The proud King’s downfall.

King Adrastos had long lived proud, and pompous.  Though he delighted in the games, sports, and arts that everybody loves, he held himself above the common man, above the common law, indeed, above the other Kings.  Like only the proudest and arrogant of Kings, his design was to ascend the Godhood, and be admired for his sheer perfection. 

One day, a fleet of King Adrastos’ ships were attacked by a group of robbers and bandits off the coast of Ithaca.  Upon hearing this news, King Odysseus went to meet with Adrastos.

“I am sorry for the trouble that has plagued your fleet so near my shores…”, said Odysseus.

“Why?” asked King Adrastos.  “Was it you who attacked my ships?  Is it guilt that bings you to my door with your tail between your legs?” 

“Hardly!” said Odysseus.  “It is honor.  You are a fellow King in my empire.  We are brothers, more than neighbors.  Surely we must treat one another with respect…  Is that not what we learned fighting ten years at the gates of Troy? 
“As the pirates were indeed from my state, I would like to pay my respects, and I offer to repay the sum your treasury has lost.” 

King Adrastos was bewildered and enraged. 

“King Adrastos does not need your pity, Odysseus,” Adrastos said.  “I think rather you came to stand in awe of my palace, and my temple to Hera, and my gardens, and taste the immaculate olives in my God blessed olive grove…”

Odysseus was angered that King Adrastos would not accept his show of support and sportly friendship.  No one had ever made Odysseus feel as worthless as Adrastos had.  Even when Odysseus was floating helpless, lost at sea, hoping to find his way home from Troy, suffering an odyssey of haplessness and pain, he still had his heart and his conviction.  But Adrastos had reduced Odysseus to a beggar, worse, a boy.  Odysseus left, resolving nevermore to speak or trade or communicate with Adrastos in any way.

The next Summer, all the Kings of Greece met to discuss the training of the army, lest such a tragedy as Troy should yet again befall them.  King Adrastos proposed that twice a year, the finest soldiers from each state should travel to Adrastos’ land, and be trained by his finest soldiers. . .  And that once a year, there would be a competition of games and sports to test the training and agility of all the soldiers in the Empire.

“That is a splendid idea!” said Menelaus.  “And, I will do my part to help you devise these contests, Adrastos.” 

King Adrastos was discouraged. 

“It was my idea,” Adrastos said.  “I do not want your help, Menelaus.  When you lost your wife to Paris of Troy, you had to depend on us all to bail you out.  Your army was not sharp enough on its own, and we all suffered for your cause when, in reality, what concern is it of ours if your wife decides to be a whore?”

Menelaus choked with rage.  The meeting was over.  Never before had anyone insulted the memory of Menelaus’ wife in such a public and humiliating way.  He left the meeting, resolving in his heart to never again tolerate the mention of Adrastos in Sparta. 

The years passed by, and Adrastos’ god blessed olive groves flourished, and his wealth surpassed the wealth of the other Kings combined.  But no joy lasts forever.

One Midsummer’s eve Graeae, one of the Erineyes decided she wanted to know love.  She went to Aphrodite and asked permission to bathe in her sacred golden pool.  Aphrodite washed Graeae’s hair and filed her nails.  She perfumed Graeae’s body with jasmine and roseblossoms.  She put the taste of honey on Graeae’s tongue. With Aphrodite’s aid, even one of the Erineyes had become beautiful and enticing. 

Graeae went to King Adrastos and seduced him.  She kissed him, caressed him, and experimented to learn love by trying out every act of sexual theatre with Adrastos.  Adrastos was entranced by Graeae’s loveliness, her soft skin, and warm lips.  Her scent of jasmine and her taste of honey.  But very shortly Graeae discovered she did not feel love, and was bored of bouncing around in King Adrastos’ bed day and night.  Angry and dismayed that she had not learned love, she resolved to punish Adrastos for wasting her time.  She hexed him to sleep, and as he slept, she emptied his treasury, turned his garden to a swamp, set a plague of sickness upon his army, and burnt down his olive groves. 

Adrastos woke alone.  Graeae, whom he had fallen in love with, was gone.  His wealth and riches were gone, and his palace was destroyed.  His heart broke, and soul fired with fury. 

He went to the other Kings of Greece and begged for help, but he was refused.

“This cannot be Adrastos I see before me?”, King Odysseus asked.  “When you were a boy, were you not taught to accept help gladly when it is freely given?  I offered to repay the sum you lost from your ships off my coast, but you were too proud to accept my help.  You called me beggar, and belittled me.  Now, that you are begging at my door, I almost find it funny.”

King Odysseus’ words sunk deep in King Adrastos’ heart.
 
“If you had only smiled and said ‘thank you’, and accepted my gift in the past, I would gladly help you now.  But, you said it best.  King Adrastos does not need my pity.”

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2007.

The View Of The Gods

Once, in a time now forgotten, there was a town. It was a town unlike any other, truly.

Most towns that clad the surface of the earth at the time had come about either on accident, or on part of common sense. People roamed, in those days; they followed the hunt, or the warmer weather, or they ran from war. As they crossed the corners of the globe, they discovered beaches. Sometimes valleys, hilltops, or riverbanks. Because they admired the scenery, they settled. At first small groups, two or three families. Then other drifters discovered the camps, and were allowed to make a home there as well. People who were once strangers met, and learned from one another. Lifestyles merged, people mated, the number of lives in the camps grew, and towns were born.

However, this particular town of interest had not come about in such a lackadaisical manner. It was—from the beginning—designed by the Gods; one thousand, five hundred years after their latest invention: human prototypes.

The Gods had spared no expense in designing and providing all the required natural elements for the town. They hoped it would become an idyllic utopia for their little human friends, righting all that had gone wrong in the humans since the invention of the prototypes. Because the original two humans were ’enlivened’ by the Gods, naturally they were linked. It had taken the Gods fifteen centuries, painfully watching the humans suffer through confusion, tragedy, plague, and all sorts of shameful absurdities to come up with this solution. No sooner thought, than spoken, and how those Gods committed. The setting sat atop striking hills, which were close to a blue bay opening to a warm, sun-splattered sea. Rolling down from the hills were orchards, bluffs, and all the makings for an almighty vineyard.

Another five hundred years passed, and the development of the town by the humans had mostly gone according to plan, thereby the humans improved their humanity as well. For the first time, the humans invented a currency instead of a barter system. The Gods watched this idea closely, realizing it could make humans better, or destroy them altogether. Then for the first time, the humans gave a thought to recording history, and created ways to write it. This gave birth to the idea of education, and schools were founded by the most passionate of the historians. Then, catastrophe: a lightning blast started a massive fire, and destroyed sixteen homes as well as the archived histories in the first library. However, it wasn’t all bad. The houses were rebuilt, the library resurrected, and the humans came up with the idea for some sort of fire damage prevention plan, which brought the first firehouses.

The Gods were proud of their little friends, yet, something still mysteriously underdeveloped. Although the Gods could see that the humans worked, proliferated, made friends, and lived lives, it was also clear that it ended there. Humans had too little in the way of ambition, the Gods felt. They also seemed far too caught up in all the work and drudgery of existence, to see the immeasurable scope of the big picture. This was the Gods’ problem. They wanted their earthling friends not only to see the awesome beauty, opportunity, and fragility that life is, but to embrace and enjoy it.

The Gods paced through their cosmic hallways, and spent years meditating in their celestial soaking tubs to solve the puzzle. Then, a heavenly epiphany came. The Gods realized that the only reason they understood their human friends infinitely better than the humans did themselves, was because they were watching it all unfold. The Gods celebrated, and reveled in the endless possibilities of their entirely new concept: theatre. They saw that humans would be far better off, if they—like the Gods—could watch great stories of humanity unfold, from a distanced perspective. The Gods sent a messenger to a young, angry, priest in a dream, and soon the first plays were performed in the temple.

As people watched stories unfold, they saw shocking echoes of their own lives enacted in the temple. It exhaled centuries of blocked and not-understood emotion that people had ingrained within them. As they watched more stories unfold, it seemed to help those utterly confusing emotions find their way. The stories in the temple helped the widow grieve, aroused young lovers, and gave the lonely old drunkard a comfort.

More than this, people watching the stories in the temple came to question the experiences in life, then theorize, and then understand more and more about life, and about living.

From this questioning and theorizing, came discussions unlike any dialogue ever experienced before. There were the first philosophies. Then, the first philosophies about society, government, and welfare. The discussion of these topics spread rapidly through the town after each story was acted in the temple, which blazed the path for not only more teaching in the schools, but for the first restaurants and cafes to be opened. After all: people who’re engaged in passionate and interesting discussion need places to discuss. . . So much better if they could eat and drink at the same time.

Gradually all the discussing gave way to the first elections, in which those who would govern were chosen from the crowd based upon popular demand. This above all, impressed and pleased the Gods. Granted, it wasn’t perfect, but it was a great deal of progress in just five little centuries: the humans had come a long way since the earlier, roaming version. The Gods laughed a tremendous laugh, celebrating their cleverness. Their idea of theatre was a tremendous success! Then, the Gods sighed a bittersweet sigh, of sadness, of happiness, of inspiration, of all things mixed wonderfully together in recognition.

“They’re growing faster than we thought they would. One day, they won’t need us any longer.”

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2008.

Day three of 2009.

Failure:

It is not yet a full week into the new year, and I’ve already broken one of my resolutions.  {“Which resolution?” You ask, voices united like a children’s choir.}  The important one.  The reclamation-of-my-creative-soul one.  That is, the ‘I must write or blog at least once a day’ ambition.  I failed, and I failed early.  There are a number of reasons for this.  Yesterday was busy.  Went to work.  Power was out.  Got distracted.  Went to visit Nicky, my Beloved One’s eldest.  Went downtown to walk around.  Went to Powell’s city of books, safe haven when the world’s gone smokeless.  Got home late, watched a Rolling Stones concert on DVD, and was then quite feeble-minded, if not tired. 

There is another factor at falt for days in which no writing transpires.  I lack a computer of my own.  The two people I spend most of my time with both have laptops.  My Beloved one, and my Father.  Of course, now and then, I use my Beloved One’s laptop, with permission, if the timing is right.  Most of the time, my Father’s on his, playing mahjong or writing his own blogs.  Victoria’s using hers, playing solitaire, downloading music, or some such.  I sit in the middle of the two watching eating M&M’s.  To be one of the three monkeys, as we wayward three often seem, I must get a laptop.  It currently, momentarily seems so imporant.  Like the only way to save the world.  It’ll pass.  It just did.  (That was fleeting.) 

Writing or no writing, resolution or no resolution, Winston Churchill told us:  “Success is going (or was it jumping?) from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.”  So, despite one day of delay, I have returned to my WordPress, to hammer my wrath upon the keys.  {“Good for you, Jeffy.” you all say, united like a children’s choir.}  I agree.  Gold star for me.

On the related sobject, a note about WordPress: 

It’s selfishness that’s driven me to WordPress for my wordcraft.  Having written three or four years worth of entries and articles on my Myspace blog, I recently stumbled down a rabbit hole into a blue funk.  Myspace, you see, is a special spot for social butterflies.  Social butterfly I am not.  I’m not really any sort of butterfly.  Because of this, I’d somewhat stopped writing for my own benefit, and started writing overcooked, precious, little bloggy things with the goal of social appreciation.  That is, comments.  Not even intelligent feedback, just comments.  It’s all about comments on Myspace.  I know, it’s terribly sad to think that there are these worlds-within-worlds, and clubs-within-clubs, and cliques-within-cliques even on the Internet, but there you have it.  WordPress is about writing.  Myspace is about comments, and I wanted them.  Comments from the Myspacers on my Friends List, even though it’s filled up with people I’ve never met and have no intention of meeting.  Comments from people I do know, comments from people who for some reason want to know me.  Comments, comments, comments.  It didn’t happen…  I didn’t get them.  At least, not to the degree that Myspace had somehow manipulated me into craving them.  And, absurd though it may be, (you do not need to tell me) I found it deeply disturbing.  Depressing, really.  I found myself riddled.  I said to myself:  “Self, a frat-boy can post a picture of himself sleeping under the numerous jockstraps and thongs that were piled upon his face while he was passed out at a party, and he’ll get seventy comments.  Twelve random cross-eyed, fashionista school girls can blog about pretty pink shoes, and accumulate eighty comments.  Comments, comments, comments.  They get them for being cute, they get them for being drunk, they get them for being idiots.  I write, for a few, or none at all.”   

Believe it or not, I actually cared.  It wasn’t until the holidays, when my sister gave me a Christmas gift, that the answer became clear.

“I’ve never known quite what to get you…” she said, handing me a gift-card for Starbucks.  That’s all it took.  Cling.  Like a little bell of clarity.  My beloved one gives me feedback all the time, because she knows me.  She loves me.  She gets me.  Also because she has time.  To the rest of the world at large, I’m a confusing entity.  I say ‘confusing’ because it’s realistic.  I’d love to say ‘mysterious’, but it’s too glamorous.  I’m the person for whom people can’t think what to buy, come Christmas.  The person to whom people don’t quite know what to say.  Therefore, more often than not, they don’t. 

Still, since my ambition is to write; to chronicle my days and times and thoughts with the ease of typing, instead of scribbling with my fist in a journal, I’ve switched to the more egocentric wordpress.  I want to blog, it’s a blog.  It’s my blog.  No thongs or jockstraps, no pink shoes.  If someone is deeply interested in what I write, which would be flattering, they may comment if they wish.  Whilst Myspace can sometimes work as an advertising or networking tool, the rest of the time it feels frightfully like Cyber High School.  I didn’t like High School.  Moreover, WordPress allows me all sorts of gadgets and bloggy-tools.  Polls, categories, chapters; it’s practically paradise for the semi-literary Internet exhibitionist. 

And that is my note about WordPress.  Any comments?  No, I thought not.

. . . . .

The Blogship Of Jeffrey Puukka shall remain a smoke-friendly environment until otherwise announced.

So Long, Sweet Land Of Liberty:

“Farewell, farewell, great ship Titanic.“  (Titanic, the musical.)

Day three of 2009 is a Saturday, and it’s unravelled as Saturdays do without many conclusions being reached along the way.  Wake up.  Smoke.  Putter around.  Mumble.  Sit.  Mumble more.  Shower.  Mumble in the shower.  Smoke more.  Mumble more.  Wait for bus, (smoking, mumbling) catch bus.  Walk to work, stopping at Starbucks along the way while mumbling and smoking.  Arrive at the building, walk into the building, avoid the Red Shirts, ignore people while walking down the corridor.  Walk up the steps, unlock the office, sit in the chair, start typing for three to four hours.  Get out of the chair, walk out of the office, walk down the corridor in the opposite direction from earlier, although still ignoring people.  Walk faster, and faster.  The parking lot seems so bloody far away.  At last, gasping, gasping, exit the building, and light a cigarette so I can breathe again.  That is a fairly accurate description of all Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, as well as Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.  After I run screaming out of the building and light my cigarette, each day branches out in its own peculiar direction. 

A staple of most days in a bygone era was the (now fabled) pubbing.  That is to say, a trip to my stove-snuggling spot at Edgefield.  There, I would sit, think great thoughts, enjoy the fire, and converse with my Father and my Beloved One, Victoria.  While enjoying the evening and firelight, I’d be sipping a coffee, nursing a brandy, and enjoying my cigarettes.  This was a very relaxing way to spend an evening.  However, such times belong to the distant days of 2008 when people could actually smoke by the fire.  I’ve taken two trips to the pub since the smoking ban fell like iron blocks from the sky and crushed my people.  

As I have previously written, I think it an absurd thought on part of the government.  This land of the free is more and more becoming the land of freedom in moderation.  “We want people to be to be free and happy in this Country, so we’ll restrict your freedoms in hopes of cornering you into a statistically healthier lifestyle.  In time you’ll forget the way things were, and because you’ll be statistically healthier by then, you’ll be happy.”  Doctors want to see a decrease in heart attacks and lung cancer?  They must have missed the fact that when that happens, they’ll be taking a pay cut.  That’s alright, thought.  It must be.  If they wanted to make money, they never would’ve become Doctors, would they?

Even the bloody lottery caves!  You know, those dark little holes, where old women with seagreen hair-curlers sat on stools playing video-bingo for money and chainsmoking.  Even those places are now anti-smoke.

The piece of all this business that doesn’t fold up into one’s pocket so very neatly, is this:  whoever signed off on this decision was ignoring the fact that there’s forty-plus percent of the population who do smoke.  Who choose to smoke.  These are people who’re already chemically imbalanced and emotionally unstable enough in the beginning, and that’s why they smoke.  When people start telling them they can’t practice their coping strategy, they have fits.  Some fits are fleeting, some are not.  Some are ugly.  Some fits–sometimes–end in acts of ludeness, crudeness, wrath, and depressed flopping around on the floor.  Sometimes even terrorism. 

Meanwhile, my home away from home, my snug little spot by the stove, is insanely different.  The atmosphere is grossly sterile.  It is so strange.  I know the people, I recognize the furniture, I’ve sat on that bench a thousand times, but, it’s no longer my favorite place in the world.  None of my favorite places are what they were.  I used to feel free in these places.  I used to feel very much like myself.  Now I feel like I’m sitting in the cafeteria of the hospital wing.  Who wants to do that? 

No.  The great ship sank.  The glory days are gone, and there is nowhere–for now–that I can’t wait to go, or get back to. 

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.