I wonder if the time in therapy the near-suicide prior to it, etc. I’m wondering if this park thing is a result of his rehab and (likely) therapy. Like lots of you, I did love that moment when Cuddy finds House laying on the picnic table, no longer watching the joggers or bugs, but maybe the clouds or the tree-tops. This was a lovely little reveal of a sensitive soul (or maybe I’m making too much of it-on the other hand they spent quite a bit of time with the camera following House’s interaction with the bug, so I’m inclined to think of this is a reveal of the sensitive aspect of House, who cares about patients’ rights who plays Bach who writes dopey prescriptions for ‘heart problems’ and buys corsages. I loved that small glimpse of House, who is not indifferent to the (micro) world around him. The endlessly curious House watches it, blows on it (to get it to move on?), but doesn’t flick it from his hand, squash it or ignore it as most people would be inclined to do. I did see ladybugs up until very late November (they love the spaces between my exterior an d interior windows, so who knows?) A ladybug crawls on House’s hand. Although in Chicago, with an incredibly (up till this week) mild winter (hello global warming!) I have seen my irises pop the surface of my garden, and my grass stay very, very green. Ladybugs don’t live in New Jersey in January.
So, instead of “feeling the healing” he sets himself up to even more acutely feel the terrible loss he’s suffered for a second time. He “watches and imagines.” How sad is that? In the dead of winter (albeit a pretty mild winter), House finds escape in thinking about the might-have-been of the Ketamine. So House likes to spend time in the park where he jogged. It made me laugh with House, want to throttle him for being dismissive of what Cuddy did for him, and made me weep for him when his truth revealed itself in the safe company of a person who will be in a different room tomorrow with another person. One Day, One Room was a gift and delight. I’ve lived for those rare literary reveals (whether in a movie/television or in a novel) of the true soul and heart of the hero. Disillusioned romantics and idealists who suppress their romanticism and idealism within a carefull guarded crypt, sentries posted every 25, or so, centimeters. The literary heroes to whom I’ve gravitated since I was about 10 years old have always been tragic heroes. The only explanation being that that’s simply who he is. A jerk supreme, who is cool to watch for his outrageous behavior.
One day one room series#
I’ve never liked House (either the series or the character) because House, the doctor, is an unrepentant asshole.
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