my submission for Inspiration Underground post The Art of Courtly Love
When I originally saw this topic and read the description, I laughed. I don’t think "courtly love" exists today. Not because I think we have evolved into a mutated society incapable of truly loving, but because I don’t think “courtly love” ever existed in the first place.
Being female (duh), I want to relate to this definition (see post) personally, but it is a term defined during the Middle Ages. I am guessing this means that “courtly love” defined a man’s love for his fair maiden.
Let’s break it down:
Jealous people can’t love
In the animal kingdom, the male of the species is flashy and puts on a show for the female of his species. Often times, he must fight or compete with other males for her attention. Sounds like jealousy to me.
Boys don’t love until they reach the age of maturity
You’ve got to be kidding me; when exactly do they reach maturity?
Easily attained love doesn’t have as much value as hard-to-attain love
Stalker?
Love always turns pale in the presence of their beloved
Whatever
We all want to believe in this romanticized term, that someone could hold the highest form of love, but you can’t measure someone’s love for another based on a written set of ridiculous rules.
Love is measure by words written and unwritten, thoughts spoken and unspoken, and actions; not only the way you treat your beloved but the way you treat others because you’re in love.
And,
The way one person loves their beloved cannot be compared to the way another person loves his or hers. We are unique individuals in every other aspect, how can we believe that we all love the same.
ANYway…
Courtly love is a crock of shit if you ask me.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Posing a Poseur
This is my submission for the Jar Draw 1 "A Smile" on Inspiration Underground
Posing a Poseur
I tried to paint your portrait. The only brush I could find was much too big. Your head is naturally large, so my brush was of no concern. The problem was recreating your features with four inches of bristles.
Your eyes were a piece of cake; dark empty holes void of feeling, but your fire engine red smile ran down your chin and dripped onto the white space I only imagine is your shoes... nice and expensive looking.
Just because I have a brush, it doesn’t mean I am a painter. I did a fine job on you though… Dead on.
I tried to paint your portrait. The only brush I could find was much too big. Your head is naturally large, so my brush was of no concern. The problem was recreating your features with four inches of bristles.
Your eyes were a piece of cake; dark empty holes void of feeling, but your fire engine red smile ran down your chin and dripped onto the white space I only imagine is your shoes... nice and expensive looking.
Just because I have a brush, it doesn’t mean I am a painter. I did a fine job on you though… Dead on.
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Weekend Wars: The Beginning
I told you a while back I wanted to work on a collaborated series of stories I called The Weekend Wars. While originally I wanted it to be a collection of short stories, the first one has started to grow rather lengthy. I guess we'll see where it goes. Here's a little sneak peak of the first one:
I hate the phrase “the end of days”. It makes no sense really, because something’s end triggers the beginning of something else. While the Great War was inevitable, it didn't entirely wipe every living thing off the planet. There will always be life born from something's end, but there will also be life that continues on. Not life as usual… but on.
We have all been told that when all life is obliterated in a nuclear war there will still be cockroaches roaming the earth. Enter my main character, Philip Gent.
I could easily compare Philip Gent to a cockroach. He lived mostly in his parent’s basement; a thirty year old, fat, balding boy who never even took out the garbage or loaded the dishwasher for his aging mother. Matter of fact, he hardly moved from the basement. He only surfaced occasionally to sign for packages of spare parts and action figures he had won on internet auction sites.
In this story, Philip finds himself alone in his abandoned town; cut off from the rest of the world. Quickly losing the luxuries of modern life, Philip is thrust into the foreign role of taking care of himself.
Self preservation strangely melds into an obsession, when Philip begins piecing together unique interpretations of his past, the present, and the future using his comic books as a guide... to create a great Manifesto; a collage of pulp fiction, super heroes, and monsters, to leave behind for the future inhabitants of Earth. But there's one problem: Where does he leave it?
This story left me thinking: If I were to write my autobiography using only comic book clippings, what titles would I use?
I immediately started trying to find something that described me now, something rather "mom," and couldn't think of single one. I guess what I would use is all the comic books I loved as a kid, trying to find the best parts of each one and just making them relevant now.
As a kid, I loved: Tales From the Crypt, Vault of Horror, Haunt of Fear, The Punisher, Wolverine, Thor, Conan the Barbarian... (as I got older) Tank Girl, The Maxx, Hellraiser, Nightbreed, & TONS more
What comics did you read and could you use them to write your autobiography?
The Beginning
I hate the phrase “the end of days”. It makes no sense really, because something’s end triggers the beginning of something else. While the Great War was inevitable, it didn't entirely wipe every living thing off the planet. There will always be life born from something's end, but there will also be life that continues on. Not life as usual… but on.
We have all been told that when all life is obliterated in a nuclear war there will still be cockroaches roaming the earth. Enter my main character, Philip Gent.
I could easily compare Philip Gent to a cockroach. He lived mostly in his parent’s basement; a thirty year old, fat, balding boy who never even took out the garbage or loaded the dishwasher for his aging mother. Matter of fact, he hardly moved from the basement. He only surfaced occasionally to sign for packages of spare parts and action figures he had won on internet auction sites.
In this story, Philip finds himself alone in his abandoned town; cut off from the rest of the world. Quickly losing the luxuries of modern life, Philip is thrust into the foreign role of taking care of himself.
Self preservation strangely melds into an obsession, when Philip begins piecing together unique interpretations of his past, the present, and the future using his comic books as a guide... to create a great Manifesto; a collage of pulp fiction, super heroes, and monsters, to leave behind for the future inhabitants of Earth. But there's one problem: Where does he leave it?
---
This story left me thinking: If I were to write my autobiography using only comic book clippings, what titles would I use?
I immediately started trying to find something that described me now, something rather "mom," and couldn't think of single one. I guess what I would use is all the comic books I loved as a kid, trying to find the best parts of each one and just making them relevant now.
As a kid, I loved: Tales From the Crypt, Vault of Horror, Haunt of Fear, The Punisher, Wolverine, Thor, Conan the Barbarian... (as I got older) Tank Girl, The Maxx, Hellraiser, Nightbreed, & TONS more
What comics did you read and could you use them to write your autobiography?
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