely populated land in the world.
• Jews had no rights.  Palestinians are stripped of their rights.

I believe that many people who strongly support Israel and its right to exist have developed a image of a pure Israel, completely surrounded by enemies.  Their support for Israel doesn't allow doubts, because doubts diminish support.  But there is so much to doubt.  So much.

The US is a strong supporter of Israel, as it should be.  But our money is being used in ways that should not be supported.  Among the actions the US needs to take is to immediately cease funding Israel's war machine.  To me, that's first.  Along with that, we must demand that Palestinians be provided support to improve their economic status, schools, food, and everything that goes along with a stable, self-governing entity.

Of course, as we work to strengthen the economy of Palestine and Gaza, there must also be control of Hamas and its ability to send rockets into Israel.  I don't have any illusions that this is going to be either easy, or quick, but somehow it must occur or today's bombings will continue in the deadly spiral of act and retaliate.  And, I would bet that there are Hamas, Palestinian, and Gazains who would join in the effort of control.

Finally, I believe that Israel deserves strong condemnation for its actions.  I believe the Bush government has likely been lax in letting Israel understand that such actions will cause severe restrictions of future support and financial assistance.  Israel knows full well that the Bush administration will wring their hands and cry publicly, but not do a damn thing to stop it.  They know they have a small window of time in which the Bush administration is unable or unwilling to act.  Bush and the Cheney crowd will do whatever they can to make the incoming Obama administration be weakened.  I think now is the time for President-Elect Obama to send an extremely strong message and to ask the Congress to immediately pass a bill severely curtailing the foreign aid dollars Israel receives from the US, including and especially all weapon purchases and military assistance.  To do less will be seen as tacit approval.

Reflections - On an Air Force Career

Marrianna and I have an appointment tomorrow morning for an interview to be a census taker in the 2010 census.  We saw an advertisement, Marrianna called the number, and tomorrow we interview.  It sounded like something we could do together, enjoy meeting different people, and get paid to do.

Among the paperwork we are supposed to have with us are our passports, and my DD Form 214.  The DD Form will give me five points in the test to get the job.  For those who aren't familiar with this particular form, it is a Department of Defense one page record of service in the Uniformed Services, awards and decorations, and level of discharge.  I have one for every enlistment in the 20 years, 6 months and 9 days I spent in the Air Force.  There are six DD Form 214 in the Official Records folder I dug out of a bookshelf this evening.  The only one we will need tomorrow is the last one showing cumulated years and days of service.

Looking at six forms, covering an enormous amount of my life, directly served or heavily influencing every moment from high school to retirement, and likely even retirement, memories conflicted with one another for supremacy.

There are some very good ones, and some not nearly as good.  Most of the good ones involve wonderful people, and the bad ones are mostly the terrible mess I made at the end.  I continue to believe that the Air Force was the best possible career for me, providing a solid base for an excellent civilian career.  I do know, however, that I didn't serve the last two years with the dedication and enthusiasm the Air Force, or I, deserved.

As I said, the good memories are of people.  I've never been very enthusiastic about reunions, but the list of people who I wish I had maintained communication over the years is long.  A partial list, in no particular order:

Charles Layton
Eddie A Erwin
Douglas Azar
Jeannie Craig
Michael M. Coe
George Gailey
Joe Stapleton
Ken Krause
Bob Welch
Fred MacNeil

I'm able to pull more faces than names even from this poor memory, and this is only a portion of the names I do recall.  It isn't a good idea to live in the past, but perhaps it is OK once in a while to remember some people who helped make us who we are.  Thanks to all these named, and to so many more not specifically named.

This has been a very strange day in weather terms.  It has been very warm, mid to upper 70's, all day.  There was a very nice breeze, and for a large part of the day the sun was shining.  It has became overcast late in the afternoon, but still very warm.  I've not taken the opportunity to be out in it, staying in the house fussing with the computer, printing some photos, and in general just wasting an excellent opportunity to either be outside or to write the blog.

We didn't go to church this morning.  I often wonder whether attending church is a habit or do I attend because it has meaning.  Whichever, earlier this afternoon I felt like there was something missing in my day.  It may have been the weather, or the fact that I couldn't sit down to the desk and write.

Anastasia was organizing what she wants to leave here and what needs to be taken with her.  It has been a pleasure having her and Morgan here, and Marrianna and I will miss them after they depart tomorrow.  She begins her internship at Kripalu Yoga Center early in the new year. 

I was about to write about an article I am reading in a magazine I subscribe to, and thought "Isn't it a bit pretentious for me to write about an article in a magazine named "Poets & Writers?"  [Poets and Writers Magazine, Volume 37, Jan/Feb 2009] Then, of course, I thought that there is no reason to think that.  I know I'm not a poet, and the blog is the only writing I do, but someone gave me a copy of the magazine some time ago, and I've subscribed since.

The article is "Crazy with Song: Discovering Story in Southern Sudan" by Brandi Reissenweber [pages 39-44].  In the middle of the article, one paragraph really stood out for me.

   Most of us have seen the way literature can touch something deep inside a reader.  It may not be food to fuel the body, but it is sustenance of a different sort.  Through story, we encounter the variety in human experience, the many ways in which we respond to the world, negotiate emotion, and sort out the messy business of being human.  As Welty wrote, stories show us how to feel.  And, often, she observed, they show us how to face our feelings and face our actions and to have new inklings about what they mean."  That, too, is a means of survival. [page 43]

Ms Reissenweber writes about the Sudanese holding on to their stories, how the "eldest members would share the stories they knew, so as to keep the tradition - and Dinka history - alive." [page 44]

This blog entry began blandly, without aim.  As I wrote, ideas flowed, and the stories of Sudan give warmth, and perhaps some inspiration.  That's the purpose of writing, just as for story telling, to "encounter the variety of human experience".  That is why I want to have the discipline to sit here every day and write.  Thanks for listening.

Just Thinking

I've allowed several things to slip through lately.  I haven't worked on the quilt for over two weeks, the remainder of my thimble photos haven't been posted, and I haven't gone through the various photos of our trips to choose which are keepers and which should be eliminated.  This isn't a vow to get on those items, or others that need work, but perhaps writing that I should do something will at least nudge me toward it.

What I have been doing is reflecting on how very fortunate I am, and how very different it could have been.  There have been several instances that the smallest change of timing, once a mere grain of dust, made a huge difference in my life.  There are enough of these that I've almost persuaded myself that there is a guardian angel protecting me from myself; that the reason I survived is that I hadn't yet accomplished my appointed task, whatever it is, or was.  My mind tells me that is pure BS, but my emotional self says it's true.

I would like to tell the story of the grain of dust, but simply cannot.  It's in my mind, and seared on my soul, but I am discovering that it's very difficult to put into words.

Somewhere in my memory is a Red Skelton comedy skit.  He's playing the part of a drunk walking down a sidewalk.  He staggers along, and though he tries to continue, he staggers and turns left through the door of a bar.  You see that scene several times.  Finally, he is able to stagger on, past the door, all the way to the corner.  There, he stumbles onto the street and is hit by a truck.

Life, it seems to me, is often like that.  Through nothing more than poor timing, disaster strikes, or through the pure luck of good timing, with nothing akin to preparation, fortune rescues.  Life is arbitrary, and for me to believe that there is a guardian angel is contrary to everything else I believe.  The fact remains, I do.  I feel I've been the recipient of its care, on more than one occasion.

How can such instances be explained to a logical mind?  An answer is that logically there are likely instances in which the grain of dust wasn't there, or the truck was seconds late or early.  The arbitrariness of life strikes the other way.  We would never know.  Therefore, the grain of dust isn't proof that god, or guardian angels exist.  And if we take comfort in saying that the guardian angel did its task of protecting me, why wasn't there one to protect the innocent child molested by a warped parent?  What kind of strange god allows that?

I don't know.  I am just thinking, and asking.

Remembering Carl

Over two years during high school, I worked part time at a local olive packing plant.  It was my first real job.  I'd tried delivering newspapers and discovered I wasn't very good at that.  I couldn't remember which houses were supposed to receive newspapers, and carrying the list of customers with me never occurred to me.  The result was that I regularly received phone calls from customers asking me where was their paper.

The olive packing plant was different.  I started one summer, worked through the summer full-time, and then part time through the end of my final school year.  I ate so many olives over that time that for years afterward I didn't like olives.  Now, I'll eat one or include them in a salad.  When I graduated, I left the olive plant and joined the Air Force.

My primary job was to glue the boxes of olive jars and stack them on a flat.  When the flat was full, I pulled it to the shipping room.  A flat of 48 small one ounce bottle boxes stacked ten high were heavier than one with boxes of six quart jars stacked five high.  I learned to make the brine filling the bottles.

Another job was to go to the yard and roll a barrel of olives into the plant, set it on its end, and open it.  Most of the workers worked in pairs setting them up so that the packers, ladies all, could get their olives and pack them into the bottles.  Carl, an old gentleman working there, was probably nearing 70, but he could easily set a barrel of olives on its end alone. 

Carl wore two sweatshirts and long johns year around.  In the summer, he would be soaked with sweat in less than an hour.  He claimed that after getting soaked he would be cool because the wet garments provided an air conditioning effect.  He was, of course, correct and I've tried it a few times over the years since.  It was too strange and different a look for this high school kid to try then, and truthfully, I wouldn't dress that heavily even though now I know it works.  I continue to dress very conventionally.

Despite his sweat-soaked clothing, Carl had a very dignified, comfortable with himself bearing.  He lived alone in a small two-room apartment over an automobile repair garage about a block from the plant.  I never saw him in town, or wearing anything other than his work sweats.  He had a very slight accent, and if I remember correctly, he was German heritage.  He was the kind of person that people set aside and didn't associate with.

Though I don't remember why, Carl offered to lend me a book sometime during my school year.  One afternoon, I walked with him to his apartment after work to get the book.  We climbed the outside stairs and he unlocked the door.  I was surprised when we went in.  The main room was filled with books, magazines, and newspapers.  Carl offered me a drink of water, and I accepted.  As I drank it, gazing around at his room, trying not to appear nosy, he searched a bookcase, found the book, and handed it to me.  It's interesting to me now that I don't remember what book it was.  I can almost see his room, with books and papers everywhere, but cannot remember what book he lent me.

I do remember Carl, and the lesson I learned.  There is almost always more to an individual than can be seen on the outside.

Reflections - On Writing

I've written more about myself these past couple of months than I ever thought I would.  Now that I've done it, I want to do more, go places I didn't the first time through, and learn more.  In this case, I don't necessarily mean learn more about me, though that would almost certainly occur.  Instead, I want to learn more about how to write, to tell a story, and to flesh out the dry bones of the first Writing About Me series. 

 

I've always wanted to write.  Ten years old and still in elementary school, I was writing a western and had over 50 pages of pencil on paper when we moved to Ohio.  Mom threw it all out.  When I went looking for my pages after we moved, she said that she thought it wasn't important.  She was right, it wasn't, but I missed it but didn't start again.

The blog has been a revelation.  I enjoy writing it, but really think I've begun to be overly serious.  Rather than simply sit down and do what the blog title says, Think Through My Fingers, recently it seems as if I have to have a serious subject, with definite ideas about it, before putting fingers to keyboard.  I'm a smart, serious, and in some arenas knowledgeable enough person, but not much is being written.

 

Now I am almost 70, still wanting to write something important.  At age 10, the western was important.  Today, what is important isn't the so-called Great American Novel, but something that explains, illuminates, refreshes, or tells an interesting story.  It doesn't have to extend knowledge or literature.  And, it doesn't have to be for some large set of readers, though that would be nice too.  If I can do one or more of those four things, I think I'll come closer to being satisfied.  Am I returning to norm and hoping to receive recognition rather than producing?

 

With the blog, I have a platform to write to, for, with an audience, and that makes it different from simply keeping pages stored on my disk drive.  Someone may read it, which is a responsibility, though peripheral.  I can experiment, play with words, and practice.  One fact I have learned over these years is that good writing requires exercise.  It doesn't easily flow from mind through fingers.

 

Writing About Me changed me.  I feel more aware of pieces of me, pieces that are murky even after the series.  There is no one I can go ask what happened here, or why was it that way.  Whatever I write about them is necessarily fiction, with no more supporting material than is within me.

 

And so I begin, one more time, with patience, but also persistence.

 

A New Blog to Enlighten Me

A friend put me on to a new blog today.  I followed his links, and have been thinking about it all day.  VIVID is a thought provoking blog, and I've added it to my bookmarks toolbar for easy access.

Since it is a relatively new blog, I thought I would begin with some of its first entries.  As I scanned down this blog's entries, this one caught my attention. News from the frontier is from "the Open Democracy interview with anthropologist Hugh Brody."  The climate and ecological information of this entry is amazing.  But the preceding entry was, by far, my favorite.  Thoughts from the heartlands is a wonderful work of literature, economics, and ecology linked in understandable terms.

The second sentence of the elder's answer to her grandson strikes directly at the heart of all, or at least a lot, of how we have arrived at the financial abyss, which precedes an ecological catastrophe.

Money has come between people and life. It was meant as a medium of exchange but has become distorted so that modern society now sees it as a store of value.

These two sentences state much more clearly and exactly what I was trying to say when discussing money with email friends a while back.  Then I said, "Money is nothing more than a symbol, and as with all symbols it can be misinterpreted."

As long as money is a store of value, it will dramatically distort culture, ecology, and relationships.  Misinterpretation is a result and not a cause of its destructive tendencies.

But it isn't really as simple as money being a medium of exchange either.  For instance, we are retired and the money we have stored is a medium of exchange for us to live gently into our senior years.  So surely there is a positive side to storing its value.

The final paragraph is quite likely among the finest definitions of the challenge before us all, especially we USAmericans.

There are examples everywhere. If this culture doesn’t arrest its onward exchange of death for money, the entire biosphere will collapse. The economic system must be redesigned and linked with love and life. It is time that people woke up to where the wealth is.

I will continue to read VIVID, and hopefully to take its lessons into my life style also.

Reflections - On Playing Santa

In a comment to yesterday's post, Felix Grant said" I'm not entirely sure whether the Santa Persona is inherent or assumed, though."  I think it is assumed.

For instance, I too enjoy teaching.  I can remember going through a very similar routine to that Felix describes, to "deliberately pull out my minority extrovert component and dust it off for the occasion."  Professionally, as a computer requirements analyst, I also enjoyed conducting Joint Application Design (JAD) meetings and facilitating group requirements development.  Each of these require a person who enjoys being in the front of large groups, and I was very good at doing it.

Each time I was in front, there was an element of being outside myself observing that other person.  It was a role I drew around me, wrapped quite tightly.  I think I would be a very good Master of Ceremonies, playing the role of controlling an occasion.

I wonder whether that ability to perform outside of one's self might be absolutely necessary for any introvert to exist in a society that values exuberance.  Following that, another question asks whether the society should place such high value on exuberance.

Actually, exuberance is not the word I should be using there.  Poise and confidence are the traits being highly honored.  And people who are predominately introvert aren't likely confident, and are usually not poised.  Therefore, it is required that they draw around the cloak of confidence and present themselves as such.

 Reflecting, I can see that teaching was my way of using the cloak.  When I tried another, larger cloak of recruiting and selling, it didn't fit and the introvert couldn't watch the performance knowing that any moment the cloak could slip off and the real self be exposed.

I am completely capable of donning a Santa Cap, and to a lesser extent persona.  I'd likely be fine with the entire costume and the role of an shopping center Santa talking to the children.  But, if I tried to be the jolly elf full-time, never allowing myself to step away from the role, I am sure that the personal consequences would be severe.

Once again, I've carried an analogy too far, to a place it cannot be supported.  It's time to close.

Reflections - Extrovert vs Introvert

In Writing About Me, along about half way through the series, I wrote about family.  I said: "Somewhere, I got the idea that I wanted to become more extroverted.  I'd always known I was an introvert, and it had never particularly bothered me. " That had to be written without knowing that it was a lie.  Of course it had bothered me, otherwise why would I want to change it.

Though I am not a psychologist, and therefore am probably writing about something I know nothing about, it seems likely to me that there are no pure introverts or extroverts.  Most people have some mixture of both in their makeup.  At one time, introversion is dominant, another time extroversion.

For instance, we were in Asheville yesterday to give our daughter some assistance in her upcoming move.  While we were there, we visited my wife's 89 year old Aunt T, who lives in a skilled nursing center.  I love this woman.  She is extremely bright, has a sharp sense of humor, and is a joy to be around.

I put on my red Santa hat, because being with this lady always makes me feel great.  As we got out of the elevator on her floor, several people were waiting to take it.  They greeted the red hat and gray beard, with smiles and cheer.  Naturally, I entered my extrovert role and acted the part of the "Ho, Ho, Ho", jolly Santa.  I carried the role with me into Aunt T's room.  It just seemed a natural part of me.  As we left, walking down the hallway I could feel myself returning to norm.

Later in the evening, we were at dinner with our daughter and her significant other, M.  In this setting,, of course without the Santa hat, I returned to introvert's role, quiet, watching the others without participating much.  I could feel myself pull within.  It wasn't anti-social, or with no participation in the conversation at all, but I certainly was much less outgoing.

It seems to me that I do that a lot, switching back and forth naturally and easily.  I would wager that most people see me as completely extroverted, and very few as introverted.  I'm not sure whether that is good or not, or even accurate, and it isn't important.  It is how I see myself.

Reading Writing About Me XIX, I recognize how damaging it was for me to try to remain in the extrovert role continuously.  If, on the other hand, I had recognized that being both was acceptable, life would have been very different.  And perhaps I'm still deluding myself.

Reflections - Symbols

Very few parts of our lives aren't influenced by symbols.  Art, language, numbers, religion, - all symbols.  The words we speak and write are entirely symbols.  I've been considering symbols and how to interpret them for a very long time, and am not much closer to an answer now than when I began.

As I sat in church Sunday listening to the music of Christmas, I let my doubts about their meaning recede and enjoyed the voices, the sounds of a season.  This evening at the keyboard, i wonder how so many people seem to accept the season's symbols as real.

Today, an Iraqi news reporter threw shoes at the President of the United States.  For him, shoes have a symbolic meaning that we here don't understand.  Obviously though hundreds of Iraqis did, and joined in the streets in symbolic agreement.  Pundits try to explain the symbols to us.  Some understand partially, and others, too dense to wonder, miss its meaning completely.

Tomorrow afternoon Marrianna and I will leave home and drive west to Asheville.  When we first see Black Mountain, Marrianna almost always says she feels she has returned home.  The symbolic home of those mountains remains a part of her heart.  We will assist our daughter by providing packing boxes so she can fill them, and we will drive back down the mountains Wednesday morning, bringing some of them back with us.  Next week, she will pack the rest of her belongings in a truck and move them here.

Friday will have friends visiting from Maryland for the weekend.  There isn't a symbol strong enough to represent the bonds we have built over the years.  Hugs will have to suffice.

And that's interesting.  There are few thoughts or emotions that are so strong that no symbol can represent them.  Even love has its heart symbol, though I wonder how a pump came to represent love.

This is a season of many symbols.  There are numerous traditions vying to proclaim themselves as dominant, to the point that chaos is everywhere.  But, at the core all the season's symbols, of whatever tradition, may be trying to explain that the winter solstice has arrived and that while darkness is upon us, we are soon to begin another symbolic movement toward spring and new life.