Dear dishwasher I know it's just gone a year since we moved in and fixed you the first time but you didn't have to remind us by breaking again.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Peel away my skin and take the pith too (and when you do I'll be positively garrulous, spilling words here and there from my lips until you realise this exploration means sifting through the chaff - the truth is in there, unshielded but obscured by sheer volume of data), open up my segments, pull them away one by one (there's a seed in this one, a crunchy, tooth-hurting knot of all my hopes and fears and potential) until you have eaten every bit and only pith and protection remain.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
These gold and crimson droplets hoping to change the tint of the ocean, before the iridescent spill of a forgotten age, pumped up from the past below, spreads its sticky slick tendrils all o'er the waves.
I didn't want to know how far you need push blue before the shirt turns black.
Spoiler! :
I'll be honest, I think this completely sucks, but I've written like six versions of it since Tuesday, so I figure it counts as a NaPo contribution.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I am head-tired a heavy blanket pulled over my thoughts filling up the space behind my forehead and heating my eyes
I am stomach-tired so the pizza churns in my belly before I have done more than look and each bite takes an age to chew
Spoiler! :
Feels like it needs a third stanza, but I am too head-tired to think of anything non-cliché.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Coming back to this city confuses my heart. Out yonder, there are trees on every street, the smell of real earth, damp with dew in the morning, and space remote from the endless march of feet. Oh, to wake to birdsong and the mower next door, rather than sirens and the children upstairs, to live in a house with two storeys, both of them gloriously ours, far from hearing all the neighbours' affairs. But for all my complaints of orange night skies, and the nicotine haze that smothers your face, five-mile-an-hour traffic and sardine-tin trains, there is something to be said for wearing a place, shrugging it over your shoulders and settling it there as easily as a favourite blanket, confident in the art of sliding through crowds and swaying with buses. Coming back to this city confuses my heart.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I have cooked food from scratch in my own kitchen washed clothes every week and hung them to dry dusted the shelves, perhaps twice a year and grown handfuls of herbs by the window.
I have changed light bulbs in every room persuaded the dishwasher to drain discovered the P-trap, which can leak gas and reprogrammed the heating for winter.
I have blocked out calendar space for quiet nights talked past, present and future with my one made time for good friends, and for new ones and given myself permission to scream.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
If the Right Honourable gremlin seated in my eyebrow would like to scoop my eye from my head, I would ask that he please get on with it! This dilly-dallying and indecisiveness is only worsening the situation and the longer we must put up with the heat and the weepiness and the insistent pressure the more tragically terrible the end result will be!
Spoiler! :
Yeah, I'm not convinced politics/headache symptom crossovers are going to take the literary world by storm any time soon...
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I left my notebook back at home which makes it hard to write a pome
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Viola and Sebastian were sailing on the sea A storm came up and sank their ship; a dreadful tragedy Wrung by grief, Viola takes to dressing as a man, But guess who else survived the wreck? Her dear Sebastian!
Orsino's heart is filled with love for sweet Olivia The problem is she likes him not, and will not have him near So Viola, as 'Cesario', sings serenades by proxy Oops! It seems the lady finds Cesario quite foxy!
Meanwhile, old Malvolio, Liv's steward and admirer Has upset the maid Maria, so against him she'll conspire Convinced by forgéd letter of the lady's adoration He whips out yellow stockings, a cross-laced abomination
Of course, Viola's lovestruck, too - with handsome Lord Orsino And Sebastian has found a friend in pirate lad Antonio Both the twins are grieving over their supposed loss But it won't be long until their paths in life again shall cross
Reeling from Malvolio's display of yellow feet Olivia, unknowingly, Sebastian doth meet Thinking him Cesario, she rushes to be wed Just before discovering she's got the twin instead!
In this grand revelation, Viola now comes clean On her gender, name and how she loves the man whose friend she's been And so a happy ending shows, Orsino holds her tight I hope that you've enjoyed this tale, of Will Shakespeare's Twelfth Night!
Spoiler! :
What can I say? I saw Twelfth Night at the National Theatre recently (if you have a chance to go see that production, do!) and I am running out of poem ideas
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I love the humorous turns that some of these take. The ending of #20/"Adulthood" is great "and given myself permission to scream" I can very much relate to that!
Also as a fellow 12th Night fan, I'm liking your latest poem addition. You actually cover the play quite well in just a few stanzas, and the rhyming makes it upbeat despite the chaos of the plot of 12th Night. The line about Viola finding Cesario "foxy" made me laugh. It was a fun read!
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
Yeast flour salt water Recipes to teach your daughter Water yeast flour salt Make sure that it's not too cold Salt water yeast flour Let it rest for several hours Flour salt water yeast When it's done we'll have a feast
Spoiler! :
Not enough things rhyme with salt or water.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
I've never been one to live in the moment rather I'd spend every moment worrying about every other moment: what might go wrong in the future ones and how I should have handled the past ones better.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Bread is a thing for patience and calm and soothing the mind with simple creation.
Flour: half a kilogram, or thereabouts Yeast: seven grams (one sachet from the supermarket) Salt: ten grams, kept apart from the yeast Water: three-fifty mil', or more (remember, wetter is better) Form a dough, just a rough one, and then leave it in the cupboard (the one with the boiler and the hot water tank) to warm and breathe and bubble.
Turn it once, and leave it longer; dough needs no help to stretch and grow.
Pour it onto flour, and relish the beery scent of ferment that rolls out with it. Squish it in your fingers until it is taut and round and leave it again, to learn its new shape.
When you place it, at last, into the oven (which is blazing with heat, as hot as the dial will turn) don't forget to slash it, lest it burst. Breathe in the tangy, vinegary smell that pervades your kitchen.
And, when it is done, slice through the crackling crust, spread butter that melts, instantly, onto the soft inside and smile, with the satisfaction of knowing that you made this.
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
We have sat in our laboratories with fire and charts and calorimeters and reduced the stuff of nourishment to a table of numbers, and in opening the box to measure the cat, we have killed it. Food is more than a series of digits a bite of guilt added to your shoulders another hour to "work off" later.
The primary purpose of food is to stave off starvation but the second is to nourish the soul. Kitchens can be places of therapy and diffusion of stress of infusing food with emotion with the flavours of your childhood. "The sandwich means I love you" and I will make you another for as long as you are willing to eat.
Spoiler! :
You may be starting to notice a culinary theme creeping in. I spent all day yesterday in the kitchen, cooking for some friends: ciabatta, a white loaf, bruschetta, melanzane parmigiana, chicken in white wine and an Easter chocolate tart. I think I may just have food on my mind.
"The sandwich means I love you" is a quote from Captain Awkward, an excellent advice blog, referring to the way that people show their love for people who are struggling by cooking for them. (Content warning if you go to look it up: a lot of the letters involve abusive situations. Cap is generally good at warning for them and putting them under a cut.)
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
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