Tip 'O Texas

Hello, readers!

Look! This is a link!
http://tipotexascatholic.blogspot.com/
You should go there! It's my Mom's new blog!
...And yes, I'm in it. I'm sure you can guess which one I am.

And just a reminder: If you are a giant green turtle, then every now and again, you get a mighty fearful hungering for some power lines.

Ice Cream

Hooray! Ice cream!
Because who doesn't like ice cream?
Here is a fantastic recipe that I got from my local club.

Ingredients:

1 gallon size Ziplock bag
1 pint size Ziplock bag
Ice - enough to mostly fill the gallon size bag
1/2 a cup of salt - preferably rock salt
1 cup of half and half
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla
2 tablespoonfuls of sugar

Combine the sugar, vanilla, and half and half in the pint size bag. Make sure all the sugar is dissolved.
Put the sealed pint size bag in the gallon size bag. Put the salt and ice in the gallon size bag, too.
Now, shake for about five minutes, maybe more, until the ingredients in the pint size bag are firm. Take it out, and enjoy!

Up In the Sky

Wow. I saw this video and just couldn't get over it. Hope you enjoy it!

...And this is how I see it:
Man in Blue: Aronis
Man in Black: Dreyken
Man in Red: Crevan
Man in Green: Deverell

The Prince

This may surprise you, but Aronis, Dreyken, Deverell, Crevan, and Triss existed long before Derain and his team. Here is something I wrote about Aronis from Triss' point of view. 

Warm and inviting, playful and bright, the sunbeams dance on my head as I twirl around with him. He is a great dancer, but everyone gets dizzy after a while. We tumble down onto the hot grass and just enjoy each other for a time. His hand slips into mine, and in a second we are off, running barefooted to the inviting forest. At his touch, flowers expand, and vines give the trees beautiful green dresses. I can’t really believe how much hidden wonders the forest has that he shows me: a quiet stream; a pile of rocks, one atop the other; a simple, sweet song from the mouth of a sparrow; a doe and her fawn, grazing quietly in a tiny clearing. I trained him in the ways of the forest, the desert, the plain, and the mountain, but he has a gentle touch all his own. This is most evident when he accidently pulls me too fast and I trip over a fallen log I could not see. He carefully tends to my slight scrape with patient fingers, dressing it as if it were a deep battle wound. Then, ignoring my protests and laughter, despite the minuteness of the cut, he insists on picking me up and carrying me the rest of the way. I am reminded as he does so of his great strength, with which he has vowed to protect me from all dangers. But then he looks at me, and I can see the laughter in his eyes. He takes me beside a rippling pond, lays me down on a bed of moss, and then provides for me from the forest. He brings me apples, grapes, pears, oranges, tangerines, and then uses his everyday magic to make the most elegant goblet out of a leaf, and brings me fresh water from a cold spring. As I follow him with my eyes, watching him fulfill his self appointed task, I marvel at this man. He is strong, and proud, but at a quiet word from me, he will bend to the most humble of tasks without a sound. He makes me feel like a great lady, and I know that he extends this small courtesy to other women as well, although not with the same intent that he uses for me. A hand as I step down, standing when I stand, giving my most trivial thought the utmost of his attention. These are all ways that no one has taught him, but he knows them anyway. He knows them because he is a true gentleman, and that is something that cannot be taught. 

Gold

If you have five minutes to waste....

Waste it on this. 

It made me cry every time. 

Shakesphere

Hello!
Here is something I wrote after reading Shakesphere for a while.
...AND I'mreallysorryIdidn'tpostanythingforamonth *Gasp* AndI'lltrynottodoitagainsorry!

O, Love! What a wearied subject to jest my heart, yet while my mind starves for want of good tale, how will my soul bind two such divided members? Nay, leave the body, Psyche, soul is the true last, that man may outlive his given Earth-time; how so, then that soul is so burdened with such distractions as wit, will, and wooing? O, cruel love that strays and sways the soul with its plaintive beating, and O, wily mind that confuses my spirit from the true matters of its body bound trial! And yet, love is ever now so common as to be almost bought, bottled, packaged, and delivered at the call of the fickle heart. O, truly fickle heart! Why yet, is heart so essential for courage, honor, blood, and body? Why, truly, is mind so needed for knowledge, wisdom, learning, and those simple processes of life? And yet, putting yourself to rest, ending early this trial, is courting risk. The confusèd soul, I fear is brought too close to this world. Like tallow too close to the flickering flame, it will melt, dissolve, fade into the indifferent air, with nary a trace to show its time or place on earth, save maybe a dark spot on the high ceiling, too high for mortal eyes to behold. O, my soul! Such troubles that you must brave your way through; all while my heart is your ball and my mind your chain, to drag you away from the True Matters!

In the Puddle that is my Mind

Quiet shadows, whispering flames, gray on black that beckons to me. However, this call I can refuse, choosing instead to quietly sink into a pattern of dark grass and vivid shades. Bright eyes never stay long, and soon enough you too will find some way to avoid me, apologizing and explaining. I don’t mind. It’s happened before. Golden letters look proud and daring, but I am more selective than that. Hungry mouths that will never be full, glass that will never be clear, a pattern that just doesn’t fit. These currently form a mood I would rather ignore, but this too will pass, in the end. What really bothers me is the idea that people are willing to judge. What rights have I? Must I try to catch my breath after I lose it? I would rather just watch it fly away, like a balloon that you just couldn’t hold on to. I am draining into the earth, because my wings are gone and I can’t get away. A ring that seemed so light before is still light, but my soul is heavy, my mind is heavy. When nothing makes sense anymore, I shed my skin, becoming new and beautiful, but this outside change isn’t enough. Flipping things over wasn’t really my style anyway, just a way of life. It’s warm outside, the sun shines on a meadow, but ice is creeping up the window on the inside. Repetitive patterns make no sense when branded into your skin, and ivy gloves aren’t all that exhilarating, anyway. Everyone stares at me, I can feel them judging me, but I hold my head high and proud and ignore them. I might not know my rights, but I sure do know theirs: they can stare all they want and not get washed away by a flood of emotion. Fake trees are sometimes even more beautiful than real ones, especially if musicians stay in their branches and pour out music to the dancing horses below. A diving board is so much more useful if you have a pool, by the way. And I don’t mean to intrude upon your privacy, but how are you? How have you been doing? Because I apparently can’t gather my thoughts together enough to make a coherent statement. 

Morning Mist

Cold, misty forests, the wind over the damp moor. A quiet feeling of peace, not overwhelming, but just the right level. A song coming over the wind, a soft song about a gypsy prince. A gray glow from the sky, a predawn light to show the way. The rustle and snap of canvas and rope impatient to be gone. This is the morning world. A soft murmur of whispered conversation, because the silence is too sacred to break. Clouds heavy with the promise of rain, but as yet the air is warm and clear. Trees dance softly in the slight wind, continuing their father’s traditions. Nothing else matters now, except the peace that will soon be broken. Because nothing is eternal, just long-lived. The sun will rise, but not now. There is beauty here, a deep, solemn beauty, akin to a queen on her throne. Some would argue that there is only one beauty, that of the princess with the long hair and fair skin, but they are wrong. There is much beauty, different kinds of beauty. There are many kinds of peace, as well: the peace of an early morning, the tired, happy peace just after a friendly romp, the peace of a beach at midnight, the quiet peace of a sleeping child. Because no one can ever really grow up and escape their childhood; it stays with them, never going away, never ceasing, just pushed down and hidden sometimes.