Day melts into eve

I took the weekend off for the second time in a row.  I hope this does not develop into an ill-fated choice.  I’ve very much enjoyed Friday evening, Saturday, and today (thus far).  Although, I’ll confess I feel a slightest bit guilty that its already Four o’clock in the afternoon and I’ve yet to get out of my PJ’s and shower.  I’ve always made fun of my beloved one for her Pajama Days, and today I’ve fallen victim to the comfy-fuzzies myself.

We saw two films this weekend.  On Friday evening, we saw Law Abiding Citizen; which turned out to be wonderfully intriguing, with all sorts of wicked little surprises exploding and hurling this way and that.  On Saturday Afternoon, Harry Potter & The Half Blood Prince, which was a good thing to see.  Granted, we were only able to see the second film because it was playing at the Academy Theater—a sort of last stop before disappearing—where films are much cheaper.  Tickets for $4.  And, not surprisingly at all, the fact that it was Harry Potter did play its own whimsical part in coincidental timing. Each year, the crisp air, and bright, drifting leaves of Autumn throw me back into my fascination with magic and mystery.  This year, Harry Potter sealed the deal.

Onto even weirder matters, in my last entry I mentioned that I’d started practicing again some of what was covered in my college Voice classes.  I’ve kept at that, with daily breathing, humming, and harmonic scales.  (I wouldn’t call it chanting myself, although someone else might.)

My beloved one points out: “You breathe all the time, whether you like it or not”, which is true.  However, the automatic breathing we do is quite shallow, we only use a portion of our lungs.  As breath equals voice, and resonance, and the shape of the breath equals tone and texture of the voice, it makes sense to explore what the capacity of my individual lungs is.  I’m not trying to huff and puff and blow the house down, just gain control of some things, about the way I breathe.  There is a point at which my hours of intended breathing—sometimes locked away in the room, sometimes walking to or from work, sometimes waiting for the bus—becomes not altogether productive, considering eventually, I’ll smoke a cigarette, and smoking does steal from the lungs, and damage them eventually.  But, I am content to build up what I can build, until I can altogether quit the habit of smoking.  And, whilst I doubt I’ll ever develop the intensely low, thick, voice of my dreams with any sort of real resonance; I am slowly, so slowly, starting to detect some very subtle changes.

I’m also stretching, daily.  I won’t call it Yoga, because it’s not Yoga (yet).  I’m not limber enough to do Yoga (yet).  But I am stretching daily, mostly focusing on my legs, spine, and arms.  I’ve been re-considering the way I sit while I’m at work, reconsidering the way I carry myself when I walk.  I’ve started doing push-ups again; I was so very out of shame.  I started with ten, then fifteen, then twenty.  Next will be twenty five; which is still weak, but getting better.  I’m also eating an apple before heading out to work; so long as there are apples available in the kitchen, that is.  Sometimes there has been a gap, between running out of them, and replacing them.

Because of all this, I have enjoyed more energy.  I feel—generally—like the blood in my veins is making its full journey, instead of taking several shortcuts.  I don’t have many complaints at the moment; I had a fantastic weekend with my Beloved One.  I’d like sunnier days, though that’s more of a wish than a complaint.  I like the cool, clean temperatures of autumn, and if the raincurtain would pull back a bit, that would be nice.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.

Monday 12th October for a title.

I was going to begin with, “it’s been quite the while since I’ve posted…” and I paused. How many times have I started a post in that same fashion? It is not untrue: it has been a number of days—perhaps half a month—since my last post; but, I’d hate to be waxing unoriginal in my own entries to my own blogship. Out with the old beginnings say I.

This Columbus day has passed by in the standard, uneventful, strange holiday sort of way. I did—a few times throughout the afternoon—conjure images of ships on the sea sailing to the new world, but, that’s about all the Columbus-ness I could muster. Now I am back at home, and fairly settled into my spot in the bedroom. I look forward to dinner, I am looking forward to Monday Night television on Fox, (House with the always wonderful Hugh Laurie; Lie To Me with the abnormally intense Tim Roth.) I look forward to taking a hot, soothing, crazy-mind cleansing shower sometime before settling down to sleep; the perfect end to days in Autumn, as the weather grows chillier on a daily basis.

Breaking now from things I’d look forward to doing, to things I’ve done:

1. My toe and foot is feeling much better. I went to the doctor shortly after making my last post, and that all went very much the way I suspected it would. I borrowed a cane from Mum, and used that for two or four days. There were some outright uncomfortable moments, and it still shocks me, how much discomfort can come from such a tiny, almost hidden part of the body. I’m happy to be feeling much better now.

2. I’ve stopped cooking, actually. Not as maniacally as I used to. I suppose I’ve run out of ideas. A few days ago, my Beloved one made a fantastic roast chicken. It became very clear to me that she may carry forth the torch for the time being. I will reclaim it though, of course, when I figure out how to outdo her.

3. I’ve stopped shaving again. I suppose it makes a certain degree of sense, as the air is cool and winter is on its way. It always seems to follow a pattern: I go a day or two without shaving, because shaving can be a tedious chore. A few days later, I see the ever-thickening shadow on my face and decide “yes, I’ll grow a beard (again).” Each time I say this to myself, I agree (with myself) that it should be a proud, long, epic beard like Merlin or a mad professor might have, for example. Then about eight weeks later I get tired of waiting for it to grow into a long, proud epic beard, and I cut it all off in disappointment. That’s what usually happens; I don’t know what will happen this time.

4. In the past week; I’ve seen my Sister, my Mum, and—now that we bought a telephone—touched base with my Dad. I’m enjoying the aftermath my previous New Year’s Resolution to make amends and communicate better with my family. It feels good to be in touch.

5. I’ve started going back through exercises I learned in my college Voice class. (Think Shakespeare, not singing.) It is one of three classes I wish I’d finished. I’m not sure why I didn’t see it through to the end; it was fun, and I’d worked with the teacher previously and always had good experiences. Perhaps it was too early in the morning? Perhaps I was just a stupid eighteen year old? Perhaps I thought I was too busy with some other too important thing? Whatever the case, I left it halfway through. I regret it. And three days ago I randomly started going back to the basics. I’m not sure why, but for the time being, it’s quite relaxing. Who wouldn’t want to lie down and spend an hour a day breathing?

6. I’ve actually debated with myself a bit about whether I should look into Yoga. I need something to do in the form of purely selfish self-betterment. Creating a daily isolated time to work my breath and voice might be enough; if not, Yoga might be an option to better the body and balance the mind. I’m not going to start a jogging program! It would make me feel like a Hamster on a wheel. What am I running from? I would wonder. Oh, nothing? WHY am I running?

And lastly, a haiku:

From the kitchen wafts
Roasting carnivorous bliss,
My brutish gut roars!

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

Coping skills

As those of you who’ve kept up with this blog are aware, My Beloved One’s son now lives with us.  He’s taken to molesting the cat with stifling attention as he was once taught to do with a service-dog at Parry Center.  Only, our cat is not a dog, and he doesn’t seem to have the slightest interest in being a service-cat.  So, while the boy cradles the cat, the cat stretches his claws, contorts his back and tail into strange shapes, and goes a wee bit cross-eyed, wondering what on earth he did to have the life hugged out of him.

“Don’t torture the cat” we say.
“It’s a coping skill!” the boy points out.

It’s difficult to find an argument for that.  Will the boy feel the same about coping skills when the cat copes with the violation of overzealous affection, and sticks a claw in the boy’s eye?

“The cat flippin’ scratched me!” I imagine the boy shouting, as he kicks the cat.
“It’s his coping skill!” we could say, defending the cat, but then the boy might kick us.

Our coping skill for this situation has been to keep the cat shut away in the bedroom, safe and sleeping, during the boy’s hyper.  It was yesterday morning, during this sort of ‘keep them separated’ moment, that I—still foggy from waking only seconds before—tried the three step method: 1. open the bedroom door quickly, 2. walk through it very quickly, and 3. shut it behind me quickly so that the cat doesn’t get out.  Thus, I would have done my duty of keeping the cat away from the boy, and the boy away from the cat.  All would be well; the cat would still have a tail, the boy would still have two eyes, and I would be staggering on my way to the kitchen for my morning meeting with the coffee pot.

Alas, I failed the three step method.  As I opened the door to shoot myself out, I shot my foot into the door frame instead of into the living room.  Of all the petty annoyances to put up with first thing in the morning!  I’ve simply got bad luck with feet, in general.  When I was Nine I jumped off of the monkey-bars and broke my foot.  When I get a new pare of shoes—as walking is my means of transportation—they last about two months, then I’ve walked a hole into one or both of the soles.  Thumb tacks, nails, and metal coat hangers have all taken turns lodging in one foot or the other, and I stub my toes curiously frequently.  But I could tell—even before the sound of my foot meeting the door frame registered—that something was somehow out of order.

“Good God that hurt!” I thought to myself.  Though, I’d already scrambled to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee when my Beloved One pointed out I’d broken my wee toe, and hopefully not part of the foot its attached to.  Ahah!  That made sense of the strange circumstances of my wee toe; why the bottom side was bleeding, and the top side was starting to swell and compete for prominence with the intendedly big toe at the other end of the line up.  That’s why it felt as though my foot was being beaten repeatedly by a sledge hammer I couldn’t see.  It explained—perfectly—the new, strange, and annoying pain from such a small part of the body.  Small part of the body, small pain, but a strange sort of pain that’s actually pissed me off a bit!

I spent yesterday split between to modes.  Half spent fussing over my wee toe, icing it and elevating it.  The other half spent ignoring it, grunting, and hobbling around to get things done, the logic of which I tried to explain to the boy as we walked to the store to get groceries for dinner…

“Is it broken?”  he asked, sweetly.
“So it seems,” I confessed.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re still walking!”
“There are things that need to be done.  Life doesn’t stop because of owies.”

I was hoping he’d say something sage-like (for a boy), such as “I think I get it”, or even “that sucks!” but such a response never came.

This morning the swelling seems to have gone down a wee bit.  That is to say, whilst it is still swollen, it no longer looks like a glow worm finger puppet.  What’s new this morning is some spectacular polka-dotted bruising.  One purple stripe down the wee toe, and a blue smudge near the toe next to it.  My Beloved one keeps urging me to go to the Doctor, but as I have no insurance, I don’t see the productivity of doing that.  It’d be one thing if I’d accidentally cut off half a leg with a chainsaw, but with something like this, what’s the point?  Why go to confirm that something is wrong, without actually being given anything to improve it.  I’m sure they might wrap it to the toe next to it, and give a prescription for a crutch or a cane to help the wobbles, but a prescription doesn’t really help me.  No insurance, and not enough to fill the scrip, let alone pay the overstuffed doctor’s bill in the post a month from now.

Who knows what the day shall bring.  The question of dinner for tonight has already raised its ugly head.

At least I had already arranged for both yesterday and today off.  It’s back to work tomorrow, and the five days following.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.