tuckova

then

Because I remember what it was
to wake with your arm over me
your breath in my hair
and know that we had fallen asleep
whispering secrets into each others' eyes

Because I remember what it meant
to climb the narrow stairs
fingers linked for balance
and not need to look at you to know
how your face looked or why

Because I remember how it felt
when you touched me,
a lick of electricity
and for once I didn't ask if you felt that
and we never talked about it with words

Because I remember these things
I don't need to see you again
or even know if they really happened.
But because I remember I wish.

talk to me like the rain.

I cry a lot. I mean really a lot. I cry because something is sad, okay. I also cry because something is funny. I cry when things seem sweet. I cry for death, sure, or cruelty. But I also cry at weddings, I cry any time children are singing, I cry reading metafilter threads. Bob Marley would not have known what to do with me. It is almost ridiculous. Lugubrious. I think I wasn't always this way; in fact I was talking to one of my old friends, and he said he'd never seen me cry. Never. But people who have known me more recently just sort of take it as a thing about me, like how I sneeze never once but at least three times. You just have to hand me tissues and wait till it's over in both cases. It's gotten to the point where I can cry for a solid hour before anybody says "what's up" I mean it's like how you don't bother to say "Gesundheit" until I'm done, because really, it's boring.

And I think, I like to think, that I feel everything intensely, that this is just part of me. You had a fight with your friend and I am defensive and wounded with you. You are hot in the summer sun and though I am fine there is a trickle of sweat down my back, I'm sure. Your delight and I'm smiling so hard my teeth itch. It's like somebody dialed my empathy up to a point where it's so loud that all I can hear is all this feeling.

And then other times it's like: you know what? I'm sitting here alone, and it's raining outside finally, and I'm reading Tennessee Williams, and I'm crying because I've actually lost my personal mind. Which is also possible.

cracking variations

Crack of dawn is when we get up and the clouds are still pink, which means sailors take warning; my grandparents had a thermometer in the hall that was supposed to predict all kinds of sailor's moods ("Its colors turn to pink you'll see for rain and high humidity"), and sailors aside I am  standing at the tram stop shivering for the coat I was right to leave behind because it will get hot later. Crack must have been smoked to make me leave the house this early; I am a morning person but a girl ought to know her limits. Which is four. In the a.m. A crack team was assembled to go on a mission, or not really so much a mission as just a regular trip to the cottage. Cracks are what we saw on the train, though there are so many ankle-length dresses everywhere, even at 5 in the morning with backpacks the Czech ladies go in style so there are these modesty dresses and also these low slung jeans, with more summer in the city cleavage than even I like to see so early in the day, and I feel old. When we get where we're going I sleep for five hours straight, or more like jagged, with moments of pulling up from the marshy water of dreams to crack my eyes open and wave faintly and then I was dragged back under. It's been a difficult week. Crack is the sound of the whip I put to my own back and said get up, do something, nobody likes you when you're lazy. Crack all ten knuckles and then chop some wood, carry some water, try to be less useless. Crack is what must be done to the code of language, of what did you mean when you said that, of when we discussed this for an hour last night what did you think we were talking about, of responsibility and neglect. Or not neglect but more like not caring. Or not not caring but like, momentarily being distracted by something else more important than anything I have to say. I'm not saying the birds aren't adorable, I'm saying... well, never mind. Cracked is what happened to the eggs and then yesterday the babies flew away. Cracked is the safe that was my heart. On the plus side, sometimes you crack me up. There's always a plus side, and you can get there by traveling carefully lightly watching your step. Between the cracks.

brought to you by the letter F

FRIENDS & FAMILY: Summer vacation is absolutely THE BEST. I want Squire home all the time. He's working on changing his screenplay into a short story or something. I don't know. He has summer goals. He makes me laugh every day. And Friar and I talk about nearly everything and I'm so glad to have known him so long and still be so blown away by everything he knows. Last night he was talking about Konrad Lorenz and summer pub behavior and I actually rested my chin on my hands and looked at him raptly. We're our own little enclave these days, inside this ghost town. Nearly all my other friends are out of town and we write or text each other but I have nobody who wants to meet me at the beer garden for like, maybe the rest of the month? It is kind of lonely.

FICTION: Loved Gilead. Not crazy about Good Scent from a Strange Mountain. Started reading Summer of Caprice last night and it was just about perfect for my mood, a little surrealist Czechish thing. Still working through Watership Down with Squire.

FUN: Oh the sun the sun the sun! It is lovely. Although I think the naked boys next door moved out (or maybe went on vacation) because there was a lady over there cleaning all the windows (YAY!) and then all the curtains were drawn (BOO!) and not a sign of them. We have ants and that is our only guest. The cottage is kind of awesome, though. These birds built a nest in the broken-down porch, and it's been fun watching her brood and now the parents both fetching worms for the babies. They seem to not mind us very much, though we do try to be a bit quieter around them (I guess, if they had the whole forest behind them and they built on the peoplehouse, that's what they get).

FLICKR: I have some pictures up on Flickr. Talk to me; how are you doing?

Floating Bits

When something you knew you had to do and emotionally dreaded turns out to be easier than you expected, do you think you just haven't felt the impact of it yet, or is it possible you made a right choice and that's why it was easy?

On Sunday at the cottage a fawn was attacked by an unleashed dog just outside the outhouse. It goes without saying that I was inside the outhouse: the woodland creatures seriously have it in for me and they're always up to something every time, like once a mouse just came and watched me. Ew. In this case I think the deer had rather a worse experience than I did, since I was just listening to preternatural screams whereas she was making them. The neighbor went running and got the dog away and the fawn is probably okay. Where was the doe? I wonder.

If you were going to watch Must See TV after everybody had must seen it: Buffy or Mad Men?

Yesterday was St. Cyril and Metodej, and today is Jan Hus Day. I will now make my standard joke about Jan Hus being a guy with a lot at stake. Squire and Friar are still at the cottage, where I would like to be, but I came home to work on more silliness for the underpants gnomes, who seem to still think I might fall for the "shrinking the font" trick. I like how Czechs have nice little holidays built in for my hangovers (July 5th right after Independence Day, and even the day after my birthday is a national holiday, yo) and deeply resent not being able to use this one, but not as much as I deeply resent having A Budget again. I am glad for the work, just not the timing.

How often do your relationships need to be defined in order for you to feel comfortable in them? Never is a possible answer.

Squire got braces. Only on his molars, though, so it mainly hurts but does not look different and I can't call him metal mouth or jaws or anything fun.

In other medical news, I have a weird bump on my wrist. I went to my brand new GP with this, and he told me that it would either go away or it wouldn't, but I could maybe have surgery. He also asked me, and I swear I am not making this up, whether I had low blood pressure. So I am looking for a new doctor.

Oh yeah! And I got called a "man hater" by a total stranger on the internets! I feel like now I finally earned my place in the Humorless Feminists club, and I want to know if I get a toaster for this or what.

Women at Forty, a revision

MWomen at Forty

by Donald Justice

M Women at forty
Learn to close slam softly loudly
The doors to rooms they will not be 
Coming back to.

At rest on Tearing past a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,   
Though the swell is gentle A perfect storm is brewing.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy girl as she practices tying  learns to hold anger
His father’s tie there  As her mother held, in secret,

And the face of that father mother,
Still warm soft with the mystery of lather lipstick.
They are more fathers women than sons daughters themselves now. 
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets a dog's bark, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope   
Behind their mortgaged houses.

Frog and Scorpion

"But I had to do it. It's my nature," replied the scorpion.

Let's talk about the frog in the story, who represents everybody who has been gullible, who has trusted their heart in the face of facts to the contrary, who has agreed to do something in the hopes it would turn out well with the full knowledge it wouldn't; who represents, in short, you. You gullible trusting agreeable idiot. That is what the story tells us, that the frog kind of had it coming. So you kind of had it coming, is what I want to say. This is not strictly speaking the same as you asked for it but it has the same wah-wah-wah condescension. And it is as unfair as I told you so always is. The only person who takes pleasure in saying "I told you so" is an asshole. And the thing about the frog is that whether or not it was told is not important: The frog knew. You knew. You knew how it would end. Pushing off the shore with your strong legs, balancing danger on your back, you wanted to get to the other shore because it was asked of you and you always want to try, but you knew you wouldn't succeed.

So why did you do it? I think this part gets lost. We think about the scorpion all slithery and persuasive, but I don't think the frog fell for that. I think the frog knew it could be an awfully big adventure. I think you said: "Look, I will not make it to the other side with the scorpion on my back. I may not make it to the other side all alone, either. If I have the scorpion, at least the conversation will be stimulating. At least we will have some fun. And there are rocks and scary bits, and I will do better with a navigator. The scorpion will help keep me pointed in the right direction; I mean that stinger has to be good for more than just the one thing, right?" That's what you told yourself, isn't it. You got all caught up in making the journey interesting and succeeded in distracting yourself from the destination.

All I'm asking from you is that when it happens, when the sting of it hurts more than you can bear, that you not be crying as you resign yourself under the water. That you not say, "How can this be? How did this happen?" Because you did know. You knew full well. Keep the story your story; it's the only way to get out of this with some froggish dignity. Admit that you chose it. Admit that you had a good time. And keep your eyes on the shore in case there's mugwort there, which they say is an antidote for scorpion sting. As your precarious passenger slides from your poisoned back, one more strong kick can get you where you need to go. Stay calm, to slow your pulse. And remember it's okay to ask for help; it's just not okay to ask helplessly.

please see your doctor regularly

Today I found out that I do not have cancer. It was highly unlikely that I did, but the two weeks I was waiting for test results were pretty awful for me and probably anybody who had to listen to me. So that was a relief. I quickly moved beyond being relieved, which makes sense, to being pissed at myself and really embarrassed. I feel things very intensely but I'm generally a fairly level-headed person, and this crazy amount of dread, and the crazy if/then hamster wheel I put myself on, and my near-surreal need for reassurance felt like a betrayal of my character by... myself. Either it's bad or it isn't, but the two weeks while you wait for the results are not an appropriate time to freak out. Freak out after the results are bad, or better yet don't freak out at all. You know? It was stupid. It was like somehow if I worried enough I could influence the results? It's not that kind of test though, and anyway I am not a great holder of breath. Anyway, I'm fine. I am shifting myself back to relief, which is the more appropriate emotion, and to continued resolutions to take care of myself as if I were my best friend and not secretly a lunatic. I got home and painted my face up to see what I would look like when I get old. Deep frowny bits sure, but also I've already got some pretty good laugh lines already going on. It was not unhopeful. Then I forgot to take the makeup off before Squire came home, so he had kind of a surprise, there.

a woman of no consequence

You said what you were going to do and now you have to do it. Because that was what you said; you gave your word. You said here is the line. You said cross that line and this is what happens. It's what you said, you all but shook on it. Shook hands to seal the deal and shook in your shoes in case the punishment were insufficient deterrent. There is no punishment available that does not hurt you, too. Or I guess not punishment but consequence, newspeak. And it's your line. If you weren't willing to risk this result then you shouldn't have drawn the line. Dragged your toe across the sand, finger through wet concrete, a knife across your heart. Here's where can't be crossed. And it was crossed, double crossed, crossed your heart, the cross you bear, cross-eyed and painless. Only, it kind of hurts. You said what you were going to do and now you have to do it. You don't have to want to do it, but you have to do it. The idea is, the theory is, the plan is that this will hurt you, but not as much as seeing the line crossed again will hurt. You can say, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Though you like to hope that isn't true. You're doing this because you don't want to be hurt. And because you said you would. Can I wait a week? Sure. You can wait two weeks. A month. You can spend years ignoring the fact that the line was crossed, that the line is crossed again and again. But there was a reason you drew it, and no matter how smudged it gets from being crossed, you remember that it was there. And every time it is crossed and you do nothing, it's you who is crossing it now. And that is part of why you drew the line: to clarify to yourself later when you would need to act. And now you need to act. You said what you were going to do and now you have to do it.

Portrait d'Une Femme by Ezra Pound

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.

Great minds have sought you- lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
One average mind- with one thought less, each year.

Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay one. Yes, you richly pay.
You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:

Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
That never fits a corner or shows use,

Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,

Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that's quite your own.
Yet this is you.