tuckova

like a drunk but not

On Wednesday it felt like a really truly spring day and I decided to resume walking, which I used to do in great gulps and enjoy, but I like it much less when the streets are icy, which they have been for about a year now I think. But now it is sunny again, and it is fun to prowl the streets watching things and listening to podcasts. I walked down my street where a young couple stood in the middle of the sidewalk kissing while people walked around them, her arm extended behind her to hold the leash of her unwatched dog and his hand resting on her breast. Spring oblivion.

I went to Cejl, the Poor Part of Town, where a family stood on opposite sides of the street shouting at each other, one finally darting across the traffic to shout more effectively close up and then they hugged, with the conciliatory rubbing of shoulders and laughing. I got a massage as part of my quest to find the best reasonably priced massage in town (at least one a month until I find it; this is the best grail hunt I have set myself since the quest for the perfect martini). This was good but not great, a chalice but not the grail.

Then I went to the post office to pick up the only kinds of package they let me get now without complication, which is books. Yay for books, I know everybody loves a Kindle but I am too old for that specific technology. When there are teleportation devices I swear I will figure them out, yea though I am seventy, but I need books with pages or I don't feel like I'm reading. The line was longish, though it moved surprisingly briskly for a Czech line, and the couple in front of me with his chin resting atop her head, arms entwined, were able to maintain a steady elephant walk sway as they moved towards the window.

Walked up the hill through downtown and had an ice cream. I saw one couple making out on the new park benches on the main square. One homeless type with his hands down his pants. An older and much younger man, jaunty as if from a boat, apparently a couple, circling a billboard, reading all the upcoming events, not talking but standing too close to be strangers. I saw children chasing pigeons and the fountain hasn't been turned on yet so there were students sitting on the rings inside, backpacks flung aside, heliotropic faces tilted to the sun.

Stopped in at the new pub to say hi but not to eat, and then walked home, and part of me was all YEAH FOR ME AND MY LEGS and the other part was like ow ow ow ow ow. 

This weekend I opened the balcony windows and sat on the floor in a sunbeam reading about Anne Shirley. One of the pleasures of my youth was re-reading, and I almost never do it now, but it feels like a thing that one could re-learn to do, to be interested in the plot precisely because you know where it's going, like walking all over the town you've lived in for almost twenty years, or thinking that public displays of affection are a nice sign of spring.

just saying

People you should talk to about how your wife is not nice to you any more:

your good friends

your therapist

a divorce lawyer

People you should not talk to about how your wife is not nice to you any more: 

a woman you are trying to hit on

nor whispers, nor witches, nor wandering stars

I made a mental note to myself to write about... something today. It started with the letter W but I do not remember what it was. Not wisdom, weirdness, wallowing. Nor pussy willows, though I got a bouquet of them a few weeks ago and they sat on the end of the counter, mysterious and soft buds. Winter? I have had so much more than enough of winter that I cannot fathom wanting to write about it; winter is my unwelcome guest, longer than three days, longer even than three months, the foul smell lingering like it will never go. Yesterday the sun was shining and I thought perhaps it would be nice enough to start walking again next week and checked the weather forecast and it predicted 25 degrees which felt AMAZING, just to think about what 25 degrees would feel like, I mean I do not even REMEMBER 25 degrees in this country it was so long ago, but then I realized that it was 25 Fahrenheit. Ohrightwinter. As you were.

I do realize it was ridiculous to have thought it could go from the snowstormy 6 below to 25 in a week, but such is my longing for any other weather that I was misled. It was like when you're in a bar and you're sure someone is just looking at you all the time but then you realize that there's a clock above your head. Or when Jackie O is waving at you and you wave back and then realize she's just hailing a cab. Neither of these things have happened to me but I believed a weather forecast and it is just as awkward.

When it is finally spring I will complain because every mammal in town is publicly rutting and reminding me of how old I am etc. I know that.

 

This weekend I planned to work on a book I have fallen behind in editing, and I also had a real desire to take a break from the book because I am having trouble maintaining a consistent day-to-day editing level and it needs planning. My usual method to getting things done is to take a deep breath and DO THEM but this is rather a large thing to get through without pausing. So the closets got organized, I finally figured out how to do internet banking, cleaned the fridge, watched a lot of television, finished listening to one book and started another, and plowed through a New Yorker. AND worked out a schedule for getting the book edited, since otherwise it will be so far on the back burner that it will fall off the stove, and who knows when I'll be cleaning back there again. Clearly I need more books to edit. Hook me up, yo.

small pleasures

The little ridges that form in a salt cellar, like sand dunes

How easy it is to tie something behind my back, like an apron

Finally learning how to play a chord, the soreness in my fingers the next day

Sitting with our feet up on the couch, talking about the pros and cons of living in communes

I had a mole removed from my back last week; apparently the doctor needed to remove my entire shoulder blade to get at it, or anyway that's how it feels. The things that go on behind my back. I couldn't open a door without shooting pain running across from my spine to my fingers; that sounds like a shoulder blade removal, right? I'm not supposed to shower until I get the stitches out at the end of this week but I think that's just part of the European shower conspiracy left over from the Middle Ages because the internet told me that in fact it's fine to shower after 12 hours. I'm trying to be good and keep it dry, but I sure am grateful for the internet so I don't have to stew in wonder (and sweat) over every thing. Also grateful for having a teenager who treated me like royalty all weekend, cooking and cleaning and opening doors as I winced around the house like the delicate flower that I am.

Other than that things go as they usually do. I am working enough. I have a list of things I want to spend money on and I might actually get to check some of them off. We are finally watching Friday Night Lights and it is good. I've heard it might actually be spring some day, maybe even this month.

every good boy deserves

Alligators, birthdays, cousins, drama, etc. Florida gets hot; i just knew love. Moaning never opens people quite realistically. Still, the undercurrent vibe was "xclnt' (youth zeitgeist).

Well you know. I went to Florida for a while because it should be hot there. It was warm, which was almost as nice. Family stuff, shopping, lots of eating. I came home and it was still cold here and that kind of bummed me out. Then the hot water heater broke and I realized it was still REALLY cold here and that bummed me out more. Fortunately I've had a fair bit of work lately so a new hot water heater could be purchased, yea even after I had spent very much money on many fried things, and so that is good.

I have some thoughts but I'm not feeling very writerly; part of the problem I am sure is the rusty fingers syndrome, so I'm putting this here like a sweet dab of rustoleum. A little elbow grease and I'll be good as new. 

epiphany

I'm realizing that although I am by most standards extremely privileged by accident I find myself more and more not consciously but almost instinctively disliking people who are... I guess MORE privileged. It's not ENVY, I don't think, or not exactly -- I don't generally envy people their success or even luck; when a friend wins the lottery my first genuine thought will be: Wait, you play the lottery?! and then I can't imagine anything other than to be happy for them. Same with people buying nice houses, getting raises, meeting someone and falling in love -- I'm seriously genuinely pleased in all these situations. I've read but not really understood books about envy and jealousy (notably Status Anxiety by Alain de Botton -- beautiful book, didn't get it at all), I've talked to extremely articulate friends about these feelings, but I haven't consciously experienced them. Imagine my surprise, then, to have noted in the past year or so some pretty stunning examples of how it must feel, this wave of bile. I'm wondering what's new: the experience itself, or just noticing the experience. I hope it's a new thing altogether and that I can figure out how to make it go away. It's not nice to be in your forties and stamping your feet over how the world is unfair like that's any kind of news. 

The holiday was nice, mostly. Mellow. Lots of reading, lots of sitting around and staring at things, which is one of my favorite things to do with my free time. If I called it meditating it would sound better but it's really just sitting around staring, more marinating than meditating. "You're soaking in it." Hosted two parties, a small dinner party and a larger new year's party. Sometimes I felt deeply sad and lonely, and sometimes I felt overwhelmed by humanity, but most of the time was mainly feeling well rested, so plus good on balance. 

Over the weekend (Twelfth Night! Three Kings! Epiphany!) I transferred all my 2012 calendar into my 2013 calendar. It was tricksy because I was going from a Czech calendar to a US one, and I kept getting my weeks misaligned. This year I also transferred stuff like "it's been 6 months so make a dentist appointment this week."  There is somebody reading this who is nodding approvingly at my sagacity and somebody else who can't believe I don't have this all plugged in to my smart phone like every other extraorganized person on the planet. I know, I know, but calendars and books still need to be held in my sweet hands or they don't seem REAL. 

Today I applied the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair and did the first edit of a 22 page paper. I haven't edited that hard in a while; my standard has been about 10 pages a day or 20 pages if I'm doing stunts like getting up at 4. So look at me: I STILL GOTS IT. We'll see if the second edit is as easy as I think it will be or if I'm going to have my brains in traction tomorrow from the unaccustomed strain, but I feel pretty confident at the moment. 

the peppermint mine

With the recent holiday movie viewing, I've been thinking of children's books and films in terms of two particular themes: the child who escapes familiarity and has strange adventures (The Snowman) and the child who finds familiarity outside of an environment where he never felt he belonged (Elf). 

I tend to find the latter category problematic. I grew up also feeling like I didn't particularly belong - I made friends rarely, and even my best friend and I little in common (her: athletic, brave, lovely; me: well, yeah). I loved my family but I wouldn't have been surprised to hear I was adopted, either. So it's possible that to a certain degree my problem with those books is one of jealousy -- I accepted the life I was dealt, and so should everybody else. Also, especially when the stories concern someone who realizes they "actually" belong somewhere else, and they take off without a backwards glance, I feel like they're sort of rotten. Even in Narnia, they're convinced they don't have to go back to England because they're dead, but what if they aren't? Their poor parents. 

On the other hand, sitting with my friends the other night and realizing that to a certain degree we are all misfit toys -- having never felt particularly like I belonged somewhere, it was not too difficult to pick up and move to another country where I don't belong. In fact, in some ways it's easier since the reason I don't belong here is pretty straightforward. The difference between me and fiction is that I didn't have to choose between the two worlds, so it doesn't feel like I betrayed anything. To me.

I should probably just stick to Die Hard.

you talk as if you knew me

My recent attempts to assert my own preferences have been going pretty well. I'd prefer not to eat pork, thanks; I'd prefer not to sign your silly contract for the work I'm doing for you for free; I'd prefer not to leave the house. Thanks, but no thanks. It turns out that if you're not emotionally invested in telling people no, you can get a pretty fun anthropological kick out of watching how they take it. 

I feel bad about saying no because I've spent a lot of time trying so hard to be accommodating of the inexplicable preferences of others, and I still feel like it's rude to inconvenience people when your preference is equal to theirs, but I have picked olives out of enough dishes after having them sneered at, and dammit, I get to say I don't care for brussels sprouts. Because I don't, I never have, and I have eaten enough of them to be sure. I'd prefer not to have more, thanks. Imma leave that right here on the side of my plate in a tidy pile, okay, thanks. 

**

I'm still wondering why so many of the foods frequently served at parties give one bad breath. Any ideas? Hey, I'm about to talk to you really close for a while, how's my stinky cheese breath? Do you like these cocktail onions exhaled upon you? Mmm, spicy sausage with garlic on a little toothpick breath. 

**

I am happy to report that the hospital that has two outstanding invoices has now paid one of them, significantly bringing down both their debt and my blood pressure. This was for work I did in June, and I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to get paid or whether I was going to have to take somebody's firstborn. Seriously, who DOES that, just doesn't pay you for what you've done? 
Fortunately, it looks like it might get concluded before the end of the year, which is good because I am tired of having Laurie Anderson's Example#22 running through my head all the time. PAY ME WHAT YOU OWE ME.  

**

In my many trips to many, ever so many bars, I have formed some opinions that now seem so obvious to me that I am always a bit floored when the bar owners don't share those opinions. Stuff like... it's a good idea to have a variety of wines in stock. Two of each color, say. It's a good idea for nobody on staff to spend any length of time standing at a table chatting. It's a good idea to check the bathrooms regularly for supplies and messes. Clearly just my opinions, here. 

**

Regarding the election, if I may: I, too, have voted for candidates who have lost. It is a bad feeling when you think that other people do not share your values, or at least not enough other people. It feels lonely. I didn't feel like America had somehow gone to the dogs, but I did feel like maybe it didn't want me. And you know what? I totally DID leave the country -- not just because of any election, but honestly, the political climate was a factor in why I left the first time, and it was a factor in why I stayed away the second time. I did so because it made ME feel better. I don't think America gave a patootie that I did so, not least because I've continued to pay taxes. I don't know; I guess I'm saying I find the idea that leaving the country will "teach it a lesson" is pretty funny, because it won't. You leave because it makes you feel better, just like why you leave any relationship that isn't working any more. 

fathomless

Here's a fun exercise: tell people that you have heard of a super [scary thing -- virus, bacteria, crocodile, whatever] and ask them where it came from. I have been researching SUPER LICE and the sources are, variously, Asian immigrants, people from the Middle East, the over-prescription of antibiotics, and the fact that people don't follow directions so the lice just come back because it's their nature. I was persuaded by the third, because I think that's the cause of most health-related problems, until I read the fourth one because -- well, when in doubt, bet on stupid. But it is interesting how many sites seemed to slant blame toward minorities in general and immigrants in particular. I know that other living things migrate just like people do, and often hitch rides with humans, but it's not necessarily on immigrants unless they're bringing in smallpox on a blanket. I mean, it could be wealthy people traveling, or food or other goods, not necessarily immigrants. And yet that is a narrative that people believe. If you have reasons beyond the obvious, I'd be interested in hearing them.

Maintaining a tilt that is hard alee with the forms of my vanity, I got my eyelids tattooed with permanent eyeliner. I may be a periodic weepy emotional mess but that doesn't mean I want eyeliner streaked all over my face. I am no Tammy Faye. I realize that the logical solution would be to stop wearing make up but as you may know I like the pain, and besides it was on sale, so it was basically a double score. It hurt like crazy. On a pain scale of things I have experienced it is really up there, and I just ripped a toenail out of my foot this morning by dragging a cabinet over it, and I barely cursed. So eyelid tattoos hurt, and if I had it to do over I'd be too scared to. On the plus side, I now roll out of bed looking ridiculously awake and ready to start the day, so there's that. 

For some reason the need to batten down the hatches (you liking the boat theme? It's totally not because the sun is past the yardarm or anything YARE like that) is strong this year. I have had chairs recovered, fixed broken things, cleaned out cabinets. Rearranged rooms, the whole thing. There is a man who looks not unlike Jack Skellington in my room right now painting it a color somewhere between bricks and wine, a dark bruised red, and I love it. My previous very favorite painter in town retired, and I cast about in despair for a while, but this guy was recommended and I felt instantly comfortable with him because he ran around exclaiming "What's THIS?!" --- no, but I did take a liking to him, and he seems to be doing good work. 

Man, I hate winter, and it has already snowed more than once this year. I'm probably not leaving the house again until February, but you should come and visit. Guest room is shipshape and all. 

you only live twice

A few nights ago, I woke up to the sound of the floor creaking, and I thought there was someone in my room -- someone large, by the sound of the creaking. I was absolutely paralyzed with fright. I rolled over as if I was shifting in my sleep and tried to get a look, but I couldn't see anybody - although the door was open and I always keep it closed. I was trying to think of what would make an effective weapon, good enough for me to get past this hulking mass and to my son's room. Heart pounding, mind racing, not good for thinking. All I had within reach was a glass of water, but I thought maybe that would be a good element of surprise at least. I could hear the dresser drawer being slowly opened, and I thought: GO! So I got up and moved towards the door, and there was nobody at the dresser, or in fact in the room at all. I snapped on the light all HA and there was the cat, who has apparently learned how to open the door AND the dresser, and was all nestled in amongst my sweaters. I did not pour the water on her.

The moral of this story is: my cat may be a little on the hefty side.

Today I went and rehearsed the SINGLE LINE that I am dubbing for a video game for twenty minutes. I'm sorry: TWENTY MINUTES. Please understand that I did an entire movie without a rehearsal and it was fine, so this seems like excessive preparation. Apparently my delivery of "How many slices do you want?" required an entire backstory for my character, which I got, and also several different tries in order to achieve the maximum quality pizza seller voice. I am baffled. But the people are nice and it was good for me to be out in the fresh air; it was a beautiful fall day today. 

I keep thinking about the US election. I have already voted, so I really do not need to inform myself further, but I cannot stop. It is dumb. I have managed this year to stop clicking on celebrity gossip types of things, because they are stupid and I never feel better knowing them. I have managed also to stop reading comments on news sites and I've mostly stopped reading comments altogether. This is huge for me, to consciously decide NOT to read something and stick to it, because I will read your cereal box if you'll leave it out for me. So I have got some self restraint. However, with the politics, it is just ... I cannot stop. I want to know, to acquire more knowledge. To what purpose? No idea. I mean: to be informed about politics IN GENERAL is certainly a good thing, but why I needed to read the text of a debate between two candidates when I have already chosen seems rather a time suck.

In politics where I actually live, there is a Czech artist, a lawyer by degree and a painter/opera composer/teacher by profession, who is running for president. I am so irritated by the current president, who is just a giant bag of air. The artist is witty and quick and tattooed all over. I wish he had a chance; at this point, he's still collecting signatures to try and get on the ballot.

I just finished season 5 of Mad Men. Gracious, but I do love television. It's almost ridiculous how much. I love watching people that I do not know go through their lives, some of which I recognize as similar to mine and some of which I get to understand for the first time seeing someone else experience them. I read a quote from Erma Bombeck: I should have laughed and cried less watching television and more watching life. And there is some truth to that, okay. But I laugh and cry PLENTY watching life, I assure you, and it is nice to get really angry at Don Draper and not feel like I'm being a bad friend for feeling that way.