To Simply Enjoy Warm Summer Days. Enjoying The Shimmering Of The Sun On A Lake. Laying In The Moss. The

*faux leather no animals were harmed! :)

Let the Christmasing begin

I'm making 20 cups of cinnamon roasted almonds.

The holiday baking begins!

I am exceptionally lucky in that my parents never hit me, grounded me, confiscated my things, banned me from my hobbies or threatened any of these actions to make me behave as a kid. as an adult it has made me realise how very very long a road most people have to traverse before they can take a statement like 'no rule that must be enforced by threat is legitimate' seriously.

Hyperallergic

My Grandma's Doilies Are Not a Joke

When will art institutions finally pay respect to our foremothers’ artistry?

This all day long … Elena Kanagy-Loux's article is right-on. I myself have made it a point in recent years not to share any content that glibly uses the phrase, "not your grandma's " because it's a) lazy and b) dismisses the real fact that grandmothers and older textile artists have worked hard to keep craft traditions alive and evolving, not to mention their immense skills. We should be thanking them and looking to them for inspiration, not mocking them. via @hyperallergic ❤️

List of Interesting Latin Phrases

A list I made just to satisfy my vain cravings for resonating mottos for a secret society I'm working on. Enjoy!

abi in malam crucem: to the devil with you!

ad astra per ardua: to the star by steep paths

ad augusta per angusta: to honors through difficulties

aegis fortissima virtus: virue is the strongest shield

amor vincit amnia: love conquers all things

animo et fide: by courage and faith

arbitrium est judicium: an award is a judgement

aut mors aut victoria: either death or victory

aut vincere aut mori: either victory or death

bello ac pace paratus: prepared in war and peace

bibamus, moriendum est: let us drink, death is certain (Seneca and Elder)

bonis omnia bona: all things are good to the good

cede nullis: yield to no one

cito maturum, cito putridum: soon ripe, soon rotten

consensus facit legem: consent makes law

data fata secutus: following what is decreed by fate (Virgil)

durum telum necessitas: necessity is a hrad weapson

dux vitae ratio: reason is the guide of life

e fungis nati homines: men born of mushrooms

ego sum, ergo omnia sunt: I am, therefore all things are

pulvis et umbra sumus: we are but dust and shadow

quae amissa salva: things lost are safe

timor mortis morte pejor: the fear of death is worse than death

triumpho morte tam vita: I triumph in death as in life

tu vincula frange: break your chains

vel prece vel pretio: for either love or for money

verbera, sed audi: whip me, but hear me

veritas temporis filia: truth is the daughter of time

vero nihil verius: nothing is truer than the truth

vestigia nulla restrorsum: foosteps do not go backward

victus vincimus: conquered, we conquer (Plautus)

sica inimicis: a gger to his enemies

sic vita humana: thus is human life

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

💎If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! Also, join my Tumblr writing community for some more fun.

💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2 

Reference: <Latin for the Illiterati: a modern guide to an ancient language> by Jon R. Stone, second edition, 2009

Why did you give the last of your food to that poorly disguised mimic? You were finally at peace with letting go, but now this odd thing won’t leave you alone and is even turning itself into various items in an attempt to aid you.

Things two hungarian poets from the 1840s said to each other in their letters that make me crazy:

If my soul touches you and it happens to burn you I'm not to blame... it was you who lit it on fire

I swear to you on cottage cheese and tobacco

If the people rule in poetry, so will they rule in politics and that's the goal of the century! To hell with the aristocracy!

My dear buddy,

My soul, my bastard,

My golden mouthed saintly friend,

My rowdy brother,

My lovable dummy,

If you want to see a dead Pegasus, look no further than me

I am trying to learn to smile nicely ( he did not succeed)

My dear friend, you better side of my soul

I will never forgive you for NOT writing the address on the envelope yourself. A woman's handwriting... and a black seal... dear god, the devil took him! he worked himself to death writing poems, he died! ... and then i opened your letter... Never do this again. Only use black seal vax on your death, and even then, still write the address yourself!

I'm reading (your work) for the sixth time. It's really a horrible thing. I'll need to read it again to understand just how awful it is!

Sincerely, your friend whose balls are itching

It's really good that your sore throat is gone, I can finally strangle you

Leave the dedication! Veselényi is a great man but he's still a Lord, and a poet should never dedicate ANYTHING to a Lord

I'm hugging you a 1000000000000 times!

'Valkyrie' by Edward Robert Hughes, c. 1915.

The excitement at finally living close to mountains soon

a burst of color, part five

a burst of color, part one

flowers on the mountain, part two

flowers on the mountain, part four

flowers on the mountain, part five

flowers on the mountain, part three

by Danielle Nelson

For the last decade or so, I’ve been routinely attending a ride-on lawnmower race. I’ve always wanted to participate, but the high cost of used mowers is better spent on more practical vehicles, like literally anything else. Sometimes, though, the universe sends you a message. And in my case, that message came in the form of an awkward leg of a huge trade-in scam.

Picture, if you will, the humble redneck. They await the approach of big, fast domestic mowers. John Deeres, Cub Cadets, even weird modified Chinese stuff they looted from Aliexpress. There is jubilance, but that soon comes to an awkward hush. An unfamiliar engine note approaches.

My International 1480 combine harvester, all ten tons of it, is barrelling down the highway at a clip somewhere between “tepid” and “jaunty.” Even though I have shown up for a race, I am sandbagging a little bit, making sure that the bets get settled against my vehicle before I show them the might of a fully operational monster such as mine.

Technically, there is no violation. I had looked at the rulebook from every angle in the previous year: it has the correct number of wheels, the proper agricultural intent, and with precise work on the tiller, it can even (poorly) mow a suburban lawn. Is it modified? Oh yes, yes indeed, but I see the nitrous bottles poking out from the rows of Kubotas at the starting line.

And when I leave the starting line, it is a thing of beauty. At least for a few milliseconds. It seems that the wizards at International Harvester simply did not comprehend of a situation in which the frame of their combine would be launched into the air by means of one thousand eight hundred foot-pounds of supercharger-bolstered torque. I had erroneously believed that the loose soil of the rural community would let the wheels dip in, but now I am facing directly into the sky, having twelve o’ clocked hard on my wheelie, shooting flames from my exhaust and whirling vertical blades of death towards the grandstand.

It’s not about whether you win or lose. Sometimes it’s about how many pages you add to the rulebook.