tuckova

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

something my former hands had longed for

I had a Heart Episode at the dentist's yesterday. I really want it to Mean Something, or to at least have had a life-passed-before-my-eyes etc, but mainly what I'm taking away is that I am pissed at myself for compounding it by panicking. Also grateful that I got to call Friar and be all WHOA about it and he didn't even tell me I totally didn't have a heart attack until we were both safely home. My resting heart temperature is like 60 now; that's amazing and good right. I mean I'm not worried about my heart. I am a drama queen and I am bringing the drama, here it is: drama. I didn't tell Squire about how the main thing that scared me was thinking that I wouldn't see him again, and how determination to get over that fear was important in terms of focused getting home action. My drama has changed since the days when I thought that 27 was a good time to die, so there's that.

I think not liking the oversell of bacon is the new bacon.

I think that it is awesome how ugly Edward James Olmos is. Yes I am late to the Battlestar Gallactica show, but at least I'm here now. It is nothing new to observe that in pretty much any given film the women are going to be prettier and younger, but I still had to rack my brains to think of any woman who is even close to Olmos's league. The only woman I can think of that comes close is Linda Hunt, and I think she can act circles around Olmos, and he is really good. So maybe I could now make a blanket statement about how all ugly people who go into acting are probably really amazing, and how great would it be to have a movie with all ugly people. Except I thought Michelle Pfeiffer did a great job in Frankie and Johnny so I just blew my own idea out of the water.

I think it is funny how parents raise the kids they can stand to have and then think that all that personality is just on the kids. Certainly I think people are born with a certain amount of stuff in place, but if your kid can't fall asleep without noise-canceling headphones, I think that's on you. I'm talking only about other parents: Squire is totes his own person.

I think that it is interesting how I process maybe one thought every year. This year so far the thought seems to be "You're kidding, right?" which is when people express a level of stupid so incomprehensible to me that I think the only possible explanation is that they're joking. So far there seems to be no way to verify it with most people that I don't know, or even people I know without being really insulting, so this is a mostly internal process.

The amount of my thinking that is occupied by the past is not to be underestimated.

tug

Logic and emotion are fighting again. Logic says I don't understand and Logic does some explaining of why understanding is important while Emotion's feet tap impatiently. Impatience is also an emotion that Emotion has. Emotion wants to be trusted. Emotion says I shouldn't have to explain why I feel this; it should be enough for you that I say I feel it. Logic doesn't know what to say about that, because Logic feels the ice cracking all around. Feels it like through vibrations, not with feelings. Emotion says can you please just please try. Logic says I am trying and Emotion says not hard enough you're not. Logic talks about common sense and being sensible and Emotion talks about sensitivity. Emotion wants to know why Logic's point of view gets to go first all the time. Logic counts off facts using graphs and figures and fingers. Emotion starts to cry. Logic says why are you being so emotional. Logic passes over the tissues and puts out a hand all can't we be friends and Emotion says between sobs never mind, never never mind.

oh, Sylvia

Sometime in my early teens for a mercifully brief period of time I had the absolute delusion that my ability to take somewhat decent care of my sister totally qualified me as a babysitter and I went to work. I babysat regularly for the people across the street, who were California Jewish and that was pretty interesting, all that art and strange half-held ritual. There was another woman whose children I don't remember beyond the smell of their bedroom, sleep and urine, but I remember she called me Sarah Bernhardt. I liked it after the kids would go to sleep, wandering the rooms of the house, reading the spines of the books or flipping through the record collections, imagining I lived there.

One time I watched two children whose mother was, I think, recently divorced. She was going to a party. This was the saddest house I remember being in, not a home at all. There was a hole in the living room wall and someone had penciled above it "Sarah did this when she was mad." Sarah being the mother. Things went along okay until bedtime, when the boy completely snapped and decided he was going to kill me and his sister with a baseball bat. Let me tell you, you do not want a 15 year old in charge in this situation, because we are perfectly capable of making enough drama on our own and do not need help from genuine dramaticians. I tried to take the bat away a few times, got cracked on the arm pretty hard, and gave up. Using I guess hurricane logic, I locked myself and the sister in the bathroom and she fell asleep against me while he banged against the door with the bat. Naturally the mother had left no phone number where she could be reached. Eventually the boy fell asleep on the floor. I tucked the girl in bed and proceeded to think of ways to stay awake. There was a book with a black cover, with a hand seeming to rip through paper, holding or dropping a flower, which looked like it might do the trick. And it did; I stayed up all night reading.

The mother didn't come home til the next morning. The man who had driven her home drove me home, which was my first ride in an semi, which was interesting. I have absolutely no memory of what happened with the children that morning, but I'm pretty sure that that night was the end of my babysitting career. And that is the story of how I read "The Bell Jar".

not quite

You're just saying what it looks like to you, you're just riffing, making jokes, trading barbed wire tongue gossip. This one is an idiot trapped in a loveless marriage for fear of dying alone; that one is hopeless with the idea that love can make over the face of the beloved into something more useful than a mask; the other believes that belief is enough to transform the world. This one thinks that what it says is interesting while clearly everyone is wiping away their yawns; that one isn't even clever enough to understand the function of a thesaurus, much less a dictionary; the other hasn't learned the function of words to start with. You could rail against the world all night if left unchecked.

What's behind this of course is the illusion that while we're looking at this, that, and the other, people might fail to notice what was in fact clear way more than a paragraph ago: that you are less than what you mock; that what you are is nothing more than vinegar and salt, spooned onto others for entertainment value. You do not nourish. The poorer flavors you describe rise above sea level to majestic impression despite your sour evaluation, and you are left to float alone, as salt does. And vinegar and salt are insufficiently satisfying, which you mention as though it had nothing to do with you and your damaged taste.