A PATRIOT DIRGE: The Core

Fatal Flaw
The Rust Principle
The Ground Up
A Lucky Man

Summers in Seattle were always comfortably mild. The cool winds of the northern Pacific swept through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, channeling through the Sound, protecting the burgeoning metropolis that ran from Tacoma to Vancouver.

Something changed. The summer of 2005 was oppressively hot, sweltering hot, mind numbing and punishing hot. It was as if the entire northwest was somehow transported to the southeast, where the August air was molasses thick. Whether it was a freak event or a foreshadowing of global climate change, the people were lethargic, edgy and ready to explode.

Margaret Thomas did not know what to think when Rome Mason requested an appointment. History was rich between Rome and Maggie. Rome pushed her to run for congress and helped manage a successful campaign. After the election, they drifted apart. Rome had no taste for the Washington crowd and Maggie was determined to prove that an independent congresswoman could deliver. Maggie was re-elected in 2004 and Rome dropped off the edge the world.

That was Rome. His highs were the stars and his lows were rock bottom. Their relationship fed Maggie’s passion and strengthened her resolve. A well compensated corporate attorney, she needed someone or something to reawaken the dreams of youth. She was in danger of losing herself in the money machine of a successful career. Along came Roman Mason with a dream of reshaping the political landscape and a plan for making it happen.

She knew there would come a time when he stepped back into her life. Beyond that, she did not know what to expect. Life did not stand still. There were other men in her life. With Rome, it was best to keep expectations in the rearview mirror.

Speaking to him over the phone, she sensed that the fire was burning white hot. The dream was the same but the plan was more realistic. He was putting together a core group of advisors with the immediate goal of organizing a unity conference of independent political and activist organizations.

To achieve their objectives, they would have to break the anarchist mold, find common ground and secure financial backing. With an antiwar, anti-oil and anti-corporate globalization agenda, they would have to secure that backing from like-minded individuals who had profited from the same capitalistic system they would now oppose.

They needed a core group capable of defining common ground, mapping a long-term strategy and seeking out non-traditional sources of wealth. They needed Maggie not only for her political mind and legal expertise but as a model of the kind of success they were seeking: an independent who refused corporate funding. If all went as planned, Maggie would serve as the face and spokesperson for the cause.

The first meeting was in the back room of a Seattle jazz joint called The Monastery in honor of the legendary jazzman Thelonious Monk. Its thick stone walls and high wooden ceilings with large exposed rafters gave it the feeling of an old European castle. It was early evening and the sound of a jazz trio and their appreciative audience slipped through the cracks of a majestic wooden door. When he was not on sabbatical, it was Roman Mason’s favorite haunt. On the rarest occasions, which no one seemed to witness first hand, he was said to join in a jam with his battered tenor sax.

On the drive to The Monastery, Maggie remembered listening to him play that old horn, often for hours without relief, on the balcony overlooking the city, at his Olympic estate over the rocky cliffs of the northern Pacific or on the porch of his cabin on the Sound. It was the sound of mourning. It was the dirge of a New Orleans jazz funeral. It was diving off the edge and discovering the inner depths of his subconscious mind. It was dying and being born.

Maggie felt a twinge of remorse and let it go. It was a reminder that life with Rome was both sweet and sorrowful. It was profound and disturbing. Rome had come to terms with his life. He believed it was a means of tapping another world, a key to his creativity, but he had seen and suffered the toll it took on those around him. He would no longer inflict his disease on those he loved. Maggie was the last.

When Maggie walked in and moved through the hall to the back room, with the sound of jazz and the smile of familiar faces, her knees went soft. She let her heart remember the softness, the passion, the glory and the love.

She walked in where the others were already seated at the round table. She felt the pull, the attraction, the weight of desire and she could tell by the light in Rome’s eyes, even more than the smile on his face, he felt it too. Old loves never die – not the ones that dance to the rhythm of truth.

Maggie was seated and Rome introduced the group of five that would for now form the core of an organization. Each was at least aware of the others’ work. There was Roy Jones, a passionate writer for the cause with an astute political mind. There was Amy Goodall, a dynamic activist and organizer. There was John Sinclair, an operative of the highest order. There was Rome, the man who made things happen, and there was Maggie, one of only two independent members of congress.

There was room for up to four more members of the core but that would have to wait for events to unfold. For now, Rome thought it best that they possessed a familiarity that eliminated the need for explorations. They shared the same objective: to break the back of the two-party hammerlock on American politics. They were all weary of symbolic campaigns and they all understood the nature of the game.

Rome laid out a plan like the first draft of a long story. They would build an organization from the ground up. They would raise funds from a broad base of support and target winnable elections at the state and local levels. They would build a financial base of support the old fashioned way: by winning. They would recruit and train a new generation of activists, dissidents and politically savvy operatives. They would think long term and guard against the divisions that traditionally sabotaged populist and democratic movements.

Rome would be the behind the scene center point, coordinating the varied branches. Roy would be the message maker, the propagandist, the communicator. Amy would form a bridge to the activist world, channeling protest into grassroots political campaigns. Sinclair would head the electoral branch, targeting elections, recruiting candidates and running campaigns. Maggie would be their public voice, their connection in Washington and advisor to the independent movement’s most promising candidates.

"What about the war?" asked Amy. "What about free trade, immigration, labor exploitation, global warming, civil rights and civil liberties…?"

"Those are issues with clear solutions and ones we can all agree on," replied Rome.

"What takes precedence?" followed Amy. "The issues or the political agenda?"

"We gave everything to the antiwar movement," reflected Rome. "What do we have to show? The organization and the core cause crumbled yet the war goes on.

"The one thing we must all agree on is that we can never allow that to happen again. We’re building an institution to challenge the power structure. We’re building a movement that doesn’t end when the warlords move on to their next target. We’re building a cause that can be handed to the next generation. Nothing is more important."

"Many activists have hit bottom," said Roy. "They want to move beyond protest to active resistance."

"We support them," said Sinclair with a knowing grin. "Resistance is powerful; aggression is counterproductive."

"We don’t want a revolution," added Rome. "We want evolution."

"There will be another terrorist attack," said Maggie. "That is the central event on the political horizon and the trillion dollar question is: How do we respond? What do we do then?"

"With empathy," said Rome, "but without compromise."

"We accuse the power duopoly of allowing it to happen for their own political and economic gain," said Amy.

"We can’t know when it will happen," said Sinclair. "Only that it will happen and when it does, there will be a backlash, another wave of oppression. We must be prepared for all contingencies and every step must be taken with that inevitability in mind."

A solemn silence conveyed a general agreement, suggesting that everything that needed saying had been. A superb Italian wine was poured and Roy proposed a toast.

"Evolution, not revolution! It’s about time."

They drank, talked, laughed and cried into the early hours of the morn, sharing their dreams, their nightmares, their hopes and fantasies, until only Rome and Maggie remained.

They drank from the same chalice, dreamed the same dreams, shared the same fears and felt the same pull that tied them together in another life.

Maggie had a week before she needed to return to the nation’s capital. Rome had no obligations save those he imposed on himself. They were free, as free as they had ever been, and if they chose to live in the moment, it was nobody’s business but their own.

They took a cab to the wharf, a ferry across the Sound, where a driver was waiting to take them to Rome’s estate on the western side of the peninsula. It was here, overlooking a rocky cliff, where the waves betrayed the pounding heartbeat of the earth, where Rome discovered his cause and where his love for Maggie and hers for Rome blossomed and flourished with a bond that would outlast their lives.

They held each other in the arms of undying affection, allowed the past to recede, and rediscovered the meaning of life on earth. When Rome and Maggie were together, no one else mattered. The cause was there – it was always there—but Rome only had eyes for Maggie and Maggie for Rome.

Holding her in his arms, in the sweet honey afterglow of love, the taste fresh on his lips, the scent hovering in the air, he had only one thought:

What a lucky man he was.