hyrude:

olreid:

house as body - tma / i am in eskew / kirsty logan / shirley jackson / lisa robertson / the mountain goats / anatomy / shirley jackson / mabel / jessie lynn mcmains

mark z danielewski

I have more bookshelves now. Two of them, just climbing out the wall, and hopefully not falling off and out of it.

All it took was a month of putting holes in a wall, and putting brackets in those holes, and realising the holes weren’t deep enough, the things stuck in those holes not grippy enough, and pulling the brackets out, and getting better holes and better things to put in them, and then realising I didn’t do the holes good enough, and these new impossible-to-take-out-of-the-wall things to put in wall-holes would need to be taken out of the wall, and better holes made, and then the brackets and the things to put in wall-holes would need to be shoved back in, and all the while hoovering up brickdust and living with holes just sitting in my wall and looking at me, and all the while living with all my cook books in two shoulder-high piles on the floor that I had to dismantle every time I wanted to look at one of them.

And now it’s done. And there are books hanging out on these two floating shelves. And one small string-of-hearts plant.

lifeinpoetry:

In the song, he sang, I am the thing

that ate the flowers. Then he smiled with his straight teeth.
In the song the long forest path changed with every turn—

I saw meadows in the hard red earth. 

— Brittany Cavallaro, from “Orphic Hymn,” Unhistorical

Molcajete’s developing her own scent. Logically I know it’s made up of the garlic I used to season her; the cinnamon quill and sea salt and rock sugar I’ve ground up since. But the scent’s kinda all of those and none of them. Synergy and synthesis: more than you’d expect.

sunderlorn:

@fallingawkwardly replied to your post “@tsulean replied to your post “If I leave a draft half-finished and…”

“modern AU Ghostline, as set in the Manitoba wilderness” never underestimate how much i want this now james

I was struck and kicked, and buried in the dark to shrink or fester. Instead I slowly healed, cellared under the Horton’s at Darkwater Crossing.

For a while when I was let free I could only stand in the sun, blind and blinking, and be touched by the wind as it tasted my face. But after that I start my truck, and the keys bite and growl before the engine begins to purr. It is glad to have me back. I adjust the seat. My legs are wrong, have always been wrong, for the placing of these pedals. 

I lose myself in the traffic, and then I lose the traffic, and then I drive alone. Only the prairie as it sings to itself, the song of grass to grass. The dry ground, cracked brown in an irony of thirst, beside the wide brown wetness of river. The leafless trees and the trees that are still green, bristling with pins and resinous in the breeze. The wind, the wind, the wind through my rolldown window, sighing as it roars and sighs.

My cellphone beside me is brick-shaped in the cover it wears to keep it safe from my hands’ sometimes-stupidity. Inside it, riding passenger next to me, the lockscreen is alive with updates, rolling and scrolling over themselves like ants seething out of an anthome. Messages from rabbits and wildfowl. The simmering incessant push notifications, so teeming I sometimes am made to mute them, of a thousand-thousand things in the distance, gathered to dismantle a car-killed stag.

I glance from the road like I know that I shouldn’t, but me and the road are alone, so I see no harm in not seeing it. Another message; a new and seldom and special kind, for which I’m meant to be always waiting.

‘The clan reeks of sickness. The land died beneath us. They broke it open for oil and forced us toward the horizon. The sky is ashen now, and these days even the air is harsher than once it was… [1m ago]’

llleighsmith:

“No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.”

— ERIN BOW

Bought a goodly sized molcajete today. Downside of this is walking a couple miles home with it on my back. Upside of that is treating myself to horchata when I got home.

Currently sacrificing rice to season/appease it. Rice to eat, water to drink, garlic for glaze and flavour!