Rough Red Meat Between Teeth

Dinner is done.  Corned beef and carrots and potatoes, courtesy of my Beloved One’s unpredictable and very Irish craving.  Quite tasty.  Nummy for my tummy, teasing on the tongue, and a royal pain in the anal cavity for my teeth!  But such is the nature of life as a human carnivore. 

And now I plop me down to rest in my red chair.  Pipe in my teeth, scrumpy at my elbow.  (I do hope I won’t knock it down and spill it.)  To my bloggery I go, for as much as I’ve become seduced by Twitter recently, I do suspect the truest twitterers tweet on the go from cellular gadgets.  I have no such gadgetry about me, so I’ll go about expressing myself in the modern age in the old fashioned way: with more than 150 characters on my blog.

. . . . .

The boy with the budding Buddha belly

 One of the commercials for the upcoming television show Parenthood says, “Parenthood is understanding why some animals eat their young…”  I appreciate that.

Sweet Wag—as I call the lad; Falstaff’s name for Hal—is keeping us company again.  What’s more, today it has been more or less good company.  My first impression of Sweet Wag came when I was talking with his Mother in her garage.  He inconspicuously passed beyond his Mother’s line of sight, and picked up a battery operated hand drill, striding tall and laughing towards one of the cats.  In those first months, I also saw him throw furniture at his twin siblings, beat his noggin against the wall until something other than his own will stopped the cadence, and set things on fire.  He’s come a long way since then.  He now minds his place to the extent that he knows how.  He gives us all random gifts at least once a day.  He apologizes for his anxious habits, and politely identifies what bothers him.  In the past he’d just say “I’m stronger than you”, and toss an Atlas at your head.  The biggest problems he brings to daily life are his phobias of immense things—like high ceilings or tall buildings—his wolfish thirteen year old appetite, and his (yes, I’ll say it!) rather off-putting lack of table manners. 

“I’m thirteen, mom!” he’ll say, when he wants to get his way.
‘Then why can’t you chew with your mouth closed, since you’re eating everything in the house?’ I’ll think to myself.

Yes, I confess, I’m a terrible fellow.  A grumpy, festering bastard who’s not quite so openhearted as the mayor of Munchkin city.  Be that as it may, Sweet Wag impresses me. 

Call me harsh and hard of heart, but he does.  There is no way around how far he’s come.  No denying either that some part of him recognizes it took effort to travel from there to here, from then to now.  And when considering that, in sight of the puzzle that he is; the mind of a nine year old trapped in a ragingly pubescent thirteen year old body; I can’t help but find the notion of ‘recognizing and respecting struggle’ hopeful.

. . . . .

From there to here 

It can be a long road sometimes, up and out of one’s hiding places.  Most of the time, there are false exits on that road.  You’ll begin to feel a bit better, and then just as you think you’re about to return from your underworld, it’s not unusual for something or someone to kick you back down into the bog. 

At the moment, I am feeling well.  I’m noticing my thoughts flowing more freely, my inhibitions and masks have shed a layer or two.  I’m taking more responsibility to get what I want, and exerting less patience for the petty things that bother me.  That is all good.  It means I’m far down the road to a lighter state, a more carefree and a jolly state, and I would welcome that.  I’m smoking my pipes again, as I did once upon a time when I felt a bit more balanced.  And I’m successfully over the two week mark of an existence without cigarettes.  That is also a good sign. 

I just hope we all continue in our climbs up toward the light.  I’ve lost my footing one too many times, to not fear the fall.

Oh piss it, look!  I’ve sneezed my emotions all over you.  I’d offer you a towel, but I’m not sure who you are or where you’re reading from, and my arm likely wouldn’t reach.  Forgive me? 

. . . . .

A U2 commercial on the television, sponsoring Blackberry.  I’m gonna go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonight…

Good juju.

 

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

Breakfast. And Baggins.

The cracky old cat is laying on the table in a spot of sun, quite content to sprawl out on the new placemat (Nicky’s typical spot.)  I myself am feeling quite fat and happy after indulging my craving for a morsel of a sweet something in the afternoon.  Blueberry pudding cake, which my beloved one shared with me, which made me happy.  Perhaps I’d not have snacked at all, had I not been reading The Hobbit earlier today.  In it, if you’ve read it you know, the hobbits—who I’m quite convinced are my long lost kin about thirty times removed on my Mother’s side—eat several breakfasts and dinners and snacks each day.  (Elevensies, afternoon tea with cakes, and so on.) 

With hobbits merrily munching already in my mind, the subject of what to sup upon this evening seemed an appropriate twist in the conversation.  There hasn’t been a great deal of conversation lately, mind you.  I’m far too hot and midway through the melting process because of the deviously early arrival of summer.  Argue with me if you like, “No, it’s not summer Jeffrey, it’s just a very hot spring.”  Fuck you.  No.  It’s summer.  Then it’ll rain next week, return to spring, then work backwards from there, going to Autumn, we’ll have a few more sunny days (Indian summer) and go in from the picnic blanket to eat Halloween candy, dye eggs, and wrap Christmas presents in heart shaped boxes, because it’s started snowing and without the predictability of weather from former glorious years, we lose track of time and have to celebrate all the holidays in one week so that HallMark doesn’t have to file for bankruptcy and become a government franchise. 

Anyway, as I was trying to tell you before you completely altered my line of thought by asking me about the weather—the subject of dinner popped up (from the living-room land of floating question marks and light bulbs, hidden somewhere between the couches.  I think its under the coffee table…)  It was then settled upon between my Beloved One and I, that it would be breakfast for dinner tonight. 

Three cheers for breakfast!

So, there I was, happily tucked away in my red chair, thinking about a lovely repetition of the breakfast we had for dinner the other night, when I looked at the clock, and suddenly felt quite down.  It was only about half-past two o’clock in the afternoon.  Dinner-time’s a long way off.  Quite down indeed.  Depressing.  Hungry!  Then she reminded me of the treasure in the kitchen, and we decided to break into the golden, glittering, great glob of gooey goodness.  That being, of course, the precious pudding cake.  Blueberry pudding cake, that is.

Now my thoughts have returned to breakfasting, but in a much more organized fashion, and I’m starting to crave cookies for an after breakfast-for-dinner nibble.  It’s a bit hot to turn the oven on, but I could try making some in the tiny counter-top, pizza oven contraption. 

Snickerdoodles perhaps?  It will require more thought than you have patience to read me write about.  (“Hear me talk about”?  “Read me write about”?  Make sense.)

A cigarette for now I think.  Or “a bowl of tobacco out of doors”, as The Hobbit is still scurrying through my mind.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

Rather a ho hum sort of day so far.

Rather a ho hum sort of day so far.  I sit here at my table puffing my pipe.  No, wipe the bong-hugging hippies out of your mind; I’m not smoking that sort of pipe!  I’m in desperate want of cigarettes, or any sort of fundage with which to buy more.  So, my old briar friend must carry me through to brighter times. 

Ho hum also in light of the point that I’ve been working  (Note: that’s the regular, life-sustaining, not-very-interesting, job-related sort of work) a bit more than I’m accustomed to.  If I remember correctly, my last day off was Saturday the week before last.  I’m sure I’ll appreciate the extra days and hours immensely once I am paid, for the moment however, I find it slightly beyond tiresome.  Especially without my orange and white carcinogen sticks.

I did find comfort in Shakespeare’s Henry IV. How many ways can you call a man a penis, or tell him he’s not so very well hung? Falstaff manages it like so:

{Falstaff to Prince Hal.}  ‘Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s sizzle, you stockfish- O for breath to utter what is like thee!- you tailor’s yard, you sheath, you bowcase, you vile standing tuck!

Hal then very quickly tells him to storm to his heart’s content, catch his breath, storm some more, then once he’s tired, to listen well. 

It’s a lovely scene, and what’s more, it’s a lovely scene in one of the plays I don’t know nearly enough about as a whole. 

So yes, some comfort there.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009 

Just after the daily ponder

Here’s an experience a lot of us have had.  You see [Fill in the blank] for the first time in [Fill in the blank].  As you’re standing there going on about [Fill in the blank] something about them slowly begins to eat at your brain.  That is, their general visage or persona strikes you with that sense that you aren’t saying something.  Something, moreover, that you really should say.  It would only be polite.  You’re supposed to comment.  Why?  Because something’s different!  That’s why.  You can’t quite place what is different, but you know very well that something has changed since the last time you had the [Fill in the blank] fortune to see them.  Their hair?  Could that be it?  Have they changed their hair; cut it?  Grown it?  Colored it?  Have they lost weight?  Are they wearing a brand new outfit?  Do they suddenly have blue eyes instead of green, or red eyes instead of blue? 

Well, I bring up that socially awkward scenario because; depending upon how often you visit my page/read this blogship; you may not notice that it’s different.  As of today, it’s different.  New colors, slightly new lay-out.  It occurred to me, as I was sitting in front of the window.  There I was, watching rain fall and pool upon the roof of the used-car lot’s office {which sits smack outside my living room}, it occurred to me that it is no longer winter.  Things on my little corner of the web ought to look more ’springly’.  Brighter.  Merrier.  Cheerier.  More color.  So that’s what I did. 

And you [shame, shame, shame] probably don’t visit nearly often enough to appreciate it. 

A sketch of Shakespeare; one with which I can well identify at the moment.

Now, before I bailed you out on having to figure out for yourself what had altered around here, I was sitting in front of the window, having a wee ponder.  It was today’s repetition of the always predictable daily ponder that happens after I’ve come home from work. 

It probably drives my beloved one slightly mad.  She probably feels as though I’m not interested in her, when I come home and the first thing I do is sit in a chair, seeming to stare out at nothing, lost to all living things around me. 

Yes.  It must be maddening for my Beloved one.  But I’ve come to understand there’s a reason I do it so often.  It’s a sort of rethinking of maybe useful thinking that was done earlier that day without my control.

Alright, that makes no sense!  Perhaps what follows will be just as mad, but I’ll try to make a metaphor.    

At the moment I still have no dedicated space from which to do what I used to do in my office.  That’s been the case for the last few years.  Now its not as much of a hurdle as it was six months ago because I have a laptop.  There’s not as much need for an isolated desk if you have a laptop.  However, I do miss having an isolated room.  I’ve noticed I do my best work when I have space to absorb that work, and then spit it back out at me.  The research I do for [Fill in the blank] can take over the wall.  Then, the work that needs to be done happens smoothly in that environment, because I’m swimming in a room full of research, musings, reminder notes, and so on.  And of course, when the subject that needs working-on changes, the rubbish on the wall gets torn down and replaced with new, much more important material.  Now, I don’t have such a closet or cubicle at the moment.  That means the ‘office’ tends to be world-wide, scattered, unorganized, and very much an imagined place I go to inside my head.  That seems to be where I go during the daily ponder.

I think I’ve figured it out, and I suspect it works like this… 

1.  On the way to or from work I tend to read/scribble about things vaguely similar to whatever it is I’m working toward creatively…  {At the moment, solving and building up the infrastructure of The Lab, so that it’s fit to put out work again in a year or so.} 

2.  When I get back home, I seem to be incapable of doing anything around the house until I’ve unwittingly dedicated a-few-cigarettes’ worth of time to staring out the window. 

3.  In that time, I think part of my brain is trying to pin those unorganized and maybe useless thoughts (from the bus rides) to some sort of order in my head.  In other words, I’m tacking all those articles, bits of research, musings, and reminder notes to an imaginary wall instead of a real one. 

4.  So, I sit at the window.  The two eyes in my face are watching the rain gather on the roof of the car lot’s office.  Somewhere in my mind, I’m in my non-physical office of no walls, working away, and actually—surprisingly—getting things done sometimes.

Now, I’ve had a few interesting ponders lately.  And, I suspect that soon I’ll have a much clearer understanding of exactly what I’m going to do, in my efforts towards building up The Lab.  I have a non-linear, not-very-useful vision at the moment.  After all, it’s really hard to tack a linear thing like a time-table to a non-existent {and often spinning} wall in one’s head.  It makes one feel a bit mental!  But I can tell, I can tell, I can tell that soon the eggs will be in a basket.  Then, I’ll be prepared to write a bit about what can be happening, and when.

The only thought to make a note of at the moment, is this.  As a member of the audience, as a director, as a reader, as an actor, the one artist I’ve constantly been moved by is Shakespeare.  There’s a lot of willing and ready arguments for why we should not do Shakespeare.  He’s too old, he’s been done too often, he doesn’t apply to us now, and so on. 

Wrong.  Wrong, wronger, wrongest, wrong as possible.  I’m happy they shared their opinion, but I’m choosing to ignore it.  Shakespeare, as a writer, was very, very daring.  There are a lot of contemporary playwrights who just aren’t that daring.

So, I’m sort of going to just say face it: I am who I am, and certain things about my taste don’t seem to change.  I am deeply drawn to the beauty, the brilliance of the language, and constant echoes of relevance in Shakespeare’s mountain of work.

So, while many of my daily ponders over the last year have had to do with why I should not do Shakespeare, when The Lab is up and running again, the Bard may play a big part in the work we do. 

As I said in one of my recent entries, nothing’s going to be happening right away.  I have a lot of gardening to do, in a sense.  But seeds grow, and blossom when the conditions ripen a bit.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

More Eggs. First on toast. Later to gather.

"Think Egg" (by meppol of Deviantart.com)

It amused me looking back at my latest entry that I not only wrote, but also supplied photographs of, eggs.  I must have really wanted to blog that night.  Or else I was just under a sort of eggspell.

It was eggs again this morning.  Poached, in the wonderful wee egg poacher my Sister gave me, and then dropped over some wonderful toast, and then gobbled up very wolfishly by me!

Then it was eggs of a different sort that kept me up last night until three in the morning.  Brain eggs.  Idea eggs.  Eggs sort of being laid, and then being rejected or being stored away for secret safekeeping where none of the thought-predators can get at them.  And I think it’s important to say that nothing has hatched, yet; but, a queer turn-of-events these past few weeks has sort of caused me to collide with what might be a way to get the theatre functioning again. 

Neil {He played Renfield when I directed Dracula some years ago, when Discovery Theatre Lab was much more active} keeps calling or emailing every few months, wondering when I’m going to do more theatre.  I’d sort of not had any option but to put him off a bit, and then I finally just wrote to him a week or so ago and said sorry mate, can’t do anything.  The process of writing him such a letter, to finally respond to all of his comments and questions on Myspace and so on, may have been more of a let down for me than for him.  Whenever I write “No, I’m not doing any theatre just now,” there’s something in my brain that spasms very subtly and says “hang on, why aren’t you?” 

Well, the short answer is that there’s more than a wee bit of gardening to do, so to speak, as far as the general health and infrastructure of Discovery Theatre Lab before it will be possible to produce any really successful theatre. 

A few eggs did plop down into my brain from eggland last night, however, we’re still a ways out.  One of the first important decisions to make, is whether it would be best to fix the Lab, or abandon it and start a new company? 

Sadly, at this point, Discovery Theatre Lab, is a program that has a varied history, sometimes a good, sometimes very very negative reputation depending upon who you talk to.  At the moment sits defunct.  Now, is it best to say: “yes, I realize nothing was perfect, but we have done some good work too,” and work to repare the broken ties?  Or should I let go of that, let it lie, and start a whole new company with a whole new name and build new relationships? 

I’m inclined to bugger on, fix what needs to be fixed, and take responsibility for this now half-sunk ship I started almost ten years ago.  Part of that may be a more internal desire I feel to sort of redeem myself as well.  If I let The Lab just lay where it lies, it would mean not righting what was done wrong in the past.

If I continue with The Lab, it really will need to evolve into a pheonix and climb out of its ashes, a new creature.  That’s what I sort of keep having my attention redirected to recently. 

First with writing to Neil.
Second with seeing a license plate that said “KBO”.  (I asked the driver, “what does the license plate stand for?”, and he confirmed it was the reference to Churchill, keep buggering on!) 
Thirdly, with the recent anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth and death day.  Most recently, or significantly with the few the gathering eggs last night. 

I may do nothing whatsoever.  I may be too tired and too sort of ‘afraid’, by this point to really return to doing theatre.  But my mind really does keep being picked up and put down in a nest of theatre thoughts, so, I may not be able to ignore that. 

Whatever happens will be announced here, of course, and as I said earlier, if I do get up off my couch and start working again, it will be many months before any plays are actually being produced. 

    ©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

. . . . .

The incredible, edible egg

Almost ready! (Testing the kitchen in our new pad.)

 We’re settling rather nicely into the new flat, and I’ve been enjoying making the first few concoctions in the new kitchen.  I was hoping for a Gas cook-top, instead of another electric set-up.  However, you get what you get, for what you can afford, I suppose.The first official dinner in the apartment was actually breakfast.  I, myself, am an enormous egg-lover.  And, this time of year, when the sun is starting to shine, but not scorch, I find myself craving breakfasts and brunches quite frequently!  (On that note, there’s a nearby cafe which serves brunch on weekends, I’ll need to pop in there when I can and scope it out.)  So, a breakfasty dinner it was, in the form of a Bacon and Crimini Frittata.  Oh, the many ways to scramble eggs.  Frittata is slightly akin to quiche, but–in my kitchen, at any rate–without the custard.  More like a large, unfolded omelette.  It was easy to toss together, and finished off quite nicely,  between the bacon, and  egg, mushrooms, and some red pepper and cilantro scattered here and there.  I knew I would like it, I love cilantro and bacon and criminies.  What made me happy, though, was that my Beloved one enjoyed it too!  She enjoyed it so much, in fact, that we ended up eating it again two days after. 

Bacon and Crimini Frittata, with homestyle potatoes.

Both times, it came out lovely, and beautiful.  (I only wish I had a better camera, so that it actually looked beautiful.)

. . . . .

Yesterday was Easter, and we had the wee one’s over.  My Beloved one took charge of the kitchen, as she likes to do on holidays, since I enjoy cooking so much that I normally don’t let her in the kitchen.  She made a wonderful ham, along with yummy devil-icious eggs, mashed potatoes, and aparagus. 

We have plenty of left over ham.  My Sister bought me a wonderful egg poacher as a housewarming gift, and I am looking forward to using it this evening.  I tried it just for the sake of testing it out yesterday morning.  Now, tonight, I’m craving an oinking, hammy hash with poached eggs. 

Poached eggs = Wonderful! 
Egg poacher = Sheer effing brilliance!

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

All hands on deck!

I remember that on this day, one of these last years, (1st April, April fool’s day. . .) my beloved one woke me up in the morning and told me she was pregnant.  –  She stuck with it too.  A long conversation, through to the point where I said overwrought but supportive boyfriend things like, “This can be good, we can make this work!”  She then dropped the giggling “April Fool’s Day!!!!” bomb. 

I didn’t murder her, she’s still alive and well.  Moreover, for all intensive purposes it seems we are again, moving in together.  {Insert sighs of relief and exhaustion here.}  I say “seems”, yes, there are still a few chinkylinks to add to the chain before our heads are on the pillow.  However, we were given the keys earlier this afternoon, so, if “for all intensive purposes it seems”, it seems intensely, with some evidence. 

Those of you who know me a bit more personally, know that this apartment has been a long time coming…  And for the first time in my humble existence, I will not be living in Gresham, but bursting through the bubble and taking up residence in Portland. 

In some three months time, her eldest will be joining us.  Again, those of you who know Victoria and I more personally already know the story there.  If you’re not one of the lucky one’s who knows us more personally, well, I’m not going to go into it here and now, so it’s your loss, boo-hoo, have a cup of tea and walk it off.  Regardless, in some three months time, her eldest will be joining us, and we will be happy to receive him, for now, in this apartment, we have space to allow him to do his own thing, grow, flourish, and all that sort of thing that you want children to do.  Hopefully he’ll move fast to doing it, too!

During that three some months, however, it will be lovely to do things like cook meals with my old cooking equipment, make use my espresso maker, sleep in a bed instead of on the living room floor, hang pictures, take them down, hang them somewhere else.  I’m very keen to have those lovely nonsense arguments about how to decorate the place.  I can honestly say that yes, we both have good taste, it’s just that I consider my own a bit superior to her’s.  (Who doesn’t consider their own sense of taste superior?)  I want an orchid for the kitchen near the window.  Hopefully the cat won’t kill it.  (That’s a good question to pose to you, my unpopulated community of readers.  Have you cats and orchids?  Do your cast try to eat them?)  Yes, an orchid.  I want an orchid.  Orchids are such erotic flowers that even men can appreciate them.  I want an orchid.  We don’t have a balcony, and the windows don’t provide any lush unforgetable views I could write poetry about, so, I want an orchid.  

Apart from the excitement of discovering how my Beloved one and I can put our stamp on the place, I’m also very keen to get back to all of that spur-of-the-moment boyfriend/girlfriend business we’ve missed out on, what with sleeping in the living room of someone else’s house.  Even more blissful, I have concrete evidence she’s mad keen to get back to doing the same, so, lucky be we. 

It’s been quite rainy these past few days, hasn’t it?  Well perhaps not for you–you might be reading from your sun-tanning chair in the garden of Eden, for all I know.  However, here, where I live, in the Portland Metropolitan area, under the gray curtains of the Pacific Northwest, it has been!  I’ve noticed something that even I don’t understand about myself.  I carry my umbrella with me, as I walk out to work.  I like umbrellas, provided they’re not some god awful pink thing with flowers, I like ‘em, have a soft spot for their shape.  However, as I walk out and about, I never catch myself opening my umbrella up, and using it.  This, I think, is due to the fact that it’s windy, and it takes more effort than I’m willing to part with, to keep it poised against the breezes raping it.  Notice, I said, “it takes more energy than I’m willing to part with.”  –  That means, I honestly believe it takes less energy to do what I actually do:

Carry:

(a) briefcase containing laptop
(b) unopened full-size cane-shaped umbrella
(c) a full Starbucks’ cup of coffee
(d) a cigarette

Whilst:  (That’s “while at the same time”, for you non-anglophiles.)

(e) avoiding puddles because of holes in the soles of my shoes
(f) getting wet

Oh well, I suppose if we all walked around doing things that actually made sense, there’d be no reason for films, books, or music.   

Hold fast!

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

“Elegy”, the pork disaster, and other topics of random.

Well, I haven’t written anything around here for quite the while, have I?  I remember a few months ago feeling so dedicated to the idea of publishing at least one entry each day.  Right, that lasted long, didn’t it?

I have, since last I wrote, inherited a new typing device.  A Dell Laptop, lovely little black thing.  It had belonged to my Uncle.  Although I have called and said “Oh my god, quite a surprise, thank you very much!”,  I am still working on the official thank you letter.  Perhaps I’ll have to dedicate some of this Sunday afternoon to completing that and preparing it for the mail.  Yes.  I should, I did after all buy a new pen and some lovely stationary expressly for that purpose.  It is lovely to have a typing tool of my own, again.  It allows me to blog–as you see I am doing–while my beloved one is adding photographs to her sister’s ancestry website, in the chair next to me. 

Truth be told, it was never as annoying as I perhaps made it out to be to have to share the computer.  But it is very nice to have this lovely little lap-dwelling Dell.

Also, since last writing, I’ve found a new little coffee shop I love…  I’m not going to tell you what it’s called because I don’t want anyone to read about it, and for it to suddenly become popular, making it more difficult for me to find a table…  It is, however, near my Beloved one’s work.  I can drag my typing tool in there, and hammer at the keys while I wait for her to appear from beyond the dark doors of the modeling agency, at the end of the day.

I did apply for a second job, selling subscription packages and some light fundraising for Portland Opera, much like I did for Oregon Symphony.  Alas, I applied too late, someone nabbed it before me.  I did, however, receive a very sweet, very encouraging rejection letter.  I sent a ‘feeler’ email off to the local classical radio station, (89.9) inquiring about any positions, with particular curiosity about what is required to become a program host at some point in the future. . .  The program director wrote back a very helpful and supportive email, but of course, nothing will be happening at any point in the very near future. 

In spite of my absence on my blog, I have been able to devote a bit more time to non-blog-writing.  My novel is coming along nicely, although it’s changed titles and now begins in a different way.  Perhaps when I finish it, (if I finish it) it will be called something else, and begin in yet another way I don’t know anything about, as of yet.  Who knows, who knows, who knows.  I certainly don’t know.  Someone should tell me what I’m doing.  (Not that I’d listen, of course.)

Speaking of books and such: I haven’t read The Dying Animal, by Phillip Roth, but I did see the film loosely based upon it, called Elegy last night. 

ELEGY features Sir Ben Kingsley, and Penelope Cruz

I missed the first third of the film entirely, I was busy creating a dinner which no one (including myself) really ended up enjoying.  (Perhaps I’ll come back to that later.  Sometimes recipes make perfect sense in your mind as you walk through the shop, picking up herbs and vegetables and cuts of meat and bread and so on.  Then you get home and you put it all together the way you told yourself you would and it’s…hmm.  “Missed the mark there.  Why did I spend $30 to make this, when I could have done what I know how to do for $15?”) 

At any rate, I’ve heard mixed things about Elegy.  I have heard that it’s an enormous disappointment, if one has already read Phillip Roth’s The Dying Animal.  However, what I saw of the film put up a fair fight for itself.  I think it–like many films–might have been regarded very highly if there had never been a novel with which it was associated.  If it just suddenly appeared in the mind of a screen writer. 

What I did find very interesting about Elegy was its ability to make me feel very uncomfortable.  Kingsley’s character, reminded me very much of the vision I used to entertain of what I’d end up being like, at fifty/sixty years old.  Having said that, while I watched what I did watch, whilst tucking into the nearly disasterous pork experiment, I really didn’t like that man!  He was not terrible, he wasn’t a villain.  He could obviously do some things well–his work, mainly.  He seemed to play a few wicked tunes on the piano, he hosted a radio talk show about books, so on, so forth.  But he was quite a lonely, cut off, deceitful, sarcastic prick! 

I suppose it was difficult for me to watch, mainly, because it pointed out (again) that it takes some of us a long, long, long time to get where we’re going.  That’s if (yes, if) we do actually ever arrive at some form of honest, well-rounded, completedness or meaning at all. 

Yes, I think we all have an image of where we’d like to go in this terribly humbling chain of events called life.  That’s pretty common place, I’d say.  And, whether or not we get there…  that’s the rub, isn’t it?

I would like to try to see the first forty-five minutes or so that I missed, but, what I was able to see was a little painful.  Witty?  Yes!  I still love Ben Kingsley.  Some beautiful images and lovely lines were sprinkled throughout what I saw of the film.  But it was a little painful, watching someone who–somehow–vaguely reminded me of myself, choose to be wretched and miserable.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

The Reader

The Reader: Directed by Stephen Daldry, with Kate Winslet and Ralph Fiennes.

 At long last, Friday came.  What a Friday, at that.  Today was one of those Fridays that throws one back and forth against opposing walls, relentlessly.  One of those Fridays where you think to yourself:  “I do not want to be at work that long” only to end up being rushed, poked, redirected, then rushed and prodded again for much longer than you originally intended.  However, work is only one part of life, and thankfully only one part of any Friday, and therefore, only a handful of hours of today’s adventures. 

Today was a rather familial sort of day.  Saw my Mum–which was nice, despite the subtle burn of the almost constant feeling that she worries about me.  To a degree, it’s a warm thing: Mothers worry about their children, because Mother’s tend to love their children.  Only now and then is there a slight singe, briefly.  It has much to do with trust.  After being asked three or more ways, “What’s new?”, “What’s been going on?”, “Anything new happening”, I begin to wonder what sort of response is actually being hunted.  I say, “Not much is new.  Same old same old.”  I say, “Haven’t really done terribly much lately.  Just working, we did see a couple of movies…”  The same questions keep being asked.  Odd.  I think it’s because Mothers can worry too much, and don’t trust that in such a complicated world, a simple answer of “I’m fine” may actually sum things up very neatly. 

After visiting briefly with Mum, off to Parry Center, to visit my Beloved One’s eldest.  In quite remarkable spirits today, and admirable form.  It’s always good to spend time, touch base, and remind him of the fact that we’re here.  Largely, that’s the root and the rub.  But it’s wonderful when–on days like today–everything goes smoothly, and all of the time to be shared is very enjoyable indeed. 

After Parry Center, my Beloved One and I embarked upon our Friday date!  The #9 came just as we walked off Parry Center’s campus, and whisked us away to downtown without a minute’s wait.  Both a bit hungry, we walked around looking for something to eat.  Then we walked around searching.  Then we walked around begging to find something that would work: time limit before the movie starts, can’t spend all night.  Price limit, can’t elaborate upon that, ’tis enough said.  Energy limit: can’t walk around all night.  Patience limit: I’m getting tired of walking already.  We settled for the Starbucks kitty corner to the Fox Tower.  We behaved like naughty children at the tables outside, smoking a cigarette clearly within ten feet of the windows.  Hangable, these days!  Those ridiculous little “Smoke Free Oregon” stickers–the ones that are posted everywhere; the ones that were so hiddeously designed by the chief of the coalition for hiddeously designed government issue stickers–require cigarettes to be smoked ten feet from doors, windows, and/or general glass surfaces.  It feels so wonderful to break that rule!  Even more nourishing is the realization that you can break it without other people realizing that you’re breaking it.  Particularly thrilling this evening considering the wind.  I’m confident that my carcinogenic exhalations were carried in the breeze all the way to Salem, and into the State capitol, where they afflicted the freedom crunchers more intensely than a thousand lashes from invisible whips.  Well, I’m not confident, but hopeful, nontheless. 

 After Starbucks, we skilled across the street to The Fox Tower, to watch The Reader.  What a breathtaking example of the beautiful thing a film has the potential to be. 

I was originally drawn into The Reader because of Ralph Fiennes, and then the realization that the screenplay was written by David Hare, and the film was directed by Stephen Daldry.  I never really knew thoroughly what I was getting into.  Granted, I didn’t read the reviews, because I don’t particularly care for reviews.  But I did read a few summaries, which were elusive and unclear.  After watching the film, I’m tremendously thankful they opted not to spell everything out ahead of time. 

Wonderful cast, in addition to Fiennes.  Though, a note about him: it’s very difficult to not pick up on the fact that this is not his first film set against the backdrop of Europe during WWII.  There was Schindler’s List to name the obvious.  There was Sunshine which to this day ranks in the top three of my all-time-favorite-movie-list-of-all-favorite-movie lists.  I think historical pieces, or period pieces–or whatever name you wish to pin to the genre–can be terribly dull.  There are a very few that I’ve adored, some I’ve appreciated, and many I’ve wanted to sleep through, but failed, because of Insomnia.  Each of the period films I’ve seen in which Ralph Fiennes has taken a part, have been quite good indeed.  I find him rather the ideal sort of actor for those sort of films.  He is tremendously clear, and has a tremendous amount of gravity all of his performances.  He–acting students–is someone to watch intensely. 

Kate Winslet is unquestionably the best I’ve seen her in this film.  There’s a beautiful, brief, wordless moment that takes place at an out-of-the-way Church in the country.  There’s a rather modest church/children’s choir rehearsing, and the camera reveals Winslet sitting in one of the pews, absolutely ecstatic and excited by their singing.  But what’s wonderful is the modesty and simplicity of the choir.  It’s a children’s choir.  A country church’s children’s choir.  Rehearsing.  It’s not the grand, thundering, heavenly, hundred-strong professional choir of the music capitol of the world.  It’s a simple, modest, group of seven or so children singing, and she’s enraptured, like she’d never heard singing before.  Brilliant.  Tiny moment–you could blink and miss it, but don’t.  It’s brilliant.

Bruno Ganz–who I have an odd little soft spot for anyway–played an amiable, quirky, little law professor, with one of the greatest lines in the film.  I’ve decided not to quote it here, after already typing it in, then deleting it.  I don’t want to spoil it. 

All in all, start to end, the script, the score, the cast, all of it. . .  Beautiful.  Difficult, compelling story to tell, the sort that requires a level of craftsmanship and emotional maturity, and they all did it beautifully. 

If you want to see a movie that is the best of what movies can be, see The Reader. 

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.

Come on, Friday

It struck me again today, as it’s struck me many times recently, how quickly the days roll by.  It seems I just started my new job at the sweatshop, as the designated typist, writer of emails, human resources guru, office-bitch, and fearless bodyguard against the corporate bastards.  {It’s not actually a sweatshop, and no, I’m not naming the company here.}  It may seem as though I just started, however, I did not just begin.  I’ve been at it since June, with about 30 Saturdays thrown in as well. 

As the weeks have packed in their fair share of intensity and head ache, my Beloved one and I have taken to having one little ‘date night’ a week.  Spend some time out in the world among each others company, carefree and meandering, taking in a small sampling of the simple pleasures.   

Typically we’ve been doing this on Fridays, after we visit her eldest at Parry Center.  Quite the nasty piece of work, Parry Center!  One of those places that serves a purpose and function, but leaves you with a strong inclination to take a magical pencil eraser and wipe it away, along with the need for such a place. 

Perhaps it’s an unfair thing, but one of the perks to having our little ‘date nights’ on Friday, is that it helps to shake off the residue that clings to one, after spending a few hours in a place like Parry Center. 

I think think this Friday we’re going to see The Reader.

The Hours, 2003, directed by Stephen Daldry.

It’s terribly difficult to find solid information about The Reader, a rather ambiguously advertised film.  However, its screenplay is written by David Hare, and it is directed by Stephen Daldry.  One of my favorite films, The Hours is the result of their teamwork, and if The Reader treads remotely into its territory, I’m quite sure I’ll flog it with all sorts of appreciation.  Ralph Fiennes and Kate Winslet are the primary cast.  Nicole Kidman had originally taken some part, {likely the one Kate Winslet won a golden globe for} but withdrew because of pregnancy.   Had she remained, it would certainly be treading back into the neighborhood of The Hours.  Also, had she remained, it would likely be a very different film. 

I have mixed feelings about Winslet.  Fiennes I’m all for.  I think he’s one of the most promising English speaking actors to come along.  Mixed feelings about Winslet, though, not that it matters terribly much.  She’d likely have mixed feelings about me, were she aware of my existence. 

I thought she did some marvelous stuff in Quills and in The Life Of David Gale.  I think that Titanic was quite overcelebrated, with exception of the fact that it had a wonderful score, before Celine Dion got involved.  She played Ophelia in Hamlet with Kenneth Brannagh.  I can’t remember anything particularly inspiring or revolutionary about her Ophelia; nothing I’d circle with a red pen in the Ophelia history book.  Yet, I suppose having a significant role in one of the more successful Shakespeare-On-Film ventures counts for something.  Brannagh’s 1996 Hamlet was nominated for four Academy Awards.

So, with Wednesday evening slipping out, and Thursday morning sliding in, I look forward to Friday.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.