Wake at 3 and roll around with jet lag and unspeakable regrets until 5. Put on sweater and warm socks, a beach towel like a scarf jaunty, a cup of cold coffee from yesterday's breakfast and a bread roll only slightly stale from last night's dinner. Perched on the retaining wall feet dangling into space but well above the waterline, the tide going out anyway so that when the sun rises the broken concrete and rebar from the collapsed hotel wiill be exposed, but now it is dark and peaceful by starlight. The sky turns bluer, then pink, nicotine orange and there is a woman on the beach shivering slightly in a bikini, doing sun salutes in the direction of the upcoming sun, which is both completely appropriate and annoyingly pretentious. You have a three-day guacamole belly already, sitting sweetly in your lap. The cloudline makes an extra horizon for the sun to get past and people are emerging onto balconies in various states of undress, eyes shielded, coffee cups steaming. The air is already warmer. The birds fly across the water basically illustrating the word majestic. Finally it is a ball of fire you can't look at anymore and it's time to go inside.
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
Pride and Sensibility
Anne Tuckington had been single for so long that she had despaired of ever finding a match that would be her equal in overthinking and brooding, and had resigned herself to merely hope that perhaps some day she could find a place to put her cold feet at night, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of cold extremities must be in need of a partner.
And thus she did merrily go far and around the region, visiting L– for the baths and K– for the cheeses and V– for the condescending attitude and confusion that only the birthplace of psychotherapy could have.
And yet it was in her own small town of B– that the most recent occurrence drove our heroine to put fingers to keys and type the story of a time when she found herself almost smitten with a man whose affections were frankly engaged elsewhere, and she found herself flirting outrageously largely on the basis of his upper body strength, which was prodigious. Imagine him lifting heavy things, she sighed to herself, her breath heavy with longing.
One evening, they perambulated the small hall to which they had retreated, having gone there to escape the bitter outdoor chill, not quite arm in (strong!) arm but very close, and he touched her cheek with the back of his warm hand, and she nearly swooned, whereupon he suggested that they might perhaps seat themselves in the smoking room for a time, as he had something he needed to say.
It bears mentioning at this point that our young heroine, while constantly desirous of declarations of affection, has received them so rarely in her life that she has been known to fall in love upon hearing of someone's love for her, and she is wiser now but still she felt her cheeks flush with anticipation. Perhaps his affections were not as engaged elsewhere as she had thought; perhaps there was yet hope. A confession of ardent admiration, maybe, if not love. With shaking fingers she lit a cigarette for something to do, averting her eyes from his steady gaze, trying to figure out how to inhale the smoke and hold her breath at the same time, waiting.
Finally it spilled forth, this story he needed to convey to her. What was the story? I sense that you, too, gentle reader, are on the edge of your seat. I shall therefore proceed apace: dear reader, it was quite possibly the most boring story ever told. It had nothing to do with an unburdening of the heart, no nothing to do with feelings at all, not even feelings of a baser, animal nature. Once before on a tram our lady Anne had overheard a man tell of an encounter in a restaurant, the tale took longer than the encounter, and she thought that that, surely, was the most boring story ever, but this story surpassed it in all aspects except that at least the teller was better looking.
But there she sat, no words of passion were his, nor even of mild interest, and as he spoke she realized that with every word she found him less desirable, until finally at the end of 20 minutes she no longer desired him at all. Well maybe still his arms a little. But otherwise, the small but persistent flame she had cupped in her heart was fully extinguished, blown out not by the winds of reality but the undeniable puff of boredom. And how did this feel? Was it sad? Not at all: it was the kindest, most incredibly wonderful thing that could have happened. So ended her affection; now she was free again. The cold feet are still a problem, but dying of cold feet is a fate much, much less awful than dying of boredom.
Alternate Endings by Richard Jackson
There are times when they gather at the edge of your life,
Shadows slipping over the far hills, daffodils
blooming too early, the dark matter of the universe
that threads its way through the few thousand blackbirds
that have invaded the trees out back. Every ending
sloughs off our dreams like snakeskin. This is the kind of
black ice the mind skids across. The candlelight burning down
into the sand. The night leaving its ashes in our eyes.
There are times when your voice turns over in my sleep.
It is no longer blind. The sky is no longer deaf.
There are times when it seems the stars practice
all night just to become fireflies, when it seems there is
no end to what our hearts scribble on corridor walls.
Only when we look at each other do we cease to be ourselves.
Only at a certain height does the smoke blend into air.
There are times when your words seem welded to that sky.
There are times when love is so complicated it circles
like chimney swifts unable to decide where to land.
There are endings so sad their shadows scuff the dirt.
Their sky is as inconsolable as the two year old, Zahra,
torn from her mother and beaten to death in the Sudan.
There are endings so sad I want the morning light
to scourge the fields. Endings that are only what the river
dreams when it dries up. Endings that are constant echoes.
There are times when I think we are satellites collecting
dust from one of the earlier births of the universe Don't give up.
Each ending is an hourglass filled with doors. There are times
when I feel you might be searching for me, when I can read
what is written on the far sides of stars. I'm nearly out of time.
My heart is a dragonfly. I'll have to settle for this, standing under
a waterfall of words you never said. There are times like this
when no ending appears, times when I am so inconsolably happy.
my spousal ambitions
Well, since Benedict Cumberbatch is marrying someone else and Emily Nussbaum doesn't want to leave New York (I STILL LOVE YOU EMILY but I concede that it must remain love from afar) I think it's only reasonable that I join every feminist over 25 and set my cap for Mallory Ortberg. Mallory Mallory Mallory. Every time I see her name in print I fall a little more in love. So sweet and so fucking smart. I know she's too young for me, but she's so clever and insightful that she seems older so it's not creepy. And I don't actually know if she's single but since all my imaginary love is entirely pure it doesn't matter.
30 Questions
In November I asked a question on facebook every day. The goal was to get to know some of my friends better, and that was a lot of fun. A few people asked for my answers; here they are.
What's the best thing about you?
My friends. They are diverse and funny and kind and awesome and I'm a better person for having them in my life.
What's something you know by heart?
Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. The lyrics to every 80s song.
What's the last song you sang along to?
Heroes, by David Bowie. I'm learning to play it, so I sang along with myself, but that counts, right?
What's the last really nice thing someone did for you?
My sister visited me and helped me clean out my closet. That's two nice things.
My sister visited me and helped me clean out my closet. That's two nice things.
When you were a teenager, who was one of your biggest idols? Bonus: How do you feel about that person now?
Annie Lennox. I wanted to be just like her, the voice and the clothes, the self-assurance, the gender blurring, the poetry. Now I admire her more for her activism than her fashion, and I'm sorry she doesn't seem to write her own songs any more, but I still think she's pretty cool.
What's your favorite book? (or the first book to spring to mind in response to the question)
It's a tie: Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood. Taran Wanderer by Lloyd Alexander.
What's something you haven't done that you'd like to try?
Editing fiction. REAL fiction, not delusional fantasies by the uncommitted insane and creative statistics by academics with deadlines.
What is something that made you laugh really hard recently?
Reading my 1994 diary. Talking about interspecies romance novels.
What's something that you're good at that not many people know you're good at?
Listening. I cleverly disguise it by talking most of the time.
If you could have a superpower, which one would you want?
Teleportation.
What do you like best about the work you do?
That I think it matters. That I get to learn stuff while I work. That I don't have to interact with people.
If you could live inside a book, which one would you want to live in?
Infinite Jest, maybe? Because I could live there for a really long time without getting bored.
What would you like to change about yourself?
I'd like to be more open and simultaneously less vulnerable.
What's your favorite cover version of a song? Why do you like it?
Cat Power's Satisfaction, because it gives a completely new interpretation to the song (one of hopelessness rather than frustration), and Alanis Morissette's My Humps for the same reason, though I don't know how many times I could listen to it.
What motivates you to read a book — a friend's recommendation, familiar author, prize winner, pretty cover….?
I have annual resolutions to read a particular kind of book, so that's a primary motivator, or a friend's recommendation.
What's a great movie you'd like every teenager to see?
Besides the Breakfast Club, which seems obvious, maybe Harold and Maude.
What's the last book that made you feel excited?
The Goldfinch, because I got my love of Donna Tartt back. I was also excited about the Bone Clocks, but that ended badly so I'd prefer not to think about it.
What is the story of your most interesting scar?
I put my hand through a glass door and got a smile on my wrist and lost some of the movement of my left hand.
Is your greater regret something you have done, or something you haven't done?
I regret not realizing my time was limited with some people and places, and not squeezing in more experiences in that limited time.
I regret tequila 95% of the time.
How do you make a difficult decision?
I make pros and cons lists, I pretend I've made a decision and see how it feels, and I trust my instincts.
What's a fun thing you do when you're alone? Is it more fun when you're alone or with others?
I play solitaire by myself to relax and would never do so with other people around. I like binge watching TV alone and with others if they watch it the same way I do, which is hard to find.
Do you have art in your house? How would you describe it (mostly posters of famous art, mostly fingerpaints by your children, something in between)? How do you feel about it?
I have a fair bit of art in the house, mostly graphic art. It's predominantly things made by people I know and love, and so when I look at it I feel delighted to know such people and also pleased by the beauty of the work itself.
What's your ideal climate?
Sunny and hot and a little humid, near a beach. This is not the ideal climate for my skin, unfortunately.
What do you do to make yourself feel better when you're having a rough day?
Forgive myself. Indulge in something.
What are you thankful for?
My friends. Technology and specifically what it enables me to do — work from home, and stay in touch with friends and family.
What do you love about winter holidays?
I don't love much about winter, period. Probably staying cozy indoors. I like watching Die Hard at Christmas with Squire because it's a tradition that is just ours.
What's your default meal (the reliable thing you cook when you're not inspired)?
Peanut butter on toast. Chicken and zucchini.
What would you like to ask me?
morning
I wake before the alarm, the new alarm in the phone with the ringtones I like that start quiet and get louder. I lie in the bed and wait for the alarm even though I could just get up, the reasons are murky like dreams and the soap bubble cheer of the alarm washes them away and I get up and my eyes are covered with soapy rainbow film, but I blink it away. The cat is sleeping on the box that the dehumidifier came in and is still in because every time I think about it she is sleeping there. I am perplexed by this new occupation as it is a place she can be that does not bother me; see for example: sweater drawer, kitchen counter, washing machine, laptop keyboard. I walk by and she looks up sleepily but does not move. Every morning I ask her if she will die today, and every morning she is closer, her fragile bones increasingly prominent under her poor itchy skin, but she is still happy about food, about butting her head under my hand to be petted, about curling in the crook of my son's legs when he sleeps, so she's not there yet. The coffee pot grumbles and sputters while I put away last night's dishes. We watch The Daily Show and our mouths laugh around bites of toast covered with peanut butter, camaraderie, the ease of not needing to peek to be sure the moment is shared. The front door closes and I put in a load of laundry, wash and stack the breakfast dishes, note the condensation on the windows but the cat is back on the box and I can't bear to disturb her; maybe tomorrow. I crush ginger and lemon into a pot for tea and start to work, a paper on the begging behavior of cuckoo chicks. Another sunless winter day spreads before me and ecstasy is impossible but simple pleasures are easy to grasp, if you reach out your hands.
Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax.
Don't bother remembering any of it.
Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
AT-510A, revised
I open the door and you're there which is surprising and not. There's an awkward moment and I step back to let you in but you reach forward, your thumb along my jaw and it fits like it always did and my head tilts into your warm fingers like it always did; our palms and our mouths and our same-colored eyes are mirrors, and here we are. You say, I realized that I loved you; I realize I still love you. Then I realize something for myself, which is: this is not real. My life is not a fairy tale, because those stories aren't real, not for me, even when I wish super hard that they were.
I mean, listen: I'm biased. You can unroll the tapestry before me but if I slide my foot into the slippery story and stay we know perfectly well how my part ends. I chop off my heels and toes to try to be what is wanted and when my deception is discovered nobody says, oh the sacrifices you made for me. When the birds spill my secret, the blood pooling in my shoes, you know what happens? The pitch-perfect prince says: hey actually I think I love that other one, your sister; let's turn the carriage around and get her. So I have maybe less than the usual desire to participate. I'm acknowledging that. But if you think I didn't want it, if you think I didn't burn for love the same as everyone else it's because I lied about it, because I knew where it would go and where it would end, my eyes plucked out to punish me for my desires.
So yes I am predisposed to hating the story, the fairy tale future and the happy ending I can't win, hating all of that out of self-preservation if nothing else. I see that. I used all my power of myth and wore out my dancing shoes, sewed nettles with my bleeding hands, and then ran and escaped across the bridge of one hair instead. I never expected a white horse or your prodigal love. And I took myself out of these stories a long, long time ago.
*this is a revised version of something I wrote four years ago, so if you've been playing along at home long enough that it seems familiar that's why. It wanted fixing.
Each From Different Heights, by Stephen Dunn
That time I thought I was in love
and calmly said so
was not much different from the time
I was truly in love
and slept poorly and spoke out loud
to the wall
and discovered the hidden genius
of my hands
And the times I felt less in love,
less than someone
were, to be honest, not so different
either.
Each was ridiculous in its own way
and each was tender, yes,
sometimes even the false is tender.
I am astounded
by the various kisses we’re capable of.
Each from different heights
diminished, which is simply the law.
And the big bruise
from the longer fall looked perfectly white
in a few years.
That astounded me most of all.
so tangible it was almost painful
Hilton Als and I have a deal (he doesn't know; it only benefits me), which is that he writes about theater performances in New York that I will never see and I read his reviews anyway because he is usually writing about performance in general in a way that is engaging enough that whether he influences you to see or avoid the performance is almost beside the point. Through reading Hilton Als articles, I have learned a lot about how to watch actors, how to find the fingerprints of a director, and when you can wholeheartedly blame the writer. I was stunned a couple years ago to learn that he is a sweet-faced gay black man not much older than I am, which is funny because if pressed I am sure I have no idea what I was picturing but each of those things surprised me, so maybe a wiry older straight white man, Van Dyke beard and a tendency to look over his glasses at things? Who knows. I like that I have a picture of him now in my head when I read his writing.
What I like about Hilton Als is that he teaches me to look at and think about theater in a way that of course applies to any performance and in fact to life. Chekhov's gun is everywhere. Watch the edges. Listen for the curtain. But I do also appreciate the little bits of him that slip into the critiques and what is interesting is how often I feel MORE connected to him when this happens, because we're pretty different. But he knows himself, and he knows the human experience because he knows how to observe it, and that is how he can write sentences like this, from a September review of "This Is Our Youth":
How can two people get close to each other in the minefield of their unspoken doubts and fears and the back-stories they're unwilling to share?
or even better:
We have all left home; we have all tried to make love suffer by turning our backs on it, if only to prove how little we need or deserve its warm, brutalizing complexities.
And I felt like: ohhhh, yes, WE HAVE. I have. I needed that. And if I had skipped this review because I am not in New York, not a particular fan of Michael Cera or Kieran Culkin, and don't have any special interest in Kenneth Lonergan, either, I would have missed that sentence.
Anyway that's one of the reasons sometimes it takes me a ridiculously long time to read the New Yorker.
tuckova 