"Sky and balloon" from harebrained of Deviantart.

AND NOW HEAR THIS!

After half-a-year and more of technical difficulties, I am back. {Missed me bad, huh?} And, with this little blurb, notice is hereby posted.

By Royal Decree:

Oddfellow—as it has been—is now officially down for  necessary intervention in response to drastically low vital signs from eight months of nothingness.

Oddfellow will resurface in the coming weeks, in some new form of undoubtedly unspeakable bloggish brilliance.

Those of you who’re dropping by and looking in, thank you!

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2011

Image from 1fallenangel of Deviant Art

“The paradox seems to be, as Socrates demonstrated long ago, that the truly free individual is free only to the extent of his own self-mastery.  While those who will not govern themselves are condemned to find masters to govern over them.”  {Steven Pressfield, The War Of Art; Page 37}

. . . . .

Outside The Window

Outside the window, the evening’s quilt unfurls in wrinkles of cloud and patches of color.

Outside the window, the man in the hat walks.  Slowly.  The pain is made heavier by the weight of layered trousers lined with some two months of sweat and soil.  His beard was two feet last Christmas, and just stubble this past March, and almost a solid half-foot now.  I see his face, though he cannot see mine.  He watches a young woman. . .

She has left her place.  Stepped out of the scattered cabaret that flanks the avenue with lanky, undulating carcasses with broken high heel shoes and plastic purses.  On cue, she climbs into a white truck.

Outside the window, there are many faces.  His is watching hers.  Hers is smiling: we can see it, the old man and I, through the window of the white truck.  Her face is smiling, while her posture lets slip her distrust of the driver.  She would not smile, if she had the strength.  If she could, she would weep.  But it is not good business, good business is illusion, and so she proffers up the servitude of her appendages in exchange for—the old man’s face doesn’t know. . . In exchange for money?  In exchange for drugs?  Drugs can turn to money; it depends on who she gives them to.  A drug might also be her escape.  A drug was once his escape.  Perhaps for half and half: a little drug, and a little money, if that’s the only way to call it fair.  Or perhaps there is no money, and there are no drugs.  Perhaps she’s just tired, and the white truck—if nothing else—can be a ride across town.

He weeps, the old man in the hat.  Weeps for the young woman in the white truck.  He wishes he could comfort her.  We would they could be comforted, all those faces out the window, on the other side.  We wish they could be convinced to find some scrap of something in themselves, and disappear.  But he cannot comfort her.  We cannot comfort them.  It’s not our place to know how to comfort them.  Convince them?  We cannot.  We could not.  We do not.

Another December, another February, April, May. The color of the evening’s quilt has changed, and the faces out the window stay.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010

Battle!

THE TIME? Today, two hours ago.

THE OCCASION? A battle of kitchen cleverness and culinary craft.  A showdown.  {Another} Food battle!

THE CHALLENGE? Meatloaf.  The rematch.

THE JUDGE? He who durst eat anything.  Him who hath eaten everything.  That’s right, the sweet creature of bombast, the boy with the budding Buddha belly: the one, the only, my Stepson, Nik!

THE CONTENDERS? My Beloved One. . .  Against me!

. . . . .

It was decided earlier today that this evening’s dinner would be meatloaf.  She has previously made meatloaf for us all, and I had something to say about it.  I have likewise previously made meatloaf for us all, and she had something to say about it.

Tonight I bought enough meat to make two small ones, instead of one large one, so that one would be to her traditional taste for good ol’, finger lickin’ Americana, and one could be to my own peculiar preferences.

Now, the battle was impromptu.  It had not been previously decided that tonight would be a face off…  But as soon as we split up the meat, she proposed that she make hers, I make mine, and Sweet Wag would serve judge not knowing which was made by who.

. . . . .

WHAT SHE DID. . .

Ground beef, egg ‘binder’ and breadcrumbs, salt/pepper, chopped onion, diced tomatoes, garlic powder, roasted red pepper flakes, and a barbecue sauce filler/coating.

WHAT I DID. . .

Ground beef, egg ‘binder’ and breadcrumbs, salt/pepper, fresh chopped basil, garlic, onion, and cilantro.  Diced tomatoes, roasted red pepper flakes, and a tomato sauce filler/coating.

THE VICTOR?

Victoria!

What is odd however is that—this time around—she preferred mine over her own.  But she instantaneously received the boy’s winning vote, and won fair and square.  He’s not that a huge fan of cilantro.  {That’s fine, I didn’t really want to share too much of mine anyway.}

I now owe my Beloved One her prize back rub.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010.

"Words, words, words" by theumbrella of deviantart.com

Just a moment or two ago, we were all gathered in the kitchen, and I was reminded of a peculiar word. . .  Of Nik’s relationship to this word; of his Mum’s relationship to this word; of how their relationships to this word are not the same, and of how much words amuse me.

We are all different people, and so naturally we all have particular responses to specific words.  We each have a list of words and phrases that—for some subconscious reason—grind against one of our nerves in an unacceptable way.  On the flipside of the same coin, we each have a list of words and phrases that we find irresistible.  We can’t escape their magnetism, their wit, cleverness, and we use them frequently, or perhaps we even overuse them.  One of my ‘stepson’ Nik’s words of preference—when it comes to describing unfortunate members of society—is Hobo.

A frequent conversation may go something like this:

V. {Nik’s Mum.}:  Are you ready?  We need to leave in six minutes.

Nik: I’m ready. How many busses?

V.: Two.

Nik: Which one first?

V.: The one across the street.

Nik: What-thuh?  That’s the hobo bus!

V.: Don’t use that word.

Nik: But there’s hobos on it!

V.: Don’t use that word, please.

Nik: I’m not being disrespectful, just sayin’ there’s always hobo’s on it.  I don’t like the hobo bus, Mom!

V.: Nik!  Please don’t use that word.

Nik: What-thuh!?  Gonna flippin’ yell at me now?  I was being good for you but I’m not gonna be respectful no more if you’re gonna f*kin’ yell at me!

V: So you’re ready to go, right?

Nik: MomMmmMMMmmmM!?

V.: I asked if you were ready.  You are ready right?  You’ve used the bathroom, your shoes are on, you have your jacket, you’re ready to go?

Nik: How many stops?

V.: What?

Nik: On the hobo bus!  How many stops?

V.: Not many! 

Nik: How many minutes will it take?

I.: Less than a half-hour.

Nik: When are we leaving?

V.: Now.

Nik: What-thuh?  How come you didn’t tell me that!  I’m not ready yet!

. . . . .

As you may be able to tell, Nik also has a fondness for the word “What-thuh?”, rather like he’s about to say “What the f—!” but stops himself before reaching the derogatory expletive.

Apart from “What-thuh”, what is very amusing to me, is that while the word “hobo” crashes into his Mum’s ears like fingernails grating down a chalkboard, in typical everyday conversation hobo is Nik’s preferred word for a vast category of people.  People who appear high, people with plastic bags full of cans, people with dirty clothes, people who do not smell good, people who appear to be homeless, people who appear intoxicated, and sometimes merely people who are asleep on the bus.

In the philosophy of Nik, it is not disrespectful—it isn’t anything—it’s just what they are to him: hobos.  A pigeon is a pigeon.  A tiger is a tiger.  And in Nik’s eyes, a hobo is a hobo and he considers the word perfectly fine.

Well, it’s fine until it’s not.  For, I have accidentally discovered that there does exist one application in which Nik finds the word hobo unacceptable. . .

I: When were you going to take your bath, Nik?

Nik: What-thuh?

I: You need to take a bath today.

Nik: I’ll do it before I go to bed, I promise.

I: No.

Nik: But—

I: Listen: You always say you’ll do what you don’t want to do before bedtime.  And then in the evening, when the time comes to keep your promise, you don’t want to because you’re too tired.

Nik: Fine, I’ll do it after dinner.

I: That won’t work either, because we’re going out today, and you need to have a bath before we go out.

Nik: I don’t want to take a bath!

I: I’m sorry.  But you need to.  You didn’t take one last night, or yesterday morning, or the day before that. I don’t think you’ve used your deodorant, either.

Nik: Soooo!?  It’s my flippin’ deodorant!

I: Yes, but you need a bath, and you need to actually use your deodorant.

Nik: What-thuh?  Jefffffff!?  Ugh!  Whyyyyyyyyyyy?

I: {Attempt # 1: Patience in tact.}  Because it’s important to keep clean—

Nik: But—!

I: {Attempt # 2:  Patience and practicality in tact.}  Because we’re going out—

Nik: But—!!

I: {Attempt # 3:  Patience depleting.}  Because you just need to.

Nik: But I don’t want—!!!

I: {Attempt # 4:  Patience gone.} Yes I know, and I’m sorry, but you need to because you smell like a hobo!

Nik: What-thuh?!!! {Growls.}  I don’t flippin’ smell bad!

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010

{Image source.}

Here's a cool picture of a camel. I'm just too lazy to find an image that actually applies thematically to this entry. The lovely camel is: "Distracted" by muted-pain of deviantart.com

Another Wednesday winds down, and I can’t help thinking I’ve been rather lazy of late.  Face it Self, you’ve not been blogging, you’ve not been writing in general!  You’ve not been cooking anything of interest, you’ve not been doing your stretches or opting out of the bus in order to walk.  You’ve not been doing much of anything, have you?

I find it very strange; why—as I cannot think of what I’ve done so differently that would consume more of my energy—have I become the aforementioned lazy lummox?

Is it:

(A)    Warmer weather, summer lethargy?

(B)     Too much iced cream?

(C)    Worry that my Beloved One is pushing her limits during recovery?

(D)    Lack of interesting or inspiring television programs to motivate and re-motivate me?

(E)     Changes at work?

(F)      Lack of readily available reading material to distract and clog the holes in my brain?

I choose (G)!  All of the above, because I’m too lazy to make an actual decision.

And in the spirit of my demotivated state, I declare:

1. I am not going to wake up before 9:00 am again
   1. Except for tomorrow.  When I shall rise early, and go to work.  For, if went to work at a normal, more acceptable time I’d have to speed through my work in order to be prompt for Nikko’s eighth grade graduation.
   2. I’m feeling far too lazy to speed through work.
   3. I’m feeling far too lazy to suffer the torments of the damned for missing Sweet Wag’s eighth grade graduation.
   4. Thus: I shall rise at quarter to six, and go to work, and work slowly, and not miss the eighth grade graduation.
2. I am not going to stop eating iced cream.
   1. Unless lifting the spoon begins to require too much effort.
3. I am not going to clean, sort, organize, or put away anything else today!
   1. Except for the laundry I’ve already started since I’m too lazy to even fathom finishing it tomorrow.
4. I am not going to keep listing off things that I’m not going to do.

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2010

“In the dark times, will there also be singing?
Yes, there will be singing about the dark times.“  {Brecht}

Life has begun to slide back into the peculiar pace we’re accustomed to.  If you read her blog you already know that my beloved one’s surgery could not have been carried out more smoothly.  Now, she is on the mend.  I’m not convinced she feels ‘better’, still, since she came home from the hospital a little over a week ago, I’ve noticed the tell tale signs of easier movement and increasing energy.  Her appetite has started to return to its customary characteristics, and she seems to have much less need of my help.

I suppose it is not a surprise then, that her surgery and efforts to recover have been overshadowed by my stepson.

Last night was Nikolai’s one year anniversary.  That means he has been living with us at home for one year, after discharging from the residential treatment center where he lived for nearly two years.  Yesterday unfolded with excitement, but relative ease.  It was a good day.

Yet, following the basic laws of the universe, what goes up must come down.

A month or more ago, Nick was in the midst of tending to the garbage, carrying the trash out to the rubbish bins outside.  It is one of his responsibilities for his allowance.  He came back in with a gigantic syringe.  His Mum and I were startled.  I snatched it out of his hand, threw it in a paper bag, and hid the whole parcel until I could throw it away without his seeing or going to look for it again.  We both cornered him at the sink and waited until he washed his hands.  We very clearly, very firmly informed him of the smorgasbord of diseases that often inhabit syringes, and instructed him to never touch anything like that again.  After he left the kitchen and distracted himself with the next thing that tugged at his interest, we examined the syringe.  It was an cooking injector.  We chose not to inform Nick of his discovery, in hopes that the urgency of our little lecture may startle him into thinking before attempting to touch things on the street, and perhaps paying more attention to his surroundings.  We thought it might work, or at least I did.  He told everyone he talked to, his Mum, his grandmother, and myself “I don’t want a disease!  Can it kill me?  I don’t want to die!”

Tonight, I have evidence—once again—that nothing gets through to him.  He came in from about fifteen minutes of playing outside.  His Mum was on the phone with her Mother.  He pulled me aside: “Jeff, can I talk to you?  It’s important.”  I followed him out of the kitchen.  Once out of his Mum’s line of sight, he showed me yet another thing he found outside…  A razor blade.  Like the previous encounter with the syringe, I snatched it out of his hand, and then noticed a series of five or six shallow cuts on his forearms.  (Upside, not vein side.)

Nick struggled to get through the forty-five minutes or so following, as his Mum and I commanded him to take a bath and scrub his arms.  He has an aversion to baths.  I honestly think he has an aversion to anything clean.  He does not like to bathe, or wear deodorant, and he despises the smell of freshly laundered clothes.

I tried communicating the need for him to wash his arms in as many calm and kind ways as I could think of.  “You’re not in trouble, we’re concerned.  Not angry.” and “I’m sorry, it’s really going to sting, but you need to take a bath.” and, “Seriously, it’s dangerous.  You could get all kinds of diseases from that thing you cut yourself with.  You need to clean your arms.” and “Nick, be a big boy, take a bath.” and “You could get sick.  I don’t want to see you get sick.  You don’t want to get sick, I promise you don’t.  Take a bath…”  and so on.

When each failed, I finally surrendered to a more aggressive tone.

I: You are not in trouble yet. This is not about behavior, it’s about your health!  Now you will take a bath and scrub those arms with soap and water, or your Mum and I will strip you, put you in the tub and wash you like a baby!

NICK: You can’t do that.

I: See for yourself.  Maybe you don’t care about your health, but I do and your Mum does.

NICK: I’M NOT TAKING A BATH!!!

I: Come on V, we need to give him a bath!

NICK: NoOooOoooooOOO!

V: He needs to take a bath, or I need to call— {the ‘crisis’ pager}

NICK: Don’t f*ing call!

I: Take a bath.

NICK: I’M NOT TAKING A F*ING BATH!!!

I: V, call the number.

NICK: FINE!  I’ll take a bath.  {Slams door, stomps through bathroom into shower.}

Why can’t it be easier than this?  That’s what I really want to know.  Why can’t we just say “You don’t want to pick things up off the street,” and be listened to?  Why can’t we simply point out the danger of playing with sharp things, and be taken at our word?  {Particularly razor blades; especially razor blades found outside; most especially razor blades found outside in our neighborhood full of prostitutes and junkies.}  Why can’t we just say what we mean?  “We’re worried about you, you need to take a bath.”  Why does it need to turn into a stupid pissing contest?

His heart is in the right place.  He wants to be a teenager, and live a teenager’s life.  He’d be happy to live the average eleven year old’s life, actually.  He wants less rules, more freedom, and more trust.

We tell him that trust—like so many great things—is something that has to be earned.  He needs to be able to think for himself, and use good, safe judgment before we’ll let him have the extra freedoms he’s begging for.  We want him to have those freedoms.  He should have them.  His Mum has tried to help him learn to think for himself, to think before doing.  I have tried.  His Dad has tried.  His therapist, his grandmother, his ‘skills trainer, his teachers at his alternative school, and his psychiatrist have all tried.  And still, when it comes to those metaphorical ‘crossroads’ everyday where the time comes for him to try on his own to do what is genuinely good for him?  Eight times out of ten, he opts out.  He doesn’t like to talk about it.  He doesn’t listen to bits of encouragement; to hear that there is light at the end of the tunnel, and it will be worth it…  Maybe he believes, or maybe not.  Either way, he refuses to take that first step into the dark.  “It’s hard!!!!” he says.  Full stop.  End of discussion.

“Life is hard.” I have told him, I don’t know how many times.  Perhaps it’s a bit Spartan of me, but it’s true.

On some days, I think he needs some sort of ‘humbling’.  Something to wake him up a bit.  I don’t mean this in the sadistic, “I’ll show you who’s boss” sort of way.  I simply mean that something needs to shed light on the facts that the world does not revolve around him, and everyone needs to do stuff they don’t want to do.  On other days, I think he needs a few more troops in his army of personal and professional care-takers.  New ideas at the table.  Stuff this current group hasn’t thought of yet.  And still, on rarer days, I think he needs something that simply may not be out there.  And if that’s the truth, it indicates that I need to get used to this.

Regardless, I hope nothing comes of the experimental razor-play.  And I hope he eventually learns not to pick things up off the street; particularly sharp objects.  He needs to learn, because he deserves a childhood with looser rules, and an easier atmosphere…

Tonight however, to my eyes at least, the light at the end of the tunnel looks unfortunately far away.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010.

"For Tea" by KayKay-Photographer of deviantart

Some scary stuff is happening in my world right now.  If you read my Beloved One’s blog, you probably realize that, as she updates more frequently than I do.  And, some of you in the closer circle of family and friends have been asking me, “how are you doing?”

About two weeks ago, my Beloved One went to the E.R. at our nearest hospital.  From that visit, we were made aware that there is a cyst—about the size of a large fist—growing from her liver.  There is also one cyst on each of her ovaries.  There was also blood in her pelvis, which caused her to run a fever.  Surgery is necessary for the liver cyst.  They will be removing it, along with the piece of liver it sprouted from.  Why the cyst is there—or rather, what the cyst is—is not completely clear yet.  They will study it once it’s removed.

My Beloved One has been quite responsible with regard to informing Nick about some but not too much of this.  He knows she will be having surgery.  That has made him worry.  He knows that there’s a problem “in my tummy” as she put it.  That worries him too.  He knows that after her surgery, she’ll need to rest and recover.  She won’t be able to lift things or move easily at first.  He’ll need to try and be as independent as he can.  That bit has him terribly frustrated.  He seems to be regressing a bit, which is worrisome.  Life with him is starting to feel—at moments—the way it did just before his most recent course of residential treatment.  Meanwhile his Mother and I have gone to appointments, fretted about surgery, and had too many conversations with ugly words and phrases like “incisions”, and “choose your health care representative”.

On Wednesday night, he was the most dangerous he has been since coming to live with us a year ago.  He strangled her.  He threw a book at her.  And I spent about ninety minutes with my arms barring the entrance to the kitchen so that he could not go in to continue pinching, poking, prodding, and punching her.  He took runs at me like it was a football game, trying to sneak around, under, or through me.  When he did not succeed, he switched gears before trying again.  One moment, jumping against our locked bedroom door.  The next moment trying to force his way into the kitchen—to his mother.  The next moment, punching holes in walls; banging his head against his window; trying to jump out of his window.  Then going after his Mother again.  Throughout the ninety minutes, he would calm his composure, sit, and ask for a hug.  She would go to give him a hug, then he would attack her again: wrenching her arms, kicking her legs, pulling her hair, poking her stomach.  Ultimately, she locked herself in the bathroom until the storm died down.

Now, Nikko is mentally ill.  This must be kept in mind.  He is regularly frustrated and frightened to a degree that the rest of us simply cannot know.  And, sure: we can look at his lack of independence, and question if his Mum and I ‘enable’ him too much. . .  but in all truth, his life is not a life of wine and roses.  His brain is his own worst enemy, and on the worst of days he is a train running away without breaks.  And of course, when he is in his ‘calmer’ states—which he has been, largely over the last year—it is easy to understand all of that.  It is easy to recognize that sometimes the illness takes control, and that the chaos he can cause is not necessarily his fault.  However, it is always the most difficult thing to remember when the ‘rougher’ moments do pop up, and he becomes violent.  And with the pieces lined up as they are?  With my Beloved One’s situation as it is?  Suppose he does continue to unravel?  Suppose he hits her stomach hard enough in the wrong spot?  Suppose that fist-sized cyst on her liver ruptures?  Will I be comforted to know that he didn’t mean it, there’s just a terrible, impossible illness creeping ‘round his brain?  No.  I wouldn’t be comforted.  I wouldn’t care.

I feel like my skin is crawling, and I could peel it off of me in long, spaghetti-like strands.  I feel like there’s a part of my brain in which I’ve dug a hole, and started screaming into it, hoping to bury all of this.

Since Friday of last week, I’ve spent a good deal of the time controlling a lump in the back of my throat.  Twice I’ve ‘broken down’ and actually cried in public—as quietly as I could, {thank God for sunglasses!}—on the bus.

And then, this morning, an entirely new layer of stress on a different front was introduced into the mix, which I am still processing and may or may not go into later.

I am not okay just now.  {Ha!}  No, really, I’m fine.  I am going to work, I am laughing occasionally, I am the running errands I always do, and managing to keep life as smooth as I can.  But none of us are okay just now.  We are sad.  We are scared.  And, of course, I am not at all comforted to realize deep down that no matter how hard all of this is for me, it’s even more frightening for my Beloved One.  And, of course, it is so much easier to be angry.  To be sad requires courage, and acceptance.  Courage to allow the feelings you don’t want to invade your mind.  It is much easier to be angry, and say: “I reject this.  This is not welcome.  I blame it on anything and everything around!” it’s not honest, though.  It cuts short the truth of the matter.

It feels like pressure is building up against a dam, and something must give way otherwise the whole thing will crack.  What’s going to give way?  I don’t want it to be Nick’s progress.  I don’t want it to be my job, our finances, or our apartment!  And most of all, I want my Beloved One to be safe, and healthy.  I want to get to that place where the worst thing that came out of this mess was a surgical scar.  When we can all fall asleep and wake up with clean, light minds, and realize how lucky we are.

That’s how I am feeling.

And as I sometimes do, I want to use this blog to take an opportunity to make a plea to the world at large.  I am twenty-seven.  If you’re younger than I am, this is a note—primarily—for you. . .  Be nice.  Be patient with people.  Say “please” and “thank you”.  You don’t have to like everyone—not by a long shot—but try to treat even the most irritating people with respect.  I say this because since I crossed the age of 18, I keep being reminded of something:  In the maddening sphere known as ‘reality’, life in the world at large is the only teacher.  The lessons are psychotically, sadistically harsh.  Your parents, your grandparents, your older siblings, your teachers, professors, coaches, preachers, and counselors may annoy you by pointing out what you should do or should have done.  However, they are really just trying to prepare you: to help you arm yourself for moments when feelings of confidence and invincibility fly out the window.  It will happen.  It does happen to everyone.  And the most terrible part is that the world will go on, as it always has, even when you are convinced that you can’t take one more step without crumbling.  So, be nice.  You can’t know now what’s going to happen tomorrow.  You’ll never know in advance who you are going to need help from.  You’ll never be the one to decide who will actually give you a break when you need it.

Try to be nice.  Compassion and flexibility are great things!  Pass them on.  Try.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010.

"We all have to start somewhere" by FaMz of DeviantART

It has been brought to my attention that I’ve been a bit too lethargic.  I brought it to my own attention, actually.  I said to myself, “Self!  You must do something.”

What I would love to do, is direct another Shakespeare play.  It’d be wonderful to bite into Macbeth or Othello. However, I won’t be directing anything just now.  No money to put anything on stage.  And, I’ve lost touch with all of my colleagues, cohorts, collaborators, and chums over the course of my long—but wonderful—break from theatre.  Without those two resources: money, and collaboration, it’s not worth while (for me, anymore) to try and put something on stage.  Plays that are frantically organized and poorly funded always, always, always, always fail in one or more terrible ways.

So, what shall I do?  Between my life with my Beloved One, between going to work, and eating, what shall I do?  In fact, there are several things I’d like to do.  And, in no particular priority or ranking, they include:

Return To College.

Slowly at first, and—this time—with the intention of actually achieving  a degree.  {The third time’s the charm, right?}  A degree in what?  I don’t know.  I suspect I’ll likely focus primarily on English literature or education, with—perhaps—theatre, marketing, or graphic/multimedia design in combination as a secondary, lighter focus.  I should just go in and talk to one of the recruiters and say:  “When I graduate, I’d like to run a theatre company, be invited around the country to lecture about Shakespeare, freelance successfully as a web and graphic designer, publish a few best selling novels, teach drama, direct a film or two, and possibly host a radio show in my spare time.  I can’t decide which major or degree will wrap it all up in proper validation.  What do you recommend?”

Acquire Some Gear.

Before I met my Beloved One, I often fiddled around at recording audio-books of short stores, poems, and other public domain stuff.  In the past it always turned out terrible because I had a very poor microphone, and not much editing material to speak of.  However, I am aware of the fact that there are some rather successful musicians out there, who’ve made their first CD’s in their homes, mastering the tracks on their own computers.  I want a Mic.  Doesn’t need to be state of the art, just decent.  I want editing software.  I want to make an audio-book, and not be discouraged by poor sound, this time.  Why not?

Finnish Writing My Novel.

I’ve been quite lazy about my book.  I need to stop that.  I’m a realist, and I’m very much aware of the fact that it is possibly rubbish.  However, on the off chance that it’s not rubbish, I feel I should see it through to its resting place—be that the fire pit, or a bookshelf.

Publish The Novel Referenced Above.

Self explanatory.

Read What I Have Not Yet Read.

There are a handful of Shakespeare’s plays that I know very, very well.  I’ve studied them deeply, and prepared various productions of them several times over in my mind.  But, and I realize this comes as a shock, I’ve not read all of them.  I’m not sure why, other than because I prefer to read single volumes, as oppose to the complete works, or e-texts.  The Complete Works—I’ve had a few of those, over the years—is a wonderful quick reference tool!  However, it’s not practical for relaxed reading.  It’s not practical for hauling around on the bus, and so on.  Also on my reading list:  The Bible.  Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand.)  Remembrance Of Things Past. (Marcel Proust.)

Less Television, More Films.

My Beloved One managed to get me hooked on a number of television series I’d never even heard of before I met her.  House, Prison Break, 24, American Idol, and Hell’s Kitchen among them.  Prison Break and 24 have ended.  I’ve developed my own soft spot for Lie To Me, with Tim Roth.  However, I enjoy films more than television, and I haven’t seen enough good ones lately.

Embrace The Odd.

I do have the slightest inclination to try and set some sort of predicable schedule to Oddfellow updates.  Perhaps Tuesdays and Thursdays, or Wednesdays and Fridays, or—you get the drift.  I’m not sure why I have this inclination, I just do.  Stop asking me to explain myself, please.  I do that enough already.

As I said, none of the ambitions above outrank the others in priority.  The ambitions above, however, are—I suspect—practical remedies for my idle brain, and likely capable of being pursued simultaneously, until the principle of natural selection takes hold.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010

"Sgt. Shakespeare" by ~Carts of deviantART

I enjoyed the television show 24.  I have not watched any of the seasons prior to the one which concluded in this evening’s two hour finale.  And, I have said it before, and likely will again: I enjoyed it because it reminded me of Shakespeare. . .

What I saw in this single season I watched, was an atmosphere of the ‘modern day court’.  People of power—world leaders—some nobler than others.  Some pure of heart, working against terrible odds to achieve something amazing for a good reason.  On the other hand, many had flaws, and many were so flawed that it was difficult to see the goodness behind them.  The camera took us to vantage points where we could overhear deceit and corruption as it unfolded.  We saw secrets behind closed doors.  There was an urgency: people were afraid to be spotted through their windows.  People spoke in highly guarded words.

This is very like the court of Elsinore under Claudius’ rule when he stole the throne from Hamlet’s Father.  Very like the court in Richard III. Very like the court in Macbeth. People are secretly listened to and spied on left and right.  They are silenced, locked up, and murdered.

In Jack Bauer, I saw something not unlike the characteristics of Titus. . .  The revered Roman general, who’s spent his life in service of Rome, only to find that what he’d fought for has been warped by its politicians.  Like Titus, Jack Bauer is burned and betrayed by the heads of state.  And like Titus, Jack Bauer unleashes wild, relentless, and terrible revenge.  Also, in Jack Bauer, I saw something not unlike the characteristics of Hamlet. . .  Bauer is loved.  Loved more than he’s aware of, really.  Jack Bauer is constantly breaking Chloe’s heart just as Hamlet smashes Ophelia’s.  Bauer is aided and challenged by Cole Ortiz as Hamlet is aided and challenged by Horatio.  Both Bauer and Hamlet are consumed with what they know.  Something immense.  Something they can’t prove safely, not just yet.  It gives them something to do, and puts them in a constant game of: If I rat them out now, I will be killed.  If I kill them now, I will be killed. Both Bauer and Hamlet end up soldiering on to the bitter end against unbelievable odds.  They’re thought to be quite crazy indeed, but nonetheless are following their own sharp instincts through to some good end.  Even if they’ve caused chaos along the way.

The most consistent ‘echo’ of actual characters I saw, were the similarities of the Ex President Charles Logan, and his coconspirator Piller, to Richard, Duke of Gloucester (Richard III) and his coconspirator Buckingham.  Both pairs are the very picture of a master manipulator and his henchman.

Now, Shakespeare is widely celebrated or dismissed because he was a poet, and his plays are poetic.  If you like poetry, chances are, you’ll appreciate Shakespeare’s plays all the more.  If you don’t like poetry, well, Romeo and all the rest will have one strike against them from the off.  It’s quite obvious that 24 had no such poetic, or language based element at all.  24 was image based.  Action based.  Running and skidding on its plot, and the people’s motivations therein.  But that in itself, is the very essence—for me—of Shakespeare.  Not only did both 24 and Shakespeare use some character from every level of ‘society’ to make the story unfold, 24 capitalized on the very thing that made Shakespeare’s plots so wonderful. . .  Twists and turns to the bitter end.  Also like Shakespeare, instead of the characters being pigeonholed right from the start, the characters were simply there.  They were given a complex set of circumstances in which they formed their own clear motivations.  After that, they simply went about the business of achieving what they could.  Like Shakespeare, the creators of 24 did not judge the characters for us.  We in the audience got to do the judging for ourselves.

The more I reflect, the more I realize that the only thing which would have made 24 any more like Shakespeare’s work, is if there had been ghosts.  And, I suppose in these days, the word ‘hallucinations’ would be more applicable.  Regardless, a slight nod to the supernatural is the only device of Shakespeare’s that I did not see in 24. And, if Jack Bauer had seen the dead Renee after she had died; if someone started having PTSD nightmares; if the faces of the dead haunted the ex President Logan, or even the current President Taylor. . .  If that small ingredient were included?  Then, I would have been quite convinced that the 24 screenwriters had in fact picked up something by Shakespeare at some point and thought, “hey, this isn’t bad.”

As it stands, however, it was a wonderful season.  A television series I looked forward to watching unfold, and one that terminated itself slightly too quickly for me.  I would have enjoyed a few more seasons.  Perhaps I’ll find a set of 24 DVD’s and watch previous episodes.  Perhaps the storytelling from previous seasons will feel different to me?  It matters not.  This season stands alone in my frame of reference, for this is the season I watched.  I watched it because of the similarities to Shakespeare’s tension, tricks, turbulence, and devices—which I’ve just described above.  And, if you liked 24? If you do like poetry?  Perhaps try giving a production or film of a Shakespeare drama a chance one of these days.  You’ll find everything that helped 24 to be as fantastic as it was.

You won’t likely find Kiefer Sutherland, but you may possibly see some ghosts. . .

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010

"Dictionary" by indy42 of deviantART

What are the five most frightening words ever strung together in a sentence?  An actor friend of mine maintains his five pop up when he is reading a script, learning his part, and sees: “They fight, he is killed.” in the staging notes concerning his character.

What about for you?

I find it fascinating: when you think about it, the dreaded messages, the things we never want to hear; those that send us into the realm of lumpy throats, sweaty palms, and ringing ears are simple, short phrases.  Five words, and sometimes fewer still.

There are the classics:  “Try not to panic, but. . .” and, “Everything is fine, I promise!”.

Let’s not forget, “This may hurt a little.”

There is the emotional cannon ball to the stomach:  “I loved you.  I did.”

And of course, there is the entire cannon through the stomach, and brain, and ears:  “Your test came back positive.”

There is the wake up call. . .  “This position has been filled.”

There is the instant confusion button:  “Oh my God, you’re bleeding.”

The sudden self consciousness button: “There’s something in your teeth.”

There are the late night, edge-of-sleep worry triggers:  “Why do I smell smoke?” and “Did you hear that noise?”

What are the five most frightening words in the English language for you?  For me, at this moment, my five are these five. . .

“This drug has been discontinued.”

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010