to weave is an odd term, its like your entwining loads of different things but they dont ever join or combine. each strand is making its own route, but they all happen to look pretty together. you can have funky weave and classic weave and lol
Seated beside the loom her cracked fingers pulled at the yarn. Mindlessly layering the patterns as she had done for years now, there was no end to this task.
I did a project on weaving and sent it to children in Africa so they could learn English. It was not a difficult project but I spent a lot of time on it. I wasn’t sure if I was really making a difference, but it wasn’t really about the grade in the class for me. It was all about being one more person to have an impact on these children’s lives. That was very cool for me to experience, I suppose.
I imagine an old indian lady weaving a colorful basket in her hut, so full of happiness and joy, she’s also surrounded by her family, even though the hut is not very big, it is filled with love. She would never want to be anywhere else in the world.
Your body weaves into mine, our fibers touching and then pulling together, creating something entirely different than what we once were. You breathe, and I take it in. How can you smell so good? It’s six a.m.. Where is your bad morning breath? You make me feel something that I don’t understand. Something miserable and warm.
She weaves in the dark room. What she weaves will be sold as her only source of money. The girl’s hands deftly move on the loom, forming beautiful patterns with the brightly colored spun wool. She knows she must work quickly and make as much as she can to earn money for her large family, but she cannot help but add small things to make the blanket as beautiful as possible.
Your body weaves into mine, each of our fibers touching and then pulling together, making something entirely different from what we once were. You breathe, and I take it it in. How can you possibly smell so good at six a.m.? You just woke up. Where is your bad morning breath? You make me feel something that I don’t understand.
intertwining hapiness, putting two things together and fitting them like they should be together. a black ladies hair. a disguise that makes woman beautiful. a piece on a cancer patient who wants to be noticed.
weaving a basket sort of tells a story. once i went to the Bahamas and got a hand weaved Spongebob basket. every one liked when i brought it to school for my speech.
The basket of my thoughts, which holds nothing but her. Her grace, her hair, that way she smiled on my pillow. Having her next to me was always a cause for joy, but after what she did I know there’s no going back.
Black girls have weave. It’s disgusting when it gets left in the college dorm showers’ drains. Nasty. Why does anyone have fake hair? For that matter why the hell do they call it “weave”? I don’t understand. Do they literally weave it into their hair?
basket weaving is fun, weaving in and out of traffic, bobbing and weavin bobbin and weaving through the loads and loads of tourists and people in time square erryday im shuffling through times square. weevil weaving through weevils weaving baskets with weevils an weaaving through my life in patterns
the old woman, her hands wrinkled and spotted with age, weaved the yarn together into a beautiful tapestry. And I wondered, just how much those hands had gone through, to make such a beautiful pattern… poor woman.
I traced the outlines of the faces sewn into the tapestry. It was like those paintings where the closer you got to them, the less sense it made. From far away, this was a work of art. But when I looked at it in detail, it was just so much multicolored thread. I guess that tells you something about life, or at least sewing.
The weave was something…different. It was strange and hypnotizing in a way that he’d never seen before. It made it almost painful to try to tear his eyes away. He rubbed his eyes as they burned fro the unblinking state they were in. The pattern seemed to fluctuate and change as each second passed.
I don’t know how to weave. Whats weaving? Does Melissa know what weave is? I don’t know…. Weave sounds like we’ve, does it have anything do with it? Idk…I like to say idk… Tis is a long 60 seconds and the sound of the beat in psychology is on my kind right now.
I weave baskets out of dreams to give to my family filled with love. I love to weave, i learned from my grandmother, i love to weave baskets. Each one has a story to tell, you just have to listen to their whispers.
It was a maze made of hedges, like a funny dream or in that ADHD commercial, and we wove through and I tried to imagine what it would be like without you–
through the crowds as she searched for the one face she wanted to see most. desperately she pushed people out of her way as mere obstacles to her goal, her desire, her purpose. she grew increasingly frantic as he failed to materialise, as each face proved to be a misrepresentation.
I picked up the fabric and pulled it through the loom, weaving the blanket delicately. One color next to the other, like you next to me next to your friends next to my friends next to our mothers and fathers and brothers. Next to our future selves. A giant tapestry.
This weave on my head was really annoying. I’m not actually sure as to why I let my friend put it on my head. I mean, it’s not like I needed it but it helps with her hours she needs so I went along with it anyways. I could get used to it.
Like the native american baskets. Modern day things that black women put in their hair to look like white women. Though nobody messed with that kind of stuff. The way life is interconnected like a puzzle. Like a maze.
everything is weaved by the tiny details of my past into place. even the remotely unsignificant details start to make sense, as they fall into place, into my present, into the person I have become.
The weave moving back and forth. Repeated. Repetitive. The story of the Lore and the Pattern that fate follows. That which defines all lives and history. Forever, forever, defining everything and nothing. The channels of the future in physical form.
everything is weaved by the tiny details of my past into place. even the remotely unsignificant details start to make sense, as they fall into place, into my present, into the person I have become. from a distant, mine looks like a mess, but as you cast your eyes closer you get to see that it all fits neatly together.
My life is held together by a single stitch. It could fall apart at any moment. Nobody knows how to sew my life back together. Most of my time i just sit and wait for that one person who carries the thread and needle, that one person who can sew my life back together again.
You weave in and out of my thoughts everyday like you are always there and the one thing that is always on my mind. It is something so uncontrollable, but yet pleasant. I wouldn’t want to not have you right on top of my mind.
when you weave something, you usually end up with some type of basket or pointy asian hat. in elementary school i weaved a little basket and filled it with weird smelling things. it was pretty cool. weave.
Weave a web that only I can be.
To be and roam free and know what is to be conceived.
Love me and need no other.
No love is like mine, not even your mother’s.
Just take a trip, go away with me and make a makeshift dream.
Only that we can inhabit. Just for a time that when we cohabit the stars make for a complete none establishment.
Spiders. Lots and lots of spiders. Just sitting around a table and weaving their intricate webs. And telling stories about their grandchildren and the old days. And having flys for lunch.
I want to make tapestries: stories woven, shown through the colors shifting in the fabric. But that’s not all the story is. If you pick it up and handle it, work with it, it will tell you more: about the world it came from, about the hands that made it. I want to weave with words.
Weaving is how everything works. Textiles, ideas, people. Or maybe it’s not how everything works, but it’s up to us to fix it and weave it together. When you’re done weaving you have a lovely blanket, and more threads to start working with.
go through things, in and out, when walking in a theme park or shopping malls you have to weave through groups of people. I like the way the threads weave through that fabric.
to weave is an odd term, its like your entwining loads of different things but they dont ever join or combine. each strand is making its own route, but they all happen to look pretty together. you can have funky weave and classic weave and lol
Seated beside the loom her cracked fingers pulled at the yarn. Mindlessly layering the patterns as she had done for years now, there was no end to this task.
I did a project on weaving and sent it to children in Africa so they could learn English. It was not a difficult project but I spent a lot of time on it. I wasn’t sure if I was really making a difference, but it wasn’t really about the grade in the class for me. It was all about being one more person to have an impact on these children’s lives. That was very cool for me to experience, I suppose.
I weave into your bloodstream
across the cells of the forgotten times…
Give me your heart
and i will give you mine
I imagine an old indian lady weaving a colorful basket in her hut, so full of happiness and joy, she’s also surrounded by her family, even though the hut is not very big, it is filled with love. She would never want to be anywhere else in the world.
Your body weaves into mine, our fibers touching and then pulling together, creating something entirely different than what we once were. You breathe, and I take it in. How can you smell so good? It’s six a.m.. Where is your bad morning breath? You make me feel something that I don’t understand. Something miserable and warm.
She weaves in the dark room. What she weaves will be sold as her only source of money. The girl’s hands deftly move on the loom, forming beautiful patterns with the brightly colored spun wool. She knows she must work quickly and make as much as she can to earn money for her large family, but she cannot help but add small things to make the blanket as beautiful as possible.
Your body weaves into mine, each of our fibers touching and then pulling together, making something entirely different from what we once were. You breathe, and I take it it in. How can you possibly smell so good at six a.m.? You just woke up. Where is your bad morning breath? You make me feel something that I don’t understand.
intertwining hapiness, putting two things together and fitting them like they should be together. a black ladies hair. a disguise that makes woman beautiful. a piece on a cancer patient who wants to be noticed.
weaving a basket sort of tells a story. once i went to the Bahamas and got a hand weaved Spongebob basket. every one liked when i brought it to school for my speech.
The basket of my thoughts, which holds nothing but her. Her grace, her hair, that way she smiled on my pillow. Having her next to me was always a cause for joy, but after what she did I know there’s no going back.
Black girls have weave. It’s disgusting when it gets left in the college dorm showers’ drains. Nasty. Why does anyone have fake hair? For that matter why the hell do they call it “weave”? I don’t understand. Do they literally weave it into their hair?
My brain passes through a few thoughts, when suddenly an idea weaves through every thought I’ve had.
basket weaving is fun, weaving in and out of traffic, bobbing and weavin bobbin and weaving through the loads and loads of tourists and people in time square erryday im shuffling through times square. weevil weaving through weevils weaving baskets with weevils an weaaving through my life in patterns
the old woman, her hands wrinkled and spotted with age, weaved the yarn together into a beautiful tapestry. And I wondered, just how much those hands had gone through, to make such a beautiful pattern… poor woman.
Athena cast a spell on the woman who challenged her as the better weaver, now she lives her life as a spider weaving her webs.
Weave a lie of decit. Weave in and out of your heart. Weave me alone!!
I traced the outlines of the faces sewn into the tapestry. It was like those paintings where the closer you got to them, the less sense it made. From far away, this was a work of art. But when I looked at it in detail, it was just so much multicolored thread. I guess that tells you something about life, or at least sewing.
The weave was something…different. It was strange and hypnotizing in a way that he’d never seen before. It made it almost painful to try to tear his eyes away. He rubbed his eyes as they burned fro the unblinking state they were in. The pattern seemed to fluctuate and change as each second passed.
I don’t know how to weave. Whats weaving? Does Melissa know what weave is? I don’t know…. Weave sounds like we’ve, does it have anything do with it? Idk…I like to say idk… Tis is a long 60 seconds and the sound of the beat in psychology is on my kind right now.
I weave baskets out of dreams to give to my family filled with love. I love to weave, i learned from my grandmother, i love to weave baskets. Each one has a story to tell, you just have to listen to their whispers.
It was a maze made of hedges, like a funny dream or in that ADHD commercial, and we wove through and I tried to imagine what it would be like without you–
through the crowds as she searched for the one face she wanted to see most. desperately she pushed people out of her way as mere obstacles to her goal, her desire, her purpose. she grew increasingly frantic as he failed to materialise, as each face proved to be a misrepresentation.
I picked up the fabric and pulled it through the loom, weaving the blanket delicately. One color next to the other, like you next to me next to your friends next to my friends next to our mothers and fathers and brothers. Next to our future selves. A giant tapestry.
This weave on my head was really annoying. I’m not actually sure as to why I let my friend put it on my head. I mean, it’s not like I needed it but it helps with her hours she needs so I went along with it anyways. I could get used to it.
Black women love weaves. I think my mother secretly owns one.
Like the native american baskets. Modern day things that black women put in their hair to look like white women. Though nobody messed with that kind of stuff. The way life is interconnected like a puzzle. Like a maze.
everything is weaved by the tiny details of my past into place. even the remotely unsignificant details start to make sense, as they fall into place, into my present, into the person I have become.
The weave moving back and forth. Repeated. Repetitive. The story of the Lore and the Pattern that fate follows. That which defines all lives and history. Forever, forever, defining everything and nothing. The channels of the future in physical form.
My grandmother finished that blanket, and then she died, just like she had said she would.
GURL WHERES MY WEAVE
JUST GOT IT DIDDDDD
I weaved in and out of the traffic because i was late to get my WEAVE DIDDD
everything is weaved by the tiny details of my past into place. even the remotely unsignificant details start to make sense, as they fall into place, into my present, into the person I have become. from a distant, mine looks like a mess, but as you cast your eyes closer you get to see that it all fits neatly together.
My life is held together by a single stitch. It could fall apart at any moment. Nobody knows how to sew my life back together. Most of my time i just sit and wait for that one person who carries the thread and needle, that one person who can sew my life back together again.
You weave in and out of my thoughts everyday like you are always there and the one thing that is always on my mind. It is something so uncontrollable, but yet pleasant. I wouldn’t want to not have you right on top of my mind.
when you weave something, you usually end up with some type of basket or pointy asian hat. in elementary school i weaved a little basket and filled it with weird smelling things. it was pretty cool. weave.
in out in out in out weaving never stops, in out in out in out
Weave a web that only I can be.
To be and roam free and know what is to be conceived.
Love me and need no other.
No love is like mine, not even your mother’s.
Just take a trip, go away with me and make a makeshift dream.
Only that we can inhabit. Just for a time that when we cohabit the stars make for a complete none establishment.
Spiders. Lots and lots of spiders. Just sitting around a table and weaving their intricate webs. And telling stories about their grandchildren and the old days. And having flys for lunch.
I want to make tapestries: stories woven, shown through the colors shifting in the fabric. But that’s not all the story is. If you pick it up and handle it, work with it, it will tell you more: about the world it came from, about the hands that made it. I want to weave with words.
Weaving is how everything works. Textiles, ideas, people. Or maybe it’s not how everything works, but it’s up to us to fix it and weave it together. When you’re done weaving you have a lovely blanket, and more threads to start working with.
go through things, in and out, when walking in a theme park or shopping malls you have to weave through groups of people. I like the way the threads weave through that fabric.