tuckova

ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things

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Interests: Alfons Mucha, Archibald Leach, big words, Bob Hicok, Brian Eno, Cat Power, Charles Bukowski, Charlotte Masaryk, cheese, clarity, dark chocolate, David Byrne, David Foster Wallace, Dorothy Parker, Douglas Adams, Edna St. Vincent Millay, E.E. Cummings, Frank O’Hara, Fred Rogers, garlic, Gaudi, Gertrude Stein, ginger, Gustav Klimt, Iva Pekarkova, Jane Austen, Jaromir Nohavica, Jeanette Winterson, Josef Skvorecky, Joseph Campbell, Joss Whedon, Just a Minute, Kate Bush, Kurt Vonnegut, laughing until it hurts, Laurie Anderson, Leonard Cohen, little kids singing, Lloyd Alexander, mandarin oranges, making lists, Margaret Atwood, Miss Manners, New Yorker, Paul Simon, performance, P.G. Wodehouse, poetry, Rebecca Solnit, Rob Brezsny, Robert Anton Wilson, Robert Creeley, salt, Salvador Dali, secrets, silence, Star Trek, Stephen Dunn, Talking Heads, Terry Gilliam, things that stain, This American Life, Tom Waits, T.S. Eliot, vegetable juice, veiled cultural references, vinegar, water, wine, W.H. Auden

mythos

So this is the beach then. Salt the best thing for all wounds: tears, sweat, ocean. The waves are a good reminder that everything comes and goes and everything repeats, it's both relentless and soothing. Here  is a beach umbrella under which I hide my white white skin which burns anyway, fancy italian sandals on the sand beside me, a cold cider from the supermarket wedged upright. The umbrella attendant walked on his hands into the ocean and retrieved someone's ball; everyone seems to want to play pingpong in the strip between beach and water but when a wave crashes over your feet sometimes  you miss your shot, that moment of startling warmth that still feels cool for a moment on your sunburned feet. When it gets hot even in the shade I swim out to the buoy, further than it looks, and float beside it, eyes closed to the dazzle, almost sleeping, listening to the ocean the way I used to listen to seashells my  grandmother collected.

 

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