Arachne, no one knows of her origins. Besides the informed. Arachne was born of a arrogant mind, she had taken her skill and used it against the gods. She was a master weaver, capable of procuring amazing art. Athena didn’t believe so, and the two battled on who could create the greatest masterpiece, and while Arachne won, she had angered Athena and was turned into an eight legged creature that we now know as a spider.
Athena, goddess of the crafts. She was parading around the city of Greece and she entered a small weaving club. There was Ariadne, a fantastic weaver. So much so, that Ariadne believed that she was fully better than Athena at weaving. The two entered a battle. And Ariadne’s weave was ultimately better. The match was unanimus, Ariadne won. But in Athena’s spite, she had turned Ariadne into a spider, who came to be known as Arachne.
My fingers tangle through the thread. I curse my fingers, wishing they weren’t so weak and shaky, wishing I could make the yellow thread weave through the red like everybody else could. Yet here I was, with a snarl of yarn that looked nothing like a blanket, wishing I could just get the yarn to look something like a blanket, wishing I was at least mildly aware of how to make patterns.
Weaving. Bobbing and weaving. His face dripping, no, POURING sweat. He’d been watching and waiting for what seemed like hours. He knew he was running out of time to take his shot. His opponent had grown weary and his defenses were becoming swiftly slower. He decided it was time. His fist flew forward, his fingers connecting solidly. BAM!
Something never stops to amaze me; how beauty is thy blessings laid bear before us. How granted is our pleasure in the sense that we’re so full of cold and chill when you come to us that you must wrap around us to keep it all inside so that we don’t freeze the world around us with our hate.
As two girls fight, one big and the other small, the juxtaposition between them is known. In order to win, The small knew what to do. Weaving was the answer.
We could make a tent in the earth, weaving the roots and pine needles into a thatched roof. We could bury ourselves in the ancient ground and sleep with nature. We could learn times secrets and never wonder why it passes us. We could make a home inside the dirt, and set ourselves free of this reality.
Weaving in and out of traffic, the frantic driver didn’t look back to see the swath of destruction he was leaving behind on I-95, he just needed to get to the hospital as fast as possible. Before his children died.
The dance that you see in the first episode of Outlander. It’s beautiful how they weave in between each other holding the torches. I find it absolutely stunning.
it’s got you locked in place, that sickly mutation of your soul, got you stuck sticking feet sunk into muddy souls where all things green grow from and yet it is nothing but dirt and what you reap depends first on what you sow. do like those fortune cookies and white-teeth authors say, love, and water me. or, be barren and let your feet float free, rootless, hurtless, like that poor baby in the elevator heading to the 15th floor whose hand i will never let go of. the boy’s got you tight as thread between thread and then he tells you everything needs a way out.
you know where the exit is. you are tired because you know exactly where it is and you say please please please and still you end up like this, selfish and pathetic and clawing for a reason to stay in.
This is a sort of sewing right? With like thread and some sort of brace? I think of basket weaving mostly though, a cute little girl carrying a basket with fresh flowers, fruit and vegetables home from the market.
Nana had been pretending to be asleep, so that her grandmother would not notice she was crying. That was how she had heard the whole phone conversation between her grandmother and her great aunt, and finally understood why her grandmother, and her mother, had been weaving such an intricate web of lies. Her mother had known she was dying, and her grandmother had wanted her grandchildren to grow up in her house so she would have someone to look after her in her old age. All that talk about acting in the children’s “best interests” had been rubbish. Her grandmother had just been looking for unpaid home help.
She weaved slowly between the vehicles parked along the street, trying to find her own. Her head was dreary, full of fuzz. Where was she? She did not know. The pain in her head made her want to fall down, and insider her, she felt a sea of hurt. Her heart was broken, cracked to the soul.
it meshes,
the men run in
behind each other
like a twisted
game of follow the leader.
they inch down the floor
the bouncing ball sound
just a bit off
beat with the patter of their feet.
three men,
the same uniform,
jogging
like the threads of a persian rug
only halfway made.
My mother often mentions her endeavours to weave a cute little cap. Unfortunately, those endeavors usually resulted in a failure. But the way she spins yarns about those halcyon days makes me yearn to go back in time; to go back to a time when life wasn’t explained in terms of the posts on Facebook wall.
Weaving like knitting like life. In and out we go, each strand creating a picture of a whole experience. Careful attention or willy nilly, loose or tight.
Her hair was intricate, a spiral of sun colored tresses, with barrettes of flowers, as if sewn in. I wanted to know what she thought about as she sat in front of her mirror every morning for an hour, weaving this masterpiece upon her head. Didn’t she ever get tired of sculpting her body this way?
In and out
the meandering ways of
the constant route through
a tangle web of a daily
trail of anger and pride
going past myself from day to day
seeing the same person in a mirrored
labyrinth of to and fro
Weaving the threads in and out, calm creation. I plunge the needle through the fabric, down, up, a rhythmic motion. When I am done I weave threads between them. The result: a new tapestry that could not have existed without weaving.
Weaving a tapestry so thin that it breaks like a spider web, you feel the planet’s essence drain between your fingers and turn into fragile wisps against your skin. You cannot get a hold on what makes life meaningful. The threads are not strong enough. You do not have enough light to work with, and the moon wanes slower than it waxes. Most nights, you are left with a sliver of sight. Other nights, you are swathed in a night so thick that it is almost toxic.
weaving the basket of life with you…patience. I certainly need it because of the constant unraveling. I’m working steadily towards my goal of completion and i dont know
When I was young, there is a ritual every morning. When I woke up at (the ungodly hour of) 6 a.m. to prepare for school, the first thing I would do is sit down and let my mother tie my hair up into a braid. There was nothing romantic or soft about the act: She would run the comb through my hair with practical and hard yanks to sort out the unruly strands; and by the time she was finished, the pain would have chased away the last of my sleepiness. But the locks would be woven tightly and perfectly in place for the rest of the day.
“You always were a good liar,” she said with a smile. “No one played the game like you,”
“I resent that,” Kendra protested, though the smile on her lips belied her amusement, “We both know I was never much for weaving, tales of otherwise,”
he was sitting there waving something. she came closer to his chairt and put her hand on his arm. you are gettiing better at this day by day – she told him.
Weaving is blending. It is a beautiful dance between lyric and rhythm into a song. It blends fabric and color into a garment. It blends two souls into a beautiful lasting dance between two until they become one.
Bird Call sat diligently over her cord pot, weaving the knots tighter and tighter, trying to get them perfectly coiled. This was her final test, her rite of passage, and it had to be perfect. Already, the calluses on her hands were rubbing raw, but she must complete the project by nightfall.
The needles were weaving in front of me, like sharp knifes in a dark room. I needed to get away, I needed to run, but to where? How? You can’t escape reality…
He found himself weaving through the large plants that surrounded him in a panic. This was not the first time Darren found himself in danger from an authority figure, and his deftness and skill made it easy to get away. This time, however, was different.
weaving in and out of traffic, the world moving so quickly outside your car, but inside it’s just you and i. going nowhere specific, just feeling alive, just me, your car and your hand on my thigh.
the old woman was sitting in her rock chair. She stopped for a second to look at the man who stood before then went back to weaving her wool blanket.
-John. she said without looking up.
-Yes? he replied.
-Will you pass me my dentures? she asked.
She sat at the table with all of her supplies. She wove and wove. If that’s what you even call it. As she wove she thought about her husband and her sister. Her dead husband and her dead sister. Both at the same time. She thought about them dying together. Why couldn’t she be with them now? Maybe she wouldn’t be alone anymore.
together, string by string, obstacle after obstacle, a foundation unlike any other would become a masterful tool for the many beautiful experiences to come.
Intertwined together, emotion after emotion. never knowing when it will end. Only to realize you are weaving a foundation unbreakable to man. weaving beautiful lessons that have allowed such a beautiful life.
She cried quietly while she was weaving a cloth. Even if she hated doing it daily this was the only thing that could distract her from her sad thoughts. Poor little girl that had no one who would think about her for one second.
making, different threads, process, beautiful, parts equal the whole, craft, training, individual, creation
Arachne, no one knows of her origins. Besides the informed. Arachne was born of a arrogant mind, she had taken her skill and used it against the gods. She was a master weaver, capable of procuring amazing art. Athena didn’t believe so, and the two battled on who could create the greatest masterpiece, and while Arachne won, she had angered Athena and was turned into an eight legged creature that we now know as a spider.
Athena, goddess of the crafts. She was parading around the city of Greece and she entered a small weaving club. There was Ariadne, a fantastic weaver. So much so, that Ariadne believed that she was fully better than Athena at weaving. The two entered a battle. And Ariadne’s weave was ultimately better. The match was unanimus, Ariadne won. But in Athena’s spite, she had turned Ariadne into a spider, who came to be known as Arachne.
My fingers tangle through the thread. I curse my fingers, wishing they weren’t so weak and shaky, wishing I could make the yellow thread weave through the red like everybody else could. Yet here I was, with a snarl of yarn that looked nothing like a blanket, wishing I could just get the yarn to look something like a blanket, wishing I was at least mildly aware of how to make patterns.
Weaving. Bobbing and weaving. His face dripping, no, POURING sweat. He’d been watching and waiting for what seemed like hours. He knew he was running out of time to take his shot. His opponent had grown weary and his defenses were becoming swiftly slower. He decided it was time. His fist flew forward, his fingers connecting solidly. BAM!
Something never stops to amaze me; how beauty is thy blessings laid bear before us. How granted is our pleasure in the sense that we’re so full of cold and chill when you come to us that you must wrap around us to keep it all inside so that we don’t freeze the world around us with our hate.
As two girls fight, one big and the other small, the juxtaposition between them is known. In order to win, The small knew what to do. Weaving was the answer.
weaving through with my golden web
to a place at the bottom of god’s hill
dotted with peach trees and blackbirds
i am still not at home
We could make a tent in the earth, weaving the roots and pine needles into a thatched roof. We could bury ourselves in the ancient ground and sleep with nature. We could learn times secrets and never wonder why it passes us. We could make a home inside the dirt, and set ourselves free of this reality.
Weaving in and out of traffic, the frantic driver didn’t look back to see the swath of destruction he was leaving behind on I-95, he just needed to get to the hospital as fast as possible. Before his children died.
He who weaves colourful, imaginary aspects to life, enjoys it the most!
The dance that you see in the first episode of Outlander. It’s beautiful how they weave in between each other holding the torches. I find it absolutely stunning.
it’s got you locked in place, that sickly mutation of your soul, got you stuck sticking feet sunk into muddy souls where all things green grow from and yet it is nothing but dirt and what you reap depends first on what you sow. do like those fortune cookies and white-teeth authors say, love, and water me. or, be barren and let your feet float free, rootless, hurtless, like that poor baby in the elevator heading to the 15th floor whose hand i will never let go of. the boy’s got you tight as thread between thread and then he tells you everything needs a way out.
you know where the exit is. you are tired because you know exactly where it is and you say please please please and still you end up like this, selfish and pathetic and clawing for a reason to stay in.
This is a sort of sewing right? With like thread and some sort of brace? I think of basket weaving mostly though, a cute little girl carrying a basket with fresh flowers, fruit and vegetables home from the market.
Nana had been pretending to be asleep, so that her grandmother would not notice she was crying. That was how she had heard the whole phone conversation between her grandmother and her great aunt, and finally understood why her grandmother, and her mother, had been weaving such an intricate web of lies. Her mother had known she was dying, and her grandmother had wanted her grandchildren to grow up in her house so she would have someone to look after her in her old age. All that talk about acting in the children’s “best interests” had been rubbish. Her grandmother had just been looking for unpaid home help.
She weaved slowly between the vehicles parked along the street, trying to find her own. Her head was dreary, full of fuzz. Where was she? She did not know. The pain in her head made her want to fall down, and insider her, she felt a sea of hurt. Her heart was broken, cracked to the soul.
it meshes,
the men run in
behind each other
like a twisted
game of follow the leader.
they inch down the floor
the bouncing ball sound
just a bit off
beat with the patter of their feet.
three men,
the same uniform,
jogging
like the threads of a persian rug
only halfway made.
My mother often mentions her endeavours to weave a cute little cap. Unfortunately, those endeavors usually resulted in a failure. But the way she spins yarns about those halcyon days makes me yearn to go back in time; to go back to a time when life wasn’t explained in terms of the posts on Facebook wall.
Weaving like knitting like life. In and out we go, each strand creating a picture of a whole experience. Careful attention or willy nilly, loose or tight.
Her hair was intricate, a spiral of sun colored tresses, with barrettes of flowers, as if sewn in. I wanted to know what she thought about as she sat in front of her mirror every morning for an hour, weaving this masterpiece upon her head. Didn’t she ever get tired of sculpting her body this way?
In and out
the meandering ways of
the constant route through
a tangle web of a daily
trail of anger and pride
going past myself from day to day
seeing the same person in a mirrored
labyrinth of to and fro
Weaving the threads in and out, calm creation. I plunge the needle through the fabric, down, up, a rhythmic motion. When I am done I weave threads between them. The result: a new tapestry that could not have existed without weaving.
Weaving a tapestry so thin that it breaks like a spider web, you feel the planet’s essence drain between your fingers and turn into fragile wisps against your skin. You cannot get a hold on what makes life meaningful. The threads are not strong enough. You do not have enough light to work with, and the moon wanes slower than it waxes. Most nights, you are left with a sliver of sight. Other nights, you are swathed in a night so thick that it is almost toxic.
weaving the basket of life with you…patience. I certainly need it because of the constant unraveling. I’m working steadily towards my goal of completion and i dont know
When I was young, there is a ritual every morning. When I woke up at (the ungodly hour of) 6 a.m. to prepare for school, the first thing I would do is sit down and let my mother tie my hair up into a braid. There was nothing romantic or soft about the act: She would run the comb through my hair with practical and hard yanks to sort out the unruly strands; and by the time she was finished, the pain would have chased away the last of my sleepiness. But the locks would be woven tightly and perfectly in place for the rest of the day.
“You always were a good liar,” she said with a smile. “No one played the game like you,”
“I resent that,” Kendra protested, though the smile on her lips belied her amusement, “We both know I was never much for weaving, tales of otherwise,”
he was sitting there waving something. she came closer to his chairt and put her hand on his arm. you are gettiing better at this day by day – she told him.
weaving broken strings in my heart
won’t fix it
it’s still in pieces.
pieces you can cut and shred
i’ll never be whole.
Weaving is blending. It is a beautiful dance between lyric and rhythm into a song. It blends fabric and color into a garment. It blends two souls into a beautiful lasting dance between two until they become one.
Bird Call sat diligently over her cord pot, weaving the knots tighter and tighter, trying to get them perfectly coiled. This was her final test, her rite of passage, and it had to be perfect. Already, the calluses on her hands were rubbing raw, but she must complete the project by nightfall.
The needles were weaving in front of me, like sharp knifes in a dark room. I needed to get away, I needed to run, but to where? How? You can’t escape reality…
He found himself weaving through the large plants that surrounded him in a panic. This was not the first time Darren found himself in danger from an authority figure, and his deftness and skill made it easy to get away. This time, however, was different.
I was weaving in between the two cars, speeding up towards a light shone brightly as we needed to make it into the tunnel that shines so brightly.
weaving in and out of traffic, the world moving so quickly outside your car, but inside it’s just you and i. going nowhere specific, just feeling alive, just me, your car and your hand on my thigh.
the old woman was sitting in her rock chair. She stopped for a second to look at the man who stood before then went back to weaving her wool blanket.
-John. she said without looking up.
-Yes? he replied.
-Will you pass me my dentures? she asked.
She sat at the table with all of her supplies. She wove and wove. If that’s what you even call it. As she wove she thought about her husband and her sister. Her dead husband and her dead sister. Both at the same time. She thought about them dying together. Why couldn’t she be with them now? Maybe she wouldn’t be alone anymore.
together, string by string, obstacle after obstacle, a foundation unlike any other would become a masterful tool for the many beautiful experiences to come.
Intertwined together, emotion after emotion. never knowing when it will end. Only to realize you are weaving a foundation unbreakable to man. weaving beautiful lessons that have allowed such a beautiful life.
She sat looking out into the abyss held two long needles close to her. She wove a lot when the air was silent like it was right now.
She cried quietly while she was weaving a cloth. Even if she hated doing it daily this was the only thing that could distract her from her sad thoughts. Poor little girl that had no one who would think about her for one second.