#민들레 (Dandelion)

[leatherbookmark]

？

[lazydefendorsublime]

■5월 3일 탄생화, 민들레(Dandelion)

- 바람을 타고 전해지는 신탁의 꽃

민들레는 봄을 대표하는 야생화로, 해처럼 밝은 노란색 꽃잎이 땅 위에서 환하게 피어난다. 꽃말은 ‘신탁’으로, 그 의미처럼 희망의 메시지를 품고 먼 길을 떠나는 모습이 인상적이다. 

이 꽃처럼, 오늘 태어난 이들에게도 인생의 길목마다 따뜻한 응원과 지혜로운 메시지가 함께하길 바란다. 

첨부된 이미지는 인공지능 시대, 생성형 AI가 그린 실사 스타일의 선물이다.

#풀꽃치유산업연구소 #시니어스마트폰활용교육 #시니어디지털금융교육 #행복코치 #김동영디지털교육강사 #오늘의탄생화 #꽃말신탁 #야생화기고가 #봄야생화 #공감된다면좋아요!

●생성형 AI 프롬프트 (한글)

땅바닥에서 방사형으로 퍼진 연두빛 톱니잎 사이에 선명한 노란색 민들레 꽃 5송이가 피어 있는 봄철 야생화 장면을 그려주세요. 꽃잎은 가늘고 뾰족하며 햇빛을 받는 듯 생생하게 빛납니다. 배경은 마른 풀과 일부 낙엽이 깔린 자연 그대로의 초지로 구성해주세요. 중심부에서 민들레 꽃이 위로 살짝 솟아 있으며, 주변에 피지 않은 꽃봉오리도 하나 있어야 합니다. 이미지 하단 오른쪽에는 "행복코치 김동영"이라는 텍스트를 깔끔하게 삽입해주세요.

◇짧은 캡션: 민들레, 봄을 전하는 전령(이미지생성: GPT-4o)

[lyrics365]

민들레 (Dandelion)

muneojyeotdeon nareul jinaseo sugyeosseotdeon gogaereul dasi wiro nae kkumi moyeo haneul wieseo barameul tago jayurowojigesseo ttaega dwaesseo haneul arae ttaseuhan i barame nareul sireojwo deo bureojwo nalgo sipeo nan holssiro ajigeun kkotdo doejin mothaetjiman maeseowotdeon bibarame ijeneun heundeulliji aneul geoya museowosseo na jasineul ireulkka bwa duryeowosseo na jasineul chatji mothalkka…

[kpoplrcfiles]

[Single] Seventeen (승관) - Dandelion (민들레)

[Single] Seventeen (승관) - Dandelion (민들레) Release Date: 2024.02.26 Genre: Ballad Language: Korean Track List: 1. 민들레 Download .lrc file here:

승관 (SEVENTEEN) – 민들레Release Date: 2024.02.26Genre: BalladLanguage: Korean Track List:1. 민들레Download .lrc file here:Link 1

[twourr]

우효 - 민들레

17살 때, 맨날 줄 이어폰을 필수로 챙기고 다녔다. 학교 수업 중에도 몰래 이어폰을 끼고 노래를 들었었는데 그 만큼 노래를 듣는 것은 내 일상과 함께 했던 것 같다.

친구들이 맨날 나보고 줄이어폰 끼고 다닌다고 엄청 그랬는데.. 지금 생각해보면 내가 노래를 참 많이 듣고 다녔구나 생각이 든다. 하하

이 노래를 들으면 17살 때 고등학교 다니던 시절이 생각이 난다. 학교 수업을 다 마치고 오후 5시 쯤 석식을 먹지도 않고 바로 버스를 타러 달려갔다. 그 만큼 버스타고 가는 게 너무 치열했다.

가끔은 버스 안에 사람이 너무 많아 그냥 지나가는 경우가 있었다. 난 그런 게 너무 싫어서 항상 지름길을 통해서 학교보다 거리가 있었던 버스 정류장까지 갔었다.

매번 버스 창문 쪽 자리에 앉아서 햇빛이 비추어지는 풍경을 보고 이 노래를 빠짐없이 들었던 것 같았다.

나는 이 노래의 full 버전을 좋아한다. 간주가 더 길고 노래 또한 길다. 그래서 가사 역시도 더욱 길다. 나는 평소에 노래를 들으면 가사를 이해하고 해석하는 걸 좋아하는 편이기 때문에 노래 가사를 보는 걸 매우 매우 좋아한다.

가사를 보면 왜인지 그 노래에 대해서 더욱 애정이 가고 찾게 되는 것 같다. 단순히 멜로디가 좋아서가 아니라, 그 가사가 멜로디랑 어울리는 포인트들이 있는 것 같다.

개인적으로 나는 이 노래에서 하이라이트로 갈때 반주가 전환되면서 현악기 소리가 웅장해지는 것이 너무 좋은 것 같다. 그래도 다들 임팩트가 있다고 생각하는 파트는 우리 손잡을까요~ 부분이 아닐까 라고 생각이 든다. 하지만 나는 하이라이트 부분이 역시 너무 좋은 것 같다.

내가 좋아했던 더보이즈의 큐가 이 노래를 커버 했었는데 자기의 보이스와 잘 어울리는 곡을 잘 선택한 것 같다고 생각이 든다.

말끔하고 순수해보이는 미성이 그리고 그 사람 자체만의 이미지가 너무 잘 어울려서 괜히 커버곡도 많이 듣게 되었던 것 같았다 ! 이 노래랑 정말 잘 어울리는 사람인 것 같다.

나도 언젠간 이 노래와 걸맞은 영상을 찍어보고싶다 :D 나만의 뮤직비디오 ~

[hwihwa-korean-calligrapher]

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무더운 여름ㅠ 시원한 바람이 부는 곳으로 날아가고 싶어요😅 민들레 홀씨를 패드로 그렸습니다 ㅎㅎ

-감성 글귀: 민들레 홀씨타고 네게로 간다. -휘화-

-Sentimental quote: I ride a dandelion spore to go to you.

#캘리그라피,#감성글스타그램,#민들레홀씨되어,#dandelionquotes,#koreancalligraphy,#아이패드수묵화,#수묵일러스트,#아이패드캘리그라피,#디지털캘리그라피,#프크캘리,#디캘독학,#캘리독학,#프크브러쉬,#설레임글 ,#양산캘리

[faulknxr]

Five hundred hours. The dawn rises. Agent Faulkner awakens.

The alarm dies before it can even sing its song, the mock mockingbird silenced by a precise tap of an index finger. Faulkner stretches his arms above his head, wrists chained by a bar of light shining through the blinds. A crick pops in his shoulder, and it’s off the bed. He levels and smooths the mattress, leaving no remaining traces of the body that warmed the sheets.

Five hundred zero-two hours. Light breakfast. End-of-season pomegranate arils, almonds, and a green smoothie. Warm up that shoulder. Remove any tenseness or bumps. Five hundred thirty hours. Run.

The track around the agents’ compound glistens with dew. The March sun sluggishly shakes off February’s chill. With every three odd steps, Faulkner’s breath puffs from his mouth in even intervals, blowing out a cottony mimicry of dandelion pappus.

The name dandelion is derived — corrupted — from the French word dent de lion. Lion’s tooth, by the resemblance of the flower’s jagged leaves. Other common names — nicknames, more like — are Blowballs, Witch’s Gowan, and Doom-head-clock.

(¿Diente de léon? Agent Dickinson would argue that naming a flower after its leaves is silly. He'd propose melena de león. Lion's Mane.)

{Gael, the name, has its roots dug into Breton soil, originating from the term gywn, meaning blessed, and hael, meaning generous. Gael, the agent, once declassified his name's Spanish meaning to his primary partner — gracious. Carried overseas, the epithet evolved, a natural synthesis of its attributes.}

((Faulkner, the agent, has not disclosed to his primary partner that an invocation to God resides within the other agent's name, a theophoric appellation like a secret, inlaid jewel. But it's always there, that faint sheen. A golden halo glowing from his crown. The Asteraceae, star-like as they are, would still pull their own petals out in envy of his shining Grace.))

Pick up the pace. The dirt flies off his soles. The world is a tap, tap, tap closer.

Some of the flower’s monikers are pejorative, a warning of the plant’s diuretic properties. Piss-a-bed, from the English; pissenlit, its French equivalent; and in the northern locales of Italy, pisacan. The can, shortened for cane, cagna. Dog. Flowers at the side of pavements, roadkill weeds in America.

Would it be unbelievable to say that a time ago, these flowers were valuable beyond belief?

(Huh, his partner would hum. That’s interesting. Tell me more?)

Of the genus Taraxacum, there lies a descendent named Taraxacum kok-saghyz. TKS. It found its popularity in the Soviet Union during the Second World War, bred in large quantities between 1931 and 1950. As access to Southeast Asian rubber plants was increasingly restricted, TKS was an emergency ration of latex in a world that could end. However, it wasn't only the Soviets who cultivated a colossal mass. The United Kingdom, Germany, Sweden, and the United States bloomed seas over massive hectares, drowning their green fields in white-blooded yellow flowers.

(And now what?)

As the war ended, the programs ceased. The flowers culled. It wasn’t productive to keep going when the costs of upkeep and the yield weren’t as effective as Hevea brasiliensis. The import rate from Thailand and the Dutch East Indies, now known as Indonesia, was matchless for its time. The United States’ rubber industries boomed.

(Me enfada que son tan chuchos los gringos con su pisto... pero buen, los más ricos son los más codiciosos.)

((Faulkner would almost be tempted to agree.))

Many are unaware dandelions are wholly edible from the top of their petals down to their roots. Vitamins A, C, and K dominate its properties; calcium, potassium, iron, and zinc are in superior quantities for the flora to be considered medicinal. In Korean cuisine, 민들레 makes for a zesty salad when fresh or, when blanched, a savory yet refreshing side dish to rice. Agent Faulkner likes the peppery taste, earthy and punchy and fragrantly bitter.

Speaking of breakfast, Agent Faulkner slows down around the trail's bend to check his watch. Five hundred fifty-seven hours. Like a reflex, he unclips his pager from his wristband and sends a short-form message to his primary partner.

146-6837. 98-6. 10-4? 221? 321-630-4125. 53. 960. :)

He purses his lips when there’s no response by six hundred hours, his sneakers crunching through the cold dirt at the final marker of his circuit. Could Agent Dickinson have left his pager by the living room table instead of his bedside? Is he still lost in slumber?

It is six hundred and twelve hours when Agent Faulkner pulls out the leftover bowl of caldo de pollo from his fridge and warms it up on the burner. It’s true what Agent Dickinson has said: the taste is better later; it’s been resting at least eight hours since last night. In turn, Faulkner’s suit jacket also rests, drying on the laundry rack. He’ll get it professionally cleaned tomorrow. The laundromat is unavailable on Sundays.

Standing over the stovetop, Faulkner’s private smile touches the spoonful of hearty tomato broth. The slight curl of his lips is spurred by the memory of Agent Dickinson against his back, at the soft spring of his curls tickling Faulkner’s ear. Last night, he piggybacked the other agent home from the pub. There were apologies for drinking too much, even though Faulkner had advised not to; admittances of gratitude, of Faulkner staying behind even if it interrupted his plotted Saturday night schedule; and a slurred confession, breathed out quiet but unhesitant: just between us, you’ll always be my favorite.

((This Agent’s preference was un-confessed, but Agent Dickinson is his favorite, also.))

There needs no more significant reasoning for how Faulkner feels beyond philanthropy, or as the Greeks call it, ἀγάπη, something universal that bonds the cell of the self in the body of society. It’s the charitable act towards all of humankind that strengthens Faulkner’s arms to carry Agent Dickinson to the man’s quarters. To carefully comb Dickinson’s hair back when the agent sicked in the porcelain repository of his toilet, ferry glasses of water to rinse his mouth.

Selfless admiration washes Dickinson’s face, each stroke an outline to the cordial shape. Frees him from his work clothes. Slip on a light-hued, comfy sweater over lightly scarred, teetering shoulders. The pastel threads bring out the color of rosewood irises ingrained with sleep.

Crouching, Faulkner smooths the sheets, tucking them around Dickinson’s warm, dozing form. He watches for a moment. Magdalene has Faulkner’s sympathies.

((He’d lay his head by Dickinson’s feet, too.))

Comradery tails Agent Faulkner when, at zero hundred hours, he quietly uses his spare key to return to Agent Dickinson’s flat with the finished caldo de pollo and sneaks it into the other agent’s refrigerator, middle shelf. He checks with a single glance into the bedroom to catch Dickinson’s peaceful rest, but the agent’s deeply frowned brows and white-knuckled grip on his sheets say otherwise. Fellowship spectates Faulkner by the man’s bed. He places a cup of water on the bedside table, drapes a note to cover it from dust, and lays two tablets.

Hospitality watches Faulkner’s hand hover over the man, the handkerchief swiping across Dickinson’s creased forehead, gradually erasing every discomfort from whatever plagues his mind. Following several brushes over his skin, the other agent finally sighs, breaking the tautness and loosening his features to rest.

Faulkner silently mirrors the gentle descent of Dickinson’s evened breathing. It seems the nightmare has passed. Faulkner smiles, and Fondness sees him reach to sweep off the matted curls on Gael’s forehead —

“...In-su?”

— Agent Faulkner snaps his hand back, fingers crushing into a fist so quick his joints pop.

Outside of the reverie, the spoon in Agent Faulkner’s mouth rattles against his teeth. The tiniest dribble of caldo spills from the corner of lips like blood, like he’s accidentally bitten his lip or tongue. Before it gets on his pristine white dress shirt, Faulkner mops it up with a napkin.

His watch ticks six hundred thirty hours. The morning brightens. Agent Faulkner exits.

On the way, greetings are shorn short, like buzzcuts. Hello. Has Agent Dickinson arrived? Good morning. Have you seen Agent Dickinson? The launch is at seven hundred hours. Is he there? Please don’t be late? I understand. I’ll get him. Thank you.

The briefing files, snug in a manila folder and cradled against his arm, jostle when Agent Faulkner stops in front of Agent Dickinson’s quarters. Six hundred forty hours. Time has elapsed backtracking to the housing compound. On the way. They’ll look at the files on the way.

“Agent,” Faulkner calls out, punctuating with a single knock at Dickinson's door.

No response is given.

“Agent,” Faulkner repeats with two knocks. “Agent?”

Accordingly, there remains no answer.

Clearing his throat in an undertone, Faulkner pulls out his lanyard hidden in his shirt pocket, drawing the suite’s spare key behind his keycard. Although he doesn’t like to trespass, the situation finds him choiceless. He goes through with it, twisting the key and the knob. The door closes with a subtle click.

“Agent Dickinson?” he inquires.

Hollow thumps creak through the apartment until Faulkner’s footsteps skirt the bedroom’s threshold. The figure within the room stirs, and Faulkner gives him privacy until he hears a hack. He enters the room, already down to a crouch by Dickinson’s side, and pats the other agent’s back through a cough.

When Dickinson quietens, Faulkner speaks. “Hello, Agent. Good to see you. How are you today? I extend my apologies for barging in. Here.” Faulkner moves automatically, dredging his handkerchief from his suit pocket to sop up the water on the other agent’s face.

Once finished with his task, Faulkner stands tall and relays the proper information. Unfortunately, today’s launch has been relocated to Terminal D, the farthest among the launch areas. They will also need to pick up their USFFs on the way. The clock on Dickinson’s table draws ever nearer to six hundred and forty-six hours. Faulkner clicks his tongue.

He’s composed as he explains, “Agent, I regret to inform you we have less than fifteen minutes to launch. Are you able to get dressed soon? We can brief on the way; I have the files.”

who  :  agent faulkner, @faulknxr

where  :  agent dickinson's living quarters

when  :  march 13, 1994, 6:35 AM

The golden light from the spring sun gently spilled into Agent Dickinson’s quarters through a pair of partially closed curtains. In the still darkened expanse of the bedroom, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across the walls, the light shifting between the warm rays of natural light and the prismatic hues not normally seen by the naked eye. The ribbons of colors shimmered and twirled as if dancing, distorted through a crystal glass wind chime that hung across from the apartment’s central cooling vent. The gentle whooshing of the climate-controlled air and the soft tinkling of the translucent glass beads that swayed in the breeze were both drowned out by the incessant treble of a shrieking radio alarm clock that sat atop a cluttered bedside table.

In the queen-sized mattress next to the nightstand, Agent Dickinson let out a strained curse before he pressed his face deeper into the mattress; the pillow that had been his head rest the night before was folded in half to cover both ears in a vain attempt to muffle the sound. While turning off the alarm would be easier than pretending it didn’t exist, the pounding in his head made the very act of reaching out to shut it off seem utterly impossible.

But he knew he needed to get up; he was running late, and Faulkner was waiting.

Dickinson’s heart clenched behind its cage of flesh and bone, erratically thumping out of rhythm, haunted by some peculiar, misplaced pseudesthesia. The fuzzy remnants of a dream—a nightmare, really—clung to the edges of his subconscious. Stubborn and sticky like the seedpods of the burdock plants that grew in the walking trails he and—In-su—Faulkner frequented in the summertime; those barbed spurs that left a penetrating, stinging itch hours after the intrusion had been removed. The burning sensation of the nearly invisible puncture was the only evidence of a wound. A laughable phantom injury that still hurt regardless.

Chuckling cheerlessly, Dickinson squinted at the time displayed on the green digital screen of the alarm clock. 6:38. He was over thirty minutes late. His chest seized up in a bewildering sob that petered off into an equally mystifying series of sniffles. He couldn’t even remember what it had been that had upset him so much, the fragments of the dream vanishing like wisps of smoke, like fog, when he tried to bring them into focus; leaving behind only the heartache and drying tear tracks as proof that anything had terrorized his sleeping mind.

The only thing he could recall with any certainly were the sound of someone crying, bright white lights, and a cacophony of noises in the distance. But that in itself offered very little insight when it came to narrowing down the memory. All things considered.

“¡Ya! cállate,” Dickinson hissed, eyes closed, as he extended his arm to slam the ‘off’ button of the clock but only managed to bump his fingers into cool glass. He bit back another curse, opened his eyes, and lifted himself on his elbows to reach around the obstruction that had been left on his bedside table. Once the shrill wailing had been silenced, once and for all, Dickinson rolled onto his back and stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

The last vestiges of the nightmare had been blown away by the torrential winds of his waking mind, so it would be pointless for him to continue to dwell on it now. But there was something gnawing at the deepest alcoves in his psyche. An animallike dread made his skin break out into gooseflesh and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. A ghostly chill, a creeping horror that had dug its claws into the core of his being. Dickinson wondered idly who had emerged to haunt his subconscious last night. Which one of the many ghosts that trailed behind him had come seeking their toll for the years he had stolen from them?

The thought sent another pang of melancholy through him. Dickinson pressed his hands to his face in response, trying to clear his mind. If this was the penitence he had to pay for letting Agent Fitzgerald goad him into another drinking contest, then maybe this would finally teach him to stop letting things get this far. Everyone knew Dickinson was a terrible drunk; a lightweight who’d get overly emotional—and then embarrassingly clingy. So if he had to bet, Dickinson would suppose the Fitz got a kick out of seeing him turn into a weepy mess, teary face pressed into the side of one of his usual victims (Faulkner, Whitman, or Hemingway) whose side he’d cling to for the rest of the night.

‘It was Faulkner last night,’ Dickinson thought sluggishly. It was usually Faulkner as of late. And since Dickinson had woken up in his own place instead of being deposited onto someone’s couch, it was the only logical conclusion; his long-term mission partner was the only one Dickinson trusted enough with a key to his apartment, after all. Whitman would probably try to pull a prank (or two) and Hemingway’s susceptibility to peer pressure made him a liability even if Whitman didn’t have a key.

Grumbling with no real heat behind the sound, Dickinson recalled the glass of water that had been left for him on the nightstand, another hint that pointed towards his partner. Sitting up he squinted at the sunlight pouring into the bedroom before he shifted his gaze to the glass and noticed that there was a square of paper placed over it, and two white circular tablets of medicine atop of that. Dickinson snorted as he carefully pinched the aspirin pills between his thumb, index, and middle finger so he could snatch up the handwritten letter between his final two. Popping the medication into his mouth, he brought the note to eye level and blindly pawed for the cup. Sipping on the water, he scanned the note, which read:

Good morning, Agent Dickinson: I hope you slept alright. Please take these pills with food and water. There is a bowl of caldo de pollo in the fridge. Two minutes in the Radarange should suffice. Our meeting time at Briefing Room A is 700 hours. I shall get you by 645 hours if I do not receive a page back by 630 hours. Cordially, Agent Faulkner. P.S. Please do not worry about my suit jacket from last night. I properly rinsed the discharge.㋡

Dickinson choked on his drink, dribbling water onto his chin and chest. Coughing and pounding at his sternum, he placed the glass back onto the bedside table and looked at the time.

6:43.

Faulkner was probably already unlocking the door.

[wilddandelion0]

The Starry Night (2022)

Oil on canvas

size: 22.3x27cm

[emsal]

🌼 @yugyeom 💚🐥 내 치마의 자수했는 #민들레 이건 잘 안됬지만 그래도 난 우리 유겸에 영감을 받고 그를 생각하고 만들었다니까 괜찮아 🤭 나한테 그런 이유 충분해 ^^ 아주 기뻥~ 😏😌💚 (둘 다 녹색인데 왜 하나 갈색 보인다😅ㅋㅋㅋ) #터키 #일상 #데일리 #유겸 #우리겸둥이 #아가새 #갓세븐 #김유겸 #dandelion #kimyugyeom #yugyeom #ahgase #igot7 #got7 #daily #lively #karahindiba #nakış #embroidery (Türkiye) https://www.instagram.com/p/CQeJeoQKXyW/?utm_medium=tumblr

[dogandcatcomics]

#repost @isabalenti Isabel Albornoz (Quito, Ecuador).   Diente de León / Dandelion.  China ink.    .

[lyrics365]

민들레 (Dandelion)

jaepbicheuro muldeureoganeun igot pyojeongi sarajyeobeorin maneun saramdeul nemonan jageun sesang soge jeongsineomneun soeumdeul saie sideulgo isseonneunde tick tick tick sigani heureugo gipeun jameseo kkaeeona deuneolbeun haneul arae jayuropge kkumkkudeon naldeuri numbusyeo boyeo useum jieumyeo hanggeoreum deo tteona kkeuteopsi pyeolchyeojineun sesang sogeul naragaja jeo haneure daeul…

[audiophiliacfan]

가사우리 손 잡을까요 지난날은 다 잊어버리고 나를 사랑한다고 말해주세요 우리 동네에 가요 편한 미소를 지어 주세요 노란 꽃잎처럼 내 맘에 사뿐히 내려앉도록 바람결에 스쳐 갈까 내 마음에 심어질까 무심코 내딛는 걸음에 아파하며 돌아설까 구겨진 잎사귀라도 예쁜 책에 꽂아놓고 너에게 주고만 싶어요 사랑을 말하고 싶어 사랑해요 그대 있는 모습 그대로 너의 모든 눈물 닦아주고 싶어 어서 와요 그대 매일 기다려요 나 웃을게요 많이 그대를 위해 많이 많이 웃을게요 우리 손 잡을까요 (널 얼마나 사랑하는데) 오늘은 안아줘요 (널 얼마나 기다렸는데) 이제는 춤을 춰요 (왜 왜 자꾸 멀어지려 해) 우리 동네에 가요 (왜 왜 자꾸 놓아주려 해) 놓아주려 해 바람처럼 사라질까 내 마음을 채워줄까 시간마저 쉴 수 있는 나의 집이 되어줄까 빗물이 나를 적시고 눈앞을 흐리게 해도 나는 너를 보고 싶어요 너와 함께 하고 싶어 사랑해요 그대 있는 모습 그대로 너의 모든 시간 함께 하고 싶어 어서 와요 그대 같이 걸어가요 웃게 해줄게요 더 웃게 해줄게요 영원히

[makingus]

[koreantunes]

우효 (Oohyo) - 민들레 (Dandelion)

[moonbinu]

230411 Astro Twitter Update | Moonbin

로하 민들레 꽃씨에요!!!😀 민들레 꽃씨야~바람 타고 널리널리 퍼져나가렴! #아스트로 #아로하 [Roha a dandelion flower seed!!! 😀 Dandelion flower seed~ ride the wind and spread far and wide!]

내 소중한 사람들에게 봄이 왔다고 살랑살랑 간지럽혀줘 [go tell my precious people that spring has come by gently tickling them]

[wilddandelion0]

편지 (The letter)

Oil on canvas 2021