Carving is such an interesting theme, for it is to make something new in of itself out of lessening the volume of another object, be it an idea of a piece of art.
It was there forever now, his name carved into my heart. Figuratively, of course, I’m not into emo crap, but my heart was racing and my mind was spinning. All because of a stage kiss three days ago. So long ago and yet it seemed so important. Maybe he was too good an actor.
Carve up the turkey! the small child demanded, silver forks clenched in her tiny, plump fingers. She knew nothing but the holiday and what was expected and went about this
I remember when we were younger, we would sit under the big huge tree. We would talk endlessly and laugh for no reason at all. Then one day he told me he was moving and I cried. He grabbed a stick. I asked through my tears, “What are you doing? Did you carve our names in the tree?” He looked at me and said, “Whenever you come here you will look up and see this. That way it will be like old times.”
Thankgiving Day is one of my most favorite Holidays. For one, I get the Thursday and Friday off. One of favorite parts of the day is when Dad carves the Turkey.
carve. an imprint. people carve imprints into you. peoples words can carve a long lasting imprint that stings, and tears them apart. try to carve good thoughts in people. the deeper the carve, the more it becomes shown and seen. so carve good thoughts, so people can show the good things about them rather than the bad.
old hands stroke the wood and ask it what it wants to be. the tree had long surrendered its body to the earth, but this small branch had plans for the afterlife.
at the table and wondering who will do it this year? blood last year..three years ago it was hand to hand combat about who would…i have never asked to…i will never get to carve…
old hands stroke the wood and ask it what is wants to be. the tree had long surrendered its body to the earth, but this small branch had plans for its afterlife.
She picked up the carving her father had made for her years ago, studying it as she turned it over and over in her hand. It wasn’t the work of a master by any stretch of the imagination, but she though it was beautiful, if only because he had made it just for her.
I carved the precious stone out of the necklace, being careful not to scratch the gold backing. Finally I had retrieved what should always have been my own.
I stored the amethyst in my pocket and walked out of the morgue.
I I took the stone chizel and slowly began to work. I wanted to perfect this form, to make it the most perfect thing I had ever seen. Besides her I meant. Nothing was as perfect as she had been.
fleshy meat i love to eat. succulent and savory. how the aroma carries thru the house. the kids enter and smell the love. mother always prepares her love for each of us to ingest. to carry on with us for now and morrow.
He was a wood carver from Oregon and he wore thick, scratchy flannel shirts and light jeans, frayed at the bottom and a little too saggy at the top. He was an artist, with scruff on his cheeks, smoking in his sleep, leaving cigarette butts on the mattress. He was an old young boy with a happy trail and tattoos on his left biceps. He was a tiny soul in a beautiful body and he liked to pretend he wasn’t scared. He liked to scream at me in our kitchen about how I was going to be the death of him. He liked to reply with “Well, as a member of the artist community..” to questions no one had ever asked him. He liked to pull my hair while we were fucking. He liked to steal the pens from my purse to write down important notes he’d never read again. He liked to carve the shape of my body out of maple and oak. He liked his mother and he liked my mother and he liked their different recipes for potato salad. He didn’t like to read and he didn’t like music with more than three instruments. He didn’t like to work or be anything or become anything. He didn’t like his father. He didn’t like money, but only because he never had any. He didn’t like it when someone would ask him if wood carving was a dead art. He didn’t like it when I left him alone for more than six hours and he didn’t like that I was aware of this. He didn’t like how much he liked me. He hated that he loved me. He was a deadbeat, a drifter, a lost child and he hated that I was not. For three years, we fell asleep every night holding hands and breaths. I loved hating him too.
“We’re doing something more important than just settling. We’re carving a niche. Carving a place for our people to live and to breathe and to grow in this new land.”
The man behind the teleprompter winks at the speaker and nods at him–good enunciation, good confidence.
“We will settle Mars,” he finishes. “For our generation…and for the next.”
So I went to this class were we had to carve these weird shapes to then add to an awesome wooden master peice. At the end all the peices came toghether and made a beautiful wooden bird house.
we all have to carve our humanity out of a giant labyrinth of things that surround us. family ideology, history, reputation. our environments, or genetics. carving is a quest that every person who was worth anything had to take. so it’s our turn.
we carved pumpkins at halloween. im not sure if thats how you spell halloween but thats what we did. my little sister carved the face like an emoticon and it made me sad to think that an entire generation of children will relate emotions to yellow faces. true story.
I’d like to carve out a place in history so that my kids nad grandkids can look back at it and be proud. I want to carve out a niche in this world where I feel like I fit in.
i take my knife and softy, gently, tenderly caress the wood; i plunge it deeper, telling the piece exactly how to look from in my mind. the images brought up in physical form are so beautiful, lush
I carve out time for myself with a sharp but tiny blade, digging deep and dangerously into a block that seems hard and impenetrable and filled with the lives of many.
The butcher had a great idea for the Christmas Turkey. But the turkey had ideas of its own. One of those was escape. He had it all planned out. All he needed to do was distract the butcher.
Cut something, use a sharp knife like my mum did today – she got cut. It also seems a bit like cave, you can carve a cave I suppose, if you have the time. You can also carve something in the cave, like prehistoric people. It’s a form of art, but you don’t have colours and you need more muscles than for handling a pen or pencil or something of the sort.
carving watermelons, can make great shapes :)
I’ve tried making an eiffel tower once but that was just waaay to hard. I settled with a face. Though a bit dodgy, it was perfect
My father loved to carve wood into intricate doodles and little creatures impersonating bigger creatures. They were always beautiful and sometimes a bit inappropriate. I’ll never forget the time the governor walked by one of his larger pieces and commented on its beauty. I’d never seen my father smile so big. I will miss him.
He carved his kind’s history into one of the many stone tablets lying on the floor around him, chipping away at the stone with his primitive pick. Hopefully, future generations would find these tablets and look back on his kind, able to imagine the way the Egyptians lived.
She walked around, running her fingertips over the rough bark. This old park was one of her very favorite places to come, and it seemed as if everytime she returned there were new words carved into the bark, detailing the lives of ghosts of people she’d never met.
Carving is such an interesting theme, for it is to make something new in of itself out of lessening the volume of another object, be it an idea of a piece of art.
Carve like into a pumpkin,Carve like into my heart
Carve into my heart
Carve into life
Carve into a delectable thing
Crave a delectable taste
carving in the whole universe with a teaspoon and a brocken bottle , i can find its flesh and taste its nothingness.
It was there forever now, his name carved into my heart. Figuratively, of course, I’m not into emo crap, but my heart was racing and my mind was spinning. All because of a stage kiss three days ago. So long ago and yet it seemed so important. Maybe he was too good an actor.
Carve up the turkey! the small child demanded, silver forks clenched in her tiny, plump fingers. She knew nothing but the holiday and what was expected and went about this
I remember when we were younger, we would sit under the big huge tree. We would talk endlessly and laugh for no reason at all. Then one day he told me he was moving and I cried. He grabbed a stick. I asked through my tears, “What are you doing? Did you carve our names in the tree?” He looked at me and said, “Whenever you come here you will look up and see this. That way it will be like old times.”
He carved his work of art into the canvess in front of him. The results weren’t quite what he was hoping for.
Thankgiving Day is one of my most favorite Holidays. For one, I get the Thursday and Friday off. One of favorite parts of the day is when Dad carves the Turkey.
carve. an imprint. people carve imprints into you. peoples words can carve a long lasting imprint that stings, and tears them apart. try to carve good thoughts in people. the deeper the carve, the more it becomes shown and seen. so carve good thoughts, so people can show the good things about them rather than the bad.
old hands stroke the wood and ask it what it wants to be. the tree had long surrendered its body to the earth, but this small branch had plans for the afterlife.
at the table and wondering who will do it this year? blood last year..three years ago it was hand to hand combat about who would…i have never asked to…i will never get to carve…
old hands stroke the wood and ask it what is wants to be. the tree had long surrendered its body to the earth, but this small branch had plans for its afterlife.
I carve it up and dice the stripes, but all I see is my fate coming to be what I make.
She picked up the carving her father had made for her years ago, studying it as she turned it over and over in her hand. It wasn’t the work of a master by any stretch of the imagination, but she though it was beautiful, if only because he had made it just for her.
my bb is carve and id like to all my life to be carve
my room
I carved the precious stone out of the necklace, being careful not to scratch the gold backing. Finally I had retrieved what should always have been my own.
I stored the amethyst in my pocket and walked out of the morgue.
Carve my heart right from my chest; it’s yours to do with as you please.
I I took the stone chizel and slowly began to work. I wanted to perfect this form, to make it the most perfect thing I had ever seen. Besides her I meant. Nothing was as perfect as she had been.
fleshy meat i love to eat. succulent and savory. how the aroma carries thru the house. the kids enter and smell the love. mother always prepares her love for each of us to ingest. to carry on with us for now and morrow.
He was a wood carver from Oregon and he wore thick, scratchy flannel shirts and light jeans, frayed at the bottom and a little too saggy at the top. He was an artist, with scruff on his cheeks, smoking in his sleep, leaving cigarette butts on the mattress. He was an old young boy with a happy trail and tattoos on his left biceps. He was a tiny soul in a beautiful body and he liked to pretend he wasn’t scared. He liked to scream at me in our kitchen about how I was going to be the death of him. He liked to reply with “Well, as a member of the artist community..” to questions no one had ever asked him. He liked to pull my hair while we were fucking. He liked to steal the pens from my purse to write down important notes he’d never read again. He liked to carve the shape of my body out of maple and oak. He liked his mother and he liked my mother and he liked their different recipes for potato salad. He didn’t like to read and he didn’t like music with more than three instruments. He didn’t like to work or be anything or become anything. He didn’t like his father. He didn’t like money, but only because he never had any. He didn’t like it when someone would ask him if wood carving was a dead art. He didn’t like it when I left him alone for more than six hours and he didn’t like that I was aware of this. He didn’t like how much he liked me. He hated that he loved me. He was a deadbeat, a drifter, a lost child and he hated that I was not. For three years, we fell asleep every night holding hands and breaths. I loved hating him too.
“We’re doing something more important than just settling. We’re carving a niche. Carving a place for our people to live and to breathe and to grow in this new land.”
The man behind the teleprompter winks at the speaker and nods at him–good enunciation, good confidence.
“We will settle Mars,” he finishes. “For our generation…and for the next.”
So I went to this class were we had to carve these weird shapes to then add to an awesome wooden master peice. At the end all the peices came toghether and made a beautiful wooden bird house.
we all have to carve our humanity out of a giant labyrinth of things that surround us. family ideology, history, reputation. our environments, or genetics. carving is a quest that every person who was worth anything had to take. so it’s our turn.
we carved pumpkins at halloween. im not sure if thats how you spell halloween but thats what we did. my little sister carved the face like an emoticon and it made me sad to think that an entire generation of children will relate emotions to yellow faces. true story.
I’d like to carve out a place in history so that my kids nad grandkids can look back at it and be proud. I want to carve out a niche in this world where I feel like I fit in.
i take my knife and softy, gently, tenderly caress the wood; i plunge it deeper, telling the piece exactly how to look from in my mind. the images brought up in physical form are so beautiful, lush
I like to carve my name in stone or maybe in a pumkin during halloween. Humm maybe I can carve my image into an ice sculpture.
she uses the razor to carve i love you right into her skin.
this is real love isn’t it?
the real love that you never showed her.
it’s halloween and i’m sitting with an over-grown gourd. so many options! traditional face? artistic masterpeice? help!
I carve out time for myself with a sharp but tiny blade, digging deep and dangerously into a block that seems hard and impenetrable and filled with the lives of many.
The butcher had a great idea for the Christmas Turkey. But the turkey had ideas of its own. One of those was escape. He had it all planned out. All he needed to do was distract the butcher.
Cut something, use a sharp knife like my mum did today – she got cut. It also seems a bit like cave, you can carve a cave I suppose, if you have the time. You can also carve something in the cave, like prehistoric people. It’s a form of art, but you don’t have colours and you need more muscles than for handling a pen or pencil or something of the sort.
carving watermelons, can make great shapes :)
I’ve tried making an eiffel tower once but that was just waaay to hard. I settled with a face. Though a bit dodgy, it was perfect
to me
It took time for them to realize that these shattered glass I’m carving were actually diamonds. Every cut was worth it.
I carved the thought into the bark for the next enthusiastic soul to find.
My father loved to carve wood into intricate doodles and little creatures impersonating bigger creatures. They were always beautiful and sometimes a bit inappropriate. I’ll never forget the time the governor walked by one of his larger pieces and commented on its beauty. I’d never seen my father smile so big. I will miss him.
He carved his kind’s history into one of the many stone tablets lying on the floor around him, chipping away at the stone with his primitive pick. Hopefully, future generations would find these tablets and look back on his kind, able to imagine the way the Egyptians lived.
She walked around, running her fingertips over the rough bark. This old park was one of her very favorite places to come, and it seemed as if everytime she returned there were new words carved into the bark, detailing the lives of ghosts of people she’d never met.
I carve a niche for myself and as I look around I realize ….. it’s home and I’m happy.
The block took shape – slowly, and with only subtle indications of the end form.