a grey eyed girl

@agreyeyedgirl / agreyeyedgirl.tumblr.com

made of nebulas and novas and night sky | cohost of @wimseypod |linktr.ee/agreyeyedgirl |
kofiwidget2.init('Support Me on Ko-fi', '#46b798', 'A4442B3I');kofiwidget2.draw();
What was up with Oscar Wilde and green carnations? How can you tell someone you’ve got a Sapphic crush on them? Before there was 1-800-Flowers’s “say it with flowers” campaign, there were flower dictionaries that explained how to send messages to friends and lovers with flowers. While 19th century flower dictionaries focus on heteronormative romance, floriography—and sending coded messages—is hella queer. In this zine, we’ve included some famous historical flower meanings as well as invented some of our own for contemporary queer culture via art, literature, botany, and history.

Never hit the buy button on Etsy so fast in my life. Give me that good good special interest content!


im currently completely losing it about the great stalacpipe organ. are you fucking kidding me they made an organ out of a CAVE???? IT TAKES UP THREE ACRES??? i legit am about to lose it


this is a comment left on a recording of moonlight sonata played on an organ that is literally made out of a cave and its making me so emotional its not even funny

[image id: a youtube comment that reads ‘wonderful…and the moon has never shone there…’ end id.]

All that and no pictures??

According to Wikipedia, it works by hidden rubber mallets on the naturally-musical stalactites that tourguides have been knocking on for over a century. The guy who made the organ may have gotten the idea when his son whacked his head on a stalactite.

Here’s a video. It is hauntingly beautiful.

In case anyone is looking, here’s the link to the video op mentions.
“Here’s my life. My husband and I get up each morning at 7 o’clock and he showers while I make coffee. By the time he’s dressed I’m already sitting at my desk writing. He kisses me goodbye then leaves for the job where he makes good money, draws excellent benefits and gets many perks, such as travel, catered lunches and full reimbursement for the gym where I attend yoga midday. His career has allowed me to work only sporadically, as a consultant, in a field I enjoy. All that disclosure is crass, I know. I’m sorry. Because in this world where women will sit around discussing the various topiary shapes of their bikini waxes, the conversation about money (or privilege) is the one we never have. Why? I think it’s the Marie Antoinette syndrome: Those with privilege and luck don’t want the riffraff knowing the details. After all, if “those people” understood the differences in our lives, they might revolt. Or, God forbid, not see us as somehow more special, talented and/or deserving than them. There’s a special version of this masquerade that we writers put on. Two examples: I attended a packed reading (I’m talking 300+ people) about a year and a half ago. The author was very well-known, a magnificent nonfictionist who has, deservedly, won several big awards. He also happens to be the heir to a mammoth fortune. Mega-millions. In other words he’s a man who has never had to work one job, much less two. He has several children; I know, because they were at the reading with him, all lined up. I heard someone say they were all traveling with him, plus two nannies, on his worldwide tour. None of this takes away from his brilliance. Yet, when an audience member — young, wide-eyed, clearly not clued in — rose to ask him how he’d managed to spend 10 years writing his current masterpiece — What had he done to sustain himself and his family during that time? — he told her in a serious tone that it had been tough but he’d written a number of magazine articles to get by. I heard a titter pass through the half of the audience that knew the truth. But the author, impassive, moved on and left this woman thinking he’d supported his Manhattan life for a decade with a handful of pieces in the Nation and Salon. Example two. A reading in a different city, featuring a 30-ish woman whose debut novel had just appeared on the front page of the New York Times Book Review. I didn’t love the book (a coming-of-age story set among wealthy teenagers) but many people I respect thought it was great, so I defer. The author had herself attended one of the big, East Coast prep schools, while her parents were busy growing their careers on the New York literary scene. These were people — her parents — who traded Christmas cards with William Maxwell and had the Styrons over for dinner. She, the author, was their only beloved child. After prep school, she’d earned two creative writing degrees (Iowa plus an Ivy). Her first book was being heralded by editors and reviewers all over the country, many of whom had watched her grow up. It was a phenomenon even before it hit bookshelves. She was an immediate star. When (again) an audience member, clearly an undergrad, rose to ask this glamorous writer to what she attributed her success, the woman paused, then said that she had worked very, very hard and she’d had some good training, but she thought in looking back it was her decision never to have children that had allowed her to become a true artist. If you have kids, she explained to the group of desperate nubile writers, you have to choose between them and your writing. Keep it pure. Don’t let yourself be distracted by a baby’s cry. I was dumbfounded. I wanted to leap to my feet and shout. “Hello? Alice Munro! Doris Lessing! Joan Didion!” Of course, there are thousands of other extraordinary writers who managed to produce art despite motherhood. But the essential point was that, the quality of her book notwithstanding, this author’s chief advantage had nothing to do with her reproductive decisions. It was about connections. Straight up. She’d had them since birth. In my opinion, we do an enormous “let them eat cake” disservice to our community when we obfuscate the circumstances that help us write, publish and in some way succeed. I can’t claim the wealth of the first author (not even close); nor do I have the connections of the second. I don’t have their fame either. But I do have a huge advantage over the writer who is living paycheck to paycheck, or lonely and isolated, or dealing with a medical condition, or working a full-time job. How can I be so sure? Because I used to be poor, overworked and overwhelmed. And I produced zero books during that time. Throughout my 20s, I was married to an addict who tried valiantly (but failed, over and over) to stay straight. We had three children, one with autism, and lived in poverty for a long, wretched time. In my 30s I divorced the man because it was the only way out of constant crisis. For the next 10 years, I worked two jobs and raised my three kids alone, without child support or the involvement of their dad. I published my first novel at 39, but only after a teaching stint where I met some influential writers and three months living with my parents while I completed the first draft. After turning in that manuscript, I landed a pretty cushy magazine editor’s job. A year later, I met my second husband. For the first time I had a true partner, someone I could rely on who was there in every way for me and our kids. Life got easier. I produced a nonfiction book, a second novel and about 30 essays within a relatively short time. Today, I am essentially “sponsored” by this very loving man who shows up at the end of the day, asks me how the writing went, pours me a glass of wine, then takes me out to eat. He accompanies me when I travel 500 miles to do a 75-minute reading, manages my finances, and never complains that my dark, heady little books have resulted in low advances and rather modest sales. I completed my third novel in eight months flat. I started the book while on a lovely vacation. Then I wrote happily and relatively quickly because I had the time and the funding, as well as help from my husband, my agent and a very talented editor friend. Without all those advantages, I might be on page 52. OK, there’s mine. Now show me yours.”

Ann Bauer, ““Sponsored” by my husband: Why it’s a problem that writers never talk about where their money comes from”, http://www.salon.com/2015/01/25/sponsored_by_my_husband_why_its_a_problem_that_writers_never_talk_about_where_their_money_comes_from/ (via angrygirlcomics)

This is so important, especially for people like me, who are always hearing the radio station that plays “but you’re 26 and you are ~*~gifted~*~ and you can write, WHERE IS YOUR NOVEL” on constant loop.

It’s so important because I see younger people who can write going “oh yes, I can write, therefore I will be an English major, and write my book and live on that yes?? then I don’t have to do other jobs yes??” and you’re like “oh, no, honey, at least try to add another string to your bow, please believe that it will not happen quite like that” 

It’s so important not to be overly impressed by Walden because Thoreau’s mother continued to cook him food and wash his laundry while he was doing his self-sufficient wilderness-experiment “sit in a cabin and write” thing.

It’s so important because when you’re impressed by Lord of the Rings, remember that Tolkien had servants, a wife, university scouts and various underlings to do his admin, cook his meals, chase after him, and generally set up his life so that the only thing he had to do was wander around being vague and clever. In fact, the man could barely stand to show up at his own day job.

It’s important when you look at published fiction to remember that it is a non-random sample, and that it’s usually produced by the leisure class, so that most of what you study and consume is essentially wolves in captivity - not wolves in the wild - and does not reflect the experiences of all wolves.

Yeah. Important. Like that.

korean: “back when tigers used to smoke” (호랑이 담배 피우던 시절에) [x]

czech: “beyond seven mountain ranges, beyond seven rivers” (za sedmero horami a sedmero řekami)

georgian: “there was, and there was not, there was…” (იყო და არა იყო რა, იყო…)

hausa: “a story, a story. let it go, let it come.” [x]

romanian: “there once was, (as never before)… because if there wasn’t, it wouldn’t have been to told” (A fost odată, ca niciodată că dacă n-ar fi fost, nu s-ar mai povesti…)

lithuanian: “beyond nine seas, beyond nine lagoons: (už devynių jūrų, už devynių marių)

catalan: “see it here that in that time in which beasts spoke and people were silent…” (vet aquí que en aquell temps que les bèsties parlaven i les persones callaven…) [x]

turkish: “Once there was, and once there wasn’t. In the long-distant days of yore, when haystacks winnowed sieves, when genies played jereed in the old bathhouse, [when] fleas were barbers, [when] camels were town criers, [and when] I softly rocked my baby grandmother to sleep in her creaking cradle, there was/lived, in an exotic land, far, far away, a/an…* (Bir varmış, bir yokmuş. Evvel zaman içinde, kalbur saman içinde, cinler cirit oynar iken eski hamam içinde, pireler berber [iken], develer tellal [iken], ben ninemin beşiğini tıngır mıngır sallar iken, uzak diyarların birinde…)

We live in an age of regrettably half-assed insults. I would have done great at like 1654 where you could walk up to someone you don't like and just say shit like "how cruel can nature be, that now age denies you wisdom, as youth once forbade you beauty" and get stabbed.

Love this pretty 1890 Victorian Queen Anne in Hollis, Maine. $615K.

What a delightful porch. 

She’s a unique charmer, magnificent in her own way. 

This unusual room has stairs going up to the kitchen. Isn’t that large wood and glass built-in lovely?

The remodeled kitchen has beadboard cabinetry and possibly what used to be the original stove, plus the servants stairs. 

This is the dining room off the other side of the kitchen. 

The sitting room. I wonder if the organ conveys. Beautiful gingerbread accents, plus the pocket doors I can’t resist.

How about the piano? Does that convey. How they tease us, leaving the heavy stuff for last.

Stairs that go to the bedrooms. 

I’m going to say that the door under the stairs opens to this powder room. 

How cool is this? It lets people know if the loo is occupied.

Pretty window on the landing.

This must be the main bedroom.

Yikes, I’m surprised that safe didn’t fall thru the floor. 

Very nice 3rd bdrm. 

And, the 4th bdrm. All very spacious, but interconnected, rather than having a central hallway. 

Nice sun porch out here. I once lived in an apt. that had one of these, and it was great for hanging laundry. 

Nice vintage bath.

A small attic room. 

The back porch with a door to the yard. 

Look at the chimney and cupola on the barn-like garage. Does the ‘vette convey? I’m always interested (and hopeful) in what the owners are leaving behind. 

How adorable is the she shed? 

And, a man cave, too. 

Beautiful gardens.

Look, there used to be a railroad station here. What a great house.

I think the only universal experience amongst archaeologists is that we have all, at least once, enjoyed digging a really nice hole and then gotten very sad when there was nothing in it.

Look at this beautiful hole. Absolutely nothing in it though :'(

There, fixed it :)

I truly am obsessed with how Knives Out was like. Hello Daniel Craig, man who has spent the past two decades of his career being alternately beaten up and objectified playing an action hero with no personality. Would you like to please put on a shirt and an incomprehensible vaguely Texan accent and flex your character acting dark comedy muscles as well as your pecs for a while. And he's like BOY WOULD I and they made a work of art. Also love that they put Chris Evans in sweaters. Get your beefcakes then dress them nice make them soft and give them some bonkers character work to do it's what cinema needs more of

I love that several people have responded to this with "op I forgive you cause you're Scottish but that's not a Texan accent" which is fair thank you I appreciate it but no two people have agreed on what accent it is which is also Absolutely fair and hilarious as a reaction to this film

Cannot stress enough that I do not know what the fuck a foghorn leghorn is but literally a hundred people have said it to me so far so I'm assuming it's important to, like, Americans

The idea that Foghorn Leghorn,

The Rhode Island rooster from Looney Toons, is one of the Elder Gods of America, is honestly fascinating from a theological and folkloric viewpoint

Pardon me, but he is a LEGHORN, not a RIR. It’s in his NAME. Leghorns are an Italian breed. And yes, he is an elder god.

According to Foghorn's Tvtropes page:

Presumably, it's less that Foghorn Leghorn is a Rhode Island Rooster and more that he's a Rooster who lives in Rhode Island, possibly a Central Virginian Leghorn Rooster living in Rhode Island, though that implies a complicated and interesting life story that took him from Central Virginia all the way to Rhode Island

I would not rely on TV Tropes as an unbiased source. Wikipedia simple says his species is officially “rooster” and mentions a Leghorn being a breed of chicken. TV Tropes probably thinks the Cornflakes chicken is a RIR too.

I am potentially willing to concede he is a “barnyard mix” (cross between breeds) and his father, Harold Leghorn, was a leghorn and his unnamed mother was a RIR or other dark variety.

I love this site.

Sometimes it’s 1:30 am and you own chickens and you’re drinking whiskey in the bath tub and accuracy about iconic fictional chickens is the hill to die on, ok, and that’s why I love Tumblr. 

Where this post started

Where it ended up

for context I share with y'all some quick rooster photos

White Leghorn rooster. Not quite Foghorn, despite the mostly white color and the big comb; otherwise, where the hell does that brown ruff and tail come from?

Rhode Island Red rooster. Definitely not Foghorn either: he's all red brown.

These, though: look at these.

Look familiar?

These are sex link roosters. It's common to cross a red rooster to a white hen to give you chicks that are sexed at hatching, so you know immediately which ones are hens and which are roosters and can make your chick rearing plans accordingly.

One common sex link crossing is... a Rhode Island Red rooster over a White Leghorn hen.

Betcha a dollar Foghorn is patterned after that.

Here’s an idea. The people who bought this Gothic 1883 church in Eustis, Florida turned it into a home, but made the large main room an event space to rent out for weddings, etc. 

They even call it the 1883 Venue. The property has been granted multi-use status which allows for a residential-business combination.  

Enter into a lovely blue vestibule. 

The stunning space has Gothic arched windows and cream-painted tin ceiling tiles.

The altar has become a stage.

A door and rolling shades open to a gallery area.  

They provide a room for the bride to get ready in. 

Here’s the private entrance to the residence.

It has a very elegant living room. 

Look at the books on top of the kitchen cabinets. 

Here’s a pretty room. 

How lovely the bathroom is. 

The elegant staircase leading up to the spacious attic bedroom with two skylights, vaulted ceilings, and two closets.

This room is huge. 

Great idea to live in the church, and make money at the same time.