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

small pleasures

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The little ridges that form in a salt cellar, like sand dunes
How easy it is to tie something behind my back, like an apron
Finally learning how to play a chord, the soreness in my fingers the next day
Sitting with our feet up on the couch, talking about the pros and cons of living in communes

I had a mole removed from my back last week; apparently the doctor needed to remove my entire shoulder blade to get at it, or anyway that's how it feels. The things that go on behind my back. I couldn't open a door without shooting pain running across from my spine to my fingers; that sounds like a shoulder blade removal, right? I'm not supposed to shower until I get the stitches out at the end of this week but I think that's just part of the European shower conspiracy left over from the Middle Ages because the internet told me that in fact it's fine to shower after 12 hours. I'm trying to be good and keep it dry, but I sure am grateful for the internet so I don't have to stew in wonder (and sweat) over every thing. Also grateful for having a teenager who treated me like royalty all weekend, cooking and cleaning and opening doors as I winced around the house like the delicate flower that I am.

Other than that things go as they usually do. I am working enough. I have a list of things I want to spend money on and I might actually get to check some of them off. We are finally watching Friday Night Lights and it is good. I've heard it might actually be spring some day, maybe even this month.

the only thing that shines

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A deep sadness that I have examined EXHAUSTIVELY over some 23 years and which would not go away and so instead became a story I am tired of telling; tired of telling myself, tired of telling others. Do you get tired of telling the story of how you met, your first death, your first birth, a funny mistake you made in a foreign language? I have told this story until I could tell it to anyone, until I had nobody to tell it to anymore, until I could tell it in my sleep, until it had no power over me. Yet it still exists, the sadness that made the story. Still a thing that happens, a tide that pulls up with some regularity. And I have to say, ah, there it is, that again. But I just don't feel like telling the story anymore and so instead there is a silence to observe it, like some sad anniversary. Maybe some day we will have picnics and fireworks and completely forget the meaning, though I don't think so, not in my lifetime.

Another story I promised to be done with already in 2009 that keeps telling itself while I curl away, ears plugged, wishing for some lizard-skin spine to keep it off of me, yet it settles on my shoulders again and again, this disappointment, this anger, black wings that are incapable of flight.

Heard the title of a song I once loved, a madeleine, so I went and dug out the tape. This is a tape he made for me before he left and so it belongs with him in my mind but it is also entirely mine. The plastic stretched and warped beyond repair, I can't even play it anymore, but now I can download the song in a heartbeat and listen to it again, remember curling around a speaker so that the sound reverberated through my body, how much I felt music then, literally. Listening to a song over and over; how it was to believe that if I listened enough it would be more than an echo of my feelings, that it might explain how to get out, because there is always that next song. 

 

every good boy deserves

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Alligators, birthdays, cousins, drama, etc. Florida gets hot; i just knew love. Moaning never opens people quite realistically. Still, the undercurrent vibe was "xclnt' (youth zeitgeist).
Well you know. I went to Florida for a while because it should be hot there. It was warm, which was almost as nice. Family stuff, shopping, lots of eating. I came home and it was still cold here and that kind of bummed me out. Then the hot water heater broke and I realized it was still REALLY cold here and that bummed me out more. Fortunately I've had a fair bit of work lately so a new hot water heater could be purchased, yea even after I had spent very much money on many fried things, and so that is good.
I have some thoughts but I'm not feeling very writerly; part of the problem I am sure is the rusty fingers syndrome, so I'm putting this here like a sweet dab of rustoleum. A little elbow grease and I'll be good as new. 

question authority

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A thing that is interesting about teenagers is that they think that much of what adults are doing is wrong. Either the act itself or the reason for it or the way it is done: wrong, wrong, wrong. I remember this feeling myself, as a teenager, that the grown-ups around me had missed some key ideas when laying out their lives. In a way, this is a pretty good thing, evolutionarily, that as they approach adulthood they're almost programmed to question every thing they've been told so far. If we didn't question, if we just kept doing things because that's how they're done, then we wouldn't improve much as a species. On the other hand, there are some things that we do precisely because they help us to survive, and so blindly playing the opposition isn't always smart either. 

I think that one problem for me was that people didn't often tell me WHY; they mostly told me WHAT. You have to iron your shirt because it's a rule. You have to be home by 10 because that's curfew (actually my parents believed in curfew as defined by the event, which I appreciated then and still do). You can't eat that because it's bad for you. This kind of logic is fine for kids, but it starts to backfire with teens. And ESPECIALLY if they've found out that some of the things that they were presented as absolutes are only true some of the time, if at all… well, everything else you say becomes doubtful. 

For example, if you say "You have to study or you won't get a good grade", then boy are you undermined when no study or poor study correlates with a good grade anyway. Talking to teenagers successfully involves so much conditional framing, and this at a time when they're some of them taller than you and twice as stubborn, and there you are with your wishywashy it might could… well, it doesn't feel nice.

I have noticed, though, that very specific directions with justifications tends to get things done better, repeatedly, than "because I'm the parent, DAMMIT" does. Even if that's what I very much want to say. I think it also helps to really encourage a teenager to question why every single time it isn't volunteered if they don't know. And (and I actually very much enjoy this part of parenting) it is very useful to have teens suggest and justify different ways of doing things, first because it encourages them to think through their alternate idea before they try making soup by dropping in whole potatoes and trying to cut them up later, and second because they may have a better way of doing things, since that is (after all) what their brains are supposed to be doing now, so it benefits everybody. Plus it's good practice for people to question what they don't understand and be answered politely as a matter of course, as it makes the world a more pleasant place to live when people are in the habit of not viewing questions as challenges, but as opportunities to explain. 

Just a thing I've been thinking about for the last week or so. Writing it down to help myself remember.


“I’m quite illiterate, but I read a lot.”

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When Squire Tuck was but a wee small thing, I read to him all the time. There were so many books that I had loved as a child and so many books that I had been introduced to as an adult that I wanted him to know, and so little time. And then there were the books that he loved that were new to me; you don't even want to know how many times we read "Dazzling Diggers" ("Diggers are noisy, strong, and big/ Diggers can carry and push and dig"). Striking the balance of getting a book into him at the right age — not too early, so that it wouldn't be wasted, but not so late that it seemed childishly easy to him, was a frank delight. There were some missteps, of course — like trying to read "The Once and Future King" to a nine-year-old obsessed with Arthurian legend was not my best choice ("The Sword in the Stone" was not so bad, but "The Queen of Air and Darkness" was… uhm, not age appropriate). But most of the time, reading to him flowed, and we both really liked it.

When he started reading for himself, he stuck mostly to books that were below level, which I know is normal for some kids, and which was fine because dude, nobody hated the Magic Tree House series more than I did, and I'm pretty sure the only reason they exist is so that kids can read below level. And it meant that the reading aloud could continue because even to a kid who can read pretty well, their own ability is usually not up to the speed of their comprehension yet. Plus (sing along with me, I know you know this one): I love the sound of my own voice ever so much. 

And then all of a sudden one day I realized we weren't reading together anymore. To an extent it's because he got old enough for movies and there are not quite as many movies that I love as there are books, but still so many great movies that you should see when you are still young, and we had a lot of watching to do. And to an extent his reading had caught up with his thinking and he didn't need me to read to him to make it fun. I mean, this is sort of a GOAL, right, so I'm not complaining. I tried having him read to me but as soon as I sit still enough to be read to I tend to fall asleep, so that didn't work.

And anyway, he was reading. Not as much as I thought he should, but more than most people, and not the best books but books that he really enjoyed. And since every study I've read says that basically: a) an avid reader has nothing to fear in terms of brain development, learning skills, etc and b) it really doesn't matter what you read, I figured: ehn.

Last week, it occurred to me that part of the purpose of reading was that I wanted him to be grounded in my culture — the whole delicious American entertainment bundle; that he would know what an American 16-year-old student would know. Now, a lot of stuff that Czech teens and American teens know is the same, especially anything on the internet. But books, the books that you read in high school, are not something that seems to be actively taught here. In my experience, the average Czech high school student can rattle off Shakespeare's oeuvre in the order they were written, tell you what's a comedy or a tragedy or a historical drama, but odds are they haven't read a single one. This Will Not Stand.

So I started trying to find out what the books that are assigned in high schools are… it's interesting how hard it was to find a comprehensive list. I know that some of the books we read were ridiculous to assign to high school students (Gatsby, seriously?! Because as a teen I assure you I had no idea what that drunken mess was about), and some books are fantastic no matter when you read them (I didn't read "To Kill a Mockingbird" until I read it with Squire, and it was perfect for both of us), but there are books that you sort of HAVE TO read as a teen, because that's the ONLY time you're going to really, really get them. "The Catcher in the Rye" or "The Diary of Anne Frank" or anything by Robert Cormier.

Anyway. I'm working on a list, and I've told Squire he's got to read at least one a month off the list, and I have to read it too if I haven't already, so we can play book group about it. Anything you think I might have missed?  

 

epiphany

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I'm realizing that although I am by most standards extremely privileged by accident I find myself more and more not consciously but almost instinctively disliking people who are… I guess MORE privileged. It's not ENVY, I don't think, or not exactly — I don't generally envy people their success or even luck; when a friend wins the lottery my first genuine thought will be: Wait, you play the lottery?! and then I can't imagine anything other than to be happy for them. Same with people buying nice houses, getting raises, meeting someone and falling in love — I'm seriously genuinely pleased in all these situations. I've read but not really understood books about envy and jealousy (notably Status Anxiety by Alain de Botton — beautiful book, didn't get it at all), I've talked to extremely articulate friends about these feelings, but I haven't consciously experienced them. Imagine my surprise, then, to have noted in the past year or so some pretty stunning examples of how it must feel, this wave of bile. I'm wondering what's new: the experience itself, or just noticing the experience. I hope it's a new thing altogether and that I can figure out how to make it go away. It's not nice to be in your forties and stamping your feet over how the world is unfair like that's any kind of news. 

The holiday was nice, mostly. Mellow. Lots of reading, lots of sitting around and staring at things, which is one of my favorite things to do with my free time. If I called it meditating it would sound better but it's really just sitting around staring, more marinating than meditating. "You're soaking in it." Hosted two parties, a small dinner party and a larger new year's party. Sometimes I felt deeply sad and lonely, and sometimes I felt overwhelmed by humanity, but most of the time was mainly feeling well rested, so plus good on balance. 

Over the weekend (Twelfth Night! Three Kings! Epiphany!) I transferred all my 2012 calendar into my 2013 calendar. It was tricksy because I was going from a Czech calendar to a US one, and I kept getting my weeks misaligned. This year I also transferred stuff like "it's been 6 months so make a dentist appointment this week."  There is somebody reading this who is nodding approvingly at my sagacity and somebody else who can't believe I don't have this all plugged in to my smart phone like every other extraorganized person on the planet. I know, I know, but calendars and books still need to be held in my sweet hands or they don't seem REAL. 

Today I applied the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair and did the first edit of a 22 page paper. I haven't edited that hard in a while; my standard has been about 10 pages a day or 20 pages if I'm doing stunts like getting up at 4. So look at me: I STILL GOTS IT. We'll see if the second edit is as easy as I think it will be or if I'm going to have my brains in traction tomorrow from the unaccustomed strain, but I feel pretty confident at the moment. 

the peppermint mine

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With the recent holiday movie viewing, I've been thinking of children's books and films in terms of two particular themes: the child who escapes familiarity and has strange adventures (The Snowman) and the child who finds familiarity outside of an environment where he never felt he belonged (Elf). 

I tend to find the latter category problematic. I grew up also feeling like I didn't particularly belong – I made friends rarely, and even my best friend and I little in common (her: athletic, brave, lovely; me: well, yeah). I loved my family but I wouldn't have been surprised to hear I was adopted, either. So it's possible that to a certain degree my problem with those books is one of jealousy — I accepted the life I was dealt, and so should everybody else. Also, especially when the stories concern someone who realizes they "actually" belong somewhere else, and they take off without a backwards glance, I feel like they're sort of rotten. Even in Narnia, they're convinced they don't have to go back to England because they're dead, but what if they aren't? Their poor parents. 

On the other hand, sitting with my friends the other night and realizing that to a certain degree we are all misfit toys — having never felt particularly like I belonged somewhere, it was not too difficult to pick up and move to another country where I don't belong. In fact, in some ways it's easier since the reason I don't belong here is pretty straightforward. The difference between me and fiction is that I didn't have to choose between the two worlds, so it doesn't feel like I betrayed anything. To me.
I should probably just stick to Die Hard.

you keep using that word

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I've ranted before about how it bugs me when people take words with specific meanings and use them to dramatize their feelings about things for which there are already perfectly good words in existence. I realize there are horrible things in the world that I could be getting upset about instead, and that these are annoyances rather than rages, but boy-oh. Pets are not children. Friends are not family. And the ones that's been bugging me lately is the misuse of "single parent". 

 

If you are not getting any partner-type support, financial or otherwise, from another adult, then you are a single parent. That is exactly what those two words mean – you are unpartnered as a person and specifically as a parent. But here's the thing: If you only get every other week to yourself while your former partner has the kids, or you're fighting about pick up times, or you think they should be giving you more money, or they work out of town, or whatever, you ARE NOT a single parent. It cheapens the extraordinary difficulties that actual single parents have to deal with, and it also makes your own difficulties seem like you have to exaggerate them when in fact they're often horrible enough on their own. I'm glad every day that I don't have to worry about custody and child support, believe me. Look, we all make choices — and sometimes we don't even have a choice. But when you choose to call a divorced or separated parent a single parent, I lose some respect for you. Wouldn't you rather call yourself what you actually are, or skip the labels altogether, and pull up a bottle of wine and talk about it?

 

you talk as if you knew me

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My recent attempts to assert my own preferences have been going pretty well. I'd prefer not to eat pork, thanks; I'd prefer not to sign your silly contract for the work I'm doing for you for free; I'd prefer not to leave the house. Thanks, but no thanks. It turns out that if you're not emotionally invested in telling people no, you can get a pretty fun anthropological kick out of watching how they take it. 

I feel bad about saying no because I've spent a lot of time trying so hard to be accommodating of the inexplicable preferences of others, and I still feel like it's rude to inconvenience people when your preference is equal to theirs, but I have picked olives out of enough dishes after having them sneered at, and dammit, I get to say I don't care for brussels sprouts. Because I don't, I never have, and I have eaten enough of them to be sure. I'd prefer not to have more, thanks. Imma leave that right here on the side of my plate in a tidy pile, okay, thanks. 

**

I'm still wondering why so many of the foods frequently served at parties give one bad breath. Any ideas? Hey, I'm about to talk to you really close for a while, how's my stinky cheese breath? Do you like these cocktail onions exhaled upon you? Mmm, spicy sausage with garlic on a little toothpick breath. 

**
I am happy to report that the hospital that has two outstanding invoices has now paid one of them, significantly bringing down both their debt and my blood pressure. This was for work I did in June, and I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to get paid or whether I was going to have to take somebody's firstborn. Seriously, who DOES that, just doesn't pay you for what you've done? 
Fortunately, it looks like it might get concluded before the end of the year, which is good because I am tired of having Laurie Anderson's Example#22 running through my head all the time. PAY ME WHAT YOU OWE ME.  

**

In my many trips to many, ever so many bars, I have formed some opinions that now seem so obvious to me that I am always a bit floored when the bar owners don't share those opinions. Stuff like… it's a good idea to have a variety of wines in stock. Two of each color, say. It's a good idea for nobody on staff to spend any length of time standing at a table chatting. It's a good idea to check the bathrooms regularly for supplies and messes. Clearly just my opinions, here. 

**
Regarding the election, if I may: I, too, have voted for candidates who have lost. It is a bad feeling when you think that other people do not share your values, or at least not enough other people. It feels lonely. I didn't feel like America had somehow gone to the dogs, but I did feel like maybe it didn't want me. And you know what? I totally DID leave the country — not just because of any election, but honestly, the political climate was a factor in why I left the first time, and it was a factor in why I stayed away the second time. I did so because it made ME feel better. I don't think America gave a patootie that I did so, not least because I've continued to pay taxes. I don't know; I guess I'm saying I find the idea that leaving the country will "teach it a lesson" is pretty funny, because it won't. You leave because it makes you feel better, just like why you leave any relationship that isn't working any more. 

fathomless

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Here's a fun exercise: tell people that you have heard of a super [scary thing — virus, bacteria, crocodile, whatever] and ask them where it came from. I have been researching SUPER LICE and the sources are, variously, Asian immigrants, people from the Middle East, the over-prescription of antibiotics, and the fact that people don't follow directions so the lice just come back because it's their nature. I was persuaded by the third, because I think that's the cause of most health-related problems, until I read the fourth one because — well, when in doubt, bet on stupid. But it is interesting how many sites seemed to slant blame toward minorities in general and immigrants in particular. I know that other living things migrate just like people do, and often hitch rides with humans, but it's not necessarily on immigrants unless they're bringing in smallpox on a blanket. I mean, it could be wealthy people traveling, or food or other goods, not necessarily immigrants. And yet that is a narrative that people believe. If you have reasons beyond the obvious, I'd be interested in hearing them.

Maintaining a tilt that is hard alee with the forms of my vanity, I got my eyelids tattooed with permanent eyeliner. I may be a periodic weepy emotional mess but that doesn't mean I want eyeliner streaked all over my face. I am no Tammy Faye. I realize that the logical solution would be to stop wearing make up but as you may know I like the pain, and besides it was on sale, so it was basically a double score. It hurt like crazy. On a pain scale of things I have experienced it is really up there, and I just ripped a toenail out of my foot this morning by dragging a cabinet over it, and I barely cursed. So eyelid tattoos hurt, and if I had it to do over I'd be too scared to. On the plus side, I now roll out of bed looking ridiculously awake and ready to start the day, so there's that. 

For some reason the need to batten down the hatches (you liking the boat theme? It's totally not because the sun is past the yardarm or anything YARE like that) is strong this year. I have had chairs recovered, fixed broken things, cleaned out cabinets. Rearranged rooms, the whole thing. There is a man who looks not unlike Jack Skellington in my room right now painting it a color somewhere between bricks and wine, a dark bruised red, and I love it. My previous very favorite painter in town retired, and I cast about in despair for a while, but this guy was recommended and I felt instantly comfortable with him because he ran around exclaiming "What's THIS?!" — no, but I did take a liking to him, and he seems to be doing good work. 
Man, I hate winter, and it has already snowed more than once this year. I'm probably not leaving the house again until February, but you should come and visit. Guest room is shipshape and all.