August 6, 2014 § Leave a comment
A proper lady. A duchess, A damsel (but never in distress). A gentlewoman. Let me indulge you in the basics.
The romanticized theory of being of honor to the world and to the temple of your body is sheer milky and saccharine. I think that all young lady’s should have a sense of entitlement to what they do with their body or how they spend their time, and it should be conventional in all senses of the matter. Is it bad to romanticize these things, or is it an inherent effect of person-hood? I may think so, and the idea of being a “princess” shouldn’t be child-like nor should be boasted, it’s a lifestyle. All young lady’s, although may come from different backgrounds or have different views, all share a core set of values which intertwine them all together as if it were a vine of virtues. I’m fond of that saying. Vine of virtues, because, really, all humans are inevitably alike.
First and for most, all princesses are dignified. This is the main characteristic of a princess, and all other traits branching from this one must encompass it, I think, because what’s more worthy than a girl who knows she can prosper?
When a princess walks, her posture is well-formed & svelte and her chin is held high, not ostentatiously, but opulently with the rich touch of velvet. Her gait is not much different from a person premiering on a runway after winning American’s Next Top Model; elegant and sophisticated. A young princess will not let just anyone touch her and she respects her body. She respects her body enough to know that “boys will be boys” and boys will whisper sweet-nothings so you can stay the night. Your mother has raised you better than that.
A princess is an individual, even though she may appreciate others and the fact that they are unique in their own way. A princess who is self-conscious because she feels much different from others knows that this is something to value and should bathe in this realization. A princess shouldn’t depend on the attention from others for proper nutrients though they can feed on it. In addition, any emotions that pry to spill from her mouth are hers only, and shouldn’t be used as a performance piece.
One of the most vital parts of being an actual princess is being well-educated. She should always be vigilant about the world around her and want to expand her knowledge profoundly. Being polymathic should be a lifetime goal. If she is cursed ignorant in any field, she should be of the greatest docility to learn about it. A princess doesn’t suffer from naivety or innocence, she is well-versed enough in the world to partake in it.
A princess is strong and righteous. She is a child of God and reads her christian bible religiously. She cannot succumb to negativity because of her knowledge or wallow in self-pity and think she don’t have any power to change things. She has the world and she is the world. When she looks at the sky, she knows it is for her. When she walks on the paved floor, the ground under it, and the ball of fire underneath the ground, all those things are for her. She must remember this when she wakes up and thinks she has nothing. After all, a princess is imbued with power for being a princess. She’s willing to change things and to carry on and empathize with others without destroying herself. How hard it is to do that, but how worth it.
A princess is beautiful. She is a work of art and one day she will be lay on the bed and kissed for her hard work. A princess educates herself not only in facts, but in emotions, in poetry, in stories, to counterbalance harshness with incites pessimism with sweetness, luxury that incites craving and hedonism to stay alive and for further experiences.A princess deserves the very best, to be pampered, to be admired, and she knows this.
August 5, 2014 § Leave a comment
- phlegmatic /flegˈmatik/ – (of a person) having an unemotional and stolidly calm disposition.
People who are phlegmatic are a little dull in expressing feelings or showing emotion. It may be their training more than their natural behavior, but those palace guards who wear the red coats and big hats and show absolutely no expression on their faces are phlegmatic. Attempts to make them laugh, smile, or twist their faces in irritation won’t work, because being phlegmatic is important to their role as stone-faced keepers of the palace. Phlegmatic people show less emotion on the outside — but who knows, they may be jumping up and down on the inside
My example sentence: Gareth osberved his taciturn classmate curiously, who sat in the back of the class, and when he initiated a joke with him, the boy remained phlegmatic.
August 5, 2014 § Leave a comment
Arthur Rimbaud, or Jean-Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud to be exact, often called “The Child of Anger,” was a poet, capricious and peripatetic. A friend of mine once introduced me to him, mostly because of his pulchritude, and not for his prolific works that he managed to write in less than 5 years. I do see him for his stunning appearance, but I commend him for his works as well. Try to repress a hitch in your throat at his portrait below.
Let’s research briefly into his life, shall we? Rimbaud was born in Charleville, France on October 20th 1854. His father was named Frederic Rimbaud and his mother, Vitalie Cuff, who were married in the year 1853. His father was very estranged, abandoning his family at his child’s age of six, and leaving him to his overprotective mother. He was a brilliant student in school, very well-mannered and docile. By the age of thirteen, he had already won several prizes for his great writing and was very adept at composing verse in Latin. After his school shut down in 1870 because of the Franco-Prussian war, he sought refuge from his family and ran away from home, living as a vagabond and anticipating for adventure.
Paul Verlaine, a decadent French poet and Symbolist leader, spotted him and was astonished by his talent, so he took him in to live with him and his wife. Rimbaud moved out shortly afterwards due to Verlaine’s ineptibility to conform, but the two strangely became lovers after that. Much to my surprise, anyway. Verlaine was in his mid – 20’s while Rimbaud was a teenager around the age of 17 to 19 when they met. As young as Rimbaud was, he managed to be attracted to such an older (and might I add shuddersome) man. It reminded me of the term “peur delicatus” which is Latin, meaning “exquisite” or “dainty” child-slave chosen by his master for his beauty as a “boy top” also referred to as deliciae (“sweets” or “delights”)
Anyhow, Verlaine had a hostile disposition and his relationship with young Rimbaud was always antagonistic and erratic. Their passionate affair ended immediately on July 12th, 1873 when Verlaine drunkenly shot Rimbaud in the hand, proving my skeptical theory of the man. After that, he continued his writing and often returned home for short periods. Alas, he died on November 10, 1891, at the age of thirty-seven due to a cancer spreading throughout his leg.
Despite his volatile life, Rimbaud managed to write a tandem of poetry, autobiographies, and letters. In 1895, Verlaine published Rimbaud’s complete works, and thus secured his ex-lover’s immortal fame. We are going to read one particular poem today, titled, “Novel.”
Novel by Arthur Rimbaud, 1854 – 1891
No one’s serious at seventeen.
–On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
–You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.
Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds–the town is near–
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .
–Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .
June nights! Seventeen!–Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .
The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
–And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp’s pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father’s starched collar. . .
Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
–And cavatinas die on your lips.
You’re in love. Off the market till August.
You’re in love.–Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you’re bad news.
–Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!
That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
–No one’s serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.
29 September 1870
More information and other works can be found here.
August 4, 2014 § Leave a comment
- nebulous ˈ/nebyələs/ – in the form of a cloud or haze; hazy; (of a concept or idea) unclear, vague, or ill-defined.
Something that’s nebulous is clouded or hazy. When you walk through the woods on a foggy morning, the trees may all have a mysterious, nebulous look to them. When you fly in a plane on an overcast day, the land below you looks nebulous and indistinct. You can also use nebulous in a more figurative way, to describe vague ideas or fuzzy concepts.Nebulous comes from the Latin nebulosus, “cloudy, misty, or foggy.” Its root is nebula, which is “vapor or fog” in Latin and was adopted by astronomers in the 1700s to mean “a cloud of gas and dust in outer space.”
My example sentence: The nebulous din of the restaurant proved it arduous to sustain a conversation with the poor fellow sitting opposite me.