Here and now.

Well, fancy meeting you here!  Here we are again, aren’t we.  Funny.  Well, good morning to you anyway, and by morning I of course mean half past one o’clock this afternoon. 

After importing a few of my little mythical scribbles into the Mythology Revisited section, I find myself quite nostalgic and a little flat.  I know that sounds like a contradiction in terms, and it is.  Those four stories were written at very specifically emotional moments in past years.  Some good, some otherwise.  While re-reading them does transport me into the past a bit, the version of myself I find in the here and now is a bit flat.  Flat, meaning, flat on the couch.  Flat on feeling–sitting here, lethargically, on the aforementioned couch.  Also rather flat on motivation, for the moment.

I bought a copy of The Gun Seller by Hugh Laurie (british commedian, actor, star of FOX TV’s House.)  I’d like to get back to that sometime today, but not just now.  Far too flat a moment for much of anything. 

What would make all better, is breakfast.  It’ll deflatten the flat things.  Then the day can actually begin, and take on a personality of its own.  Which, I hope it will.  Naturally!  Less work for me to do.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.

The Arrival

In the same way some moviestar glides down a long red carpet, Prince Paris and Queen Helen float through the gates of Troy. They did not touch the ground but floated, lifted in a carriage made of glistening sea-shells drawn by fair, proud Trojan steeds. Hands shot up and worshipped at the sight of them. Not a speck of dust insulted them by perching on their oily noises. Because, for Helen there was no breeze, no sound, no color in the light. Only the surreal floating, the pinching numbness and surreal floating through the gates of Troy. Up the stairs of Troy. Beneath the awesome temples of Troy. She felt as though she were still rocking on that ship, at sea. But Paris squeezed her hand tighter, and she winced. She hoped King Priam had not noticed her wince as he greeted her.

This was the moment. The eyes of the King captured the most beautiful woman in the world for the first time. Helen! Rumored to be Aphrodite on earth. Rumored to be the single perfect, human daughter of Zeus. Rumored to be a thousand things. Expected to be anything but a normal, frightened woman. Helen! Plucked from Sparta, and now kneeling at the feet of Troy. Priam looked her up and down, commanded her eyes, and gazed. She was beautiful, but there was something slightly spoiled about her too. Or perhaps not, perhaps Priam foresaw the death of fifty sons, and the bloodstream cheapened the blush on her cheeks.

“Troy welcomes you,” said the sound of the King: deep, tall, low. Warm as a Greek spa, and somehow stern as stone. “This is your new home.”

“Thank you.”

It was what she could say, all she could say, all that would come out from her stirred up mind and trembling lips, and all that was expected.

And after wine, and bread, and olives, and greetings, the couple retired to the room where Paris grew up. They slid off their clothes because the summer heat was choking them, and Helen let Paris make love to her. She thinks: “I have come so far, and I have come because this boy Prince, almost a man, wanted me to.” And in that moment, what happened was delicate: She allows him to pretend that all is well; that Menelaus is not coming with his brother Agamemnon; that the big, blue ocean is not speckled with bloodthirsty black sails. She allows him to think that, at last, they are free to love like lovers in a poem love. She allows him to pretend, and he believes, but she knows better.

At the same time, Priam walked through hallways of his home, and heard the sound of young and foolish children laughing. He heard the sound of women gossiping, and stomping on grapes to make wine. He heard the sounds of Paris and Helen, and what happened in that moment was delicate: He presses his ear to the door of the room where his young son and his son’s young Queen are making love. He thinks: “At last, I know my son is happy!” He stays there, listening through the door, and swallows the moment that will likely come, is bound to come, and does eventually come. He meets Agamemnon in his mind, and feels a point press through him, as he imagines what Agamemnon says.

“You took something that was ours, so I have taken you. You did try your best to keep us out. You tried as a good man tries to protect what is his, but how you failed. The Gods were laughing, Priam, when they watched the way you failed.”

And Priam sighs, and straightens his old back, lifts his old shoulders, and takes strong, starchy steps. He walks to the room where his wife and Queen of sixty years is sleeping, and his steps become more and more intended. He walks onward, happy that his special, never satisfied, and slightly slow young son is happy.

His steps become more and more specific. More and more stiff, and brisk, and more specific still as he hears an oracle in the temple of Apollo saying, “Treat time preciously.”

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2007. 

A world.

“The Gods are too fond of a joke.”  (Aristotle)

. . . . .

Imagine two lovers walking on a beach.  How often have we seen this?  Some couple, maybe many couples, walking together on a beach.  Perhaps they’re hand in hand, perhaps they kiss.  Perhaps there’s some small space between them.

Soon it would be summer, and when the pale and pasty king, Menelaus returned from business abroad, his wife Helen and Prince Paris of troy had very little time left together as lovers.  If they continued their affair, all the intrigues would be discovered sooner or later.  The next day, Paris decided, he would sail back to Troy.

“Come, let’s go to bed.” Menelaus said to Helen.
“I’m going to take a short walk,” she said. “I want to breathe the night time air, and clear my head.”
“Hurry back.”

Paris and Helen walked on the beach.

“You could come with me”, Paris said.  “Come to Troy.  A new season, a new place, you could start a new life.”
“I want to, but no, I can’t.  If I leave Sparta, my husband will come after us, he’ll bring his brother Agamemnon, and he’ll be sick with rage, they will destroy every shore we set foot on!  We will never have peace.”
“But–” Paris was quick to interject–he was younger than Helen, afterall. 
“No but’s.  My life needs to stay here, if your life is to have a chance.  I would rather say goodbye to you, than lose you.”

They say the Gods are invisible, but they are not.  Of course, you can’t see them if you don’t look in the right places.  The tides came in.  The moon shown even brighter on the water.  The waves cascaded back and forth between Helen’s ankles in the coming tide, and loose bits of sand rushed in between the toes of her barefeet. Helen felt a small, slight, stirring change.  Aphrodite was there too, and she was smiling at the arrival of another God, Eros!

“Sometimes I dream that there will come a time, when men and women are free to fall in love on their own,” Eros said.  “Think of it!  If they’re no longer paired from above, there will be no more need for this bow, or these arrows.  I will no longer be the archer, I will be free.”
“There will come a time,” Aphrodite said, “But you must shoot now.”
“You heard them speak, Aphrodite.  If I shoot love into their hearts, they’ll both die.  Countless others will die.  The armies will go to Troy and start a war, and sorrow will spread over the world…”
“That is what’s intended–” Aphrodite said,
“I don’t understand…”
“It is all in the mind of Zeus.  It is one last lesson before Zeus goes to bed, and lays down his old head on the shoulder of all there is, for the last time.  Before he does, he hopes the world will learn about forgiveness.”  Aphrodite said.
“War will turn the running rivers red.  Smoke will blanket the sky.  Despair will parch the throat of Troy and an entire generation will die, and after all of this, Zeus intends to go to sleep?”
“Steady on, Eros…  Zeus has thought it through.  The people can still hope, the people can still pray.  After all, some prayers are answered.”
“Then I must shoot this arrow,” Eros said, and shot it smartly to their hearts, “Loose!”

The lovers touched their lips, and broken bits of seashell sparkled on the shore like stars.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2007.