Several years ago, I started using wordle.net to make these amazing, beautiful creations called "word clouds". A friend of mine recommended that I share them on tumblr, so here they are...

See the text used to make these Wordles at dennisswrdlstxt (I'm actually trying this new thing where I put the text right in the caption. Message me if this is an issue)

Check out my Reblogs (& Stuff) at dennissreblogs

"Haunted"
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 The winner is  Beyonce Knowles female pop vocalist!  I would like to thank the judges for picking me  My parents who I love  I love you Houston  And I’ve been drifting off on knowledge  Cat-calls on cat-walks, man these women getting solemn  I could sing a song for a Solomon or Salamander  We took a flight at midnight and now my mind can’t help but wander  How come?  Spoon-fed pluralized eyes to find the beaches in the forest  When I’m looking off the edge, I preach my gut it can’t help but ignore it  I’m climbing up the walls cause all the shit I hear is boring  All the shit I do is boring  All these record labels boring  I don’t trust these record labels I’m torn  All these people on the planet  Working 9 to 5, just to stay alive  The 9 to 5, just to stay alive  The 9 to 5, just to stay alive  The 9 to 5, just to stay alive  The 9 to 5, just to stay alive  The 9 to 5, just to stay alive  The 9 to 5, just to stay alive  All the people on the planet  Working 9 to 5 just to stay alive  How come?  What goes up, ghost around  Goes around around around around  What goes up, ghost around  Ghost around around around around  Ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und  Ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und  Ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und  Ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und  Ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und  Ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und  Ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und ah-rou-ou-und  Soul not for sale  Probably won’t make no money off this, oh well  Reap what you sow  Perfection is so… Mm  It’s what you do  It’s what you see  I know if I’m haunting you  You must be haunting me  It’s where we go  It’s where we’ll be  I know if I’m on to you, I’m on to you  On to you, you must be on to me  My haunted lungs  Ghost in the sheets  I know if I’m haunting you  You must be haunting me  My wicked tongue  Where will it be?  I know if I’m onto you  I’m on to you  On to you, I’m on to you  On to you, you must be on to me  You want me?  I walk down the hallway  You’re lucky  The bedroom’s my runway  Slap me!  I’m pinned to the doorway  Kiss, bite, fuck me  My haunted lungs  Ghost in the sheets  I know if I’m haunting you  You must be haunting me  My wicked tongue  Where will it be  I know if I’m onto you  You must be onto me  It’s what we see  I know if I’m haunting you  You must be haunting me  It’s where we go  It’s where we’ll be  I know if I’m onto you, I’m onto you  Onto you, I’m onto you  Onto you, you must be onto me  You must be onto me (on to you, I’m on to you)  You must be onto me (on to you, I’m on to you)  You must be onto me (on to you, I’m on to you)  Me (on to you, I’m on to you)  Me (on to you, I’m on to you)  Me (on to you, I’m on to you)  Me (on to you, I’m on to you)  Me (on to you, I’m on to you)

"Haunted"

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"Pretty Hurts"
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 [Harvey Keitel:] Ms. Third ward, your first question - what is your aspiration in life?  [Beyoncé:] Oh… My aspiration in life… would be… to be happy.  Mama said, “You’re a pretty girl.  What’s in your head, it doesn’t matter  Brush your hair, fix your teeth.  What you wear is all that matters.”  Just another stage, pageant the pain away  This time I’m gonna take the crown  Without falling down, down, down  Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worst  Perfection is a disease of a nation, pretty hurts, pretty hurts  Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worst  We try to fix something but you can’t fix what you can’t see  It’s the soul that needs the surgery  Blonder hair, flat chest  TV says, “Bigger is better.”  South beach, sugar free  Vogue says, “Thinner is better.”  Just another stage, pageant the pain away  This time I’m gonna take the crown  Without falling down, down, down  Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worst  Perfection is a disease of a nation, pretty hurts, pretty hurts (pretty hurts)  Pretty hurts (pretty hurts), we shine the light on whatever’s worst  We try to fix something but you can’t fix what you can’t see  It’s the soul that needs the surgery  Ain’t got no doctor or pill that can take the pain away  The pain’s inside and nobody frees you from your body  It’s the soul, it’s the soul that needs surgery  It’s my soul that needs surgery  Plastic smiles and denial can only take you so far  Then you break when the fake facade leaves you in the dark  You left with shattered mirrors and the shards of a beautiful past  Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worst (pretty hurts)  Perfection is a disease of a nation, pretty hurts, pretty hurts  Pretty hurts, we shine the light on whatever’s worst  We try to fix something but you can’t fix what you can’t see  It’s the soul that needs the surgery  When you’re alone all by yourself (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  And you’re lying in your bed (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  Reflection stares right into you (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  Are you happy with yourself? (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  You stripped away the masquerade (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  The illusion has been shed (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  Are you happy with yourself? (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  Are you happy with yourself? (pretty hurts, pretty hurts)  Yes

"Pretty Hurts"

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Full song and just verses

Text:

"The Reason"

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My new favorite song.
Text:
It doesn’t matter if you love him, or capital H-I-M Just put your paws up ‘cause you were born this way, baby
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My mama told me when I was young We are all born superstars She rolled my hair and put my lipstick on In the glass of her boudoir “There’s nothing wrong with loving who you are” She said, “‘Cause he made you perfect, babe” “So hold your head up girl and you’ll go far, Listen to me when I say”
I’m beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way Don’t hide yourself in regret Just love yourself and you’re set I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way   Ooo there ain’t no other way Baby I was born this way Baby I was born this way Oh there ain’t no other way Baby I was born this way I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way   Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be!
Give yourself prudence And love your friends Subway kid, rejoice your truth In the religion of the insecure I must be myself, respect my youth A different lover is not a sin Believe capital H-I-M (Hey hey hey) I love my life I love this record and L’amour a besoin de la foi I’m beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way Don’t hide yourself in regret Just love yourself and you’re set I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way   Ooo there ain’t no other way Baby I was born this way Baby I was born this way Oh there ain’t no other way Baby I was born this way I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way   Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be!
Don’t be a drag, just be a queen Whether you’re broke or evergreen You’re black, white, beige, chola descent You’re Lebanese, you’re orient Whether life’s disabilities Left you outcast, bullied, or teased Rejoice and love yourself today ‘cause baby you were born this way No matter gay, straight, or bi, Lesbian, transgendered life, I’m on the right track baby, I was born to survive. No matter black, white or beige Chola or orient made, I’m on the right track baby, I was born to be brave.
I’m beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way Don’t hide yourself in regret Just love yourself and you’re set I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way   Ooo there ain’t no other way Baby I was born this way Baby I was born this way Oh there ain’t no other way Baby I was born this way I’m on the right track, baby I was born this way   Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be a drag ‒ just be a queen  Don’t be!
I was born this way hey! I was born this way hey! I’m on the right track baby I was born this way hey! I was born this way hey! I was born this way hey! I’m on the right track baby I was born this way hey!  

My new favorite song.

Text:

It doesn’t matter if you love him, or capital H-I-M
Just put your paws up
‘cause you were born this way, baby

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A Wordle of the favorite words of students accepted to the Princeton class of 2016. I especially like the colors and the position of “outlier”, and these are just cool words in general.
Text:
Antietam Swank perhaps spiel googolplex gherkin serendipity[[MORE]] doofus melody maya catharsis love hug crystallize integrate reverberate Callipygean flabbergasted arabesque supercalifragilisticexpialidocious amalgamation apotheosis Kyrgyzstan treacle sphygmomanometer ethereal quintessential apotheosis blasphemy opalescent chance pugnacious indubitably relative essentially saucy evanescent sesquipedalian rocinante perfunctory absurd happy lucrative tintinnabulation maktub pragmatic ineffable shogunate funambulist hoopla finagle floxinoxinihilipilification vivacity ululate ambiguity haiku allowpamplemousse  musicality sequoia flabbergasted sesquipedalian juxtapositiontarantellagalimatiassentienceawkwardparadoxyess chelonianinspirationsemanticshyperconjugationdefenestrateiconoclastvoltapipistrello anywaysbanana sharing Wingardium~Leviosa halcyon indubitably panache road rustic regatta bauble pilgrim checker victrola inordinate plethora hippopotami notwithstanding petrichor plethora defenestration asymptotic swag awkwa ura iconoclast sublime, tomfoolery, sanguine touché absolution loquacious, cobblestone, hope, cerulean, outlier, zephyr. oasis ephemeral brilliance parallelepiped hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia marvelous! lambast wanderlust harmony zarigüeya Parangutirimicuaro spontaneity ecstatic ineffable catachresis extraordinary goal fortunately blasphemy enigma alacrity adamant, tenacity capricious titanic saudades discombobulate elegance congratulations!!! tattarrattat dream flapdoodle succulent transmogrify poignant mustachioed haberdashery pamplemousse flagrant ephemeral discombobulate asinine indubitably imagine discombobulate manifestation pandas Lauzat indubitably amazing quintessential schmaltzy defenestrate classic ambition brouhaha supercalifragilisticexpialidocious “whoa” endeavor accepted renaissance actually scintillating titillate sanguine venerate, negligible alphanumeric dapper checkmate whimsical ululation snazzy incrediblerodent?preposterousperisteronicsuperfluousserendipitydieselverbindung mysteryserendipityFURPHIESsibilencephenomenonserendipity ;)serendipityequilibriumconcurrencehonestydetritusentrepreneurvespertinevehementexquisite esoteric quintessence serendipity friend infinite sundrenched integrity effervescence interesting muggle pristine integrity republic Flibbertigibbet hustle sheisty opine serendipity successful bonhomie wertfreiheit rebirth kerfuffle sunshine! success “elsewise” repose competitionessenceserendipityquintessence serendipity Princeton boondoggle sublime touché however retrospective serendipity FERRET! effervescent mellifluous synergy rebel serendipity geusioleptic success energy kerfuffle quirky mind-boggling offing   possibility tricky fight if jubily crisp soporific ubiquitous ridiculous tiddlywinks sick possibility sophistry swimmingly intuiton scintillating wumbo polytropos color food flummox octopod why? why? why syzygy

A Wordle of the favorite words of students accepted to the Princeton class of 2016. I especially like the colors and the position of “outlier”, and these are just cool words in general.

Text:

Antietam
Swank
perhaps
spiel
googolplex
gherkin
serendipity

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I thought the font (mostly its left slant) and color scheme (I like how they’re mostly dark with only a few yellow ones) were appropriate for this theswordle. I also like the sharpness/pointiness of the shape.
Text:
acrimony, aspersion, banter, bitterness, burlesque, causticness, censure, comeback, contempt, corrosiveness, criticism, cut, cynicism, derision, dig, disparagement, flouting, invective, irony, lampooning, mockery, mordancy, put-down, raillery, rancor, ridicule, satire, scoffing, scorn, sharpness, sneering, superciliousness, wisecrack, sass, biting, sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm

I thought the font (mostly its left slant) and color scheme (I like how they’re mostly dark with only a few yellow ones) were appropriate for this theswordle. I also like the sharpness/pointiness of the shape.

Text:

acrimony, aspersion, banter, bitterness, burlesque, causticness, censure, comeback, contempt, corrosiveness, criticism, cut, cynicism, derision, dig, disparagement, flouting, invective, irony, lampooning, mockery, mordancy, put-down, raillery, rancor, ridicule, satire, scoffing, scorn, sharpness, sneering, superciliousness, wisecrack, sass, biting, sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm

I made this Wordle to celebrate my friend’s acceptance to RISD. The titles and their colors are from RISD’s Academics page. I was really struck by this arrangement for some reason.
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APPAREL~DESIGN:1:cc3399
ARCHITECTURE:1:cc9933
CERAMICS:1:cc6633
DIGITAL~+~MEDIA:1:88bbcc
ENGLISH:1:ccee77
FILM/ANIMATION/VIDEO:1:504e9e
FURNITURE~DESIGN:1:9e8337
GLASS:1:6c99ba
GRAPHIC~DESIGN:1:808080
HISTORY~OF~ART~+~VISUAL~CULTURE:1:c2920e
HISTORY,~PHILOSOPHY~+~THE~SOCIAL~SCIENCES:1:c2790c
ILLUSTRATION:1:c22c21
INDUSTRIAL~DESIGN:1:7d9ea6
INTERIOR~ARCHITECTURE:1:999667
JEWELRY~+~METALSMITHING:1:928899
LANDSCAPE~ARCHITECTURE:1:92b347
PAINTING:1:d66400
PHOTOGRAPHY:1:6a4a7a
PRINTMAKING:1:b89f4e
SCULPTURE:1:758a8f
TEACHING~+~LEARNING~IN~ART~+~DESIGN:1:8f8a04
TEXTILES:1:d98911
RISD:5:b500d9

I made this Wordle to celebrate my friend’s acceptance to RISD. The titles and their colors are from RISD’s Academics page. I was really struck by this arrangement for some reason.

Text:

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I used a bright color scheme, a haphazard font, and a random arrangement to convey the craziness. The black background represents the night. I like the proximity of “go crazy tonight”. Also, the contrasting colors of hill and mountain.
Text:
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She’s a rainbow and she loves the peaceful lifeKnows I’ll go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonightThere’s a part of me in chaos that’s quietAnd there’s a part of you that wants me to riotEverybody needs to cry or needs to spitEvery sweet-tooth needs just a little hitEvery beauty needs to go out with an idiotHow can you stand next to the truth and not see it?Change of heart comes slow..It’s not a hill it’s a mountainAs you start out the climbDo you believe me or are you doubtin?We’re gonna make it all the way to the lightBut I know I’ll go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonightEvery generation gets a chance to change the worldDivination that will listen to your boys and girlsIs the sweetest melody the one we haven’t heard?Is it true that perfect love drives out all fear?The right to be ridiculous is something I hold dearBut change of heart comes slow…It’s not a hill it’s a mountainAs you start out the climbYou see for me I’ve been shoutinBut we’re gonna make it all the way to the lightBut I know I’ll go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonightBaby, baby, baby, I know I’m not aloneBaby, baby, baby, I know I’m not aloneHa, ha, haIt’s not a hill it’s a mountainYou see for me I’ve been shoutingLet’s shout until the darkness, squeeze out sparks of lightYou know we’ll go crazyYou know we’ll go crazyYou know we’ll go crazy, if we don’t go crazy tonight

I used a bright color scheme, a haphazard font, and a random arrangement to convey the craziness. The black background represents the night. I like the proximity of “go crazy tonight”. Also, the contrasting colors of hill and mountain.

Text:

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I like how the “road” winds from the first words in the song to the last one. The background represents fog/rain/water and the color scheme is that of a typical British road.
Text:
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The long and winding road that leads to your doorWill never disappearI’ve seen that road before it always leads me hereLeads me to your doorThe wild and windy night that the rain washed awayHas left a pool of tears crying for the dayWhy leave me standing here, let me know the wayMany times I’ve been alone and many times I’ve criedAnyway you’ll never know the many ways I’ve triedAnd still they lead me back to the long and winding roadYou left me standing here a long, long time agoDon’t leave me waiting here, lead me to you doorBut still they lead me back to the long and winding roadYou left me standing here a long, long time agoDon’t keep me waiting here (Don’t keep me waiting), lead me to you doorYeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

I like how the “road” winds from the first words in the song to the last one. The background represents fog/rain/water and the color scheme is that of a typical British road.

Text:

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This is a slightly color-edited Wordle of the 2012 Oscar Nominees. Notice: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Midnight Paris, George Clooney, and Michael Scott :). The three biggest BP noms (The Artist, Hugo, Moneyball) are also the only ones I’ve seen.
Text:
Best PictureBest Director
The Artist – Thomas Langmann
The Descendants – Jim Burke, Jim Taylor, andAlexander Payne
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close – Scott Rudin
The Help – Brunson Green, Chris Columbus, andMichael Barnathan
Hugo – Graham King and Martin Scorsese
Midnight in Paris – Letty Aronson and Stephen Tenenbaum
Moneyball – Michael De Luca, Rachael Horovitz, and Brad Pitt
The Tree of Life – Dede Gardner, Sarah Green,Grant Hill, and Bill Pohlad
War Horse – Steven Spielberg and Kathleen Kennedy
Woody Allen – Midnight in Paris
Michel Hazanavicius – The Artist
Terrence Malick – The Tree of Life
Alexander Payne – The Descendants
Martin Scorsese – Hugo
[[MORE]]Best ActorBest Actress
Demián Bichir – A Better Life as Carlos Galindo
George Clooney – The Descendants as Matt King
Jean Dujardin – The Artist as George Valentin
Gary Oldman – Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy asGeorge Smiley
Brad Pitt – Moneyball as Billy Beane
Glenn Close – Albert Nobbs as Albert Nobbs
Viola Davis – The Help as Aibileen Clark
Rooney Mara – The Girl with the Dragon Tattooas Lisbeth Salander
Meryl Streep – The Iron Lady as Margaret Thatcher
Michelle Williams – My Week with Marilyn asMarilyn Monroe
Best Supporting ActorBest Supporting Actress
Kenneth Branagh – My Week with Marilyn asLaurence Olivier
Jonah Hill – Moneyball as Peter Brand
Nick Nolte – Warrior as Paddy Conlon
Christopher Plummer – Beginners as Hal Fields
Max von Sydow – Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close as The Renter
Bérénice Bejo – The Artist as Peppy Miller
Jessica Chastain – The Help as Celia Foote
Melissa McCarthy – Bridesmaids as Megan Price
Janet McTeer – Albert Nobbs as Hubert Page
Octavia Spencer – The Help as Minny Jackson
Best Writing – Original ScreenplayBest Writing – Adapted Screenplay
The Artist – Michel Hazanavicius
Bridesmaids – Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo
Margin Call – J.C. Chandor
Midnight in Paris – Woody Allen
A Separation – Asghar Farhadi
The Descendants – Alexander Payne, Nat Faxon, and Jim Rash from The Descendants byKaui Hart Hemmings
Hugo – John Logan from The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick
The Ides of March – George Clooney, Grant Heslov, and Beau Willimon from Farragut Northby Beau Willimon
Moneyball – Screenplay by Steven Zaillian andAaron Sorkin; Story by Stan Chervin fromMoneyball by Michael Lewis
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy – Bridget O’Connor andPeter Straughan from Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spyby John le Carré
Best Animated FeatureBest Foreign Language Film
A Cat in Paris – Alain Gagnol and Jean-Loup Felicioli
Chico and Rita – Fernando Trueba and Javier Mariscal
Kung Fu Panda 2 – Jennifer Yuh Nelson
Puss in Boots – Chris Miller
Rango – Gore Verbinski
Bullhead (Belgium) in Dutch and French –Michaël R. Roskam
Footnote (Israel) in Hebrew – Joseph Cedar
In Darkness (Poland) in Polish – Agnieszka Holland
Monsieur Lazhar (Canada) in French – Philippe Falardeau
A Separation (Iran) in Farsi – Asghar Farhadi
Best Documentary – FeatureBest Documentary – Short Subject
Hell and Back Again – Danfung Dennis and Mike Lerner
If a Tree Falls: A Story of the Earth Liberation Front – Marshall Curry and Sam Cullman
Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory – Joe Berlinger andBruce Sinofsky
Pina – Wim Wenders and Gian-Piero Ringel
Undefeated – TJ Martin, Dan Lindsay, andRichard Middlemas
The Barber of Birmingham: Foot Soldier of the Civil Rights Movement – Robin Fryday and Gail Dolgin
God Is the Bigger Elvis – Rebecca Cammisa andJulie Anderson
Incident in New Baghdad – James Spione
Saving Face – Daniel Junge and Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy
The Tsunami and the Cherry Blossom – Lucy Walker and Kira Carstensen
Best Live Action Short FilmBest Animated Short Film
Pentecost – Peter McDonald and Eimear O’Kane
Raju – Max Zähle and Stefan Gieren
The Shore – Terry George and Oorlagh George
Time Freak – Andrew Bowler and Gigi Causey
Tuba Atlantic – Hallvar Witzø
Dimanche – Patrick Doyon
The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore – William Joyce and Brandon Oldenburg
La Luna – Enrico Casarosa
A Morning Stroll – Grant Orchard and Sue Goffe
Wild Life – Amanda Forbis and Wendy Tilby
Best Original ScoreBest Original Song
The Adventures of Tintin – John Williams
The Artist – Ludovic Bource
Hugo – Howard Shore
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy – Alberto Iglesias
War Horse – John Williams
“Man or Muppet" from The Muppets – Bret McKenzie
“Real in Rio" from Rio – Sérgio Mendes,Carlinhos Brown, and Siedah Garrett
Best Sound EditingBest Sound Mixing
Drive – Lon Bender and Victor Ray Ennis
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – Ren Klyce
Hugo – Philip Stockton and Eugene Gearty
Transformers: Dark of the Moon – Ethan Van der Ryn and Erik Aadahl
War Horse – Richard Hymns and Gary Rydstrom
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – David Parker,Michael Semanick, Ren Klyce, and Bo Persson
Hugo – Tom Fleischman and John Midgley
Moneyball – Deb Adair, Ron Bochar, David Giammarco, and Ed Novick
Transformers: Dark of the Moon – Greg P. Russell, Gary Summers, Jeffrey J. Haboush, andPeter J. Devlin
War Horse – Gary Rydstrom, Andy Nelson, Tom Johnson, and Stuart Wilson
Best Art DirectionBest Cinematography
The Artist – Laurence Bennett and Robert Gould
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 2 –Stuart Craig and Stephanie McMillan
Hugo – Dante Ferretti and Francesca Lo Schiavo
Midnight in Paris – Anne Seibel and Hélène Dubreuil
War Horse – Rick Carter and Lee Sandales
The Artist – Guillaume Schiffman
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo – Jeff Cronenweth
Hugo – Robert Richardson
The Tree of Life – Emmanuel Lubezki
War Horse – Janusz Kamiński
Best MakeupBest Costume Design
Albert Nobbs – Martial Corneville, Lynn Johnson, and Matthew W. Mungle
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 2 –Nick Dudman, Amanda Knight, and Lisa Tomblin
The Iron Lady – Mark Coulier and J. Roy Helland
Anonymous – Lisy Christl
The Artist – Mark Bridges
Hugo – Sandy Powell
Jane Eyre – Michael O’Connor
W.E. – Arianne Phillips
Best Film EditingBest Visual Effects
The Artist – Anne-Sophie Bion and Michel Hazanavicius
The Descendants – Kevin Tent
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – Angus Walland Kirk Baxter
Hugo – Thelma Schoonmaker
Moneyball – Christopher Tellefsen
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 2 –Tim Burke, David Vickery, Greg Butler, and John Richardson
Hugo – Rob Legato, Joss Williams, Ben Grossmann, and Alex Henning
Real Steel – Erik Nash, John Rosengrant, Danny Gordon Taylor, and Swen Gillberg
Rise of the Planet of the Apes – Joe Letteri, Dan Lemmon, R. Christopher White, and Daniel Barrett
Transformers: Dark of the Moon – Scott Farrar,Scott Benza, Matthew E. Butler, and John Frazier

This is a slightly color-edited Wordle of the 2012 Oscar Nominees. Notice: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Midnight Paris, George Clooney, and Michael Scott :). The three biggest BP noms (The Artist, Hugo, Moneyball) are also the only ones I’ve seen.

Text:

Best PictureBest Director

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A Wordle of “Shakespeare in the Bush”, an article by Laura Bohannon about the universal themes in Hamlet as applied to the Tiv people of West Africa. I tried to use color and font to evoke this setting.
Text:
By Laura Bohannon
     Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa, conversation turned to the season at Stratford.  “You Americans,” said a friend, “often have difficulty with Shakespeare.  He was, after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular.”
[[MORE]]     I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the whole world over; at least the general plot and motivation of the greater tragedies would always be clear—everywhere—although some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of translation might produce other slight changes.  To end an argument we could not conclude, my friend gave me a copy of Hamlet to study in the African bush; it would, he hoped, lift my mind above its primitive surroundings, and possibly I might, by prolonged meditation, achieve the grace of correct interpretation.
     It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought myself ready to live in one of its remote sections—an area difficult to cross, even on foot.  I eventually settled on the hillock of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead of some hundred and forty people, all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives and children.  Like the other elders of the vicinity, the old man spent most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in the most accessible parts of the tribe.  I was delighted.  Soon there would be three months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the harvest that takes place just before the rising of the swamps and the clearing of new farms when the water goes down.  Then, I thought, they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain them to me.
     I was quite mistaken.  Most of the ceremonies demanded the presence of elders from several homesteads.  As the swamps rose, the old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead to the next, and the ceremonies gradually ceased.  As the swamps rose even higher, all activities but one came to an end.  The women brewed beer from maize and millet.  Men, women, and children sat on their hillocks and drank it.
     People began to drink at dawn.  By midmorning the whole homestead was singing, dancing, and drumming.  When it rained, people had to sit inside their huts: there they drank and sang or they drank and told stories.  In any case, by noon or before, I either had to join the party or retire to my own hut and books.  “One does not discuss serious matters when there is beer.  Come, drink with us.”  Since I lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more time with Hamlet.  Before the end of the second month, grace descended on me.  I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible interpretation, and that one universally obvious.
     Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk before the beer party,  I used to call on the old man at his reception hut—a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low mud wall to keep out wind and rain.  One day I crawled through the low doorway and found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their ragged cloths on stools, low plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire.  In the center were three pots of beer.  The party had started.
     The old man greeted me cordially.  “Sit down and drink.”  I accepted a large calabash full of beer, poured some into a small drinking gourd, and tossed it down.  Then I poured some more into the same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed my calabash over to a young man for further distribution.  Important people shouldn’t ladle beer themselves.
     “It is better like this,” the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch that had caught in my hair.  “You should sit and drink with us more often.  Your servants tell me that when you are not with us, you sit inside your hut looking at a paper.”
     The old man was acquainted with four kinds of “papers”: tax receipts, bride price receipts, court free receipts, and letters.  The messenger who brought him letters from the chief used them mainly as a badge of office, for he always knew what was in them and told the old man.  Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the government or mission stations were kept until someone went to a large market where there was a letter writer and reader.  Since my arrival, letters were brought for me to be read.  A few men also brought me bride price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures to a higher sum.  I found moral arguments were of no avail, since in-laws are fair game, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to explain to an illiterate people.  I did not wish them to think me silly enough to look at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily explained that my “paper” was one of the “things of long ago” of my country.
     “Ah,” said the old man.  “Tell us.”
     I protested that I was not a storyteller.  Storytelling is a skilled art among them; their standards are high and the audiences critical—and vocal in their criticism.  I protested in vain.  This morning they wanted to hear a story while they drank.  They threatened to tell me no more stories until I told them one of mine.  Finally, the old man promised that no one would criticize my style “for we know you are struggling with our language.”  “But,” put in one of the elders, “you must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell our stories.”  Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed.
     The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with my storytelling.  Men filled their long wooden pipes and knocked coals from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing contentedly, they sat back to listen.  I began in the proper style, “Not yesterday, not yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred.  One night three men were keeping watch outside the homestead of the great chief, when suddenly they saw the former chief approach them.”
     “Why was he no longer their chief?”
     “He was dead,” I explained.  “That is why they were troubled and afraid when they saw him.”
     “Impossible,” began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to his neighbor, who interrupted, “Of course it wasn’t the dead chief.  It was an omen sent by a witch.  Go on.”
     Slightly shaken, I continued.  “One of these three was a man who knew things”—the closest translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch.  The second elder looked triumphantly at the first.  “So he spoke to the dead chief saying, ‘Tell us what we must do so you may rest in your grave.’ But the dead chief did not answer.  He vanished, and they could see him no more.  Then the man who knew things—his name was Horatio—said this event was the affair of the dead chief’s son Hamlet.”
     There was a general shaking of heads round the circle.  “Had the dead chief no living brothers?  Or was this son the chief?”
     “No,” I replied.  “That is, he had one living brother who became the chief when the elder brother died.”
     The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs and elders, not for youngsters; no good could come of going behind a chief’s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things.
     “Yes, he was,” I insisted, shooing a chicken away from my beer.  “In our country the son is next to the father.  The dead chief’s younger brother had become the great chief.  He had also married his elder brother’s widow only about a month after the funeral.”
     “He did well,” the old man beamed and announced to the others, “I told you that if we knew more about Europeans, we would find they really were very like us.  In our country also,” he added to me, “the younger brother marries the elder brother’s widow and becomes the father of his children.  Now, if your uncle, who married your widowed mother, is your father’s full brother, then he will be a real father to you.  Did Hamlet’s father and uncle have one mother?”
     His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and thrown too far off balance by having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture.  Rather uncertainly I said that I thought they had the same mother, but I wasn’t sure—the story didn’t say.  The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that when I got home I must ask the elders about it.  He shouted out the door to one of his younger wives to bring his goatskin bag.
     Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a deep breath and began again.  “The son Hamlet was very sad because his mother had married again so quickly.  There was no need for her to do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband until she has mourned for two years.”
     “Two years is too long,” objected the wife, who had appeared with the old man’s battered goatskin bag.  “Who will hoe your farms for you while you have no husband?”
     “Hamlet,” I retorted without thinking, “was old enough to hoe his mother’s farms himself.  There was no need for her to remarry.”  No one looked convinced.  I gave up.  “His mother and the great chief told Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to Hamlet.  Furthermore, Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he must stay to learn the things of a chief.  Hamlet agreed to remain, and all the rest went off to drink beer.”
     While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet’s disgusted soliloquy to an audience convinced that Claudius and Gertrude had behaved in the best possible manner, one of the younger men asked me who had married the other wives of the dead chief.
     “He had no other wives,” I told him.
     “But a chief must have many wives!  How else can he brew beer and prepare food for all his guests?”
     I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife, that they had servants to do their work, and that they paid them from tax money.
     It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives and sons who would help him hoe his farms and feed his people; then everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing—taxes were a bad thing.
     I agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on their favorite way of fobbing off my questions: “That is the way it is done, so that is how we do it.”
     I decided to skip the soliloquy.  Even if they thought Claudius quite right to marry his brother’s widow, there remained the poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide.  More hopefully I resumed, “that night Hamlet kept watch with the three who had seen his dead father.  The dead chief again appeared, and although the others were afraid, Hamlet followed his dead father off to one side.  When they were alone, Hamlet’s dead father spoke.”
     “Omens can’t talk!”  The old man was emphatic.
     “Hamlet’s dead father wasn’t an omen.  Seeing him might have been an omen, but he was not.”  My audience looked as confused as I sounded.  “It was Hamlet’s dead father.  It was a thing we call a ‘ghost’.” I had to use the English word, for unlike many of the neighboring tribes, these people didn’t believe in the survival after death of any individuating part of the personality.
     “What is a ‘ghost?’  an omen?”
     “No, a ‘ghost’ is someone who is dead but who walks around and can talk, and people can hear him and see him but not touch him.”
     They objected, “One can touch zombis.”
     “No, no!  It was not a dead body the witches had animated to sacrifice and eat.  No one else made Hamlet’s dead father walk.  He did it himself.”
     “Dead men can’t walk,” protested my audience as one man.
     I was quite willing to compromise, “A ‘ghost’ is the dead man’s shadow.”
     But again they objected.  “Dead men cast no shadows.”
     “They do in my country,” I snapped.
     The old man quelled the babble of disbelief that arose immediately and told me with that insincere, but courteous, agreement one extends to the fancies of the young, ignorant, and superstitious, “No doubt in your country the dead can also walk without being zombis.”  From the depth of his bag he produced a withered fragment of kola nut, bit off one end to show it wasn’t poisoned, and handed me the rest as a peace offering.
     “Anyhow,” I resumed, “Hamlet’s dead father said that his own brother, the one who became chief, had poisoned him.  He wanted Hamlet to avenge him.  Hamlet believed this in his heart, for he did not like his father’s brother.”  I took another swallow of beer.  “In the country of the great chief, living in the same homestead, for it was a very large one, was an important elder who was often with the chief to advise and help him.  His name was Polonius.  Hamlet was courting his daughter, but her father and her brother…[I cast hastily about for some tribal analogy] warned her not to let Hamlet visit her when she was alone on her farm, for he would be a great chief and so could not marry her.”
     “Why not?” asked the wife, who had settled down on the edge of the old man’s chair.  He frowned at her for asking stupid questions and growled, “They lived in the same homestead.”
     “That was not the reason,” I informed them.  “Polonius was a stranger who lived in the homestead because he helped the chief, not because he was a relative.”
     “Then why couldn’t Hamlet marry her?”
     “He could have,” I explained, “but Polonius didn’t think he would.  After all, Hamlet was a man of great importance who ought to marry a chief’s daughter, for in his country a man could have only one wife.  Polonius was afraid that if Hamlet made love to his daughter, then no one else would give a high price for her.”
     “That might be true,” remarked one of the shrewder elders, “but a chief’s son would give his mistress’s father enough presents and patronage to more than make up the difference.  Polonius sounds like a fool to me.”
     “Many people think he was,” I agreed.  “Meanwhile Polonius sent his son Laertes off to Paris to learn the things of that country, for it was the homestead of a very great chief indeed.  Because he was afraid that Laertes might waste a lot of money on beer and women and gambling, or get into trouble by fighting, he sent one of his servants to Paris secretly, to spy out what Laertes was doing.  One day Hamlet came upon Polonius’s daughter Ophelia.  He behaved so oddly he frightened her.  Indeed”—I was fumbling for words to express the dubious quality of Hamlet’s madness—“the chief and many others had also noticed that when Hamlet talked one could understand the words but not what they meant.  Many people thought that he had become mad.”  My audience suddenly became much more attentive.  “The great chief wanted to know what was wrong with Hamlet, so he sent for two of Hamlet’s age mates [school friends would have taken long explanation] to talk to Hamlet and find out what troubled his heart.  Hamlet, seeing that they had been bribed by the chief to betray him, told them nothing.  Polonius, however, insisted that Hamlet was mad because he had been forbidden to see Ophelia, whom he loved.”
     “Why,” inquired a bewildered voice, “should anyone bewitch Hamlet on that account?”
     “Bewitch him?”
     “Yes, only witchcraft can make anyone mad, unless, of course, one sees the beings that lurk in the forest.”
     I stopped being a storyteller, took out my notebook and demanded to be told more about these two causes of madness.  Even while they spoke and I jotted notes, I tried to calculate the effect of this new factor on the plot.  Hamlet had not been exposed to the beings that lurk in the forest.  Only his relatives in the male line could bewitch him.  Barring relatives not mentioned by Shakespeare, it had to be Claudius who was attempting to harm him.  And, of course, it was.
     For the moment, I staved off questions by saying that the great chief also refused to believe that Hamlet was mad for the love of Ophelia and nothing else.  “He was sure that something much more important was troubling Hamlet’s heart.”
     “Now Hamlet’s age mates,” I continued, “had brought with them a famous storyteller.  Hamlet decided to have this man tell the chief and all his homestead a story about a man who had poisoned his brother because he desired his brother’s wife and wished to be chief himself.  Hamlet was sure the great chief could not hear the story without making a sign if he was indeed guilty, and then he would discover whether his dead father had told him the truth.
     The old man interrupted, with deep cunning, “Why should a father lie to his son?” he asked.
     I hedged: “Hamlet wasn’t sure that it really was his father.”  It was impossible to say anything, in that language, about devil-inspired visions.
     “You mean,” he said, “it actually was an omen, and he knew witches sometimes send false ones.  Hamlet was a fool not to go to one skilled in reading omens and divining the truth in the first place.  A man-who-sees-the-truth could have told him how his father died, if he really had been poisoned, and if there was witchcraft in it; then Hamlet could have called the elders to settle the matter.”
     The shrewd elder ventured to disagree.  “Because his father’s brother was a great chief, one-who-sees-the-truth might therefore have been afraid to tell it.  I think it was for that reason that a friend of Hamlet’s father—a witch and an elder—sent an omen so his friend’s son would know.  Was the omen true?”
     “Yes,” I said, abandoning ghosts and the devil; a witch-sent omen it would have to be.  “It was true, for when the storyteller was telling his tale before all the homestead, the great chief rose in fear.  Afraid that Hamlet knew his secret he planned to have him killed.”
     The stage set of the next bit presented some difficulties of translation. I began cautiously.  “The great chief told Hamlet’s mother to find out from her son what he knew.  But because a woman’s children are always first in her heart, he had the important elder Polonius hide behind a cloth that hung against the wall of Hamlet’s mother’s sleeping hut.  Hamlet started to scold his mother for what she had done.”
     There was a shocked murmur from everyone.  A man should never scold his mother.
     “She called out in fear, and Polonius moved behind the cloth.  Shouting, “A rat!” Hamlet took his machete and slashed through the cloth.”  I paused for dramatic effect.  “He had killed Polonius!”
     The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust.  “That Polonius truly was a fool and a man who knew nothing!  What child would not know enough to shout, ‘It’s me!’”  With a pang, I remembered that these people are ardent hunters, always armed with bow, arrow, and machete; at the first rustle in the grass an arrow is aimed and ready, and the hunter shouts “Game!”  If no human voice answers immediately, the arrow speeds on its way.  Like a good hunter Hamlet shouted, “A rat!”
     I rushed in to save Polonius’s reputation.  “Polonius did speak.  Hamlet heard him.  But he thought it was the chief and wished to kill him to avenge his father.  He had meant to kill him earlier that evening…”   I broke down, unable to describe to these pagans, who had no belief in individual afterlife, the difference between dying at one’s prayers and dying “unhousell’d, disappointed, unaneled.”
     This time I had shocked my audience seriously.  “For a man to raise his hand against his father’s brother and the one who has become his father—that is a terrible thing.  The elders ought to let such a man be bewitched.”
     I nibbled at my kola nut in some perplexity, then pointed out that after all the man had killed Hamlet’s father.
     “No,” pronounced the old man, speaking less to me than to the young men sitting behind the elders.  “If your father’s brother has killed your father, you must appeal to your father’s age mates; they may avenge him.  No man may use violence against his senior relatives.”  Another thought struck him.  “But if his father’s brother had indeed been wicked enough to bewitch Hamlet and make him mad that would be a good story indeed, for it would be his fault that Hamlet, being mad, no longer had any sense and thus was ready to kill his father’s brother.”
     There was a murmur of applause, Hamlet was again a good story to them, but it no longer seemed quite the same story to me.  As I thought over the coming complications of plot and motive, I lost courage and decided to skim over dangerous ground quickly.
     “The great chief,” I went on, “was not sorry that Hamlet had killed Polonius.  It gave him a reason to send Hamlet away, with his two treacherous age mates, with letters to a chief of a far country, saying that Hamlet should be killed.  But Hamlet changed the writing on their papers, so that the chief killed his age mates instead.”  I encountered a reproachful glare from one of the men whom I had told undetectable forgery was not merely immoral but beyond human skill.  I looked the other way.
     “Before Hamlet could return, Laertes came back for his father’s funeral.  The great chief told him Hamlet had killed Polonius.  Laertes swore to kill Hamlet because of this, and because his sister Ophelia, hearing her father had been killed by the man she loved, went mad and drowned in the river.”
     “Have you already forgotten what we told you?”  The old man was reproachful, “One cannot take vengeance on a madman; Hamlet killed Polonius in his madness.  As for the girl, she not only went mad, she was drowned.  Only witches can make people drown.  Water itself can’t hurt anything.  It is merely something one drinks and bathes in.”
     I began to get cross.  “If you don’t like the story, I’ll stop.”
     The old man made soothing noises and himself poured me some more beer.  “You tell the story well, and we are listening.  But it is clear that the elders of your country have never told you what the story really means.  No, don’t interrupt!  We believe you when you say your marriage customs are different, or your clothes and weapons.  But people are the same everywhere; therefore, there are always witches and it is we, the elders, who know how witches work.  We told you it was the great chief who wished to kill Hamlet, and now your own words have proved us right.  Who were Ophelia’s male relatives?”
     “There were only her father and her brother.”  Hamlet was clearly out of my hands.
     “There must have been many more; this also you must ask of your elders when you get back to your country. From what you tell us, since Polonius was dead, it must have been Laertes who killed Ophelia, although I do not see the reason for it.”
     We had emptied one pot of beer, and the old men argued the point with slightly tipsy interest.  Finally one of them demanded of me, “What did the servant of Polonius say on his return?”
     With difficulty I recollected Reynaldo and his mission.  “I don’t think he did return before Polonius was killed.”
     “Listen,” said the elder, “and I will tell you how it was and how your story will go, then you may tell me if I am right.  Polonius knew his son would get into trouble, and so he did.  He had many fines to pay for fighting, and debts from gambling.  But he had only two ways of getting money quickly.  One was to marry off his sister at once, but it is difficult to find a man who will marry a woman desired by the son of a chief.  For if the chief’s heir commits adultery with your wife, what can you do?  Only a fool calls a case against a man who will someday be his judge.  Therefore Laertes had to take the second way: he killed his sister by witchcraft, drowning her so he could secretly sell her body to the witches.”
     I raised an objection.  “They found her body and buried it.  Indeed Laertes jumped into the grave to see his sister once more—so, you see, the body was truly there.  Hamlet, who had just come back, jumped in after him.”
     “What did I tell you?”  The elder appealed to the others.  “Laertes was up to no good with his sister’s body.  Hamlet prevented him, because the chief’s heir, like a chief, does not wish any other man to grow rich and powerful.  Laertes would be angry, because he would have killed his sister without benefit to himself.  In our country he would try to kill Hamlet for that reason.  Is this not what happened?”
     “More or less,” I admitted.  “When the great chief found Hamlet was still alive, he encouraged Laertes to try to kill Hamlet and arranged a fight with machetes between them.  In the fight both the young men were wounded to death.  Hamlet’s mother drank the poisoned beer that the chief meant for Hamlet in case he won the fight.  When he saw his mother die of poison, Hamlet, dying, managed to kill his father’s brother with his machete.”
     “You see, I was right!” exclaimed the elder.
     “That was a very good story,” added the old man, “and you told it with very few mistakes.  There was just one more error, at the very end.  The poison Hamlet’s mother drank was obviously meant for the survivor of the fight, whichever it was.  If Laertes had won, the great chief would have poisoned him, for no one would know that he arranged Hamlet’s death.  Then, too, he need not fear Laertes’ witchcraft; it takes a strong heart to kill one’s only sister by witchcraft.”
     “Sometime,” concluded the old man, gathering his ragged toga about him, “you must tell us some more stories of your country.  We, who are elders, will instruct you in their true meaning, so that when you return to your own land your elders will see that you have not been sitting in the bush, but among those who know things and who have taught you wisdom.” 

A Wordle of “Shakespeare in the Bush”, an article by Laura Bohannon about the universal themes in Hamlet as applied to the Tiv people of West Africa. I tried to use color and font to evoke this setting.

Text:

By Laura Bohannon

     Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv in West Africa, conversation turned to the season at Stratford.  “You Americans,” said a friend, “often have difficulty with Shakespeare.  He was, after all, a very English poet, and one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the particular.”

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hellobeautifulpleasebemine replied to your photo: A Wordle of cinzz.blog.com from March 19, 2011,…

Mine has more love in it. Also, the Oscars.

A Wordle of cinzz.blog.com from March 19, 2011, but it apparently hasn’t been updated since anyway. I thought the font and colors matched her personality well.
Text:
http://cinzz.blog.com/
With the assumption that Cinzia doesn’t add anything to her blog (and seeing as she hasn’t for almost a year), this should serve as an accurate text for the corresponding Wordle.

A Wordle of cinzz.blog.com from March 19, 2011, but it apparently hasn’t been updated since anyway. I thought the font and colors matched her personality well.

Text:

http://cinzz.blog.com/

With the assumption that Cinzia doesn’t add anything to her blog (and seeing as she hasn’t for almost a year), this should serve as an accurate text for the corresponding Wordle.

I didn’t get a ton of meaning or symbolism into this one because I got this on my second re-layout after I set the font and color scheme, and it reminded me of this scene, and I was like, “I’m not going to mess with this”.

Text:
[[MORE]]
You think I’m an ignorant savageYou’ve been so many placesI guess it must be soBut still I cannot seeIf the savage one is meHow can there be so much that you don’t know?You don’t know …You think you own whatever land you land onThe Earth is just a dead thing you can claimBut I know every rock and tree and creatureHas a life, has a spirit, has a nameYou think the only people who are peopleAre the people who look and think like youBut if you walk the footsteps of a strangerYou’ll learn things you never knew you never knewHave you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moonOr asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned?Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains?Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?Come run the hidden pine trails of the forestCome taste the sunsweet berries of the EarthCome roll in all the riches all around youAnd for once, never wonder what they’re worthThe rainstorm and the river are my brothersThe heron and the otter are my friendsAnd we are all connected to each otherIn a circle, in a hoop that never endsHow high does the sycamore grow?If you cut it down, then you’ll never knowAnd you’ll never hear the wolf cry to the blue corn moonFor whether we are white or copper skinnedWe need to sing with all the voices of the mountainsWe need to paint with all the colors of the windYou can own the Earth and stillAll you’ll own is Earth untilYou can paint with all the colors of the wind

I didn’t get a ton of meaning or symbolism into this one because I got this on my second re-layout after I set the font and color scheme, and it reminded me of this scene, and I was like, “I’m not going to mess with this”.

Text:

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