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Eileen Myles

#Eileen Myles

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via Joseph Fasano's twitter

That thing that happens sometimes where the boardwalk stretches into the forest, wetlands reflecting sunlight from below, and you feel like you’re on tour through a more interesting life than your own. I’m already gathering what I plan to miss on the operating table. And your eyes looking up at me by the bedside light. It’s going to be almost too hot for Saturday’s cocktail party but we’re going ahead anyway. We’ll leave a hose in the lawn in case anyone wants to spray their toes and scream like they’re four when you think you might die and a second later you want more. Your brother wants more. Smack your brother. Get in trouble and now it’s time to go to bed. There’s more darkness in the yard. I’m not done. We kept the shades drawn back in the bedrooms. A sheet hanging in the hall not to waste the air-conditioning, a separate world back there, where you lie sideways on top of the blankets, propped up on your elbows with a paperback. The window unit humming in your parents’ bedroom. You turn a page. Something happens to your brain and the rest of your life you want it again.

— Christopher Citro, “Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators in the Mystery of the Rest of Your Life”

Jane Hirshfield

“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