Dragons-Danger

The recent rise in popularity of dragons is funny because half of it is because of Game of Thrones and half of it is because of How To Train Your Dragon so all these dragon posts are going around and you never know which fandom you’re gonna brush shoulders with it’s like walking into a dragon’s lair and not knowing if you’re gonna get this

or this

The Star

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Look, I made a tarot card for my Inquisitor! I tried to make my card fit in with the rest of the deck and, well… I tried.
I probably should mention that I got heavily inspired by Alphonse Mucha's Morningstar for this piece (:

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Robert Sijka  photographs Maine Coon cats and makes them look like majestic mythical beasts

The man who takes these glorious photos is Robert Sijka.

“My passions are cats and photography, I do my best to combine these two things as well as possible,” he shares on his website.

Oh, he did an excellent job. Each of these cats I would follow to the end of the world. I would battle dragons and go on dangerous quests against mythical monsters… if these cats told me to do so. They’re… magical.

Interview with Robert Sijka

Thanks Design you trust

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R O M A N I A N  S C H O O L  O F  D R A G O N O L O G Y - THE BOYS // THE GIRLS

CLOSED || tigerloveletters || The Princess and the Dragon

tigerloveletters

Storms raged overhead as the carriage continued through the gloom, a mother, father and child sat inside, sheltered from the worst of the storm, but the flashes of lightning and crackling of thunder still reached through the closed blinds. This was no ordinary family, in fact they were royalty, a king, a queen and the young princess, heir to the the throne, hiding under her mother’s skirts. 

The route was usually safe, dragons and other dangerous creatures tended to stay away, especially during a storm like this. The queen pleaded with her husband to turn back, but he refused.

The Anatomy of Rage

This post is going to be a mess, because I’m just …untidily angry right now. It began with a series of tweets I made today about my ever-broken Datsun. The mechanic had told my husband that he was “working on that Datsun just as fast as I can because now that I’ve met her I can’t wait to get that little girl behind the wheel again.“

Little girl.

As I tweeted that I was 33 and had earned each of those years and thus preferred to be referred to as "Danger Smog-Dragon” or “Rage-Mistress” or “Ephemeral Time Lady” or “Maggie Stiefvater, #1 NYT Bestselling Author of the Raven Cycle,” a well-meaning fellow replied that perhaps I should “use [my] words, politely but firmly, to his face…” He further observed that he’d told his wife that “you know, Honey, unless you’re willing to SAY THAT to (those people), NOTHING is going to change”.

(note: please do not go search for this fellow on twitter to rage at him; this is not about him. He is set dressing, made more appropriate to the conversation at hand by the fact that he probably is a perfectly nice guy who really didn’t mean disrespect).

I told TwitterMan that I was tired of have to use my words.It’s been 33 years of using my words. Why is it my job to continuously ask to be treated equivalent to a male customer? Why is that when I arrive at a shop, I’m reminded that I have to push the clutch in if I want to start my own car? It’s 2015. Why is it still all sexism all the time?

I discovered that I was actually furious. I thought I was over being furious, but it turns out, the rage was merely dormant. I’m furious that it’s been over a decade and nothing has changed. I’m furious that sexism was everywhere in the world of college-Maggie and it remains thus, even if I out-learn, out-earn, out-drive, and out-perform my male counterparts. At the end of the day, I’m still “little girl.”

Possibly this is the point where some people are asking why this tiny gesture of all gestures should be the one to break me.

Here is the anatomy of my rage.

Step one: It is 1999 or 2000. I am 16. I go to college. A professor tells me I’m pretty. A married man in the bagpipe band I’m in tells me he just can’t control himself around me: he stays up nights thinking of my skin. Another man tells me he can’t believe that ‘a little bitch’ like me got into the competition group after a year of playing when he’s been at it for twenty years. After becoming friends with a professor’s daughter, I’m at her house sleeping on the couch, and I wake up to find the professor running his hand from my ankle bone to my thigh. I pretend I’m still asleep. I’m 17. “If something happened to my wife,” he tells me later, “I could be with you.” At my next visit to her house, I see the wife’s left a book on the kitchen table: how to rekindle your husband’s love.

Step two: It’s 2008. I finally buy the car of my dreams, a 1973 Camaro, and make it my official business vehicle. The first time I take it to put gas in it, a man tells me, “if I were your husband, I wouldn’t want you out driving my car.” I tell him, “if you were my husband, I’d be a widow.” The car requires a lot of gas. I get cat-called every other time I’m at a gas station. Once, I go into the gas station to get a drink, and when I come out, a bunch of guys have parked me in. They want, they say, to have a word with me, little lady. We play automotive chicken which I win because I would rather smash the back of my ’73 Camaro into their IROC than have to stab one of them with the knife on my keychain.

Step three: It’s 2011. I’m on tour in a European country, on my own, escorted only by my foreign publisher. I am at a business dinner, and say I’m going to my room. My female editor embraces me; my male publicist embraces me and then puts his tongue in my ear, covering it with his hand so that the crowd of twenty professionals does not see. My choices are to say nothing to avoid making a scene in front of my publisher’s people, or to say FUCK YOU. I apparently was never offered the choice of not having a tongue in my ear.

Step four: It’s 2012. I buy a race car. Well, a rally car. Someone asks my male co-driver if I’m good in bed. Someone asks me if I got sponsorship because someone was ‘trying to check the woman box.’ People ask me if I drive like a girl. Yeah, I do, actually. Let’s play a game called: who’s faster off the start?

Step five: It’s 2014. I’m driving my Camaro cross-country on book tour. It breaks down a lot. I’m under the hood and a pick up truck stops beside me. “Hey baby,” asks the driver, “do you need any help?” “Yeah,” I reply, “do you have a 5/8 wrench?” He did not.

Step six: It’s 2015. It’s sixteen years after I learned that I was a thing to be touched and kissed and hooted at unless I took it upon myself to say no, and no again, and no some more, and no no no. My friend Tessa Gratton points out that a male author used casually sexist language in a brief interview. She is dragged through the muck for pointing out how deeply-rooted our systemic sexism is. The publishing industry rises to the defense of the male author as if he has been deeply wronged. I tweet that the language was indeed sexist, though I didn’t think it was useful to condemn said male author. A male editor emails me privately to ask me if maybe I wasn’t being a little problematic by engaging in the discussion?

Step seven. Still 2015. Someone very close to me confesses that her college boyfriend keeps trying to push her past kissing, and she doesn’t want to. I tell her to set boundaries, and leave him if he doesn’t. A month passes. This week I find out she just had sex for the first time after he urged her to have several glasses of wine. She doesn’t drink. She was crying. She says, “I didn’t say no, though.”

It’s been sixteen damn years. I’m tired of having to say no. I’m tired of the media telling me that it’s mouth breathing bros and rednecks perpetuating the sexism. No: I can tell you that the most insidious form is the nice guy. Who is a nice guy, don’t get me wrong. I carry my own prejudices that I work through, and I don’t believe in demonizing people who aren’t perfect yet — none of us are. But the nice guy who says something sexist gets away with it. The nice guy who says something sexist sounds right and reasonable. The nice guy’s not helping, though. It’s been sixteen years, and the nice guys are nice, but we’re still things to be acquired. We are still creatures to be asked on dates. We are still saying no, still shouting NO, still having to always again and again say “no, please treat me with respect.”

I was just invited to a car show; the well-meaning guy who asked wanted me to bring my souped up Mitsubishi. I clicked on the event page. It’s catered by Hooters. I’m not going. Yeah, it’s a little thing, but I have a lifetime of them. I’m taking my toys and going home.

“I can’t wait to get that little girl behind the wheel again.“

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The beginning of September means it’s time for the awesome Zundert Flower Parade or Corso Zundert (previously featured here), when the streets of Zundert, Netherlands host a spectacular parade of huge, colorful floats made of vibrant dahlias.

“Founded in 1936, the annual Corso Zundert parade is a celebration of the Netherlands’ most iconic exports: flowers. The event is held every year in the small town of Zundert where 20 teams of volunteers from different hamlets compete for the best designed parade float. More than being covered almost completely in vibrant dahlia flowers, the float designs often incorporate moving elements and are accompanied by marching bands and other performers along the parade route.”

Check out the work of John DG Photography to view more photos of this year’s 20 different float or watch the entire parade in this video:

Photos by Malou Evers, Erwin Martens, and Werner Pellis respectively, via Corso Zundert.

[via Colossal]