If I’m able to, then perhaps I’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.
-Hayao Miyazaki (x)
hello vonnie
i don't do bad sauce passes
tumblr dot com
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Cosimo Galluzzi

@theartofmadeline
No title available

Kiana Khansmith
Today's Document
One Nice Bug Per Day
Sweet Seals For You, Always

⁂

pixel skylines
Xuebing Du
sheepfilms
will byers stan first human second
No title available
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

JVL
Sade Olutola

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from China

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from United Arab Emirates

seen from Norway
seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Italy

seen from United States
seen from Ireland
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Norway

seen from United States

seen from Canada

seen from United Kingdom
@katiemanring
If I’m able to, then perhaps I’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.
-Hayao Miyazaki (x)
Finished the Hobbit iPad case! I’m a proud mama (x)
LOVE
My, my, blog... It's been quite a while. I have graduated from K-State, English Degree and all. I work at Starbucks (yet again) and I enjoy it, though am already getting a little itchy to move on. I may have given up believing in greener pastures, but I never stopped looking. Always looking. Life has been hard, but now, I have been blessed with a new (meaning 2007) Merc Milan...which has proven lovely to drive to work and play in. Lovely indeed. Here's my Instagram of the little dear:
Literary Maps of the USA
Love love love this!
So today, from my lovely story of pictures, I decided to takle my much-needed and very first Pinterest project!! Making a camera bag. For the last 4 years, my poor Canon Rebel XTi had been pathetically housed in a square, embarrassing lunch box. It was so hideous it was all I could do to ignore it completely. This was a crushing morale blow to my photography; that was, until the iPhone. But there's nothing like that satisfying click to the real-deal cameras. Sorry iPhone, I need my camera back. So, it was high time for a makeover.
From the above pictures, you can see I found my purse at Savers which means super cheap and used, but I don't mind. I liked the pattern and laughed when I saw the cute little teddy bear emblem. Yippy, cutest baby bag turned camera case ever! I posted pictures of my new little (big) bag at work, holding fancy things and whatnot.
This has inspired me to set new goals for my newly-graduated-still-not-employed self. I hope to have at least one creation, practical project completed each week. This week I finally got to make my camera a new home I'm proud to show off. Mission accomplished!
Here's the pin I used for instant inspiration and reference: http://pinterest.com/pin/77687162292498572/
:D
Unearthing Manhattan (Published in Manhattan's City Arts Magazine)
(For anyone who didn't get their hands on a copy of the latest issue of City Arts magazine, here's my article! :D)
Manhattan, Kansas: home of Kansas State University and at least a few people. This was my initial, narrow-minded perception upon my arrival here about a year and a half ago. Growing up in Kansas City, I was used to the loud noises and bright lights of people, places, and constant devotion to the arts in its many forms. I had studied theatre out in western Kansas for a year previously and all I knew was that Manhattan had to be better than the truly "small-town" Kansas that I had been exposed to. In fact, Manhattan was so much more. I starved for art, and thus began my search for truly uncovering the vast arts of Manhattan. My first step to discovering Manhattan began as soon as I found my niche at Radina’s Coffeehouse and Roastery. Each week (or so) they feature work from local artists as well as hosting a local band for music night each Wednesday. Here I made fast friends who became my own personal guide to Manhattan. Little by little, I discovered many quaint restaurants that portray their own unique types of art as much as Radina's did; such as the art of the American hamburger cleverly mixed with a southern twist and strong Day of the Dead-inspiration at So Long Saloon; or perhaps the art of sushi with glamorous, bite-sized eastern creations at Green Tea Sushi. The choices are endless as far as finding masters of the edible arts. The next stretch of my Manhattan journey took me deeper into the fine arts of theatre. I have a background with the theatre and would not have expected such a theatrical following here in central Kansas, but I have seen some of the best performances here, such as “Antigone” and “Avenue Q.” K-State Theatre, McCain Auditorium, and Manhattan Arts Center always put on excellent shows, missing nothing from professional acting to unique costumes and elaborate sets. Not only are they performed from local actors or students, but McCain Performance Series also hosts a professional show at least once a semester, such as “Mamma Mia!” this spring. Now, I have made it a personal goal to go to as many shows as possible each semester. Lastly, my final stage of discovery has opened my eyes to the fact that true art is never far away. Art is not only found in the limelight or on canvas, but in words, pages, and the halls of the English Department of Kansas State University. As a typical English major, I got so engrossed in papers and work so much that I was blinded by my own efforts to see the talent that stands in front of me, helping me everyday. I have worked with published authors and creative artists of a more underground nature from day one. From creative non-fiction to the most fictional of tales, my English professors have inspired me beyond belief and constantly continue to do so. They are artists of a different sort of fine art that holds a more subtle beauty that needs to be honored just as those in the spotlight.
Manhattan is my first real home-away-from-home, and I’m glad to say that there’s no place quite like it.
Importance of discovery
It's been a while, Tumblr, but I've missed you. I've missed doing things for myself. Today I took a little drive to Wamego, KS, windows down, blaring Florence + the Machine, and just soaking in the fresh air. I may have also skipped class. It was insanely freeing and I feel a hundred times better than I did before.
There's nothing like discovery. Especially of new things that have been so close for so long. Like the Oz Winery, for example. Delicious wine; locally made, all-american. I didn't just go there for the plethora of free wine samples (with pieces of butterscotch and chocolate), but to experience Kansas. Experience something so new, so close, and (in this case) so worth the drive.
Was it the most effective afternoon for my education, probably not. But it was for me, and I think that's a lot more important.
Book Reivew
Boquet, Elizabeth. Noise From the Writing Center. Logan: Utah State UP, 2002. Print.
Elizabeth H. Boquet, RIC Writing Center Director, shares her processes and theories of the writing center. She uses a very creative way of going about things in her writing center, believing in the value of noise. To Boquet, this does not necessarily mean a disruptive sound wave, but rather an open place for communication, collaboration, and creativity between tutors, faculty, and student writers. Although her advice was primarily targeted for those interested in writing center theory, her work proves highly entertaining even to those less involved.
The most helpful part for me was near the end of the 3rd section of the book, entitled “Description of the RIC Writing Center,” in which Boquet was sparked to describe the writing center as her one computer was being taken away. She talks about the importance of space in which tutors work and the assumptions made about their space. She makes a point that the writing center is individual and unique, each one just a little different than the next. Not only does she offer a description, but allows for her tutors to give theirs as well, which proves extremely useful for my project.
I think that this specific section of the book will really help in the gathering information stage of my project, and getting different opinions on what kind of feelings and vibes that the tutors desire in their space is important to the fulfillment of those needs, even for my hypothetical project. The input that I’m getting from her staff, as well as her opinion on space was more than I was expecting in this piece and has really helped me understand the writing center directors take on how important space is to those who utilize it. Understanding that need for design, space, and functionality is the first step to creating a better writing center.
Although this book is highly abstract and creative, I think would be best for those readers interested in writing and academics, especially in tutoring or writing centers.
Knight-So Identical
But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead as living ever him ador’d:
Upon his shield the like was also scor’d,
Book 1, Canto 1, Stanza 2, ll. 10-14
In mighty armes he was yclad anon,
And silver shield upon his coward brest
A bloudy crosse, and on his craven crest
A bounch of haires discoloured diversely:
Book 1, Canto 2, Stanza 11, ll. 93-96
In Edmund Spencer’s The Faerie Queene, knights play a huge role in depicting important aspects of Elizabethan life and culture. In book one, canto one of The Faerie Queen, St. George is the staring knight, full of virtue and strength of mind. This St. George, however, has a double, Archimago, who strives to look and be exactly like him in canto two. At first glance, they seem identical, but Spencer always strives for readers to take a closer look. Looking at the two stanzas above, Spencer plays with wording, spelling, and nuances of various meanings to compare the similarities between these two descriptions of St. George, one being his real self, the other his false double.
In the first stanza of book one, canto one, we have a description of the true St. George’s breastplate that bears a “bloudie Crosse.” This “Crosse” is signifying the image of the cross of St. George, found on the flag of England, since he is the country’s patron saint. This bloody cross could signify and acknowledge the bloodshed of the innocent believers in England that tried to keep the true faith during Bloody Mary’s Catholic reign. There is also the Biblical sense of the cross, this image visualizing the scene where Jesus died and washed away the sins of the world with his blood; hence why this cross would be “bloudie.” Spencer continues to say that this cross was worn in “deare remembrance of his dying Lord,” Christ Jesus. The word “Crosse” is capitalized because of its symbolic importance, signifying that St. George is on a holy quest, which is ordained by God. Spencer says that it was “for whose sweet sake that glorious badge he wore.” St. George was wearing God’s mark of approval. The next two lines are a little harder to work through. Lines 13 and 14 say: “And dead as living ever him ador’d: / Upon his shield the like was ever scor’d.” This “him” Spencer mentions is most likely referring to the knight, since the second line is saying how on the shield the is bearing the same red cross. This body of armor shows off the cross, gloriously bearing testament to St. George’s devotion to God, as a servant of England. This line is most likely talking about St. George and how the people of today and of yesterday adore him, and look up to him, as the servant of the country in the name of God, wearing his armor, physically and spiritually.
In canto two, we have lines that are extremely similar to those in canto one, but with a slightly different context to them considering they are not actually talking about St. George but his double, Archimago. Jumping straight into the rich description Spencer says that Archimago is “in mighty arms he was yclad anon,” meaning that he was wearing armor. The first article he has is a shield, just as St. George has in canto one, but his is not clad in the cross that honors God and country, but is made of silver. The fact that his shield is made of silver emphasizes his earthy riches, which he may have, but not the riches of virtue, that St. George has on his shield. Spencer also mentions the shield first, which indicates that this double is putting up his guard, especially if his shield is protecting him from the more all-knowing eyes of God. The wording makes it seem as though he is wearing his silver shield on his “coward brest,” which Spencer uses to emphasize what kind of man he really was: a coward, sneaking about as someone other than himself. His armor was not bare of all things, but “upon his coward brest / A bloudy crosse,” just as the real St. George wore in canto one. The first difference here between Archimago and St. George is seen in the spelling of “bloudy.” In canto one, “bloudy” was spelled “bloudie” with an “-ie.” This difference is fascinating considering they are both describing the same word “crosse.” Only here in canto two, “crosse” is not capitalized as it is in canto one. Spencer’s simple act of not capitalizing “cross” emphasizes that the cross that Archimago put on his armor was fake, not signifying anything at all, and serving no higher purpose except to pose as a forgery of St. George. Moving on to the last description, the doubts of his trickery once again are confirmed. Spencer writes, “and on his craven crest, / A bounch of haires discoloured diversely.” Here Spencer brings out into the open that Archimago is so much a fake that even his head and all his hair is cowardly. His hair is discolored and his mind is cowardly, as is his chest, Spencer emphasizing that Archimago is nothing more than a fraud in his mere imitation of St. George.
Comparing these two sections side-by-side one can see the difference between the true believers versus the false ones. These true believers follow not only the orders of the church and of God but also of England, as St. George does. The false imitators are merely going through the motions to appear good and virtuous, but are really just selfish and self-serving, much like Archimago. Spencer critiques those who want to imitate the true believer’s strength, but have no real virtue, and calls them out for their shortcomings, and accuses them for fighting for little more than their own selves.
To Kill a Nightingale
The nightingale’s song is one that is known for being heard at night, softly echoing among the trees and in through windows. For the wife in Marie de France’s “Laüstic” this was certainly the case. She used the nightingale as an excuse to see her lover from her window every night, giving them time together that they would not have had because of her marriage to another knight. The nightingale is the catalyst for these lovers rendezvous, signifying all they are to each other, their secret means of communication using this bird as a secret symbol. Furthermore, the nightingale symbolizes the failed yet infinite nature of the lover’s love in “Laüstic,” and how they are emotionally trapped, broken, and powerless due to the wife’s marriage to her jealous husband.
The symbol of the nightingale shows the limits of sexual freedom outside the young woman’s marriage. Her husband confines her in a sexual way, having the ultimate say on who she could give her sexual attention to. Marie de France describes how “the lovers loved one another a long time,” then transitions into a lovely description of the summer:
when the woods and meadow were all green
and the orchards were flowering;
the little birds with great sweetness
expressed their joy among the flowers.
It is no wonder if one who has a mind to love
gives it his attention! (59-64)
This description describes the heightened sexuality that grew between the lovers during their secret affair. Though this is not the story of their sexual awakening, but uses these images to illustrate they are in the peak of their love. Their love has grown into one that is intensely intimate but not physical, especially when picturing the lovers as being the birds from the lines above “with great sweetness expressed their joy among the flowers” (61-62). Even with this great love, the young woman was trapped, locked away from the young knight as the following lines describe:
there was no obstacle or barrier
except a high wall of grey stone.
….
…they could not be together
entirely at their pleasure,
for the lady was closely guarded
when her husband was at home. (37-38, 47-50)
The young woman was controlled by the presence of her husband, hidden under lock and key in her own home, forced to stay away from her lover, who was her neighbor. There is a wall of grey stone between them, a cold barrier without give or lenience, which Marie uses to depict her husband. This wall keeps the lovers apart, never able to touch each other or be together in any physical sense, because of her husband. Playing on the reoccurring reference to birds, she uses the nightingale as the lover’s excuse to at least see each other. As soon as her husband notices her diversion from his bed at night he becomes angry, ensnaring the bird, saying to her the following:
I have caught the nightingale
for which you stayed awake so long.
From now on you can rest in peace:
he will wake you no more. (107-110)
Her husband caught the nightingale to keep her close to him, as he knows that she is cheating on him with her time, though he never finds out it is with his neighboring knight. He says that her restlessness will be cured now, breaking her away from her excuse to see her lover. He also mentions her “rest in peace,” which is his way of taking complete ownership of her desires and putting to sleep her sexual love for anyone other than himself (Marie 110). Thus, her husband has the ultimate say on her sexual life, being the one who tears her away from her love, killing the blossoming desires for being with anyone else, and hoarding her all to himself.
The husband in “Laüstic” not only controls the sexual aspects of his wife’s life, but also her showing affection to anyone or anything else. Marie uses the symbolic nightingale to show how entrapping marriage is for the wife’s freedom to choose whom she could show affection. Her husband keeps her “closely guarded” in the confines of their home, keeping her not only close, but never makes mention of letting her out at all (49). She is always locked away at home, resorting to only seeing her lover and exchanging things with at night via their windows (40-44). Marie then writes “No one could prevent them / from coming to the window / and seeing one another there” (54-56). She states this fairly early in the lay, the words are empowering to the wife, giving her agency to be able to choose whom she gives her affection. Later in the lay, however, Marie doubles back on this agency when the wife’s husband traps and kills the bird, the wife saying “’Alas,”… ‘it goes ill with me! / I can no longer get up at night / nor go to stand by the window,” (126-128). Her agency ended with the death of the nightingale that served as her excuse to see her lover. Her husband found out that she was sneaking to her window at night, and for whatever reason, lie or truth, he becomes full of “anger and ill will” and “He fixed his thoughts on one thing: / entrapping the nightingale” (92, 93-94). This trapping of the nightingale shows the extent to which he will go to ensnare whatever distractions she has, just as he as entrapped her, and destroy them to keep her from thinking of anything other than himself. He succeeds in the destruction of the bird, solidifying the nightingale’s role as a source of affection for his wife, and he takes control of where his wife’s affections should truly lie.
The limits of the lover’s love are made clear through the actions taken toward preventing them from having a relationship at all. Where they were physically unable to have a relationship, their love is preserved, undying even though it was impossible physically. Through all odds, the lovers juxtaposed the impossibility of a relationship with making the most of every moment they could have had together. The wife retained her agency in the end by giving the nightingale to the young lover knight; she took great care of dressing the bird: “In a piece of samite / embroidered and inscribed all over with gold / she wrapped the little bird;” (Marie 135-137). She went to great lengths to take such care of the bird that was broken, like her heart that was equally broken by the end of their affair. She used samite to wrap up her little bird, which was a beautiful cloth used for dressmaking and decorations, hence why it was fabric infused with gold (“Samite”). This act shows that although her freedom to physically see him and to show him affection was taken away from her, she still has the agency to give her heart out to whomever she wanted. The young lover knight also took ownership of their love in his own treatment of the bird:
He had a small casket made;
it contained not a bit of iron or steel,
it was made all of fine gold with valuable gems,
most precious and costly;
it had a very well-fitting cover.
….
then he had the coffer sealed.
He carried it with him always. (149-153,155-156).
He took great care to have a casket be made for their nightingale. He made sure that the casket was not made of wood that would rot away, or of something as cold and hard as iron or steel, but of gold, signifying that this bird was the most important thing to him. He covered it in gems, not just leaving it plain, embellishing the beloved casket that he then sealed, as he needed to seal away their love. He always carried this token of their love with him, thus preserving the nightingale as a symbol of their love, making it both a failed relationship, but one that defies the limits of the physical to live on in the heart forever.
Naka-Kon
(nak = “middle” in Japanese, combined with a play on the spelling of the abbr. for “convention” (= con) = kon) I do love words!
Naka-kon, usually hosted (as of the last 4 years) in the Westin of Crown Center in downtown Kansas City, was hosted by the Overland Park Convention Center this February. As always, the price of the ticket escalated from previous years and this year was so popular they stopped registration halfway through the convention. Japanese pop culture has really begun to take a grasp on Western society and I happened to fall right into it’s clever, mesmerizing traps.
Every year is a whole new experience.
People are dressed up in strange cosplay, many having an emphasis in zombie-esque attire this go-round.
I picked something simple, a British male role (or rather the role of Britain), which was sadly not hard to take on…(Although I make a hideous blonde).
It’s almost protocol to cosplay something. Some people even have a different role per day, but I am not nearly that hardcore.
Many make their own, which is where, I believe, the honest creativity really shines. People pour their piggy banks and souls into creating a decent, realistic, and pain-staking accurate cosplay of any given character from be it manga, anime, or other usually Easter-derived image from pop culture.
With the much-needed sewing and costuming skills, these “cosplayers” go the extra mile to completely embody who they are trying to be.
Like actors on the stage, these cosplayers create back-stories and use the main events in their tale to craft their own interpretation of their chosen character.
Going to “kon” takes far more skill than one might expect, but skill buried deep within in a gigantic heap of nerdiness.
What’s not to love?
Back and There Again: My Writing Journey
There they were, sitting on the shelf that lead up to the loft, right above the laundry chute. The rippled, colored spines of four much loved paperbacks nested beside each other in the brightest shades of green, red, blue, and yellow. Their covers are fresh on my mind as if I saw them yesterday. Each page faded with age, they were rough as sandpaper and smelled of many reads. My desire to write was birthed almost solely from a 1970’s paperback edition of The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.
My sixth grade year consisted of me fast-forwarding through video homeschooling and delving into the depths of Middle-Earth. I was not the only one who had become slightly fascinated with this mid-century fantasy. Sooner than later it was turned into a motion-picture epic. Thanks to my favorite tale coming to life on the big screen and taken into creative young minds like mine, I discovered a whole new side to the fantasy genre: fan fiction. And that was all thanks to the brilliant invention of the Internet.
With the dawn of the World Wide Web in the early part of the millennium, I became more and more interested with the fantastical not only found on paper, but on the web as well. From forums to Xanga, AIM to Gmail, I was involved, engaged, reading and writing. Constantly. I was, quite literally, online. Even in junior high, I was proficient in computer functions before they decided that “keyboarding” was a pointless class; emailing before it became unhyphenated; and blogging before it was cool. I created characters, stories, and whole worlds in this online world, dousing myself in the new age form of fantasy, or rather, alternate reality. I honed my creative tools and used the Internet as my canvas for my writing as I moved into my high school years. Could my hunger for the fantastic survive brutal, dramatic adolescent life?
I think so. My high school creative writing class was full of encouragement and bursting with ideas. I strived to please not only my classmates but also myself through my stories, poems, and character sketches. (None of which, I am proud to say, classified under fan fiction.) I learned the skills of peer reviewing and am proud to say that I excelled in this course. Nothing excelled more than my inner most stories.
So, at the peak of my college experience, I enrolled myself into Intro. to Creative Writing, expecting a far more challenging and but no less encouraging course than I took in high school. To my dismay I found something else entirely. I did not enjoy my work or myself whatsoever. Maybe it was the lack of random creative ideas that my high school English teacher excelled at, or maybe it was the way in which my professor dished out criticism, but I ended with no desire to continue my creative writing in college. This is where I hit a sort of fictional writer’s block. My ideas were stagnant to non-existent, and my mood quite depressed. I needed something to help me, and fantasy was not. Then I discovered something about myself that felt rather like a Jo-moment (from Little Women); I enjoyed writing about life, about the people within it, and the little things that are worth seeing but are often overlooked.
I cannot say I am or have become a non-fiction writer and blossomed into a new person at my moment of epiphany. I am not at all programmed like that. I am at the first stage of this rebirth in my writing, where I am concerned less about the alternate reality and focus on the here and now. My writing has changed because my outlook has changed and I have begun to see things with a fresh new look. I have fallen from Middle-Earth back to earth with curiosity, looking close to find the subtle similarities and differences, carefully applying these honed skills I’ve gathered along my literary journey to my new forms of writing, from fantastic to factual, or perhaps a dabbling of both.
Hiccup.
Clouds like
milk foam
swirl past.
Rays like
funnels
shoot from
alien sun
to catch
me up
through leaves
that smirk
millions
of smirks
at all
once now.
My eye
weary
stare wide,
silent.
Moment
like a
hiccup
gone now
never
again
to be.
Miss Scarlet in the Bedroom with the 11 pages of Facebook Messages since 2006
I've been going through the last 5 years worth of personal messages I have sent between me and 'friends'; old friends, new friends, blocked persons, passed away accountancies and complete strangers. As I have gone through the messy process of literally opening each and every conversation I've ever messaged on Facebook, I realize... I don't even know who I am. It's not as though I was ever lying in my messages or ever thought I was someone else. I am someone entirely different from what I've been finding buried in these forgotten notes. Maybe, in some strange, sad way, this is a wake up call. I found myself angry, laughing, crying, completely in awe as I go through these, not intending on reading them, but finding myself drawn to the last few messages and slowly back up into the twisting point of the conversations... It's like my mind is slowly becoming unblocked from itself. The feelings I'm feeling are so complex and strange that describing them would be almost an invasion to myself. My old self, and new.
I don't understand why I felt compelled to write this, but I did. Revelations should be shared, right? As simple as mine was, at least to read it like this, I assure you, was not so simple for me to share. I have feelings of love, regret, forgetfulness, respect, awe, thankfulness, guilt to share with all those who have messaged me before... Amongst many things I wish to say or wish to take back... But more than all these....
... I love you all. Each and every one.
Domination is not so subtle.
E3 Hullabaloo vs. the Trojan Horse
So, my attention has undergone a lot of whiplash in the last 48 hours. Not to mention I've tripped on the living room rug thrice and run into either the coffee table or a door at least the same amount of times, when the rug wasn't involved. My attention, however, has been battling between the world of love and war, gods and men, children's lit or young adults fiction, all of which preside in the reading of Geras' "Troy;" or, the ultra-over the top, need-to-know information that is held within the confines the world's biggest gathering of video gaming nerds/producers/contributors/developers, named E3... (Gah, I love long, confusing, and probably incorrect and incomprehensible sentences)....
Troy wins, in the end. I officially got sucked back into the world of yester-age and completely know how this tragic, terrible, and amazing story is going to end. No spoilers here, it's just good. Read it. Everyone. Now. So we can all be angry together.
E3, like I said, I am following on a need-to-know basis, because, well, I obviously need to know. My work and paycheck almost depends on it. Actually, knowledge for customers depends on it, and I like looking good, so I guess I don't really have a choice. I'm a slave to my job. What can I say.
To no avail, it should surprise no one that I have no life. Maybe I'll find pretty pictures for my 6 followers to look at, since I doubt they will read this. Ever.
Maybe goodnight.
When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn’t make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. “It’s all right” we whisper, “I’m here, I love you.” and we lie: “I’ll never leave you.” For just a moment or two the darkness doesn’t seem so bad.
Neil Gaiman, Neil Gaiman’s Midnight Days