Everything feels obscure from here
restfulcorners reblogged
The sun still beats down on the top of the compost bins, warming their insides enough to crack the husks from the fly eggs earlier than they might have otherwise.
When they wake, they'll eat the scraps beneath them. Bits of onions and coffee, the tops of strawberries, and watermelon juices that the bite-marks missed. We tossed them there, to see what would happen if the soil were as rich as it could be. But it's too late for planting this year.
The earth is already doing what it will. Fall starts with the mist lingering imperceptibly longer into the ever-shortening day, but the bin stays warm from the simple reaction between the stuff we're made of, carbon and nitrogen, oxygen and time jumbled all together, twisted the way our guts wrench at the smell of the rot we've kept.
Some things are worthwhile for the promise, that waste and spill can roll over in their graves and toward the coming spring, where they will be mixed into the soil again, their memory a blessing, the world richer for having them pass through.
restfulcorners reblogged
Hey Mr. Gaiman!
I'm primarily a reader, so I wouldn't know the difficulties and tortures you writers go through, but I was wondering how one gets a potentially great writer to well, write?
A friend of mine once called me up dead at night to tell me an idea for a story he had, and despite my initial anger, I ended up listening to the whole thing like one listens to fairy tales from their grandparents, and fell in love with the story. I encouraged him to go through with writing it. It's been a whole year since then, and he hasn't written a single line, insisting he 'has it all in his head' and can't start until he has every detail figured out.
Since then I've been keeping notes for him, since he won't. I can tell he really believes in the story and i personally would definitely buy the hard cover (and not just because I'm biased for my friends).
I've gone past pushy and feel as though I believe in his story more than he does! I guess what I'm asking is, if you were this writer, how would I be able to convince you/him to write? Or would you just like to be left alone if you were him, till you felt you could do it?
My dad met an author once. I’ve now forgotten the author’s name. He became an author because, in the story he told my father, he mentioned to an author named Somerset Maugham that he wanted to write. And then he went to stay with Maugham for a couple of weeks. And Maugham locked him in his bedroom with a large pile of blank paper and wouldn’t let him out each day until he’d pushed his pages under the door.
His book was published, he became a moderately well known author in the 1930s, and when he told the story to my father, in the late 1950s, he still hadn’t forgiven Somerset Maugham for locking him in the spare bedroom.
And the moral I take from that is that people will write or not write when they are ready. And some people don’t want to break the perfect thing that they have in their heads by making the imperfect thing that they will have to turn it into by bringing it into this world, and that either way, you are probably better off not locking them in your bedroom to write.
I’ve had a lot to learn about not looking back
this is one I'll remember
“The strength of the Pack is the Wolf,
and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack!”
Common Dolphins in the Santa Barbara Channel
California, USA
Source: flickr.com
I’m not so good at finding rest
And that has made the difference
Between squaring with myself, or else
Overworking my hands to dust and
Bitterbone.
I have seen the waters sweetened around
The feet of those near me, yet
Still feel them recede
When I lean down to touch the future.
All that one could be is
Harder than what the rest might have you believe
Perfect lives are nonexistent
No one gets to success alone,
And I am alone.
September 16, 2018 our anniversary.
restfulcorners reblogged
Joseph Rodefer DeCamp — Farewell. detail. circa 1900-1902
restfulcorners reblogged
Original caption:
“I move, therefore I am.” ―Haruki Murakami
The world around us never stands still and it is this motion that gives Earth life. Without this movement, our planet could not exist. Simply put, movement breathes life into our world. Few of us have ever stopped to think about the importance of this constant motion — stop to bask in its simplicity and beauty. Far too few of us take a moment to see our universe in motion.
restfulcorners reblogged
my moons 2017 - part 1
Source: instagram.com
Mammoth Lakes, California August 2018
“a gardener in the grocery during post-work rush”
At five-thirty, on Friday, The world seems zipped up inside it’s sphere Of suits and ties Wild as the next Yet posed as if America were docile, Walking through fluorescent aisles.
It is insanity hour, This time I decide To dress again in garden clothes. I am dirty, I suppose, Too dressed-down for the grocery at five-thirty. Too unlike the shined-shoes beneath the tactless trousers Of the men with dress codes, and expectations, and emails to Answer at home after tactful kisses to the lives they’ve kept behind closed doors. Yet in the normal bustle of the world around, This was my day off.
I was on this quiet planet, in the garden, Where I wasn’t ever too-dirty to spend my time Growing things the closed and blinder eyes Spend years of their life in line to buy At the grocery, where America forgets That root vegetables come from the dirt so many are quick to condescend.
A taste of Ocean Beach, then and now.
San Diego, California 2018
Waterfalls of Yosemite National Park, 2018