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musemash · 3 years

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TUCKER TRANSMUTES LOSS INTO GRATITUDE – by David D. Fowler / updated July 18, 2021

NOSTALGIA FOR MOVING PARTS is the fourth book by gifted British Columbia poet DIANE TUCKER. The embedded videos present a visualization of the title poem; her recitations of selections from the book; her tribute to George Herbert; and her book launch readings, with guests Sheri-D Wilson and Kevin Spenst. Multi Facet Fables offers several of her poems below.

Turnstone Press describes her work as follows: "Poised between thoughts of mortality, and an exquisite taste for the most tender, small details of life, the poems in Nostalgia For Moving Parts are whimsical, quirky, and resonant with memory. Deeply grounded in the rainy mists and green reeds of the Canadian west coast, solitude becomes a spiritual practice – transmuting loneliness and loss into grand appreciations, for the gift of childhood and the untravelled road ahead."

Fellow poet Rob Taylor writes: When Diane Tucker hangs up a payphone in Nostalgia For Moving Parts' title poem, she observes that 'there is (oh unexpected pleasure) a real click.' When she lays down to sleep: 'the prayers / that fight up through me make a sort of hum.' Click and hum. Nostalgia and prayer. What's been and what will always be. Nostalgia For Moving Parts reminds us how to hear and see the ephemeral in the eternal and the eternal in the ephemeral: the moving parts of all our lives."

Finally, playwright Ron Reed enthuses: "Three poems about childhood... made me cry... So particular, so much compassion. Get yourself a copy. I'm not kidding." You can find the book at this link: https://www.turnstonepress.com/books/poetry/nostalgia-for-moving-parts.html

CHILD'S POSE Both hands spread to feel the floor, the child I am is still kin to carpet, tile, dust-drift beneath cupboards. The child I am spreads forearms along this coolness, taking in how much the floor gives and resists. She curls into her kneecaps, warm familiars, pressing into the small dark made by her greying head. The tops of her feet flat against the ground, the child I remain makes herself hummock, hill, barrow full of the self's jewels, small spine a path from darkness to darkness, arms twin tree roots cradled in earth.

DANNY Skipping ropes at school, their woven heft. Steel poles around the roofed playground, the rain running down them luminous, metal-melting. I’d press my tongue against a pole and drink. School was a world of delicious new textures: fat crayons, creamy manila colouring paper, notebooks, worksheets stacked fat as animal bodies. Tables and chairs with shiny metal tubes for legs. Even light at school felt stronger than at home. They showed us filmstrips of marmalade leaves against a blue blue sky, all technicolour-crisp. How I loved those glowing celluloid leaves! Then the cloakroom hooks’ imploring curves, parallel silences in calm, rectangular shadows, the pavement tap-dance beat of skipping ropes. How I loved school, the sweet order of desks in grids. So I wasn’t totally upset when, in grade two, Danny with the French last name tied me to a pole with a skipping rope so he could kiss me, Danny with the round eyes, a cherub’s mouth, curly hair. He was small even among the small, as I was. No doubt I’d flirted with him, grade-two style, cute and clueless. I thought myself a lady. Were kisses procured? I bet there were a few. Soon the rope loosened and I made a dash. But Danny pushed me back. A metal pole I loved, from which I’d drunk the rain, rushed up and struck me in the bone below one eye. A shiner it was called. I had a shiner. I’d seen them on TV, cartoon-red beefsteaks on faces. Danny got the strap then, or another time, or both. He came back to class subdued, his crying eyes swollen. As if a hiding could patch up his love-starved soul. He chased girls, he lifted skirts, he stole kisses, and the grown-ups just spanked his ass? Poor Danny, tiny paramour, tiny batterer! As long as I knew him, Danny chased the girls, staring expectantly through big brown eyes. Whatever makes boys seize girls roiled in him. That yearning he had, no strap could smack it out. And no black eye stopped me flirting. I was seven and had imprinted on romance like a baby bird. I followed its Hollywood promises everywhere, persistent and imploring as a cloakroom hook.

IF I CAN BE BRAVE I love to lie on the rust-orange carpet by the shiny floor that stops at the heat vents, black slats like little venetian blinds. I peer between them. Can I see the basement? Can I hear Grandma and Grandpa talking? I slide along the varnished floor in sock feet, turn and creep down the basement stairs. If I face it, the darkness, if I can be brave, Grandma will give me a glass of 7UP and scratch my back on the green and white brocade couch and let me watch every last minute of The Lawrence Welk Show. Let me make it through the black basement kitchen, then run into the living room. Lamps will be on. Grandpa will smoke a pipe in his brown leather chair. Grandma's hair will shine in its perfect silver waves. Everything will be safe, blanket-cozy, almost-bedtime good.

BEAUTIFUL GRADE FOUR TEACHER always wore his shirt half open, had dry-look hair and eyes bigger than Donny Osmond’s. Sometimes he used swear words in class. I fell hard in grade four love. I remember the day I had to wear the hand-me-down dress to school. Polka dots, pleats, Peter Pan collar. 1974 was bell-bottoms, feathered hair, Three Dog Night and Doodle Art. It was neither pleats nor polka dots. It was in no way a Peter Pan collar. But crushy teacher, lounging atop a desk, fixed me, with round, pale eyes, in his stare. He grafted two trees to a single rootstock, kindness twinned forever with desire. You look smashing, he said, in that dress. The world lit up. I clutch that moment, talisman still, the heat that flowered when he noticed my smallness, my sadness, and spoke.

LOVE THE SAD MEN The small, huge things that sad men do, sad men who build with everything but words. Build dollhouses, train sets, HO mountains from cereal boxes and plaster of Paris, building the mountains they can for their sons. For daughters they build scroll-sawed shelves to hold phalanxes of dolls, blown-glass animals, Barbie barns above the bed’s blue lace. Sad fathers who’ve eluded words carve magic circles in their back lawns for swimming pools. They sieve stones out of the soil circles so nothing will nick the pools’ thin blue skin. This is the testament of sad men who live starved of words: drywall, carport, pickle jars of nails, lawnmower, farmer’s tan, house paint, apple tree, soldering gun, handsaw, wood plane. Wood shavings falling from the vise, wooden curls on the cold garage floor, wooden curls warm on little girls’ ears.

VANDUSEN GARDEN IN OCTOBER Imagine being planted long enough that your roots grow up through the earth, breaking the mossy surface the way a fish’s spine rises from the bronze lake. Imagine walking in a chilled silence until you hear three black squirrels chewing and hear their tiny hearts beat when the raven screams. Imagine white-gowned women in a fern dell. Imagine they’ve swallowed all of the October light and shine with it like walking birches. Imagine small bridges over a dry stream. Imagine every leaf assembling, red-gold current of autumn wind running under ice-hearted stones. Imagine pausing there, letting the chill slip itself down your back, into your lungs. Imagine your coat, your scarf, your boots loosen, open, and let slip in November’s sleek and blandishing hands.

UN-SISTER The un-sister who barely came to be in this world stayed in God's mind with the un-roses: red almond-shaped shadows. I dream her idling about the un-garden with all the un-born, bodiless smiles painted on the airless atmosphere of the vast un-place of the un-made, faux perfection of the un-tried and un-spoken. I hold up my hand of flesh, bathed in particle waves of material light. It cannot close around nothing. We're always bearing handfuls of atoms. Even when very still and thinking of my un-living sister among the haze of un-created flowers, matter sparks. Light dances across synapses in the mind's dark, where everything imagined has its name, its own small electric body.

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teachingoutsidethebinary · 7 years

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We Are Family Part 2: The Tour

Summary: Steve gives Y/N a tour of the house and she gets to meet the other residents.

Characters: Reader, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Thor, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, other eventual Marvel characters

Warnings: Steve accidentally outs the reader, some cursing

Word count: 1922

Read Part 1 here

The brownstone and its residents reminded you of those little clown cars you saw on TV as a kid. Just when you thought no one else could fit in this tiny house, someone inevitably popped out.

“So that’s Tony,” Steve said, pointing to the guy at the dining room table. “He works at a local electronics shop. Sorry for the mess. They tend to let him take home the stuff they deem unsalvageable.” Tony waved, but other than that, he barely acknowledged you as he continued to fiddle with a circuit board on the table. Smoke curled out of a small welding rod that he was holding.

Steve guided you into the kitchen and whispered, “Don’t let him fool you, Tony’s insanely talented. College isn’t his thing, but he could have easily graduated with an engineering degree from the best school in the country.”

You nodded and admired your new surroundings. The kitchen had bright yellow walls and old-fashioned tile on the floor. Sunlight seeped through at least five different windows, giving it a neat glow. A large table and wraparound bench stood to your left, and it looked like it could seat an entire army of people. A stove, microwave and dishwasher dotted the counter, and a large fridge/freezer combo stood near another door.

“So here’s the kitchen,” Steve said unnecessarily. “We all try and go grocery shopping together, and we split the bill for common stuff. If you want anything special though, that’s all on you. Label anything you don’t want to get eaten.”

He opened the door and began walking down a set of wooden stairs. “Here’s the basement,” he continued. “Bruce and Thor live down here.”

“Thor?” you questioned as you walked carefully down the steps.

“Yeah, his real name is Theodore or something like that, but it’s just Thor to us.”

The basement was carpeted and there was a slight chill in the air. Bright, white lights hummed softly overhead, and you could hear someone grunting in the distance. A man who could pass as a literal god sat on a workout bench doing bicep curls. He was completely shirtless and you admired the stacks of muscles that made up his core. The weights he was lifting were almost as big as your head. In fact, you were pretty sure his muscles were as big as your head too. His blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and sweat dripped down his face. He finished his set, let the weights fall with a loud THUD, and walked over to greet you.

“Thor, this is Y/N, our new roommate,” Steve said.

Thor raised his eyebrows admiringly and grasped your hand. Before Steve could stop him, he gently kissed your knuckles.

“What a pleasure to meet a lady as fair as you,” he said suavely.

Steve groaned. “Thor, don’t even start.”

You merely laughed. “Sorry, Thor, you’re not my type.”

Something shifted next to you and you shrieked. You hadn’t even noticed the couch on your way down the stairs. A pile of blankets moved again, and Thor yanked them off. A scrawny man with messy brown curls blinked up at you.

“Bruce! Do not be rude!” Thor exclaimed. “Come and greet Y/N.”

Bruce stumbled awkwardly off the couch and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, half-yawning. “Sorry, it was a long night at the lab.” You shook his hand, and Steve picked up the conversation.

“Bruce is getting his doctorate in nuclear physics, so he’s rarely here. Hence, the couch and no bed.”

Bruce nodded his agreement. “Plus, I’m the only one who can deal with Thor’s ridiculous workout noises.”

Thor looked offended. “As a personal trainer, I need to make sure I am in top physical condition!”

“Whatever man,” Bruce replied, diving back under his blankets. “Wake me up for dinner.”

Steve led you back upstairs as you waved goodbye to Thor and the pile of blankets that was now Bruce.

You made your way back through the kitchen and living room and climbed the stairs up to the second floor. A narrow hallway extended from one end of the house to the other with four doors lining the left side.

“Everyone else lives up here. That’s one of the main bathrooms,” Steve said, pointing to the door in the middle. “There’s another one downstairs that you’ll share with Bruce and Nat. Thor usually uses the one at his gym.”

He walked to the door at the far right of the hall and knocked. “Come in!” a voice called. He opened the door and you both walked inside.

One side of the room was a complete mess. Clothing, books, paper plates, and empty water bottles littered every available surface. A few rock band posters hung crookedly on the walls. A young woman with shining red hair sat at a desk chair on the more immaculate side. Her space was neatly organized, and everything seemed to be in perfect order. It was a stark contrast to her roommate’s area.

“Y/N! It’s nice to finally meet you! I know so much about you!” the girl exclaimed, hopping off the chair. “I’m Natasha, but you can call me Nat.” Her smile was fiery, and you couldn’t help but grin back.

“Where’s Clint?” Steve asked. You assumed Clint was responsible for the mess on the other side of the room.

“Picking up his last paycheck from Fury,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

Steve let out an exasperated sigh. “He lost another job? That’s like the third one this month!”

“Fourth, actually,” Nat corrected. “He’s not going to be able to make rent if it keeps it up.” She turned to look at you. “Clint is adorable, but he’s basically a mess. Can’t keep a job, can’t keep a girlfriend, and definitely can’t keep a clean room.” You giggled at her honesty.

“Hey Nat, do you still have extra blankets and sheets up here?” Steve asked, changing the subject. Nat sauntered over to her closet and pulled the door open.

“Let’s see...,” she said. “Ah! Here we go!” She grabbed a purple sheet and blue blanket and handed them to you. “Sorry they don’t match.”

“It’s totally fine, thank you so much,” you rambled gratefully. “I’ll give them back once I get my own.”

“Nah, keep them as long as you’d like. Money’s tight, no sense in wasting it on something I already have, right?” The look in her eyes was comforting and unsettling at the same time. It was almost like she knew exactly why you were here. Had she overheard your conversation with Steve? You smiled nervously, and thankfully, Steve moved you onto the next room, bidding Nat goodbye.

“What does she do?” you whispered after he had closed the door.

Steve shrugged his shoulders. “None of us really know. Nat’s a bit of a mystery. She always has rent and grocery money though, so we don’t ask a lot of questions.”

The next door was already slightly opened, and Steve let himself in. “You already met Tony, and he shares a room with Sam.”

You could immediately tell which side of the room was Tony’s. It had more circuits and computer parts on the shelves above his bed.

Sam was a dark, African American man with arm muscles similar to Thor’s. He lounged on his bed reading a book called The Poisonwood Bible. Once he saw you and Steve, he marked his page and stood up.

“How’s it going?” he said in a smooth voice. “Name’s Sam.”

“Y/N,” you replied, shaking his outstretched hand.

“Sam works for the gardening store not far from here. He’ll try and recruit you to help plant stuff in the backyard. Say no,” Steve warned.

“Hey man, let the lady decide on her own!” Sam exclaimed. “See you later, Y/N!” he called. He shook his head good naturedly as Steve led you out.

“And last but not least, my room.” He opened the last door and walked inside. The room was crammed with books of every size and genre. The windowsill, desks, even the floor held copious amounts of books. It was like a mini library was hidden in the brownstone.

“Holy cow,” you breathed, taking it all in. It took you an embarrassing amount of time to notice there was another man in the room. He wore a tshirt and his left arm was covered in a tattoo sleeve. It almost looked like metal panels covered his arm. You could just barely see the point of a red star near his upper bicep. A bit of stubble accented his sharp jawline, and his eyes were a soft brown.

“Sorry for the mess,” the man said, rising from his desk chair. “I’m Bucky.” You noticed two hardcover books laying on the chair as he sat back down.

“Hi,” you replied, still staring at the room. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books in one room before.”

“Yeah, that’s my fault,” Bucky replied sheepishly. “I work at a bookstore, and the owner gives me an epic discount. I’m a real bibliophile.”

“Hey speaking of the bookstore,” Steve said, “is the cafe next door still hiring?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, they are. Jarvis is desperate. They even pulled me in during the lunch rush to make coffee.” He grimaced. “It did not go well.”

“Do you think they’d hire me?” you asked. Working at a cafe wasn’t exactly what you had in mind for your life after high school, but you were desperate for money.

“They’re ready to hire anyone with a pulse at this point,” Bucky scoffed. “You’ll get the job, no worries. I’ll take you there tomorrow to meet Jarvis, the owner. Does she know about the Sunday rule?” he asked Steve.

“What Sunday rule?” you asked curiously.

“I know this whole place probably seems overwhelming-” Steve began,

“That’s an understatement,” Bucky muttered, raking his hands through his hair.

“But we’re like a huge family. We’re all so busy you know? So everyone tries not to work on Sundays. It’s kind of our day to hang out together.”

You swallowed at the thought of this new group of people being your family. After everything that happened with your parents, you so desperately wanted that.

“That actually sounds really awesome,” you replied softly.

Bucky returned your smile. “Also, I’m sorry about your parents. That really sucks.”

Your smile turned to a look of shock and you turned to Steve. He held up his hands in defense, just as confused as you were.

“How did you-?” you asked.

“Nat,” Bucky replied, as if the answer was obvious.

“Dammit, Nat,” Steve grumbled. “Sorry, Y/N, everyone probably knows by now. Nat can extract secrets from the best of them, but she sure as hell can’t keep one. How the heck did she find out Y/N’s gay?” he asked Bucky.

“Whoa, gay?” Bucky replied, shocked. “Stevie, Nat just said Y/N’s parents kicked her out.”

Realizing he had just outed you to a complete stranger, Steve’s face went ashen. “Y/N I am so sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“Steve, it’s okay,” you said. “It would have come out eventually. Besides, you said I was safe here, right?” He and Bucky both nodded. “Then we’re good. Just let me tell the others at my own pace, okay?” you asked gently.

Before Steve could answer, the front door burst open downstairs. A male voice reverberated through the house:

“Guys! I’ve got pizza!”

TAGS: @buckyappreciationsociety

#avengers au #avengers fic #roommate #gay reader #LGBTQIA #the avengers are roommates #tony stark #steve rogers #james bucky barnes #clint barton #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #bruce banner #thor #fluff #slight angst

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