tuckova

late birthday present

For my birthday, Squire said he would destroy my enemies. Apparently my enemies are people who litter, people who stand in the tram doorways, and people who are stupid on the internet. That sounds about right.

www.flickr.com/photos/53678649@N00/4672018463/

Someday I will figure out the scanner and then I will be unstoppable.

sail along the silver sky

I remember sitting on the edge of her bed. Her old boyfriend's picture in a drawer somewhere now, and her new boyfriend out of town for the weekend, which is why we were visiting. Me and Dave, who was really sub-league for me except at the time I was not really capable of interacting with my actual peers and he played guitar so he became attractive to me. This was the fall after the summer when I gave everything up. Most of my thinking at the time had to do with how excellent and frightening it felt to float away, rid of ballast, no ties. I cut off all my hair because it seemed a terrible encumbrance, and then balanced this with heavy bracelets, silver rings. I was not unconflicted. Deep down I knew that giving up what you want is not the same as giving up wanting. Anyway sitting on the edge of her bed, and he's brushing her hair, and then she's brushing his. Hers short and blond, his long waves of golden chestnut, something for a girl to envy, and I watched the brush going through her hair, going through his, the two of them giggling together. I felt like I was watching monkeys grooming, ridiculous. And I felt so absurdly jealous I wanted to cry. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched another connection I had imagined sever itself. Another rope cut.

I don't feel anything particular about that story now. It's a thing that happened. I remember it so that I don't repeat it, so that I never again find myself sitting on the edge of a bed close to tears for being who I am or for wanting something for a moment, wanting anything, even less than I deserve. It wasn't a good moment, but I got through it, I got through worse, and I wouldn't trade the memory for the absence of the pain it caused. Even if the scars are ugly, it beats the alternative, which is for all the fire in my heart to burn out while I stay in one place, tethered to a ground I know is uninhabitable.

last time

"As you can see, the fin de siècle..."
Eventually I slip away from the tour group
and wander out into the castle courtyard.
The grounds have not been tended for years -
Ninety minus forty-five years, exactly.

I take out a cigarette, because I am learning
to be European. A plume of smoke says,
"I have never been so lonely,"
but in fact I was much lonelier, once,
on the tenth floor and I did not jump then.

My heart is harder now; burned to brittle.
I have a great deal less to lose.
From the balcony above me a girl is crying
and her mother's clenched voice scolds,
"Stop this instant or I'll give you something to cry about."

The Editor's Dilemma

IN THE HIDDEN CHAMBER OF OUR INTIMACY ALL PROS AND CONS MINGLE.

A writer writes something. Next, an editor edits it, eliminating grammatical and factual errors and usually tightening the style if needed. The text then goes to a translator, whose job is to translate the text. A final editor (me!) then makes sure that the text is as natural sounding as possible in the target language.

THE FAMOUS TIGHTROPE WALKER HOUDINI WOULD SPREAD HIS ARMS.

The translator’s dilemma is the challenge that a translator faces when needing to relay something from one language that does not translate exactly or even smoothly. A joke is lost; do you “make up for it” later? How can you convey a stylistic flourish? Do cultural activities get explanations?

 

TIME SEEMS TO STAND STILL TILL MY HISTORY COMES ALIVE.

The particular translator's dilemma that I’ve been thinking about this week is the one that happens when for some reason the source language editor has not done their job. This is sometimes not because the editor did a bad job, but because the writer did not feel the need for an editor at all.

 

I WOULD ASSEMBLE IT THE WAY FIRST ANTHROPOLOGISTS WOULD ASSEMBLE SKELETON OF MESOZOIC SAURIANS.

The dilemma is this: What if the writer is a poor writer; what if the text is error-ridden in the extreme? Is the translator's job to make sure the writer's work is reproduced as faithfully as possible?  to make text sound as good as it can? to make the text easier for the reader? Is the translator's duty to the writer, or to the text, or to the reader?

 

SHE IMPERSONATES THE HEAVENLY AND HELLISH BEAUTY.

The language editor's dilemma is the same song at a different pitch. It IS an editor's job to fix factual, grammatical, and stylistic errors. The problem is, when the text gets to the translator, it should already have been cleared of error in the source text, and the language editor should really only be worrying about such stylistic changes as are necessary to make the text sound natural in the target language. Should.

 

IT TESTS TRESPASSING INTRUDERS IN AN INNOCUOUS FOREPLAY.

But. I just got done editing a book that had so many errors it was almost funny. I decided to go at it as the first editor should have done, which meant a lot of research. It turns out that I enjoyed it (the research part) a lot more than I’d expected. I turned in a text that was reasonably accurate, grammatically correct, and stylistically still a reasonable reflection of the writer. I feel a little morally conflicted, because the English version doesn’t align with the original as it should, which is beyond the call, but I felt I had to do it that way. I’m not even sure if I was appropriately loyal to the readers, who have now been robbed of some pretty funny stuff. However, since it was too good to throw it all away, I have given you a little taste of the meal.

 

HEROD WASHED HIS HANDS.

facts are simple and facts are straight

Hi! Hi! What's up with you? What's up with me is that I have TOO MUCH TIME and everything takes on this super-saturated intensity, and I forget that the world is in fact going on as usual and it's just I'm looking at it a bit funny. But anyway I thought maybe I should just say what's facts and not so much feelings.

Facts are that we've been going to the cottage a lot. Pulling nails out of old boards, lots of chainsawing, watching various flowers (planted and otherwise) pop up. The current focus is on the front porch, which was caving in because the previous owners built it on sand. I am not making this up. So the whole thing came down and now we will figure how to put it back up, this time not on sand. Lots of time spent in pubs, on the train, and at the dining room table with graph paper trying to figure out what to do. Graph paper and booze is a winning combination.

Facts are that I've been sick for almost two weeks. I'm so much better now, but I still can't walk about without a box of tissues in hand. This is somewhat complicated when there are abrupt pressure changes, which render me entirely useless on the best of days. On Saturday I spent most of the day in bed, drifting between sleep and a pile of New Yorkers, jumping up with a periodic flood of motivation only to sink back down as everything went black and starry. Sunday was better, but still not great: the one thing I nearly managed to accomplish (picking up a glass from the floor) was thwarted when I smashed my face into a nail. Good times.

Facts are that freelancing is going pretty well, actually better than I would have thought. I am able to put food on my family! That said, it turns out that marketingspeak is my chalkboard fingernails, and that I am also not terribly happy with art critiques, of which I currently have a book's worth to do. I love the translator and it's not hard work, it's just irritating. Last week I did a medical paper on yawning, which was fine text-wise, but lead to more napping than was probably strictly necessary. Coming up this week: a travelogue. You guys, if I don't get a simple "stereotactically-inserted somethingsomething in the cortex" soon, I'm going to scream. Yes: "It's not brain surgery" for me means something else: it means it's actually hard work.

Facts are that I've thrown the last two books I've read, which is not good. I'm thinking of a New Campaign, reading Pulitzer winners (exceptions: Do not have to read the egregious Kavalier and Clay again). This started as an idea to read all the Man Bookers, but then I realized I've hated more than half of the ones I read, echh. So: Pullet Surprises it is. If I take off the ones I've read already, I've still got some 70 books to read, so this becomes part of the five-year plan, clearly, because I am not one of those book-a-week geniuses.

Facts are that I feel sometimes as though I'm making no progress as a person, and then I remember how much I was crying this time last year, and I feel ready to launch my own self-help channel. Now: your turn.

AT-510A

I open the door and you're there which is surprising and not. There's an awkward moment and I step back to let you in but you reach forward, your thumb along my jaw and it fits like it always did and my head tilts into your warm fingers like it always did; our open palms and eager mouths and matching eyes are mirrors, and here we are. You say, I realized I love you. Then I realize something for myself, which is: this is not real. My real life is not a story, because stories aren't real.

Nothing against stories but the thing that is missing for me is the part where they break from the existing narrative. The thing that is missing for me is when somebody says: I don't want to be a story. The thing I don't get is when he says he's prince charming, when she says she's actually a princess; when they shed the toadskin and the ragged dress and instead of stepping into something new they step into the promises that were made to them by people who were frankly untrustworthy. I'm not saying we have to go all fourth wall on everything; I'm wondering why people keep building the same walls.

I mean, listen: I'm biased. If I step into the story and stay, we know perfectly well what happens. I chop off my heels to try to be what he wants and when he finds out he doesn't say, oh the sacrifices you made for me. When he finds out he says, hey actually I think I love your your sister; let's turn the carriage around and get her. So I have maybe less than the usual desire to participate. I'm acknowledging that. If you think I didn't want him; if you think I didn't burn for the prince same as everyone it's because I lied about it, because I knew how it would go and where it would end.

So yes I am predisposed to hating the walls, hating the story, hating all of that; out of self-preservation if nothing else. I see that. I used all my power of myth and wore out my dancing shoes, sewed nettles with my bleeding hands, and then ran and escaped across the bridge of one hair instead. I never expected a white horse or your prodigal love. And I took myself out of the story long ago.

manic pixie dream girl grows up

He comes home from work to find her playing with the kids, and they sit on the carpet together and draw pictures and he feels the day melt from his shoulders.
If they don't have kids maybe he comes home from work and she's made interesting cocktails and they have inventive and playful sex.
One day they smash all the dishes so they can dress up in their wedding clothes and go shopping for more.
Over dinner he tells her about his day and she listens and they dress in costumes to act out the stupid people until he doesn't feel the pain anymore.
They sneak homemade popcorn into the local multiplex and make fun of the movies they're better than.
In the morning his ironed clothes are laid out in witty positions and he goes to work again, smiling at his luck.
During the day she works somewhere collecting stories for his amusement. Or maybe she stays home and cleans the windows drawing secret messages in her breath for him.
Weekends an adventurous trip or maybe a dutiful one made fun by creative sidelines and thrilling insights.
They don't talk about ideas much, but they push boundaries and explore inner worlds. He thinks about writing it down or painting, which will please her because she loves how artistic he is.
I should never have given them kids. Okay: the kids magically fade when children are no longer fun to play with.
And then they grow old together and he reads her all the love letters he ever meant to write her and she likes that a lot and forgets the rest.
They die entwined and everybody sighs with completion.

Or one day he comes home and the words she is saying are actually important and they aren't about him but he has to pay attention. It's so demanding. She wants to go back to school and maybe she blames him for pulling her out of what she said was a waste of time. One day he comes home and there's no dinner and she's crying and she throws a dish at his head, several dishes and they don't go shopping afterwards. One day he comes home and she says I have a life too, you know. But he didn't know, because she never told him, because he never wanted to know. And he says let's go scream at the trains? Let's capture a leopard, let's tap dance, let's listen to the Shins? And she says Oh you assholes. This stuff works for you because you are simple; I need more than that. And then what sucks is that she doesn't evaporate, because she was real. Now they have that pain to deal with, and no amount of soundtrack can make it better.

for clarity: Manic Pixie Dream Girls

three by three

Things that annoy:
people who use air quotes to convey their superiority
errors on government websites
my brain when insufficiently stimulated

Things that confound:
people who dance to a different rhythm than the one playing
taking the time to wonder instead of taking the time to find out
where the last hour went

Things that delight:
the mash-up of "It Wasn't Me" and "Let It Be"
20 minute naps
when you throw your head back to laugh

because

I moved away and you didn't write. I wrote and you didn't write back. You wrote a letter criticizing me for being stupid, and you were right but I couldn't think how to apologize. You thought "contemplating your navel" meant picking your nose, literally. I grew up faster than you. One day I realized I hated the way you walked. You got obsessed with movie actors. You started dating my boyfriend. You went on a diet and I watched you peeling lettuce leaves off in strips and saw we were fundamentally different. You told stories about me and embellished them to make them more interesting, which is also known as lying. You told me I was ruining my life but didn't seem to have any suggestions about how to stop. You gave my friend an STD and denied it to him and confessed it to me. You grew up faster than I did. You didn't invite me to your party. You told me it wasn't possible to love me.  You said it was too far for you to come and visit me, and I should visit you instead. I chose the person who didn't ask me to choose. You said I should forget you. You hung up on me. I wasn't your ideal. You had children with a man you professed to hate. I had a six hour layover in your airport and you had a date and didn't show. You said once I was gone you probably wouldn't even miss me. You rubbed my forearm and called me baby names. Once I wasn't there and you didn't even notice. I couldn't let it go, so I let you go instead.

five

1. I had to go to the doctor last week as a result of the work at the Prestigious Hospital, who wants to be sure that its employees are fit. I attempted to argue against it, since I really don't see what my blood pressure has to do with my ability to edit (I see what editing does to my blood pressure, but that's different), and also because I particularly dislike putting on clothes for the purpose of going out and then taking off my clothes in front of clothed people. This is why I never pursued a career as an artist's model. Fears and bumbling aside, the visit to the doctor turned out to be the most low-maintenance visit I've ever had: for example, he determined my height and weight by asking me what they were. Neat-o. He said I could come back and take off my clothes some other time, but a form is a form and let's get this thing done. So that guy is totally going to be my regular doctor now.

2. I've been thinking about what makes people fall out of like. When I meet somebody, I either instantly like or dislike them, or I forget their names. Of the people I remember, I revise my opinion only rarely. So if I stop liking somebody, there's generally a reason, I mean a thing I can say, "It is at this point that I stopped liking you/being interested in you." But I guess for some people they just lose interest gradually? Or is there always some event, some one thing, however dimly acknowledged, that causes a break?

3. Inspired by our friends who got Squire to paint a trailer by paying him, I decided to try that approach at the cottage, and offered to pay him a really ridiculous amount per nail for pulling nails out of previously-used wood, so that it could then be safely chainsawed and used for firewood. Five crowns a nail, you guys. So he was all excitedly plotting what he would do with the money, what he would buy, how many nails he might pull in an hour, etc. I was like, "Hey, all he needed was some motivation!" He made it for about 30 minutes, 10 nails. Then he got bored and stomped around the place for a few hours talking about how he had so much angry energy he didn't know what to do with himself, oh the horrible hor-moans! and then he lay on the bed and listened to Percy Jackson and the Predictables. I pulled out the rest of the nails, though I gave up counting out loud after 100. Then I stomped around the cottage wondering who was going to pay ME five crowns a nail, because 500 Kc buys a quite fine bottle of somethingsomething, which I felt I deserved.

4. Noting typos on the US Census web site is a) an occupational hazard; b)a sign of too much free time; c) other.

5. I think one reason I am good at remembering so many facts in general is that I absolutely cannot store numbers. It has been noted that if some Czech version of the INS ever came for me, or child services for that matter, I might be lost. How much did Squire weigh when he was born? I have no idea. Or Friar's year of birth. Or my current phone number. I do not remember how old your kids are, and I have on more than one occasion forgotten how many kids you have, and had to remember by reciting their names, which I remember. I don't remember your birthday unless I have a clever mnemonic, though I remember to write it down, so props for me. I also have trouble performing simple functions, like you don't even want to know what DST does to my poor tender brain. But anyway: numbers. Numb-er and numb-er. Is this normal? It goes without saying that I can tell you phone numbers from my childhood, including radio stations, my aunt's house, my next-door-neighbor's, but I can't keep new numbers in my head for beans. I blame trying to switch to metric as an adult. What do you think?