tuckova

Squire finished breakdance classes for the year. The final performance was very sweet, though I only cried a couple times (I cry at children's performances the way some people cry at weddings).

Last night there were storms of such intensity that for a while, sitting in my friend's upstairs apartment, which has quite a view, I managed to persuade myself that it was actually a post-modern fireworks show, and different parts of the city were illuminated in turn, each beautiful and strange and eerie for just a second.

At the cottage this weekend we wound up going to a bonfire at the neighbors', where my extreme discomfort at finding myself in mullet-ville, where jokes about Asians are punctuated by pulling your eyes slant and talking funny, was nearly balanced by the facts that I did not have to play Voice Of America and that nobody acted insulted that I didn't want a big chunk of meat. Squire had kids to play with and that was nice.

I am not in the best of all places, marriage-wise. I told Friar that there was not a thing I could say that he wouldn't see the downside to, and it's starting to make me not want to plan anything or even talk about anything with him. I told him I could buy him a lifetime supply of his favorite cigarettes and he wouldn't be pleased by the idea. And he was like, "Something could get damp, and the tobacco could get moldy, and then of course where would I store them… no, no, it's not a good idea." and I bit a hole in my tongue and went back to thinking my own thoughts in my head.

We saw the first fireflies of the summer last week.

I have a lot of trouble with physical interaction lately, I mean my interaction with the physical world. Everything seems like a line and you have to decide whether you're crossing over it. Like even patterns on clothing are starting to bother me. You get stripes, then you can't get polka dots. Why would you limit yourself like that? So I'm all in solid black again, basically, because then I'm ready for anything.

Also, I went to town with the clippers yesterday, because hair also seems like a decision that means you have to make other decisions. My hair is currently shorter than an inch at its longest, with the exception of the braid, to which I have grown rather attached.

We had a great pizza after Family Therapy the other day, and the waitress realized I was foreign but thought I was the only one who spoke Czech and so addressed all interaction to me. It was adorable. Also when I tipped her she thought it was too much (15%, which is kind of high here, but she had given me a free glass of wine), and so concluded it was a language problem and brought it back to me and carefully put it in my hand. Small things keep my hope for humanity afloat.

Uh, Squire and I going to Greece next week. If you want a postcard, send me your address.