tuckova

starý dobrý časy

I'm remembering the feeling of Sunday mornings at the end of a long weekend at the cottage, anybody's cottage, the comfortable stupor of a three-day weekend of eating and drinking and eating and drinking, playing cards or watching old Czech movies until late at night. How as the slivovice bottle got emptier the jokes got funnier; the warmth of shared laughter. Or in other places, waiting for the children to go to bed, the hushed conversations in the dim light, secrets. How in the morning we would start making gestures towards packing up, going back to city life, and the inevitable scrap of paper with the train and bus schedules would emerge, or one of the teenagers or more overly energetic kids would be sent down to the station to write down the upcoming connections, always different on Sundays, sometimes extra different on the long weekends. Stealing a few cold potato wedges from the pot, still on the stove from last night's dinner. The sway of the bus on the ride home, the feeling of having been away for years. 

F40.0

Although it's not a fear of crowds, since
getting around them isn't so bad; no,
or a fear of open spaces, I like a big sky
rather more than a tunnel
and I even like people okay, though I
prefer them one at a time;
however I have refused to go
out in the cold, wishing to avoid the cruel
bite of the winter wind and my frozen tears when
i only ever want the kiss of the sun
and the warmth of one person's arms.

not so long ago

That weekend we turned the bed into a raft in the middle of the oceanic chaos of life. Dressed in pajamas that doubled as tatters from our shipwrecks, we pulled up buckets of food from the market downstairs and ate them with our hands. During the day we played games with dice and told stories we'd gathered from other sailors, other shipwrecks. The dragons and the sirens that circled us were visible, horrible terrors, but I trusted the safety of our vessel. You found chocolate in a kit that floated by and fed it to me in small bittersweet squares. From time to time the waves of our narrow escape washed over the edges and at night we held fast to each other in the center of the raft, safe and dry while our dreams rocked us to sleep. Nightmares, too, to be fair, but we weathered the storms. We did not even hoist a flag; we did not expect or wish to be rescued. So happy were we to still be alive and together that we did not think beyond that moment, or at least I did not. On the last day we woke and I thought we would create a new island and explore it together, more adventures and maybe stories around a campfire, the structure of our imaginary world was already taking beautiful shape in my mind. In my heart. And you turned to me and said, "I'm not like you. I never wanted to spend the whole weekend in bed in my pajamas." 

ew politics

This election has me rattled and make no mistake. My normal policy is to get enough information to make up my mind and then move on; I don't have so much time in my life that I need to spend any of it learning anything about a candidate I've already decided against. I also don't watch "anti-hero" television shows or hang out with assholes. Still, there's a part of me that enjoys the delicious shiver of an insect in an unexpected place and so I have watched the debates. They give me nightmares. 

I sometimes feel like I should go around stating to people who I am that makes Trump personally repulsive to me and I've fought the urge because it goes beyond personal revulsion. I can say that as a woman I find his sexism disgusting; that as an atheist I find his leanings towards religious tests incredibly backwards and threatening; that as a queer person I hear his "traditional marriage" dogwhistles and shudder; and that as an immigrant, I find his stance on immigration to be ridiculous, even if just in empathy with immigrants to the US. But then the implication is that I'm only reacting in my own self-interest... which, though it seems to distinguish me from a number of his supporters, is not entirely the case. I'm slightly whiter than milk and his racism is still revolting to me.

And I guess maybe this is why it's scary? Because I feel like as a human being, sometimes at a disadvantage (though very often at an advantage), I am able to imagine how it might be for other human beings in different circumstances. So I have trouble understanding the stunning lack of empathy coming from the supporters of a racist, sexist, xenophobic, etc etc. horrorshow. They don't even seem to understand how much he disrespects them, so eager are they to be on his side disrespecting the other groups he scorns. How can women support him? Mexicans? Muslims? People with the ability to make complete sentences? Is it just the played up fear of coming in last that motivates people to perceive the world as a competition they can never win unless they step on the other competitors, rather than try to see themselves as being on a team where the shared strength of every team member means winning on a larger scale?

So I think about that, about how I can understand that. I think about the GOP and Frankenstein and who the monster really was. I think about the internet and how the very thing that has made life so glorious for me (the ability to know about and connect with a world beyond my immediate neighborhood) seems to make the world so terrifying for other people, and what that means. I think about these things and then I fall asleep to dreams of a house where I am always hiding behind a panel, holding my breath, waiting. I've saved space for you here if you want to come hide with me until November 9th. I'm not ready to entertain the idea that it might be necessary after.