So, let's see last visit I made was to the Belem Cultural Center, It's not exactly a museum... but there's a museum there, and that the part i visited. So let's move on to the report of that visit.
"This morning when I woke up, it was about mid day already, but that's common, because I like to sleep late on Saturdays. I had decided yesterday to go to Belem, to eat so cream cakes. Belem's cream cakes are the best in all of Lisbon, if not of the entire contry.
I searched for something to dress (always an adventure) and then picked up my purse ans went on to catch the bus. I went in the bus to the train station in Cais do Sodré. Once there I caught the train in the direction of Oeiras, and stopped at Belem.
After i got of the train, and walked away from the train station, I went to buy the delicious cakes and while eating then, i decided to go visit the Belem Cultural Center, because it's right there in from of the castle , and of a most beautiful park. The place in itself, looks like a big commercial mall, but it has an open area in the center, with water fountains and coffee shops, and lots of little chairs around small, round tables. 'The Belem Cultural Center has four exhibition areas and a Design Museum that presents exhibitions of plastic arts, architecture, design and photography.'
Or so it said in the brochure, they gave me at the entry. Oh! and the nice men with the brochures also gave me the most adorable pin, shaped like a red heart, and saying: "Culture is life". Finally i got to the entry of the actual museum part, i knew immediately that it was the entry to the museum part of the kind of Commercial Mall structure of the building, because it had a huge green monument, that looked like a statue made from Green glass bottle's shaped to look like a really big tree, or the Eiffel tower, one of the two.
Either way, i entered and there's was just a really big hallway, with completely white walls. As I walked along the hallway, pictures started to appear in the fartest walls, after a closer examination, they proved to be photographs of several events, there didn't appear to be them, but there probably was. The one that remained more in my memory was one of a plain crash.
Along the walls there were several planks providing different information about the museum, like: 'Inaugurated in 1999, the Design Museum opened with a show of 200 pieces, chronologically ordered, allowing the visitor to see the evolution of the concept of design through the 20th century.' and also some information about the exposition, currently on hold: 'The collection, known as the Francisco Capelo collection, is divided into three themes: luxury, pop and cool.'
And then by the end of the hallway, the different works of art begin to appear: from what i was able to gather, the first part of the exhibition is dedicated to pieces originally from France and Italy, the second part is more the post-war era, and finally the third, is mostly European works, painting and such, there's also some statues and paintings that look like they are from the industrial era, with a nice new design.
I particularly liked the painting that represented the pop art.
In overall, it was a pretty nice visit, although i thought that the museum, lacked organization, and maybe a little more coherence in the all of the collection, but it was fun, and very instructive.
I took the train and the bus home and that was my visit day.
segunda-feira, 22 de junho de 2009
50 WORD SAGA:
A 50-word saga, it's a challenge to write a shot story with beginning, middle and ending, with exactly 50 words
There's a website: http://dailylit.com/forums/other/etc/2009/03/18/50-word-challenge
From here, I've two personal favourites:
"She awoke and began her daily routine. Brushing her teeth she noticed the pile of library books on the table. Hearing a strange sound she moved to the window. The streets were empty, and a strange orange light lit the sky. Fate could be very cruel to the over sleeper."
And this one:
"Anna and Piotr anxiously waited for the knock on the door. They would come. It was ineveitable. They had been spotted by one of the cities surveillance cameras. There was no place to hide. "Are you ready" Piotr asked? Anna punched the wall and said "F@ck no", I should have picked up that damn dog poop afterall."
I was so inspired by this extremely fun challenge that i decided to give it a try and after much consideration, i made my own:
I have a strawberries allergy.
Fine, you say, then don’t eat strawberries,
and read the “may contain strawberries” warnings.
And remember: stay away from that little desert section in the menu.
That doesn’t change the fact that my soul mate is the strawberry.
You see, I am Chantilly.
Poor me.
So what do you think?
Good? bad?
This thing is harder than it seems!lol
From shortshortshortstories.com:
This is definitely my favourite short story ever. Beautiful in a dark, brooding way, so deep and yet so simply written. Truly, short stories are not my speciality, I'm used to writing long chapters ones, I find that it takes an extraordinary amount of imagination, not to mention vocabulary. Unfortunately I personally lack the amazing ability to resume, pity.
The Dead Boy at Your Window
By Bruce Holland Rogers
In a distant country where the towns had improbable names, a woman looked upon the unmoving form of her newborn baby and refused to see what the midwife saw. This was her son. She had brought him forth in agony, and now he must suck. She pressed his lips to her breast.
“But he is dead!” said the midwife.
“No,” his mother lied. “I felt him suck just now.” Her lie was as milk to the baby, who really was dead but who now opened his dead eyes and began to kick his dead legs. “There, do you see?” And she made the midwife call the father in to know his son.
The dead boy never did suck at his mother's breast. He sipped no water, never took food of any kind, so of course he never grew. But his father, who was handy with all things mechanical, built a rack for stretching him so that, year by year, he could be as tall as the other children.
When he had seen six winters, his parents sent him to school. Though he was as tall as the other students, the dead boy was strange to look upon. His bald head was almost the right size, but the rest of him was thin as a piece of leather and dry as a stick. He tried to make up for his ugliness with diligence, and every night he was up late practicing his letters and numbers.
His voice was like the rasping of dry leaves. Because it was so hard to hear him, the teacher made all the other students hold their breaths when he gave an answer. She called on him often, and he was always right.
Naturally, the other children despised him. The bullies sometimes waited for him after school, but beating him, even with sticks, did him no harm. He wouldn't even cry out.
One windy day, the bullies stole a ball of twine from their teacher's desk, and after school, they held the dead boy on the ground with his arms out so that he took the shape of a cross. They ran a stick in through his left shirt sleeve and out through the right. They stretched his shirt tails down to his ankles, tied everything in place, fastened the ball of twine to a buttonhole, and launched him. To their delight, the dead boy made an excellent kite. It only added to their pleasure to see that owing to the weight of his head, he flew upside down.
When they were bored with watching the dead boy fly, they let go of the string. The dead boy did not drift back to earth, as any ordinary kite would do. He glided. He could steer a little, though he was mostly at the mercy of the winds. And he could not come down. Indeed, the wind blew him higher and higher.
The sun set, and still the dead boy rode the wind. The moon rose and by its glow he saw the fields and forests drifting by. He saw mountain ranges pass beneath him, and oceans and continents. At last the winds gentled, then ceased, and he glided down to the ground in a strange country. The ground was bare. The moon and stars had vanished from the sky. The air seemed gray and shrouded. The dead boy leaned to one side and shook himself until the stick fell from his shirt. He wound up the twine that had trailed behind him and waited for the sun to rise. Hour after long hour, there was only the same grayness. So he began to wander.
He encountered a man who looked much like himself, a bald head atop leathery limbs. “Where am I?” the dead boy asked.
The man looked at the grayness all around. “Where?” the man said. His voice, like the dead boy's, sounded like the whisper of dead leaves stirring.
A woman emerged from the grayness. Her head was bald, too, and her body dried out. “This!” she rasped, touching the dead boy's shirt. “I remember this!” She tugged on the dead boy's sleeve. “I had a thing like this!”
“Clothes?” said the dead boy.
“Clothes!” the woman cried. “That's what it is called!”
More shriveled people came out of the grayness. They crowded close to see the strange dead boy who wore clothes. Now the dead boy knew where he was. “This is the land of the dead.”
“Why do you have clothes?” asked the dead woman. “We came here with nothing! Why do you have clothes?”
“I have always been dead,” said the dead boy, “but I spent six years among the living.”
“Six years!” said one of the dead. “And you have only just now come to us?”
“Did you know my wife?” asked a dead man. “Is she still among the living?”
“Give me news of my son!”
“What about my sister?”
The dead people crowded closer.
The dead boy said, “What is your sister's name?” But the dead could not remember the names of their loved ones. They did not even remember their own names. Likewise, the names of the places where they had lived, the numbers given to their years, the manners or fashions of their times, all of these they had forgotten.
“Well,” said the dead boy, “in the town where I was born, there was a widow. Maybe she was your wife. I knew a boy whose mother had died, and an old woman who might have been your sister.”
“Are you going back?”
“Of course not,” said another dead person. “No one
ever goes back.”
“I think I might,” the dead boy said. He explained about his flying. “When next the wind blows....”
“The wind never blows here,” said a man so newly dead that he remembered wind.
“Then you could run with my string.”
“Would that work?”
“Take a message to my husband!” said a dead woman.
“Tell my wife that I miss her!” said a dead man.
“Let my sister know I haven't forgotten her!”
“Say to my lover that I love him still!”
They gave him their messages, not knowing whether or not their loved ones were themselves long dead. Indeed, dead lovers might well be standing next to one another in the land of the dead, giving messages for each other to the dead boy. Still, he memorized them all. Then the dead put the stick back inside his shirt sleeves, tied everything in place, and unwound his string. Running as fast as their leathery legs could manage, they pulled the dead boy back into the sky, let go of the string, and watched with their dead eyes as he glided away.
He glided a long time over the gray stillness of death until at last a puff of wind blew him higher, until a breath of wind took him higher still, until a gust of wind carried him up above the grayness to where he could see the moon and the stars. Below he saw moonlight reflected in the ocean. In the distance rose mountain peaks. The dead boy came to earth in a little village. He knew no one here, but he went to the first house he came to and rapped on the bedroom shutters. To the woman who answered, he said, “A message from the land of the dead,” and gave her one of the messages. The woman wept, and gave him a message in return.
House by house, he delivered the messages. House by house, he collected messages for the dead. In the morning, he found some boys to fly him, to give him back to the wind's mercy so he could carry these new messages back to the land of the dead.
So it has been ever since. On any night, head full of messages, he may rap upon any window to remind someone -- to remind you, perhaps -- of love that outlives memory, of love that needs no names.
THE END
The Dead Boy at Your Window
By Bruce Holland Rogers
In a distant country where the towns had improbable names, a woman looked upon the unmoving form of her newborn baby and refused to see what the midwife saw. This was her son. She had brought him forth in agony, and now he must suck. She pressed his lips to her breast.
“But he is dead!” said the midwife.
“No,” his mother lied. “I felt him suck just now.” Her lie was as milk to the baby, who really was dead but who now opened his dead eyes and began to kick his dead legs. “There, do you see?” And she made the midwife call the father in to know his son.
The dead boy never did suck at his mother's breast. He sipped no water, never took food of any kind, so of course he never grew. But his father, who was handy with all things mechanical, built a rack for stretching him so that, year by year, he could be as tall as the other children.
When he had seen six winters, his parents sent him to school. Though he was as tall as the other students, the dead boy was strange to look upon. His bald head was almost the right size, but the rest of him was thin as a piece of leather and dry as a stick. He tried to make up for his ugliness with diligence, and every night he was up late practicing his letters and numbers.
His voice was like the rasping of dry leaves. Because it was so hard to hear him, the teacher made all the other students hold their breaths when he gave an answer. She called on him often, and he was always right.
Naturally, the other children despised him. The bullies sometimes waited for him after school, but beating him, even with sticks, did him no harm. He wouldn't even cry out.
One windy day, the bullies stole a ball of twine from their teacher's desk, and after school, they held the dead boy on the ground with his arms out so that he took the shape of a cross. They ran a stick in through his left shirt sleeve and out through the right. They stretched his shirt tails down to his ankles, tied everything in place, fastened the ball of twine to a buttonhole, and launched him. To their delight, the dead boy made an excellent kite. It only added to their pleasure to see that owing to the weight of his head, he flew upside down.
When they were bored with watching the dead boy fly, they let go of the string. The dead boy did not drift back to earth, as any ordinary kite would do. He glided. He could steer a little, though he was mostly at the mercy of the winds. And he could not come down. Indeed, the wind blew him higher and higher.
The sun set, and still the dead boy rode the wind. The moon rose and by its glow he saw the fields and forests drifting by. He saw mountain ranges pass beneath him, and oceans and continents. At last the winds gentled, then ceased, and he glided down to the ground in a strange country. The ground was bare. The moon and stars had vanished from the sky. The air seemed gray and shrouded. The dead boy leaned to one side and shook himself until the stick fell from his shirt. He wound up the twine that had trailed behind him and waited for the sun to rise. Hour after long hour, there was only the same grayness. So he began to wander.
He encountered a man who looked much like himself, a bald head atop leathery limbs. “Where am I?” the dead boy asked.
The man looked at the grayness all around. “Where?” the man said. His voice, like the dead boy's, sounded like the whisper of dead leaves stirring.
A woman emerged from the grayness. Her head was bald, too, and her body dried out. “This!” she rasped, touching the dead boy's shirt. “I remember this!” She tugged on the dead boy's sleeve. “I had a thing like this!”
“Clothes?” said the dead boy.
“Clothes!” the woman cried. “That's what it is called!”
More shriveled people came out of the grayness. They crowded close to see the strange dead boy who wore clothes. Now the dead boy knew where he was. “This is the land of the dead.”
“Why do you have clothes?” asked the dead woman. “We came here with nothing! Why do you have clothes?”
“I have always been dead,” said the dead boy, “but I spent six years among the living.”
“Six years!” said one of the dead. “And you have only just now come to us?”
“Did you know my wife?” asked a dead man. “Is she still among the living?”
“Give me news of my son!”
“What about my sister?”
The dead people crowded closer.
The dead boy said, “What is your sister's name?” But the dead could not remember the names of their loved ones. They did not even remember their own names. Likewise, the names of the places where they had lived, the numbers given to their years, the manners or fashions of their times, all of these they had forgotten.
“Well,” said the dead boy, “in the town where I was born, there was a widow. Maybe she was your wife. I knew a boy whose mother had died, and an old woman who might have been your sister.”
“Are you going back?”
“Of course not,” said another dead person. “No one
ever goes back.”
“I think I might,” the dead boy said. He explained about his flying. “When next the wind blows....”
“The wind never blows here,” said a man so newly dead that he remembered wind.
“Then you could run with my string.”
“Would that work?”
“Take a message to my husband!” said a dead woman.
“Tell my wife that I miss her!” said a dead man.
“Let my sister know I haven't forgotten her!”
“Say to my lover that I love him still!”
They gave him their messages, not knowing whether or not their loved ones were themselves long dead. Indeed, dead lovers might well be standing next to one another in the land of the dead, giving messages for each other to the dead boy. Still, he memorized them all. Then the dead put the stick back inside his shirt sleeves, tied everything in place, and unwound his string. Running as fast as their leathery legs could manage, they pulled the dead boy back into the sky, let go of the string, and watched with their dead eyes as he glided away.
He glided a long time over the gray stillness of death until at last a puff of wind blew him higher, until a breath of wind took him higher still, until a gust of wind carried him up above the grayness to where he could see the moon and the stars. Below he saw moonlight reflected in the ocean. In the distance rose mountain peaks. The dead boy came to earth in a little village. He knew no one here, but he went to the first house he came to and rapped on the bedroom shutters. To the woman who answered, he said, “A message from the land of the dead,” and gave her one of the messages. The woman wept, and gave him a message in return.
House by house, he delivered the messages. House by house, he collected messages for the dead. In the morning, he found some boys to fly him, to give him back to the wind's mercy so he could carry these new messages back to the land of the dead.
So it has been ever since. On any night, head full of messages, he may rap upon any window to remind someone -- to remind you, perhaps -- of love that outlives memory, of love that needs no names.
THE END
quarta-feira, 22 de abril de 2009
GODIVA
So... i was listening to Queen, "Don't Stop Me Now" and caught this one:
"...I´m a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva...".
Which led to me searching the story on wikipédia, it's a pretty fun story and there are tons of references to it in popular music, literature, TVs series and even movies. So you can search for the story yourselves, I'm just going to put the poem i found in wikipédia, and that i think is so cool.
Oh! and say this: "Poorly clothed or naked man have little or no influence in society... of course, the reverse happens with women."
Godiva (poem)
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Godiva is a poem written in 1842 by the poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 - 1892). It is based on the story of the Countess Godiva (c. 980 - 1067), an Anglo-Saxon lady who, according to legend, rode naked through the streets of Coventry in England after her husband promised that he would remit oppressive taxes on his tenants if she agreed to do so.
"I waited for the train at Coventry;
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped
The city's ancient legend into this:
Not only we, the latest seed of Time,
New men, that in the flying of a wheel
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well,
And loathed to see them overtax'd; but she
Did more, and underwent, and overcame,
The woman of a thousand summers back,
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought
Their children, clamoring, "If we pay, we starve!"
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode
About the hall, among his dogs, alone,
His beard a foot before him and his hair
A yard behind. She told him of their tears,
And pray'd him, "If they pay this tax, they starve."
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed,
"You would not let your little finger ache
For such as these?" -- "But I would die," said she.
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul;
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear;
"Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk!" -- "Alas!" she said,
"But prove me what I would not do."
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand,
He answer'd, "Ride you naked thro' the town,
And I repeal it;" and nodding, as in scorn,
He parted, with great strides among his dogs.
So left alone, the passions of her mind,
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
Made war upon each other for an hour,
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth,
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all
The hard condition; but that she would loose
The people: therefore, as they loved her well,
From then till noon no foot should pace the street,
No eye look down, she passing; but that all
Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd.
Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt,
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon
Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head,
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee;
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair
Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd
The Gateway, there she found her palfrey trapt
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold.
Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity:
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode,
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear.
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout
Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur
Made her cheek flame; her palfrey's foot-fall shot
Light horrors thro' her pulses; the blind walls
Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field,
Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the wall.
Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity;
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth,
The fatal byword of all years to come,
Boring a little auger-hole in fear,
Peep'd -- but his eyes, before they had their will,
Were shrivel'd into darkness in his head,
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused;
And she, that knew not, pass'd: and all at once,
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers,
One after one: but even then she gain'd
Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd,
To meet her lord, she took the tax away
And built herself an everlasting name."
You've got to admire a women who know how to get her way!
Go Godiva! To women around the world, her name means more than just good chocolate!
"...I´m a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva...".
Which led to me searching the story on wikipédia, it's a pretty fun story and there are tons of references to it in popular music, literature, TVs series and even movies. So you can search for the story yourselves, I'm just going to put the poem i found in wikipédia, and that i think is so cool.
Oh! and say this: "Poorly clothed or naked man have little or no influence in society... of course, the reverse happens with women."
Godiva (poem)
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Godiva is a poem written in 1842 by the poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 - 1892). It is based on the story of the Countess Godiva (c. 980 - 1067), an Anglo-Saxon lady who, according to legend, rode naked through the streets of Coventry in England after her husband promised that he would remit oppressive taxes on his tenants if she agreed to do so.
"I waited for the train at Coventry;
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped
The city's ancient legend into this:
Not only we, the latest seed of Time,
New men, that in the flying of a wheel
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well,
And loathed to see them overtax'd; but she
Did more, and underwent, and overcame,
The woman of a thousand summers back,
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought
Their children, clamoring, "If we pay, we starve!"
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode
About the hall, among his dogs, alone,
His beard a foot before him and his hair
A yard behind. She told him of their tears,
And pray'd him, "If they pay this tax, they starve."
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed,
"You would not let your little finger ache
For such as these?" -- "But I would die," said she.
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul;
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear;
"Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk!" -- "Alas!" she said,
"But prove me what I would not do."
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand,
He answer'd, "Ride you naked thro' the town,
And I repeal it;" and nodding, as in scorn,
He parted, with great strides among his dogs.
So left alone, the passions of her mind,
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
Made war upon each other for an hour,
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth,
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all
The hard condition; but that she would loose
The people: therefore, as they loved her well,
From then till noon no foot should pace the street,
No eye look down, she passing; but that all
Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd.
Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt,
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon
Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head,
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee;
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair
Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd
The Gateway, there she found her palfrey trapt
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold.
Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity:
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode,
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear.
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout
Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur
Made her cheek flame; her palfrey's foot-fall shot
Light horrors thro' her pulses; the blind walls
Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field,
Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the wall.
Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity;
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth,
The fatal byword of all years to come,
Boring a little auger-hole in fear,
Peep'd -- but his eyes, before they had their will,
Were shrivel'd into darkness in his head,
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused;
And she, that knew not, pass'd: and all at once,
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers,
One after one: but even then she gain'd
Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd,
To meet her lord, she took the tax away
And built herself an everlasting name."
You've got to admire a women who know how to get her way!
Go Godiva! To women around the world, her name means more than just good chocolate!
domingo, 29 de março de 2009
Star Light, Star Bright
Star Light, Star Bright,
I wish you may,
I wish you might.
Grant me my wish
that I wish tonight.
Love the poem, used to sing it every time I saw a star when I was in my family camping trips.
I wish you may,
I wish you might.
Grant me my wish
that I wish tonight.
Love the poem, used to sing it every time I saw a star when I was in my family camping trips.
quinta-feira, 5 de março de 2009
Speak Out for the Right to Diference
I was wandering on the net and found a site called Speak Out
GLBT Speakers -http://www.speakoutboston.org/
Its the official site of a gay, lesbian, bisexual and trangender speakers bureau.
And they are on a mission: To rid the world of homo-bi-transphobia and other forms of prejudice!
Go and take a look!
Speak out about everyone's right to diference!
GLBT Speakers -http://www.speakoutboston.org/
Its the official site of a gay, lesbian, bisexual and trangender speakers bureau.
And they are on a mission: To rid the world of homo-bi-transphobia and other forms of prejudice!
Go and take a look!
Speak out about everyone's right to diference!
terça-feira, 3 de fevereiro de 2009
Language Abusers Anonymous
I haven't written anything in this blog for a while now, because I've been too busy with my hobby of reading Harry Potter fanfiction.
So here it is:
...I’m calling to order a meeting of Language Abusers Anonymous.
After reading hundreds of Fanfictions, where the writing is in the least ridiculous, from people who claim to have English has their first language, and who I (who only have English as second language) think they can only know English in idiot-vile.
I have come to the conclusion that you all need a language abuse class.
Let's begin and in easy sentences, remember here are the wrong things to do, with the right words:
So here it is:
...I’m calling to order a meeting of Language Abusers Anonymous.
After reading hundreds of Fanfictions, where the writing is in the least ridiculous, from people who claim to have English has their first language, and who I (who only have English as second language) think they can only know English in idiot-vile.
I have come to the conclusion that you all need a language abuse class.
Let's begin and in easy sentences, remember here are the wrong things to do, with the right words:
- Prey/Pray: I prey that together we shall find our pray.
- Council/Counsel: The counsel badly needs your council on this matter!
- Two/To/Too: I'd like two go too so I can get to the final.
- There/Their/They're: Their was a loud bang, which hurt they're ears, and there going to have to punish someone.
- Draught/Drought: In order to counteract the effects of the draught she took a hydrating drought.
- Throes/Throws: Lost in the throws of passion, Draco knocked one of the throes off the bed.
- Brake/Break: During my summer brake I learned how to use the emergency break in my car.
- Summary/Summery: She was wearing a summary sort of dress, but that wasn't mentioned in the summery, as the author wasn't that cruel.
- Shutter/Shudder: The shudders gave a dangerous shutter as the wind picked up.
- Wither/Writhe: She withered on the floor as her lifeforce, writhed away. (Gah, that was pathetic.)
- Wonder/Wander: She told him very firmly not to wonder around the castle at night, no matter how much of a sense of wander the ancient structure held for him.
- Explicit/Implicit: Our explicit trust in each other means I'm not all that bothered by those implicit porn sites he likes to visit.
- Wary/Weary: I am so wary of you sounding like a broken record. And lately, I've been peeking down corridors before entering, weary of the possibility of you being present.
- Loose/Lose: Don't let him get lose or we'll loose!
- Clothes/Cloths: My cloths were incredibly expensive looking, despite the fact that Madame Malkin used a fairly cheap selection of patterned clothes to fashion them.
- Rogue/Rouge: My rouge character in EverCrack isn't allowed to wear rogue!
- Elicit/Illicit: We need to illicit some information about her elicit actitivies.
- Calm/Clam: I've never seen such a clam bed of calms before. Wow.
- Accept/Except: You should except that all dobermans are vicious, accept the one I own, because I trained him real good.
- Weather/Whether: Weather or not I can see outside, the state of my sinuses are a good indication of the whether.
- Sore/Soar: If you sore around like that with those new wings you're going to be really soar in the morning.
- Your/You're: I don't know what you think your doing thinking that's you're food, you muffin-napper!
- Bear/Bare: The scars I bare are only visible if I sweep aside my hair and bear my neck.
- Fowl/Foul: That foul smells really fowl.
- Cue/Queue: Oh! That's our queue to form up in a cue.
- Quiet/Quite: He asked us to keep things quite, and I'm quiet sure he'll become angry if we don't.
- Here/Hear: Now see hear. I don't want to here anything else like that!
- Where/Wear/Ware: Wear the castle! It's a place ware if you where red you could be shot.
- Choke/Chock: Harry chocked on hearing the news, accidentally kicking the choke out from under the wheel of the wagon.
- Mute/Moot: It's a mute point that he's moot. I already knew he couldn't speak!
- Altar/Alter: God will punish you if you altar the alter!
- Maybe/May Be: It maybe true, but may be he'll change his mind.
- Apart/A Part: Apart of me simply can't stand to be a part from you.
- Tome/Tomb: The tomb was retrieved from a dusty Egyptian tome.
- Bane/Bain: The bain of my existence can often be found at the bane I frequent.
- Vein/Vain/Vane: I'd be careful given that you're so vein. The vain on that windmill could open a vane if you get too close.
- Discreet/Discrete: He used a discreet variable, because among his set it was considered the discrete thing to do.
- Past/Passed: I past him in the hallways, as I had often done in the passed.
- Bored/Board: If you're that board, I could smack you upside the head with a bored.
- Sight/Site: The sight is within site, if you look in that direction.
- Heal/Heel: Hold still and let me heel your heal.
- Precedence/Precedents: There are precedence which must take precedents.
- Rein/Reign: Harry took up the reigns of power in the new rein.
- Died/Dyed: He dyed due to a violently allergic reaction after having died his hair....
*sorry, you are forgiven if you can't stop laughing long enough to comment... lol
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