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.

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

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.

On Ex Libris, I discovered an article written by Leland Ryken (English professor at Wheaton) about Shakespeare and the Geneva Bible.

I shall have to spend a bit of time reading Ryken’s essay more deeply.  A chunk on the bus, a chunk after work, a chunk with my cup of tea, and so on.  I can certainly appreciate these sorts of essays for whatever fruit they may potentially bear when the time comes to not only interpret Shakespeare’s writing in the rehearsal room, but understand the components of the man himself.

However, some thoughts did immediately surface.

Shakespeare’s Use Of The Bible

“There are passages in which reference to the Bible is not strictly required to construe what Shakespeare has written, but where we are invited to see an allusion or echo.”  (Ryken)

When we analyze Shakespeare now—we sometimes forget that we’re reading from our vantage point, atop the mountains of scholarship amassed in the 393 years since Shakespeare’s death.  When Shakespeare was alive, times were different, religion was different, popular culture was different,  household names were different.

In Shakespeare’s day, if someone wanted to make an illustrative comment about suffering, nothingness, or poverty, they may likely conjure up images of Job.   That would have been a story with which many people were familiar.  (Shakespeare makes this allusion himself, in fact, when he has Falstaff saying, “I am as poor as Job, but not so patient.” in Henry IV 2)  Today, if we wanted to make a similar comment, we might conjure up the image of King Lear.

Today, we quote Shakespeare frequently.  Shakespeare quoted (or wrote phrases that resembled) passages of the Bible.

It’s absolutely foolish to deny the fact that Biblical themes and characters are very frequently included as part of what makes Shakespeare’s writing work.  But also included are many mythical references (Roman, Greek, and other).  The Player’s speech about Priam in Hamlet, is just one huge example.

Shakespeare’s Religion

As for arguments about whether Shakespeare was Catholic or Protestant and how important that is to his success as a playwright.  It’s clear that Shakespeare had (though not forever) received some support from a Catholic patron (Lord Strange/fifth earl of Derby).  For a time, that meant some financial stabilization.  I have also read some scholarly ruminations that Shakespeare may have had some minimal connections (friends-of friends-of friends-of friends) to people connected to the Gunpowder plot.  However, I can’t see that as anything too profound.  Lots of people have friends, including our friends.

At the end of the day, Shakespeare was a working, writing adult in a time of enormous change for England. The death of Elizabeth, James’ ascension to the throne, the very slow and gradual change from a Oral/poetic tradition to a printed, literary culture.  Everything was being shuffled around.  This shuffling—and its components—certainly influenced Shakespeare’s body-of-work as much as anything else.

Shakespeare was a writer.  He worked with a company of players.  It was imperative for their survival that he—and the players—work frequently, quickly, and successfully in order to bring an audience, keep them happy, and keep them coming back.  I can’t help but believe then that Necessity, coupled with a keen sense for what would/wouldn’t work for his audience, were likely the Mother and Father of Shakespeare’s invention.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

I shall start with the format suggested by Twitter, and countless improvisation games.  What are you doing? Well, I’ve made myself a lovely cup of tea, and lit a cigarette.  (Perhaps I should not have written that, any health conscious reader has probably just clenched their teeth, and will stop reading at this point.)  Now, I sit at the desk in the ‘bedroom hide-away’, stare at the computer before me, and attempt to type out some thoughts.  There’ve been many thoughts, lately, too.

I’ve been missing my Dad immensely, since he’s moved to the beach.  I miss our get-togethers.  I especially miss the get-togethers of times gone by, when the Pub at Edgefield was still smoke friendly, and the chess board was always on the table, precariously situated in between our drinks.  I’ve been thinking a great deal about theatre.  I’ve slowly been reading the Trevanian novel, Shibumi, which in a strange, abstract way, has only been encouraging me to think more about theatre.

I’ve always been the ‘quiet, introverted, lost-in-thought’ type as it is, but the last few weeks, even I feel like my thought processors have been on overdrive.

The boy whom I so often write and tweet about is gone for a weekend dose of respite.  With the flat deliciously quiet, my Beloved One says: “You’ve obviously been wanting to write.  You should write.  I’m tired of seeing the same old ‘A book is a book, yes?’ on your website.”

That raises a lovely point about girlfriends/boyfriends/lovers/spouses/partners:

There is no doubt that any relationship includes a healthy dose of maintenance.  It’s that maintenance—especially in the forms of commitment, intimacy, or sacrifice—that typically scares people my age away from participating in relationships at all.  However, whatever work there is, is well worth it.  The lovely perk that slowly sneaks up on you over time, is that after you’ve invested your trust and love in someone, they will surprise you time, and time again with care.  They care about you.  They crave your well being as much as you crave it yourself.  And sometimes, when you might be feeling rather confused or conflicted about what to do, they will make a suggestion that totally serves your best interests.

She surprised me—yet another time—the other day.  I was—yet again—in my chair in the bedroom ‘hideaway’ looking at the website of one theatre company or another.  She came in, rested on her knees beside the chair, kissed my hand as I glared at the computer screen, and said “You’ve got it bad, huh?”  (The itch.  The bug.  The gnawing teeth of the addiction.)  For a moment, I thought she had summoned her paranormal girlfriend skills. I had forgotten I’d confessed a few days earlier that the deep, unresolved need to return to directing, and to keep at it, hasn’t left since around Shakespeare’s birthday (April), when it always bites me especially hard.  Yes…I’ve got it bad.  I’m not ashamed of having it bad, either.  Why I’ve got it, is put better here, than I could hope to put it myself:

“A theatre is the laboratory of civilization; the dreamspace where we probe the soul, dissect politics and religions, and re-enact—always with our own particular spin—the universal struggles of humankind:  survival, love, ambition and reconciliation.  Who would not want to spend a lifetime investigating this?”

(Robert Cohen, director/scholar/theorist.)

My theatre career, if one could even call it that without laughing, has been comprised of about ten years of artistically ambitious choices, backed by poor personal decisions, and not enough balance, or clarity to really allow the goodness to come through.  The events of the last half-year have led me to break down and accept, (or grow up and embrace) two things.

1. There’s no doubt that I need to go forward, and include theatre as an equally central part of my life again, if I’m going to live up to my own expectations of living life on this planet, and not feel like a hack.
2. There is—however—no way that I am prepared to go about it in the same, flawed way.  There may not be a “right” or “wrong” when it comes to the aesthetic elements of theatre.  But there is a line between right and wrong when it comes to running a business.  Artists can be selfish and manipulative, and they can unwittingly cross that line in pursuit of getting the most use out of supporters or colleagues, and—quite simply—trying to survive.  I’ve made some poor choices, and some very wretched errors-in-judgment in the past.  They resulted in mistakes, and promises being broken.

I slightly feel like the last few years of not doing much theatre at all—at least, not on the scale which I prefer—has (in a way) been a personal form of atonement.  I’ve been homeless, I’ve been bored, I’ve lost some very talented collaborators who I used to think of as ‘crucial’.  There’ve been points I’ve felt a bit like I was drowning, under an ocean-liner’s load of regret collapsing on my shoulders.

I can’t go back and fix the past.  But, I have learned a great deal, and I can remember to reflect—going into the future—upon my poor choices in the past.  If I bump into people I used to know, with whom I fallen from grace, I can try to apologize.  But that’s all I can do for the past, along with learning from it, and doing things better, fairly, and right in the future.

Now that I’ve climbed out of the ocean onto the shore, I look to the future.  Theatre. I think.  What about theatre, I ask.  What is my place?  What will theatre be, a lifetime into the future?

I once—for being only one person—had an admirable personal library of plays, theatre history, scholarship, acting theory and so on.  With a three year history of moving, putting boxes in storage units, selling books at used bookshops for cash (desperately needed at the time), I only have a few remaining books of Shakespeare.  Whatever research I do now, I do online.

The more I peer into reviews, current culture, and current ambitions in theatre, the more I begin to feel like I was born too late to live a lifetime doing the sort of theatre I’ve trained to do.  America—that is, the United States, the churning kettle of diversity that it is—came late onto the scene of global civilization.  We’re a nation that’s only some 233 years old, if we count from the Declaration Of Independence.  Forgive me if I sound unpatriotic, but the United States does not—in my opinion—have a long, illustrious history of theatre.  (Mind you, I’m excluding the more ceremonial/ritualistic definitions, for the moment.)  Since the Greeks, I’d say Europe has a longstanding history.  Even before Shakespeare, traveling groups of players roughed their way across Europe presenting Miracle, Morality, or Passion plays, illustrating on contrived stages the motifs of religious teaching.  Britain has a longish history, when we look back at Shakespeare.  Russia would have to be Britain’s counter part, in my view, with the contributions of Stanislavski’s theories, and the Moscow Art Theatre.  But, America?  What does America have?  We have Broadway and its history of musical theatre, we have the Regional Theatre movement, and there we slightly burn out.

What happens next?

I’m starting to submit to the opinion that if there is an off-camera tradition for actors in the future to belong to, that theatre of the future, may resemble some of the avant-garde, performance arty work that one can see (or read about) cropping up in places like the Romanian National Theatre Festival.  Theatre that re-invents theatre.  Theatre that tries—as much as to simply do good work and to put on a good show—to change the relationship with its audience, or at least, the vantage point.  The further down that road one goes, one thing becomes clear.  The well attended theatre of the future, will be the ‘exciting’ theatre.  The best performance of text will become less and less important.  It will increasingly become about the most interactive experience.  Think Tony & Tina’s Wedding.  A specific example of what I mean, on our own shores, is at American Repertory Theatre. . .

Artistic director Diane Paulus has transformed the theatre into a club, to produce Randy Weiner’s The Donkey Show, a disco explosion of the words, images, and themes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  Now, I’m not in Boston, so I haven’t seen it.  But I don’t think the audience at the Donkey Show is seeing a beautifully acted performance of text.  What the photographs and video excerpts make clear that they are seeing, though, is beautiful men in g-strings, beautiful women wearing nipple-pasties, beautiful people dancing on platforms, and diving into mosh-pits.  That doesn’t sound like Shakespeare to me, necessarily.  But it’s not supposed to be Shakespeare, it’s the aftermath of Randy Weiner having been inspired by Shakespeare.

Is it theatre?  I don’t know.  It certainly seems Dionysian, and we must remember, Dionysus—with all of his spirit—has been the reining God of Theatre for some while.

One thing is clear.  In recent years, theatre companies all over America have been asking: Where has our audience been going?  Why isn’t a new one coming?

The first question is easy to answer.  That good old audience, who loved nothing more than to see a play on Friday evening or Sunday afternoon, has slowly gone to the graveyard.  The second question, Why isn’t a new one coming? is difficult.  Perhaps it’s not even the right question.  Perhaps the question to ask instead is where the next audience will be coming from.

Either way…  I can’t be doing all of this thinking for no reason.

It’s brewing.  Something comes anon.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

I have—just this evening—been informed that The Bible is being taught in a Texas High School, as an elective.

I needed to take a wee bit of a breath when I read that.  It wasn’t hallelujah, nor was it disgust; just consideration.

It instantly conjured up the dramatic scenes in Inherit The Wind: protests over what can and cannot be read and discussed in a schoolhouse’s quest to promote knowledge.  Then my imagination worked its way ‘round to Fahrenheit 451.  Although I doubt that anyone in the Lone-star state will be tossing that particular title onto the bonfire in protest.

I daresay that’s a rather controversial decision.

If school boards allow teachers to include The Iliad in their curriculum, (another book steeped in spiritual ties) there’s no literary reason the same courtesy can’t be extended to The Bible.

Great writing is great writing, and regardless of one’s private religious constitution, it cannot (in my opinion) be accurately claimed that The Bible does not contain a few passages of good word craft.  Moreover, it’s a thriller.  There’s enough violence and mysticism in the ‘book of God’ to rival the complete works of Shakespeare.

So now I sit here in the quiet of my writing corner of the room, and reflect that even at the core of my heathen-pagan-scum spirituality, it does not too greatly shock me that The Bible is being read in a High School in Texas.  I’m here in the Pacific Northwest where much of the sky is cloudy, and much of the society is liberal.  But then I wonder: if someone in Seattle starts teaching The Koran in an elective High School literature class, will a Texas teacher be as open minded?

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

I was quite infuriated earlier this afternoon to learn that reruns of House and Lie To Me were being replaced with “The Teen Choice Awards”.

Nonetheless, I made my way through the day.  Because my Beloved One’s ex-hub declared he needed to drop the other two munchkins off at our house for a bloody week, I went to the store and brought back four armloads of groceries (with two hands) on the bus.  I made breakfast for dinner.  We’d had our iced cream, and so far, kept the 11 year old (going on tabloid teen queen) Caitlyn from realizing that these wretched “Teen Choice” awards were taking over the television.

The ruse didn’t last long.  The television somehow made its way to the Teen Choice channel just as Caitlyn’s idol, Miley Cyrus, was making her way on stage.

Then, I saw it:  the reprise of the Britney catastrophe.  You might remember, once upon a time, young miss Spears was actually marketing herself as a wholesome teenage girl with talent.  Then, the downward spiral.  Pornographic clips appeared on the Internet, the babies came, the court case about the babies, the shaved head, the power of attorney fiasco taking center stage on the fishwrap stands.

It’s happening again, this time with ‘wholesome’ Disney endorsed Saturday Morning Hannah Montana teenstress, Miley Cyrus.

She appeared in short shorts, a shirt revealing (instead of covering) a bra, and a fedora.  At one point, a prop. pole was actually brought out on stage for her to swing from and dance around.

I remember recently hearing on a radio interview that her Father, Billy Ray Cyrus, had taken offense to a comment made by a comedian, which said “Make your sex tape, grow up!”

If I were a Father, I’d have taken offense too.  However, there’s no denying, if the polesports continue, she’s well on her way.

I’ve always had a grudge against the media for streaming images which are encouraging thirteen year old girls, children to dress and compete with thirty year old women.  And based on this evenings “teen choice” presentation, I can’t say I’m inspired to lighten up about it anytime soon…

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

A Tarot Deck's Interpretation

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

—T. S. Eliot

. . . . .

I am likely not the only one to have noticed, television has been spattered recently with a number of previews for upcoming horror films. Orphan, The Collector, and the newest installment of the Final Destination series.

Although I’ve only seen the latest of the Final Destination series, those films intrigue me with their modern—and very gory—slant on the notion of accidentally missing an appointment with Death.

I’m reminded of the old story (with many variations) of the man who saw Death in Damascus:

Death was startled by their encounter—well, surprised really—but warned the man: “I am coming for you tomorrow.”

The man sought out his brother and asked to borrow his fastest horse. “I saw Death! Death told me it will come for me tomorrow.” His brother at once supplied him with a swift horse, water, food, and a little money. With the help, by nightfall, our frightened gentleman raced away from Damascus. He rode all night, and was relieved when he saw a village in the distance as the new day began to break.

He rode to an Inn, and found a room. No sooner had he walked through the door, when he saw Death the second time.

“You said you would come for me in Damascus,” he said.

“Damascus? No,” said Death, “which is why I was surprised to see you in Damascus at all, considering our meeting was scheduled for today, here in this room.”

The man was stunned. More than stunned. He was exhausted, bewildered, and suddenly quite depressed. It felt as though the ground itself had turned to run away, but he was stuck standing still.

“You must have had to ride all night on a swift horse to be here with me now.” Death said.

“Yes. . .” the man said, caught in the ironic discovery that this was perhaps the first time he’d been on time for anything in his life.

“Thank you.” Death said, and took him.

. . . . .

First came the realization that people do die. Not long afterward, the concept of a roaming spirit whose dreary task is escorting the living to the other side, materialized in minds around the world. Since then, through the ages and cultures, Death has made quite a stir.

In Greek mythology, he is Thanatos. In Theogeny the poet Hesiod asserted Thanatos was the son of Nyx (night), Erebos (Darkness), and a twin to Hypnos (sleep). One of seventeenth century poet John Donne’s sonnets takes a challenging view. “Death be not proud, though some have called thee / mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so”.

There is the ever popular Halloweenish ‘Grim Reaper’. Eliot’s ‘Eternal Footman’, and Dickens’ ghost of Christmases-yet-to-come.

My ‘Death’ is one who watches, and waits. What does your imagination conjure?

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

Photograph courtesy of Corbis.

Once upon a time, we were young children. We did terrible things, played games that really weren’t all that much fun for our un-willing partners, and piled embarrassment upon our Parents with our lack of inhibition and atrocious manners. Why did we do these things, you ask? I’ll tell you. The answer is simple; we were young children. Then one day, we became adolescents. Impulsive creatures of hormonal rage. We lived it up in the summertime, and danced, crawled, squirmed, or punched our way through high school. Ah, yes; High School: the house of good times, the hall of bad times. The cavern of testosterone, cheap teenage perfume, laughter, tears, cliques, and wads of chewing-gum stuck to the bottom side of rickety desks.

After this profound and pitiful chapter of the human experience, we each took our own road. Some of us went to college. Some of us did not. Some of us joined the military, some of us went to hippie communes in places we’d never heard of, simply because we wanted to get as far away as possible. However, no matter how we filled the blank pages of the post-high school choose-your-own-adventure book, we had one thing in common; slowly, we were becoming adults. Seventeen passed into eighteen. Eighteen to nineteen. Twenty, twenty one, twenty three.

And somewhere amid that cluster of years, we encountered a tragic truth. Those things which branded our high school experience—gossip, rumors, the pressure to please the people we look up to—things which we hoped would stay locked up in those classrooms and musty lockers, did not stay put in its proper place.

We don’t live with our parents or guardians any longer, and we may now do a lot more watering plants, washing dishes, and taking out rubbish than we ever did before when they were our ‘chores’. Yes, we’ve come into our own, haven’t we? We have jobs, paychecks, bills, migraines, maybe even children. But, what happens in High School doesn’t stay in high school, and we still have our daily dose of drama.

I was recently reminded once again of this ironic disappointment, because my Beloved One has a cyber stalker. It feels like High School to me. I don’t particularly enjoy it either, because I hated High School!

I suspect we’ve figured out now who her bullying cyber-prankster is. We’ve not yet agreed on the proper reaction, but, we have pinpointed the culprit and their motivation. Pain.

Revenge Begets Revenge

“Human Beings are capable of doing inhuman things.”
—John Malkovich

I’ve the uttermost confidence that nothing I write here will sway the aforementioned individual from carrying on with a string of arsewipely deeds. However, I do hope to motivate some of you people who find it difficult to let go of your past, whomsoever you may be. I honestly don’t believe that I personally know anyone like that—thank God—so I’m not dispensing advice to any of my friends when, I advise you to consider your own safety before you torment your ex-lovers for sport.

John Malkovich—kooky actor extraordinaire—tells us: “Human beings are capable of doing inhuman things.” Well, he would know wouldn’t he, he’s John Malkovich. However, when we try to stomp out our bad memories by poking the beast that caused them, we’re overlooking a fundamental trait of human behavior in our victim: everyone has a snapping point. Not a breaking point, when they’ll surrender, a snapping point, whereat they’ll go berserk. You can only slap a person so many times before they get tired of it. Most people lack the self control to not get angry and respond in kind. Apart from your immediate physical well being, you do run the risk of joining the ranks of the crude and cultureless in the process of ruining your enemy’s life. So remember, as you chuckle and consider all the deliciously humiliating and hurtful twists and turns you can hurl the object of your hate: It may not take too long for your victim to become your victimizer. People who’ve been poked and prodded along to their snapping point, encounter such a huge rush of rage and adrenaline that they are temporarily immune to universal concepts of right and wrong. As your whole ambition is to empower yourself, and take power from your foe, be careful you don’t end up in a body cast, (or body bag).

The Past Does Hurt

“The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the teacup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.”
—W.H. Auden

The second thing to consider is your overall sense of peace. Yes, the past does hurt. Rejection still stings, even if it is from ten years ago. We may see someone who ripped our heart and soul into shreds in a shop, and if we aren’t careful to control our thoughts, it can begin to keep us up at night. The pain of the past floods into our present. However, when we dwell on the past, we render ourselves incapable of accepting a future. And, what you truly don’t know—no matter what you believe—is what that future holds. It could be so much happier than the days gone by.

I think you owe it to yourself to let what’s passed wither behind you. God knows, I owe it to myself.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

The Black Queen; Possibly one of Britain's first black queen pieces. (So they say.)

“Who needs a dream?  Who needs ambition?  Who’d be the fool, in my position?  Once I had dreams, now they’re obsessions.  Hopes became needs; lovers? Possessions.  Then they moved in, so discretely.  Slowly at first, smiling too sweetly.  I opened doors.  They walked right through them.  Called me their friend, I hardly knew them.  Now I’m where I want to be…”

{From the musical Chess, lyrics by Tim Rice.}