Silly Putty Duty

Silly Putty Duty

‘Twas about twelve thutty before sounds and flashes simulating the release of ordnance had steadily begun to recede in punctuality.  No, I don’t have a cold, nor am I necessarily trying to express any semblance of resident negritude, since in the past such attempts have proven catastrophic….  I’m just a bit nutty about rhyming with puttySilly Putty, that is.  And as youngsters of the lands concluded their incendiary playtime for yet another season, I emerged from cover, having spent most of the 4th steeped in my hot and sunny, rainy day collection of The Misadventures of Euripides and The Tailor re-runs.

Yes, I love my country… simply because I love.  Everyone has to love something; that goes with being human.  However, it’s the Putty that gets in the way of love much of the time.  If you are among those sufficiently ancient to recall playing with that stuff, you might remember how much fun it was to mold it into whatever you wanted, and then to inject your imagination into your synthetic creations while entertaining yourself in homemade drama for hours.  But it’s just stuff… pretty frigging silly stuff!  It gets old.  You decide to leave it alone for a while.  It complies by leaving you alone.  So, you stick it back into its plastic shell until next time.

Year after year, as I hear the words of the Declaration of Independence being read aloud in piecemeal fashion by randomly selected Americans, each voice with a different accent, and each face a different color, tears still fill my eyes as my right palm swiftly finds its way to my heart.  By now, the heartfelt reaction is also the knee-jerk one.  Then… the words and the message of the declaration itself speak of the brutal tyranny of monarchy in its quest to keep at least some remote control over those noble, rebel colonists – some of them God fearing slave owners by now (moron-oxytosis? …abomination fever?  …perversion envy?   …hypocrisy thesis program?). 

And before the first tear makes it to my cheek, I recall the reason why the town that I live in has such a ‘Native American’ sounding name, and why there is yet such parched contact with and inclusion of the remnantized indigenous culture whom our forefathers trampled upon to claim their land our own in the righteous name of freedom.  Then discomfort ensues as I consider the ‘rightful’ allotment of tears and the chilling irony of human behavior in historical aspect.  What gels this inscrutable incongruity is that I live in one of the few nations on this funny bunny Petri ball where I can express my sentiments with relative safety from retaliation.  Again, I come to know that one must love something….

Perhaps there’s nothing new under the sun, nor is there likely to be any sunniness to speak of under the new (Who, in this day, would even consider lifting it to check?).  History is rendered a carousel of upsets and down-trods where the record of life is taught to children in terms of dates of struggles between Hittite and Sittite, Shiite and Heite, Tootsie and Wootsie, WhoTwo and YouToo….  We seem rewarded having remembered events and dates for an appreciable while as determined through the testing of standards, and what is taught seems ever to beget the cycle’s continuing.

If one were to channel the soul of the Collective Unconscious, one would recognize and support the fact that children are our teachers just as vitally as we are theirs.  Yet, at some point, we relieve them of book study, give them guns, and send them to the front line of stuff we ourselves created.  If they survive, we celebrate.  If they don’t, the other side cheers.  …And, on an other side of the ball, a temporal reflection of violent struggle and the overthrow of power is played out.  It seems fitting… or logical, in truest surrealistic fashion, that certain opportunity presents itself amid the turmoil of unrest, for men of a feather to band together to make of their bodies sexual weaponry.  Not that, so much as the fact that folks tend to care more about what Justin Bieber might be having for lunch today.  Give me a break, or give me death!

We come into this life – this world of Putty – still knowing pretty much where we came from, and this knowledge is very much telepathic and universal.  It is by design that we gradually lose this knowing as well as our telepathic abilities as we become more and more acquainted with this rather blatant blend of being we call physical reality.  The challenge… the adventure is re-remembering along the way all of what we came here to forget.  As we do this – as being completes another full circle – wisdom becomes our spiritual escrow.

Holler at me!