#the poetry of everyday things

[jomiddlemarch]

The Philosophy Inherent in Buttered Toast

Within a week of Shirley’s departure, Susan found that she could not fall asleep, no matter how much she exhausted herself; the windowpanes had never sparkled brilliantly so in the morning sunlight. She’d dare Miss Cornelia Bryant herself to find the smallest speck on the kitchen floor. She concocted impossible delicacies to try and tempt Mrs. Doctor, muttering under her breath about the various culinary restrictions and how she’d like to see anyone make a decent pie with the miserly amount of lard she was allotted, and she starched the Doctor’s collars so thoroughly he’d begged her to stop as he couldn’t turn his head when he drove out to see his patients, especially not that sharp curve onto the road over to the Lower Glen. Work, hard work that left her with a sore back and aching knees and hands too rough to get a pair of gloves onto for Sunday service, had always been a panacea, just as Mrs. Doctor had her garden and Mrs. Reverend had her needlework. 

Once Shirley left, after a brief kiss on her cheek and a little squeeze of her hand as she gave him a neatly tied up box lunch for the train, the week’s sugar ration used up in his favorite sweets, she turned her hand to the plow as it were and expected to find some respite. Instead she found herself lying in her narrow bed, a stripe of moonlight across the foot, her eyes burning, wide open. Her body longed for rest but her mind, her heart, her very soul itself would not allow it, as un-Christian a thought as that might be. She’d drift off in snatches in the early morning, wake with the fog of dreams, a confusion dispelled by the splash of water in the basin and the cold cloth scrubbed across her face. She felt every one of her years like a millstone and if she hadn’t already been plain Susan Baker since she’d outgrown the very little prettiness she’d had a child, someone, likely that outspoken Mary Vance, would have remarked that old Susan Baker looked quite poorly.

She began by reciting psalms to herself and then all her favorite hymns but it made no difference. Unlike Mrs. Doctor, she took no delight in watching the moon wax and wane and thought only a man could have come up with the constellations, the greatest waste of time she could think of and nothing but a lot of foolish nonsense. She took to drinking her tea as strong as she could steep it, nearly black. Coffee was too dear to waste and had to be saved for the Doctor. If he nodded off over his surgery, Susan Baker would be the one responsible for the poor soul under his knife’s untimely passing. She was comforted when Shirley enclosed a brief note addressed to Mother Susan in the letter he’d sent to his parents and sisters, but the relief of knowing him safe didn’t see her dozing in her rocking chair, let alone tucked up snug in her bed.

She remembered something Walter had once said, that there was poetry in the most ordinary things, how he’d gone on and on about a perfectly buttered piece of her toast, sliced just the right thickness, the butter spread smooth and even to the brown crust. She was known for her bread, that was common knowledge in Glen St. Mary, whether it was a white loaf or wholemeal, but she’d thought if she hadn’t loved Walter since he was a tot, she would have given a mighty sniff at his folderol. Now, though, she thought perhaps making a list of all the ordinary things that could be what Walter had called the marvelous quotidian before explaining his fancy words, perhaps making a list might take the place of counting the sheep that would never be sheared nor help her nod off.

To begin with, there was Walter’s buttered toast.

The hiss the iron made as she flicked a drop of water on it to test its heat.

The first even row of knots she threw on her needles beginning another sock in the ugly drab worsted that was military standard.

The last swipe of the cloth when she was polishing the good silver.

The greedy sound the Doctor made as he ate his slice of pie, one she would have scolded the children for making.

Winding the clocks.

Rilla’s little frown as she tried to feed her war-baby and got mashed peas all over the front of her clean white shirtwaist, a dab on her cheek.

Slipping on galoshes when it was a rainy morning.

The crinkle of the pages as she read her Bible chapter before bed.

Beans, bobbing about in the pot.

Una Meredith asking for help with her darning, her blue eyes round as buttons as she said Please, Miss Baker, the only one of the Meredith children to use a title for her.

Throwing out slops when the bucket was full.

Spools of thread lined up in her sewing basket.

Spoons, nestled tight against each other in their drawer.

The milk folding around itself in her chipped teacup like the sheets on the line in the wind.

Shirley’s way of writing the letter S, the same in her name as his own.

Fat blueberries in a bowl, waiting to be made into jam.

She began each night with Walter’s toast. Most nights, she fell asleep between the bean pottage and the slops arcing out onto the dirt. When it had been several days since they’d heard from Shirley or the papers were black with battles and casualty lists, the milk in the tea took the shape of Shirley’s cursive S. When there were letters from all three Blythe boys and the Meredith ones as well, the knitting needles fell from her hands, stitches most certainly dropped.

The night they’d learned about Courcelette, she’d counted each one of the blueberries in the bowl and wept.

And slept.

With many thanks to @batrachised who posted this summary of fake fic with this same title: Susan and Walter have a conversation about the poetry of everyday things. Susan still can't quite understand that poetry nonsense, but after Walter waxes eloquent about her perfectly ensembled toast that has just the right amount of butter scraped on top, she decides that surely a little of it is harmless enough - walter is Mrs. Doctor Dear's son, after all.

I hope my "borrowing" did the initial post justice! @gogandmagog I would have shared this today anyway, but I did love your encouragement post.

[jessthinksthingssometimes]

Some bird-themed pages from my book of beautiful things from everyday life.

There are so many moments of beauty around us every day. It's easy to stop noticing or appreciating them.

[woahpip]

LEAH'S APRON / Liza's Monday and Other Poems by Bettie Sellers

(alt text as image description)

[home-ward]

And so the season of fairies begins. The blooms outside are becoming abundant.

My imagination is waking up.

Some days are so sweet that they feel like sunlight on my skin, the relief after monotonous rainy days.

[gardensnakie]

How’s life? No pressure question ofc, but if you want to share please feel free to do so with this ask :3

Eh, it doesn't feel all that great right now. I'm tired and hungry a lot, but I just have to get a routine together. My sleep has been wonky, I've been waking up too early, but I feel fine then but it also feels like I can't rest completely- I have dreamless nights mostly. And I also just get annoyed a lot, but it feels better being around people I like.

[eclecticwordblender]

sometimes i feel so hopeless about the world. but then i drive up the hills on a chilly evening as the winters approach, stare down at my town and share a few cigarettes and a few joints with a friend over a cup of lemon chai while our 420 playlists alternate in the background and for a moment there my existence transcends the material.

for a moment there the world isn’t hopeless. i’m none of my social identities and contexts, i’m just a being and force of life flows freely through me. my friend and i don't exchange a word, occasionally smiling at each other. for a moment there i am happy, for a moment there, i find this world worth saving, and for a moment there, i know what being human really means.

[f0xgl0v3]

Sometimes I just disappear and know I’m staring at one particular sculpture of Commodus trying to translate him and his looks properly into drawing and Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelly keeps playing in my lil gnoggin…

I haven’t been satisfied yet but one day maybe I’ll finally do it.

[hauntedwoman]

i genuinely dont think i care that much abt physically aging bc ppl think im like 18 at 24 years old but im gonna be so real i do not see myself doing this for another twenty or so years lol i maybe have three left in me

[cypriansthoughts]

I thought growing up meant freedom,

Oh, how wrong I was.

~ Cyprian

[badolmen]

Soldiers kill sheep in the streets and I see bison skulls piled high, the bullets are made in the United States.

Trees are set ablaze by tanks and I see Moses kneeling in fear and reverence, God does not speak from these flames.

The people starve and I see seaweed gathered in baskets on Irish shores, Dutch tulip bulbs boiled with rabbit bones.

When they said ‘never again’ it was never for love of the hundreds of millions murdered, nor fear of the systems that allowed such evil to rise. They said ‘never again’ to shipping lane inconveniences, to stock market woes, and to being seen for cowards.

At least a coward would sit in quiet fear, content in inaction. Now they sign over billions, condemning millions to the total destruction. Where is the shame? Where is the apathy? At least in that I can call them mere cowards. What else am I to call them but the evil they so long taught me to revile?

God have mercy on their souls. God have mercy on ours. For the body is doomed - the bombs will still fall, the blood will still spill, the graves of thousands will fill.

(How long is the queue to the pearly gates? Is St. Peter agrieved to see so many young faces? Are wives rejoicing or grieving the reunion with their husbands? Does the brother laugh or cry when he finds his sister among the crowd?)

From Carthage to Auschwitz we were warned. From Roman roads to shipping lanes we watched the weapons trade hands. And when we cry out to the powers that be, they turn away - unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling. Machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts.

But the horror is in knowing they are not machines. This is not their nature. They are men. Born with a love for humanity in their hearts, a desire for community and companionship and art. How did they lose such a fundamental part of their being? Was it beaten out of them by bitter men before them or did they discard it themselves, as though it were a cancer to be excised? Does it matter when they so zealously jump knee deep in blood and bone among bomb shattered homes?

And while it is troubling to consider that, being human, we too can have our hearts hardened, it is far more uncomfortable to consider that, being human, they may one day revert to natural compassion. And what does one do when the machine becomes man again? When he proves it was a choice all along? A choice he refused and snubbed until the bodies cooled and the graves grew grassy with age?

God forgive what I cannot.

[e-m-p-error]

MULTIMUSE QUESTIONAIRE

Tagging: @infernalight, @infernal-feminae, @heartsofhell, @questionablemuses, @because-i-simp, @frostworkxfiction, @deepspacevivarium, @hotelbitches, @voxiiferous

RULES: Answer the questions with the Muses that would best fit the answers. Bonus if you give details why. If tagged, copy and paste into a new post – DO NOT REBLOG!

1) Rank your softest Muse and your toughest Muse. (Personality-wise)

My softest muse is definitely Vick. He's a 0 on the toughness scale, he's a big teddy bear and he will choose kindness over anything else at any point.

My toughest muse is probably Barbie. Girl is tough as nails and will not be stopped if she puts her mind to something. She doesn't take pain as a reason to stop and will go harder when it hurts.

2) Which Muse would blow through $1000 quickly?

Valentino, hands down. He spends $1,000 every day easily on things he doesn't even need. He loves to buy expensive things and will do so at all hours. He especially loves spending Vox's money. $1,000 is a drop in the bucket for him and he doesn't even notice spending it.

3) Do any of them have nicknames? Is there a meaning behind them?

Quite a few of them do!

Valentino answers to Bunny from his lovers, it's a subspace trigger word for him. I assigned him Bunny because he's Cute And Horny, aka a rabbit, and a bunny sub is fairly common.

4) Are any of them up-to-speed on the latest trends? Anyone more old school?

Velvette, Vox, and Valentino are obsessed with always being on top of the next new thing.

Alastor hates new things and will fight them as much as he can.

5) Who has the best relationship with their siblings?

Valentino had a fairly good relationship with his siblings when he was alive. He had seven of them, plus three live-in cousins that were like his siblings.

6) Karaoke night! Who is likely to grab the mic first and bust out a tune?

Beelzebub, Ozzie, Valentino, and Ostello! They all love to sing and party, and they're all pretty good at it. Ostello was a pop-jazz singer when he was alive and before he died in Hell, too!

7) Who is least likely to enter a beauty pageant/model?

Gretchen. She doesn't think that she's very pretty, and would just feel embarrassed even going to watch.

Travis. He is constantly told he's very ugly, and he doesn't have a very high opinion of his looks.

8) If your Muses visited a haunted house where actors scare you, who would panic and who would be unfazed? 

Chazz, Gretchen, Charlie, Anya, Magpie, Summer, Travis, and Vick would be the easiest to scare!

Valore, Dimas, Cash, Glitz, Stu, Paimon, Alastor, Darío, Niffty, and Vox would be the hardest to phase.

9) Are any of your Muses particular about taking certain modes of transportation?

Vox prefers to be driven around and doesn't like driving himself.

Valentino only likes to drive occasionally and prefers pretty sports cars when he does.

Anya and Darío are motorcycle people.

Emily enjoys bicycles!

10) Share a little-known fact about any Muse.

Adam is actually a very good father and he loves kids and babies. He is very tender with children even if he can be harder on them once they have grown into adults.

[03minyard]

I think deleting all my social media besides tumblr will be good for me actually

[ozlices]

finished the emotion/kanna route and im so upset bc i rly spent the whole thing just. missing shin. i actually truly do hate it here like against my will he is. probably right after gin is my favorite. i tried to fight it the entire time, but i immediately had to start on a route w him where everyone i can keep around still lives bc my heart was just. yearning for him.

like no actually i found this stupid little bitch ass mother fucker in a wet cardboard box on the street in the middle of a downpour and said 'oh my god. look at this pathetic wet sock for a person. oh my god i'm gonna cradle him and fix him' and he turned out to be even more fucked up then i thought and so i said 'oh. well we can be samesies then teehee <3' agony

[betheal]

to steal a line

may i perhaps assume

no genuine thought of mine is my own

that I may do nothing,

that in itself is a stolen line.

so I shall twist two or three

my meaning is my originality.

"what's in a name that which we call rose"

never truer lines spoken

no matter rhyme,

eloquence

grasped straws,

they're all vanity.

for a rose is the beauty of nature

the bane of the forest

envy is its best friend

cynicism her daily mana

to which we put our adornments

"true love" "passion" "seduction"

we display the words of heart

yet shy behind the concept of truth

to tell me you love me

even with the crusade between us

[icando-things]

I want to talk about a special person...

The person with the shy but wide smile.

A person who speaks much more through his eyes than his mouth. This person makes my heart race in different ways... Causing such a delicious mess of feelings.

The feelings so deep and sincere in my last months.

She takes my breath away, gives me energy, plants happiness and reaps my weakest laugh.

And this isn't even a love letter... I love her, this is a cheesy attempt to describe the details of someone so amazing that you can't describe it so perfectly.

Thanks! ✨🤍

- Loy

[lapisllong]

I worked with a lady who was a cross between a Disney princess (perfect, sweet, funny) and Mitch Hennessey (sings narrations of everything) and to be honest... it's contagious.

Also, I love rhyme and have a deeply neurodivergent brain so not only do I speak like a poem, I now frequently break out into a spontaneous song that limps along until I run out of rhyme, drastically fail the scansion, or sing something so ridiculous that a can't stop laughing because the lyrics bypass all filters and serve only the muse.

poetry and musical theater get similar accusations leveled at them in terms of not being realistic, i.e. “no one fucking talks like that” or “people don’t randomly burst into song in real life” and sometimes i just want to take people by the shoulders and say. there are forms of art that are not aiming for perfect realism. are you capable of handling that