loose threads and writer's block

Bread

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 04:54:42 +0000

We keep our bread in the freezer. This works out quite well because when you go to make a sandwich both the pb and the j are easier to spread and the frozen bread is not mashed down into a shadow of its former self as it would have if it were of the thawed variety. This frozen bread sandwich not only travels well, it also is it very refrigeration system, and by the time it is ready to eat the frozen bread sandwich is the perfect temperature and the jam is minimally soaked in. It is also arguable that frozen dempsters ancient grains bread is the perfect canvas for creating the ultimate nutella peanut butter ricecrispie chocolate banana sandwich, but of course we can’t say for sure.
There is one major issue of this freezer bread storage method. You know all the ends? They are the parts of the bread at the end of the loaf that everyone seems to reach past in order to grab the nice fluffy slices. Some may call for the instant discarding of such portions of crusty end bread; I however call for nothing quite so drastic. When children are starving in Africa I cannot bring myself to discard these slices of sustenance and let them accumulate in many bags at the back of the freezer, until there are sufficient amounts to facilitate the creation of a bread pudding
Let it be said that I make great bread pudding. Mind you it does take much more valuable ingredients then all the assorted ends add up to, but this is not relevant.

2 voice

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 19:18:35 +0000

I used to rule the world
I rule the world

I am 45
I am 5

And I lost my job today
And I lost my first tooth today

Now I have no way to bring in money
Now I’m gunna get money under my pillow!

How to send the kids to university, put gas in the car, or food on the table, I don’t even know.
I’m so happy you don’t even know!

Sleepless nights are ahead I’m sure
I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight

I didn’t get home till my family was all asleep
I heard my dad sneak in when he thought I was asleep

But then my son came in telling me about his lost tooth
And I told my dad all about my tooth

And I forgot about the money
And I forgot about the money

the woods

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 20:50:18 +0000

A split second glace and I saw him
Before bus moved on in its clatter complaining way with the light changing light
He had dark matted hair, unwashed.
Hiking boots and a denim vest, seen better days.
Clothes worn out and worn through, like someone lost in the woods
Only in his forest there are no trees, just car speeding by
Some even turn there heads to glance at his sign
“Traveling. Broke. Hungry.”
“Help I’m lost in the woods.”

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 17:08:47 +0000

I take a breath of empty air
It’s like no other breath before
Not recycled, not previously inhaled
Just empty clean

The rays of the sun twit ns heat
Surrounding me with rays that heat my jeans

I can hear the shuffle steps of the convoy
Plod shuffle thudding
The wish swish of the grass
Crunch grinding of small rocks under soles
Sandals click

Little flowers reach their little hand
They turn their little faces
Up to sun bright

Jets over head
train in the distance
Lawn mowers hum

zo

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 05:36:55 +0000

The café on the corner has walls the color of the inside of a lime. Up top the far wall in big bold letters a definition is written in cursive font, underlined with coloured canvases. It reads “A central town square or plaza, a gathering place”, but this meaning can be read from more then just the walls. Between the cracks in the old wood floorboards it’s in misplaced lyrics leftover from the nights live music had more power then the caffeine. On the antique green couch by fire it sits as Saturdays spent playing games, laughing with hands wrapped around warm white ceramic. In the little nook by the counter, amongst the pillows on the purple bench seats it hides as afternoon escaping the cold, surround by coats and bags of shopping carelessly dropped in mounded piles. By the tall backed leather armchairs in the corner it’s there in hours spent list making on scraps of paper, planning futures, analyzing yesterdays, and loving moments. It’s a gathering place.

c town

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 17:02:43 +0000

They valley is all the colours. It’s the blue bouncing off the harbor bay, white caps blowing off the Strait up to the mountain, where they lay over the evergreens. It is forever green; trees that stretch up to meet the mottled grey or the rare azure of the sky. It’s the green of the rattle clang bridge that hums as the traffic rolls over, the yellow of the splinter railing above the perfect fall, the jump into the river full of flecks of light, the tawny in sand beneath my feet and up the hill on the perfect beach for adventure. This place is in the red-yellow swirl of the tent that makes its appearance yearly among the free sprits of all ages that choose to go barefoot to better feel the beat of the fest. Its the red of the lights and stop signs that, on occasion, are considered by the people in their rusted cars. It’s the grey black asphalt of the parking lots of strip malls, the alleys behind the shops of 5th, and the twisty roads sprawling out in all directions.

moment

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 20:30:13 +0000

The heat drips off the day. As the sun dips I can feel a heart beat, sounding itself one thump after another, one thump after another. It seems to charge the air with an electric feel that sweeps me up. This is my summer. When time has slightly looser edges, days are long, and nights are warm.

That day we spent sitting in the shade dodging sunburn and heat stroke, and scooping ice cream to earn our pass, with the sticky sweet up to our elbows.

Now I’m here with 1000 of my very closest friends, in all the motion and commotion. There’s a buzzing hum, whether from the crowd or the stage I’m not sure. It shocks and makes the ground jump, bringing each beat into reality. The air is thick with a sort of sweet sticky aroma that lingers just above the crowd. There’s a pulse. It carries currents flowing in steady streams. Spotlights cut through the night catching tendrils of smoke that grasp like hands rising up to the stratosphere. We all jump fast on toes; I feel this pulse as it goes through soles into my soul. It rattles and clangs around, finding its place somewhere behind my rib cage. I no longer have my own heart beat, just the rhythm of the night to pump blood through my veins. So I raise up what I know and scream it out in a voice that gets lost in sound.

I am part of this sea, waving steady throughout. The night’s rhythm brings an astounding feeling that thumps even the sleep walking alive, makes them move their dirty feet, and shake their dirty hair.

sitting

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 02:37:43 +0000

As the steam rises in long tendril curls I cool it with my breath.
The smell of spiced comforts and soothes
I close my eyes and for a brief moment I am not here
Sitting awkwardly in a lumpy chair in the café
Surround by bag of shopping carelessly dropped in mounded piles
Sitting is great, I really don’t know if I ever fully appreciated it.
Its like I forgot all about it and then found it again,
And I love it
I suppose I don’t sit nearly enough, I usually don’t have time,
Because there is always things to do and sitting just don’t fit in to my agenda.
But here I am sitting anyways.

Not your Girl

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 19:34:11 +0000

She’s beautiful in the dress
Her last smile of high school on her lips
Out across the room
They look.
Long smooth stares to imprint the moment
to remember
Eyes the see her don’t know what to do
crazy for her and what she can do
Now it’s gone daddy
gone to mother
No longer to wait and follow demands and commands ,
no leash gripping tight to her neck
and heeds to no beck and call.
And they can tell by the way she walks
And they all see by the way she talks,
No more playing by the rules
Gone daddy gone,
Little princess bout to get wild
She is no longer your beloved child.

The Free Way

loosethreadsandwritersblock — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 19:20:57 +0000

Rolling down the free way
the wind brushed my face through the open windows
eyes looking out
newspapers, sobe bottles, chip bags, coke my feet
I don’t mind
I am all smiles.
Thoughts linger on the road
but the are all swept away by the wind and fade in to the asphalt.
The way to there is full of simple promise
traveling does not demand.
It lays itself flat suggesting the possibilities of the world
and lets me run to meet them