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

five

tuckova3 Comments

1. I had to go to the doctor last week as a result of the work at the
Prestigious Hospital, who wants to be sure that its employees are fit.
I attempted to argue against it, since I really don't see what my blood
pressure has to do with my ability to edit (I see what editing does to
my blood pressure, but that's different), and also because I
particularly dislike putting on clothes for the purpose of going out and
then taking off my clothes in front of clothed people. This is why I
never pursued a career as an artist's model. Fears and bumbling aside,
the visit to the doctor turned out to be the most low-maintenance visit
I've ever had: for example, he determined my height and weight by asking
me what they were. Neat-o. He said I could come back and take off my
clothes some other time, but a form is a form and let's get this thing
done. So that guy is totally going to be my regular doctor now.

2. I've been thinking about what makes people fall out of like. When
I meet somebody, I either instantly like or dislike them, or I forget
their names. Of the people I remember, I revise my opinion only rarely.
So if I stop liking somebody, there's generally a reason, I mean a thing
I can say, "It is at this point that I stopped liking you/being
interested in you." But I guess for some people they just lose interest
gradually? Or is there always some event, some one thing, however dimly
acknowledged, that causes a break?

3. Inspired by our friends who got Squire to paint a trailer by
paying him, I decided to try that approach at the cottage, and offered
to pay him a really ridiculous amount per nail for pulling nails out of
previously-used wood, so that it could then be safely chainsawed and
used for
firewood. Five crowns a nail, you guys. So he was all excitedly plotting
what he
would do with the money, what he would buy, how many nails he might pull
in an hour, etc. I was like, "Hey, all he needed was some motivation!"
He made it for about 30 minutes, 10 nails. Then he got bored and stomped
around the place for a few hours talking about how he had so much angry
energy he didn't know what to do with himself, oh the horrible
hor-moans! and then he lay on the bed and listened to Percy Jackson and
the Predictables. I pulled out the rest of the nails, though I gave up
counting out loud after 100. Then I stomped around the cottage wondering
who was going to pay ME five crowns a nail, because 500 Kc buys a quite
fine bottle of somethingsomething, which I felt I deserved.

4. Noting typos on the US Census web site is a) an occupational
hazard; b)a sign of too much free time; c) other.

5. I think one
reason I am good at remembering so many facts in general is that I
absolutely cannot store numbers. It has been noted that if some Czech
version of the INS ever came for me, or child services for that matter, I
might be lost. How much did Squire weigh when he was born? I have no
idea. Or Friar's year of birth. Or my current phone number. I do not
remember how old your kids are, and I have on more than one occasion
forgotten how many kids you have, and had to remember by reciting their
names, which I remember. I don't remember your birthday unless I have a
clever mnemonic, though I remember to write it down, so props for me. I
also have trouble performing simple functions, like you don't even want
to know what DST does to my poor tender brain. But anyway: numbers.
Numb-er and numb-er. Is this normal? It goes without saying that I can
tell you phone numbers from my childhood, including radio stations, my
aunt's house, my next-door-neighbor's, but I can't keep new numbers in
my head for beans. I blame trying to switch to metric as an adult. What
do you think?

sweetheart, bitter heart

tuckova1 Comment

We had some Drama and Hurt Feelings this weekend. Apparently his
friends' visit on Friday was not all that and a bag of chips. They were
to come over and play cards and look at his photos from vacation, of
which there were maybe a hundred, plus video footage. And the friends
were not very interested. They were talking about other stuff while they
were looking and sometimes they weren't looking at all.  I mean, I have
to say: more than 20 photographs and you have to really love the
photographer. On the other hand, your two best friends? On the first
hand, the photos aren't all that good, since for example he views the
whole "Don't photograph against a window using flash" as nothing more
than superstition. But back to the other hand: who are they, art
critics? It takes like 20 minutes to look at the pictures and be
interested in them, or pretend to be interested because you care about
the person who took them.

So
we had this talk, with his long legs draped across my lap because he is
too old to sit in my lap unless it's really, really bad. This talk that
involved prolonged staring at the ceiling because he is too old to cry
about just hurt feelings. This talk where I explained that being an only
child means that you're used to having people who care about you pay
full focused attention to you, and you're even used to paying full
focused attention to the people you care about, but that other kids may
not see this kind of attention as a kind of caring. Even some adults
don't see it that way. That because you were brought up by adults who
were pretty interested in your stories, that may give you the idea that
the stories are interesting, and some of them are, but some of them are
only interesting to the people who can make time for them. Which two
adults who only have one child can make time for a whole host of
stories, particularly when they think that the one child is going to be
paying attention to their stories, but some adults don't act that way,
and a 13-year-old peer might not feel that way. That it can happen
through the course of your life that no matter how interesting your
stories are, no matter how interesting you are, some people will never
be able to pay full attention to you. And I think one of the important
things about you is that because you know how important it feels to be
heard, you are a very good listener. And this is a blessing and a curse,
to be able to fully listen to people and hear their stories and
the stories behind them, and to remember them, but there is nothing but sadness if you expect
other people to have this gift, or even think of it as a good thing,
because many people don't.

I said it may for example happen that you are in the middle of what
you perceive as a pretty awful time, and you will be asked to pay
attention to someone else's story about how one time somebody was maybe
looking at them funny in line. And you will feel both like you need to
hear this story because you are vitally interested in other people and
obliged to listen to them besides, and you will feel hurt because they
haven't asked about you. I said it may happen that somebody gives you
eighty percent of their attention, ninety percent, and you won't feel
happy because you wanted a hundred. A hundred and ten. You could live
like this until you're forty. Purely hypothetically I'm saying.

But what you need to know is that most people don't think of things
this way. Most people are thinking of themselves, and they seem to live
in the doors of trams, in the grocery store lines. But many people,
people who are worth knowing, devote the amount of attention that they
can. So you can choose to be angry because people don't pay what you consider to be enough attention,
and go through life lonely; or you can hold out this measuring cup and
be hurt when you find it empty or only half full; or you can focus on
finding people who are worth your attention, and hope that they will pay
attention to you in their own way, even if it's different. In any case:
I'm not kidding about photographing against the glass. Seriously, that
has to stop.

Lay Down

tuckova2 Comments

pillows of arms, breasts, legs
to comfort

feathers of wings, warmth
to escape

white of sound
to silence

screams hidden in a white feather pillow
to be muffled.

a wasted mouthful

tuckova3 Comments

We did our whirlwind rock star tour
of California (I didn't take many pictures, sorry). We saw our first
roller derby and it was awesome. We ate a lot of good food. I found out
that Hendrick's gin is as good as its ad copy. I fell hard in love with
otters and seahorses. I watched Golden Girls for the first time. I
found out what the dot over the I is called in the course of losing
(but not badly) at trivia night. I turbo-taxed. It was mostly very
good.

On the road to Monterey, we passed a car on the side of the road. Two
people were hugging beside the car. My first response was WHAT THE
HELL? My sister and my son both said AWWW. This, along with their cute
noses, blond hair, and general irresistibility,  none of which I share,
is further evidence that I am basically raising my sister in boy form.
I do not wish it any other way.

Now I'm home and singing "good morning, jet lag, here we go again…"
to myself. I am sorry that I did not get a full vacation while we were
there (two rush jobs) but I am grateful as anything to have today off
so I can wander from room to room in a half-daze. I may glut myself on
the New Yorker or on television for the whole day. Or both! Certainly I
am staying in my jammies. It's just going to be that wacky.

I was planning to let Squire stay home after I woke up at four and
found out that he had been up since three, but he insisted on going to
school. Ah, school. We have not missed you at all.

Uhm, I got a really awesome contract (editing medical, marketing, and
miscellaneous texts, mmmmmbop) with a Prestigious Hospital and I'm
pretty excited about that.

I have felt more precious and more disposable in the last two weeks
than I have in a year, and holding those two feelings at the same time
is a level of dissonance that I generally try to avoid. It will pass,
but probably not until I've watched an entire season of True Blood or
something.

something my former hands had longed for

tuckova3 Comments

I had a Heart Episode at the dentist's yesterday. I really want it to
Mean Something, or to at least have had a life-passed-before-my-eyes
etc, but mainly what I'm taking away is that I am pissed at myself for
compounding it by panicking. Also grateful that I got to call Friar and
be all WHOA about it and he didn't even tell me I totally didn't have a
heart attack until we were both safely home. My resting heart
temperature is like 60 now; that's amazing and good right. I mean I'm
not worried about my heart. I am a drama queen and I am bringing the
drama, here it is: drama. I didn't tell Squire about how the main thing
that scared me was thinking that I wouldn't see him again, and how
determination to get over that fear was important in terms of focused
getting home action. My drama has changed since the days when I thought
that 27 was a good time to die, so there's that.

I think not liking the oversell of bacon is the new bacon.

I think that it is awesome how ugly Edward James Olmos is. Yes I am
late to the Battlestar Gallactica show, but at least I'm here now. It
is nothing new to observe that in pretty much any given film the women
are going to be prettier and younger, but I still had to rack my
brains to think of any woman who is even close to Olmos's league. The
only woman I can think of that comes close is Linda Hunt, and I think
she can act circles around Olmos, and he is really good. So maybe I could
now make a blanket statement about how all ugly people who go into
acting are probably really amazing, and how great would it be to have a
movie with all ugly people. Except I thought Michelle Pfeiffer did a
great job in Frankie and Johnny so I just blew my own idea out of the
water.

I think it is funny how parents raise the kids they can stand to have
and then think that all that personality is just on the kids. Certainly
I think people are born with a certain amount of stuff in place, but if
your kid can't fall asleep without noise-canceling headphones, I think
that's on you. I'm talking only about other parents: Squire is totes
his own person.

I think that it is interesting how I process maybe one thought every
year. This year so far the thought seems to be "You're kidding, right?"
which is when people express a level of stupid so incomprehensible to
me that I think the only possible explanation is that they're joking.
So far there seems to be no way to verify it with most people that I
don't know, or even people I know without being really insulting, so
this is a mostly internal process.

The amount of my thinking that is occupied by the past is not to be underestimated.

tug

tuckova2 Comments

Logic and emotion are fighting again. Logic says I don't understand and
Logic does some explaining of why understanding is important while
Emotion's feet tap impatiently. Impatience is also an emotion that
Emotion has. Emotion wants to be trusted. Emotion says I shouldn't have
to explain why I feel this; it should be enough for you that I say I feel it.
Logic doesn't know what to say about that, because Logic feels the ice
cracking all around. Feels it like through vibrations, not with
feelings. Emotion says can you please just please try. Logic says I am
trying and Emotion says not hard enough you're not. Logic talks about
common sense and being sensible and Emotion talks about sensitivity.
Emotion wants to know why Logic's point of view gets to go first all
the time. Logic counts off facts using graphs and figures and fingers.
Emotion starts to cry. Logic says why are you being so emotional. Logic
passes over the tissues and puts out a hand all can't we be friends and Emotion says between sobs never mind, never never mind.

whoa welcome to February

tuckova1 Comment

The conversation with the principal about "Perhaps the school should alert parents to the fact that their kids are on facebook" did
not go quite as planned, since for example he did not know that his own
school has a facebook page. He thought I was warning him THERE IS PRON ON THE INTERNETS!! which I was actually on like, the fifth book in that series, but whatever: baby steps.

Last week there was also a conflict with the gym teacher; he apparently thought
that we were making fun of him with our very politely worded "Please excuse Squire from the whole-class detention" letter. The
guy has some respect issues, as do I, so we started at least with that
in common. I was kind of outraged about the whole situation; Friar seemed to be afraid I was going to go in and actually kick the
guy's teeth in. Apparently he didn't
understand that I have to get really angry as a form of girding. Maybe it's my Cold War upbringing but my thought is that I need
to be armed, not that I need to fire. Naturally when I went in there my
intention was to make sure that we're all on the side of getting my
child as well educated as possible. I was all California smiles and charm. My people skilz are unfathomable so now we're all best friends and stuff; I know
all about his daughters and his cottage and his 10 year break from
teaching and his blood pressure and alla that. And he has a better
understanding of Squire, and wheee, job well done awesome high five to
myself.

"Unemployment" (by which I mean: no longer collecting a steady predictable paycheck)
is not really all that bad; I've got enough work coming to keep my
devil's playthings busy. I do spend a lot of time reading and a lot of time looking up stupid crap that I have no actual interest in, and I watched the entire first season of GLEE in basically one sitting, but ehn, things are happening. The brain surgeons keep giving me work, and then fun little things along the way, like a job reading a book for a recording for blind people.

Yesterday
Squire and I cleaned his room. It's basically the first time I've set
foot in there since September (I call "goodnight" from the doorway,
because whoa! he is messy.) I generally
believe that you should be allowed to keep your own room, but like, not when you can barely open the door, so it was time for an intervention. FIVE HOURS, yo. Mostly
because the archaeological significance of many things had to be
appreciated for a few minutes, which my Pave The Earth housekeeping
style does not understand and so I had to have frequent breaks to keep from screaming. But anyway, it got done.

I am distressed by people who do not understand LOLCATS grammar and try
to make up their own, like they think it's just speaking English badly rather than any actual structure. Also
irritated all out of proportion by people who "loveeeeeeee" things. It
is a silent E; you are not emphasizing anything by typing it a dozen
times. Yeah, so I'm going to go to Prague for a bit and take care of an actual baby until I
can start thinking like a grown-up again. Wish for pretty weather for me! 

get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter

tuckova3 Comments

Hearty chortled greetings. How was your weekend? But first let me tell
you about mine. Friar had been having recurring nightmares about the
cottage. When I have nightmares about the cottage, I do not want to go
there in case they might be true. When he has nightmares about the
cottage, he has to go to be sure they are not true, so we bundled up
and went to the cottage this weekend.

I believe – no, I admit – that at some point Squire made a face about the trip, and I hissed in his ear that I did
not want to go, that I was going in order to be kind to Friar, that
periodically we do things we don't like in order to be kind, and that
the kindness is removed by our bitching about it, and I am going so
he's going and I don't want another word about it. I do understand that
my saying to him that I don't want to go is fundamentally no different
from his saying that he doesn't want to go. I'm balancing my hypocrisy
with a little self awareness. That could totally be my epitaph.

To be fair, the person who volunteered to be in charge of preparing
and packing the food failed to prepare anything for me other than
boiled eggs, which was a large factor in my dampened enthusiasm. Yes
okay also we brought bell peppers and tomatoes, but for protein: boiled
eggs. Mmmm, really, boiled eggs for lunch dinner and breakfast? That
causes brisk rubbing of the anticipatory hands! And heart attacks!

It was 20 degrees below. Celsius, but still: that is cold.
Fortunately we were bundled and had many, many pairs of extra socks.
Mostly the whole weekend I couldn't get warm. Even when the inside of
the cottage was a perfectly reasonable temperature I was generally
under a pile of sleeping bags and doing Inward Moaning. However, we
also played in the snow, which was very fluffy and unsuitable for
snowballs. It was, however, very nice to run in and also to fall down
in, which I did quite a bit. Squire made snow angels for his
grandmother, who had mentioned them (city snow is unsuitable, as it can
contain Surprises), and I took pictures. And that part was a lot of
fun, and coming back to the toasty cottage after that part was also a
lot of fun. And breaking out the wine and cigarettes and sitting down
to play games with a now-crackling fire at our backs, watching the
thermostat inside rise while the one outside fell, that was also also
fun.

We played every game in the cottage at least once, dried our socks
over the stove, and Squire and I started reading "A String in the Harp"
(1970s Newbery book), which is very promising. I have some ideas about
the 70s and children's literature in the 70s in particular, and the
contrast between what Newbery winners reflect and what bestsellers
reflect… but I'm really not probably qualified to expound on it
without at least a bottle of wine tucked under my belt.

Anyway. How was your weekend? I hope it was also good.

kids these days

tuckova5 Comments

A bunch of kids in Squire's class have facebook accounts. They're
posting things that I, as a parent, would not want my child posting.
Even if the account is locked, one can still see all the things of
which they are "fans" and so on. So for example, I know that this 12
year old classmate of his, real first and last name, is interested in
meeting men, long passionate kisses, and looking at men's asses in
tight pants. What to think?

a. The parents know, and they don't care.
b. The parents don't know, and don't care.
c. The parents don't know, but would care.
d. other.

An
American friend of mine suggested bringing this up at the school; that
the school should have some kind of program to address it. To my
knowledge, nothing along the lines of internet-savvy behavior is part
of the curriculum. I don't know if kids are taught about it at all.
Certainly Czech television doesn't have James Lipton telling them to give it a ponder.
Is this a situation where one sticks one's head in, or not? I worry
about these kids just putting more of themselves out there than they
would if they were thinking straight; I worry about somebody getting
hurt. Some pretty shitty things happened to me when I was a teenager that would not have happened if I had been prepared for them; there's stuff I would
have avoided if I'd known how to. It is also true that I was warned
very sternly not to do things that I went ahead and did. So maybe this
risking of yourself is part of growing up?

What would you do?

front window

tuckova3 Comments

Dear Boys Across the Street,

Well, not boys. I assume that since you're living just two of you in those big rooms that you have incomes, and incomes usually mean jobs, and jobs mean some kind of grown-upedness, but now I am an old woman and any male this much younger than me is a boy. Anyway, dear boys:

Thank you so much for moving in. Thank you for being home pretty much whenever I am looking out the window in the evening. Thank you for dressing up to go out, or for staying home to have parties. Thank you for knowing that towels don't get you as dry as the air does. Thank you for having parties with beautiful girls, drunk already at 6 and everybody laughing to show all their teeth. Thank you for going out dancing. Thank you for dressing sharp. Thank you for not having curtains.

Love,
What I Am Becoming