Slow Down For Your Disabled Friends. Thats Like A Bare Minimum Kindness That We Shouldnt Have To Ask

sweet sweet summertime

Is sorrow the true wild?

And if it is—and if we join them—your wild to mine—what’s that?

For joining, too, is a kind of annihilation. What if we joined our sorrows, I’m saying. I’m saying: What if that is joy?

The Book of Delights -- Ross Gay

Failing and Flying

Jack Gilbert. Refusing Heaven, 2005.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

kind of obsessed with the idea of the rest of the gaang leaving Toph and Zuko to watch over some cooking food and when they come back its burned and Katara starts fuming but Toph and Zuko are like “we’ve never stepped inside a kitchen in our lives and only have one eye between us, if anything it’s your fault”

Some of you might find this controversial, but I recently decided to change the love interest of my story to a woman in the name of yuri.

Illustrations commissioned by @leapness for @jerichos_kitchen

Feeding the Worms

Ever since I found out that earth worms have taste buds all over the delicate pink string of their bodies, I pause dropping apple peels into the compost bin, imagine the dark, writhing ecstasy, the sweetness of apples permeating their pores. I offer beets and parsley, avocado, and melon, the feathery tops of carrots. I’d always thought theirs a menial life, eyeless and hidden, almost vulgar–though now, it seems, they bear a pleasure so sublime, so decadent, I want to contribute however I can, forgetting, a moment, my place on the menu.

Bonfire Opera - Danusha Laméris

Start

Service Station

You’re beautiful, sister, eat more fruit, said the attendant every time my mother pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue. We never knew why. She didn’t ask and he didn’t explain. My brother and I would look at each other sideways in the back seat, eyebrows raised— though lord knows we’d lived in Berkeley long enough. He smiled when he said it, then wiped the windows and pumped the gas. I liked the little ritual. Always the same order of events. Same lack of discussion. Could he sense something? Attune to an absence of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting— a way of tossing her an apple, a peach? It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment of which she seldom spoke, and true she never thought herself a beauty, since in those days you had to choose between smart and beautiful, and beauty was not the obvious choice for a skinny bookish girl, especially in Barbados. No wonder she became devout, forsaking nearly everything but God and science. And later she suffered at the hands of my father, whom she loved, and who’d somehow lost control of his right fist and his conscience. Whose sister was she, then? Sister of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute, the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams? But didn’t her savior speak in parables? Isn’t that the language of the holy? Why wouldn’t he come to her like this, with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms, to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan, and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness, as he filled the car with fuel, and told her— as a brother—to go ahead, partake of the garden, and eat of it.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four