Author: tuckova

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

Protest, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1914)

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To sin by silence, when we should protest,
Makes cowards out of men. The human race
Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
Against injustice, ignorance, and lust,
The inquisition yet would serve the law,
And guillotines decide our least disputes.
The few who dare, must speak and speak again
To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,
No vested power in this great day and land
Can gag or throttle. Press and voice may cry
Loud disapproval of existing ills;
May criticise oppression and condemn
The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws
That let the children and childbearers toil
To purchase ease for idle millionaires.

Therefore I do protest against the boast
Of independence in this mighty land.
Call no chain strong, which holds one rusted link.
Call no land free, that holds one fettered slave.
Until the manacled slim wrists of babes
Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee,
Until the mother bears no burden, save
The precious one beneath her heart, until
God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed
And given back to labor, let no man
Call this the land of freedom.

the storm we call progress

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I'll tell you what, it's hard to write about anything when what is uppermost in my mind most of the time is something I want to give as little time to as possible. 

In 1988, which was my first presidential election, I volunteered for Dukakis. I really liked him, he seemed reasonable, smart. Flawed, sure, but at least he seemed honest. I had hated the "folksy charm" of Reagan, and George Bush scared me — he'd been the head of the CIA, and I thought that seemed like an untrustworthy kind of smart. When he won, I cried so much and I felt like I didn't know America. If America wanted a sneaky manipulator, I didn't belong, and it is not my way to stay where I don't feel wanted. So I left.

You can maybe extrapolate from that how I am feeling now. On top of that, genuine fear for some of my friends for whom it is much more than their principled stance that is threatened. 

So that's what I don't want to think about. On Friday a couple friends came over and we ignored the inauguration, since that's the most hurtful thing to do to a narcissist: ignore them. We talked about anything else. We worked on a 3000 piece puzzle of the world; once that's solved everything else should be a breeze. Meanwhile I write letters and donate and try not to say his name, acid and bile in my mouth.

So other things. 
  • So much of the American hot sauce I've been brought lately tastes more like an endurance test than a flavor. I don't know whether I've lost my taste for that particular pain or whether they've upped the hot to a point beyond me. 
  • When I was 20 I had my first published poem, and the editor had changed some of it. And I was as upset as if someone had pierced my baby's ears without asking me. I have submitted very few things for publication since, and last week I was reminded that that was a good decision. 
  • Oliver Sacks is so so so good.
  • I really think we should be hibernating and I am trying to treat everybody as if they were small creatures recently jolted from hibernation, blinking tiny into the dim winter light, wondering what the hell just happened, wanting most of all in the world to go back to sleep. That's certainly how I feel. And I am so angry at being awake and not in my burrow or den or whatever, but I'm not the only one feeling this so I'm trying to remember to be kind even when I really want to give everybody who talks out of turn a big bite of rabies. 
  • I don't know why 5 is more satisfying than 4. 2+3 or fingers or avoiding death or who knows. It is, though. 

trepanning for gold

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I'll tell you exactly how it happened. The needle went in precisely where it was supposed to. We'd agreed in advance about how it would be and I wasn't frightened. This is what I was thinking: that I was hoping it would help, that I was ridiculous for thinking it would help, that hope and thought are different (hope being like faith rather medieval, thought being like science more 20th century). These thoughts, and the pinch of penetration through the skin, the pain and the recognition of pain, which, even dulled, is present. You'll  never think of things being boring in the same way again, I thought. And then. Then as the drill pierced the bone, then. Be here now, be in this moment. This is how it felt to me: it felt like the new pain was loud and insistent, but it also felt like the old pain, the curtain of pain that I had lived with for so long that I had ceased to notice it, was … gone. It felt like I might be able to complete a thought without wincing. It felt radiant; it felt divine. I wish it had really happened.

in exchange for ten kisses

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Narcissus finally drowns, comes too close to the water one day and instead of kissing his own reflection and drinking, as he says, the sweet nectar from the kiss of this gorgeous guy (this gorgeous sky, gorgeous sky) sucks in a bit of rank lakewater, burbles around in it, and falls in, choking. Echo can't repeat the sounds, not because they are so horrible but because they're just out of her comprehension and vocal range, and she watches the lovely marble-white skin of him sink into the weeds and realizes she finally has her own voice back. No more of that nonsense, then, of reflecting back on his own beauty and begging him to enjoy her body. She barely knows what to do with such freedom. She can see his fingers still fluttering at the surface, not waving but drowning, probably some future lilypad porquoi, but she super doesn't care, and even the knowledge that he will go on with an underwater life, pulling in sweeter and probably younger naiads with what looks like a sorrow they can heal but will turn out to be an excuse to talk about himself forever is no longer her concern. Echo is, finally, too old for this shit. 

working on it

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You're working in a restaurant that closes at midnight, and at 11 a bunch of people arrive and want a table. And you say: We close at midnight, so you can obviously sit down now but I want to be clear that I would like you to be gone at closing time. They act offended that you would even imply that they might be planning to take advantage of you, like of course not, they're going to leave at midnight, they really mean it. Midnight strikes, 12:30, 1 a.m. and you're standing near the table with your eyebrows basically rolling off the top of your head and they're still there, ignoring you, nursing their last beers, laughing at their own witticisms. When they finally leave, they don't tip. 

How many times do you let this happen with that group before you stop trusting them? How does it affect your attitude toward another group? At what point in your story do you refuse to let people drive over you? What if they personally haven't done anything to you yet? Why, in this story, does it feel to you like telling them to leave makes you the bad guy? Why, when telling this  story, do people act like if you fail to fight back there's something wrong with you? What about if this is not a job at a restaurant and customers and closing time, but your house, your friends, your bedtime? What if it's mine?

three

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Three things I'd like to learn:

When to trust history and when to acknowledge that each situation is unique. I know this story. I know how it ends. There is truth in the condemnation of Santayana, but it's almost satisfying to feel it click into place, that conclusion, the dream or nightmare come true. Or on the other hand: be here now, let this moment be exactly this moment; stop pre-judging.

When to push and when to forgive myself. I hate social gatherings, hate leaving the comfort and security of my home at all times and even more in the winter. On the other hand, some of the deepest experiences and most interesting people of my life were on the other side of that door. It's good to go out, to go beyond comfort, to introduce myself to people, new flavors, icy-cold rivers, both for the pride in my own bravery and (more importantly) for the chance to experience wonder. On the other hand, some nights out send me to days in bed, burned fingers and eyes raw from exhaustion, and when I feel that coming it is just better for everybody if I bolt the door, get under the  blankets with a book or a TV binge and recharge. It's just so hard to know which gut feeling to trust.

When to walk and when to stay. The older I get the more I am persuaded that the moment I think I should walk I should just walk. Because if I walk and I am wrong, I won't know it: walking carries me to a new place and I rarely want to go back once I get out. But if I stay and I am wrong: vinegar and salt, all the things I might have stayed for turned bitter and sad. There are times I stayed when I should have run and I know that because I stayed. Still, how can you know you have sucked the marrow out of life until you put the bone in your mouth?

I'd also like to learn how to paint my nails without getting nail polish all over the place, to wear skirts, and to play the ukulele, but you know, one thing at a time.  

neverending

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Since we have no bastion against the nothing, we must fight by ourselves, fight against that giant emptiness. Hiding in the attic because you're scared of a bully is a fine start but getting caught in a story that is moving is better. In this story, this fight will not lead us to answers but if we are lucky it will lead us all the way through and out of the swamps of sadness.

The mistake that he made, and by he I mean me, or maybe us, that time before, was that we were afraid we wouldn't be able to save anyone else. That we wept as they died, that they saw our despair and then our cries of love were not enough. All around the world people lose treasures every day: precious belongings, friends, memories, rights, hope. Here's what I think we do, I think we have to acknowledge that loss happens, that we have lost some and we will lose more, forgive ourselves for crying, weep if we want to, but not give in to despair. I think we have to not say: This is too hard for you. I think we have to keep pulling. I think we might have to sing happy songs and put a little pepper in it. 

I'm not trying to be sunshine; it's not my nature. The Rock Biter opens his hands to find his friends gone again and again, we have lost so many more than we should have and more still, already more than any quilt can keep warm, even though they looked like good big strong hands. And yet what can we do but continue to imagine a world where things are better until we have enough hope to work for it. What can we do except tell ourselves stories of triumph, and then come down from the attic and fight back. 

dust

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The children who grew up with a mother who did not or could not or would not love; with fathers who were absent, physically or literally, from the beginning or the middle or the end; with siblings who only held hands to play cruel games of indian burns and rose gardens and stop hitting yourself. These children wandering the world now, emotional orphans, heavy with the weight of longing and never able to feel the ground, unable to recognize how it feels when they land on something solid, pushing themselves away before the anticipated rejection, the fist in the stomach, the mouth, the heart. So lonely and so broken. Years of therapy if they're lucky, to learn the words that should have been their native language, mother tongue. Even decades later it can take them forever just to utter eight letters, and recognizing the transient shimmer of that truth would be enough to render them fetal, if they felt there were any comfort to be had there. 

starý dobrý časy

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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

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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.