tuckova

stair master masters the stairs

Every time I got to a staircase on Saturday I couldn't see the stairs. All I could see is the floor I was on and the floor below that I was going to and the giant falling place in between, swirling with danger. I could see myself falling and falling and then at least broken bones, words like crumpled and shattered. I made a system where I would explain to somebody nearby about the vertigo, an odd dizzy trepidation, which I have gotten before. Some of them just put my hand into theirs before I even finished explaining, and they would take me down the stairs while I stared at their shoulders or some other vague horizon and chanted don't look! down! in the rhythm of the descent. Squire took me downstairs, and my first boss when I moved here, and a doctor I knew for a while. Strangers, too. So many kind people, so much sweetness. It's embarrassing to have to keep telling people that there are some things you can't do. I can't go down stairs. The amount that it is embarrassing to tell is the same amount that it is liberating to say out loud, and I had to learn every time, and there were so many stairs.

Finally I was sitting at the top of the flight, above the stairs I couldn't bring into focus, waiting for somebody friendly to come along and hold my hand. Squire's most amazing babysitter, who is now a most amazing woman, came and sat down next to me as I finished my cigarette. I started to tell her how I couldn't see the stairs, how I needed help. And she said, you know, the stairs in this building all recede when they're not being used: you have to push a button to make the stairs come out. You probably just hadn't noticed because you'd been afraid to look. And she pushed it, and I looked down for the first time, really looked, and watched the stairs unfold below me. And then we walked down the stairs, and I laughed, brave and giddy.

Dear brain, I wish you would let me sleep past 4 a.m., but I thank you for waking me up laughing. And for giving me the best metaphors, all the time.

war, battle, skirmish: This is why we fight.

Listen, that I was never one to understand it
is part of the reason I never supported
waved, cheered, yellow-ribboned
the boys back home. There was too much
desperation, too much last option taken without
other options considered. But look: show me
a world without ghettos, show me
women lined up for their first vote, show me
something better after and I can understand then that
this is why we fight.

I am easily distracted by terms and thus my hate
for words like survivor and victim. Meanwhile,
nothing smells right in this room,
old copper onion stale sweet rot
everyone's lost something and everyone wants more,
one more moment of joy; she passes
the photo of a newborn baby and everyone touches
and weeps and orders another round of chemo
and I understand it goes beyond the self and that
this is why we fight.

It is more than I can summarize in ten lines because
it starts with the idea of stories, but yours
never goes beyond you, never counts the idea
of more than one narrative, never considers
who suffers, who could be saved,
who should be saved for, except if "who" is you.
It is more than missed birthdays that send me
reeling in tears from the room.
I can't explain, though I do understand that
this is why we fight.

subtle innuendos follow

I started off the morning crying, as one does when one works from home and does not need to explain anything to anybody in a neighboring cubicle. I also wear sweatpants! and a flannel cardigan with two buttons missing, upon which I wiped my poor leaky eyes. Get this: last night I was explaining to my friend over I think the eleventyth glass of wine that one of my many superpowers is the ability to make my friends cry. And then this morning I made mySELF cry! Truly we have traveled down a road and back again.

Then I got a letter from the translator that I did the Castles book with, back in the day, and he told me how I was awesome, and then my day brightened considerably. Mood swing dancing: It is not for the faint-hearted.

I listened to 80s radio today while I did all the clever things that fill my day. I don't usually listen to the radio because it is very difficult to cut a dangling modifier free when one is pondering the depths of Bronski Beat at top volume, but today I decided I deserved it. While I don't want to crow "those were the days, back when lyrics meant something" in the key of my dad, when I realize perfectly well that I come from the decade that brought you "mama say mama sa mama koosa" (though, to be fair, even that MEANT SOMETHING), I nevertheless feel like my attempts to enjoy the music of Kids These Days are sort of falling flat: I always go back to the Music of My Youth because I think it's objectively better. Hey that was a long sentence. I'm just talking about radio music, here, in case that's not obvious.

I finished Kavalier & Clay, much to the relief of everybody around me. Man, I hated that book. I want somebody to explain to me how it got such accolades, and I also want to never talk about it again.

Squire is back in school and it's going okay so far. He's also restarting his Christian youth group and oh yeah that's another way I'm awesome. I kind of want to talk about it but I feel like it's a whole Parenting Philosophy thing and it just becomes exhausting to think about. My day is considerably better than how it started, but I'm nowhere near being ready to write something thoughtful. I've got a good thing on the burner, though.