pre revolutionary

OKAY SO I JUST REALISED SOMETHING

SO back in during the revolutionary war the British soliders sang a song called Yanke Doodle (which is now a famous American song and even the state anthem of Connecticut).

SO MY QUESTION TO YOU IS, WHAT DOES THIS SONG HAVE IN COMMON WITH THE 2004 GREEN DAY SONG AMERICAN IDIOT?

1. Okay so American Idiot is quite simple what the title means. But you don’t really know what Yankee Doodle means right.

Okay so Yankee is basically an American person. But what the fuck is a doodle?

Wait wait. So Doodle means “fool” right. Technically this means that the song is literally called American Idiot. But that’s not everything.

2. The meaning in American Idiot is according to Wikipedia that Green Day and Billy Armstrong makes fun of the American people.

Examples:  “American Idiot” contends that mass media has orchestrated paranoia and idiocy among the public. Citing cable news coverage of the Iraq War, Billie Joe Armstrong recalled, “They had all these Geraldo-like journalists in the tanks with the soldiers, getting the play-by-play.“ He felt with that, American news crossed the line from journalism to reality television, showcasing violent footage intercut with advertisements.[2]  and Armstrong went on to write the song after hearing the Lynyrd Skynyrd song "That’s How I Like It” on his car radio.[3] “It was like, ‘I’m proud to be a redneck’ and I was like, 'oh my God, why would you be proud of something like that?’ This is exactly what I’m against.” )

But what is the meaning of Yankee Doodle? According to Wikipedia:

Traditions place its origin in a pre-Revolutionary War song originally sung by British military officers to mock the disheveled, disorganized colonial “Yankees” with whom they served in the French and Indian War, apparently written c. 1755 by British Army surgeon Dr. Richard Shuckburgh while campaigning in upper New York.[13] The British troops sang it to make fun of their stereotype of the American soldier as a Yankee simpleton who thought that he was stylish if he simply stuck a feather in his cap.[1]

You see a pattern here? Yankee Doodle IS LITERALLY A 18TH CENTURY VERSION OF AMERICAN IDIOT.

2

Blue lips, blue veins

Blue, the color of our planet from far, far away…

[Blue Lips, Regina Spektor]

idk if I have the sTRENGTH or tIME to do a complete songcomic now but I’ve been experimenting with this style of inking in my midtone sketchbook. This song inspired a whole bunch of imagery with me and i’d love to explore it more definitely! I liked the thought of pre-revolutionary Alfred being a little farm country yeoman in the early 1700s, growing up, and then moving to the new towns springing up on the coast and being overwhelmed by all the people :0

youtube

The Queen of Spades (1916) is one of the Yakov Proazanov’s (a Russian and Soviet movie director, one of the founding fathers of the cinema of Russia) masterpieces. It is considered to be one of the best pre-revolutionary Russian movies. 

The story is a film adaptation of Alexander Pushkin’s short story “The Queen of Spades”.
A young officer German (Hermann) hears a story about an old Countess Fedotova, who in her youth made a fortune by playing three particular cards, but nobody knew what were they. German decides to find out and gets acquainted with Countess's granddaughter Lizaveta who quickly falls in love with German. He uses her go get into their house and talk to old Countess to ask her of the cards. When he manages to get into the house at night under the pretext of a secret date with Lizaveta, he crawls into Countess’s room and demands to know the cards she played. Suddenly she dies of fright. But on the next night, she comes in his sleep and tells the secret. German now knows that the cards are the trey, the seven and the ace. And….. I’m not going to reveal what happened next!

The Protazanov’s movie was the first one in Rusian cinematography that used a moving camera (in just one scene) and unusual camera angles like high-angle shot. Retrospection, which is also very unexpectable for such early movies.

thicc-owl  asked:

Pls I love fancy balls and nobility and everything like that I don't think I ever grew out of my "I want to be a pretty princess" childhood phase. So could I have a pre revolutionary France era in which the prince is just so hopelessly in love with the fair lady at the ball, but it's a ball and he's a prince so he's expected to dance and socialise with everyone but all he wants to do is go and woo the lady who is 1/2

(Heads up, this is more of a Medieval Kingdom AU than a French Prince AU hope you like it anyways… ALSO SOMEONE PLEASE TEACH ME HOW TO ENABLE “READ MORE” BECAUSE THIS IS A LONGIE)

Prince Oikawa x Noble Reader

Tooru had just finished fixing his cravat when a group of girls began tugging at it. They were all under five foot two, and if it weren’t for the way he was raised he would’ve denoted them all as children. The girls kept asking him questions, tugging at his sleeve and waistcoat until he answered them all with a smile. He was used to them, the questions. They had been rushing towards him in an onslaught ever since his first facial hair was visible. The questioners, well, were all noble girls. Petite, pretty things with waists thinner than their necks. Everytime he greeted one, whether it be with a kiss on the cheek or a shake of the hand, he was also greeted with the familiar residue of powder. Their wigs seemed taller than they were, and every time a new girl had rushed up to join the crowd, all he noticed was a bobbing mass of hair.
From across the room he caught the eye of Hajime. Hajime was a noble, an intelligent one, at that. He was no prince, nobody particularly extravagant, but he hauled in a crowd of his own. Hajime had these green eyes that could draw anybody in. Tooru swore they could even make a man homosexual, if he looked long enough. Hajime was a natural born conversationalist, something Tooru had envied. Tooru could handle all these girls just fine, more than fine, really. All he had to do was start a conversation about a lovely horseback ride he had down to Spain and puff out his chest a little, then spin them around for a second to the melody that was seemingly on repeat. Although, none of that had anything on the works of his companion. Maybe one day, if he swallowed up his pride, he’d ask the man how he was able to talk so smoothly to others. Until then, though, he may as well be trapped.
“Your highness!” Tooru glanced down to meet the eyes of a girl who had boldly stepped to the front of the crowd. She was short and plump and looked damn well on the brink of suffocation. He began to wonder if it would be rude if he unlaced her corset when they inevitably had to waltz.
“Yes, my dear?” He flashed a smile, wide and tacky, and by the shocked expression on her face, she was blushing. He couldn’t see it past all the powder, though. “Would you like a dance?”
She nodded, standing in front of him as still as a statue. Over the years, Tooru has noticed the difference in girls that approached him. They were either much too assertive, grabbing his behind or chest before even requesting a dance. Or, they were far too meek, hands balled up in the fabric of their dresses, eyes wet and close to tears. Unfortunately, after all these years, he still doesn’t know how to deal with either.
He scooped her hand out of the lace of her dress and kissed her knuckles, ignoring the squealing of the rest of the girls and twirled off. Part of him began to get agitated. She had requested a dance but did no more than shuffle and stumble over the length of her dress. Tooru resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and when he almost did, he caught the eye of his father up in the balcony. The man shook his head, made an exaggerated facial gesture, and stormed off. Of course, his father was pushing him to do more than just wait there for her to fix her two left feet. So, he had picked her up off the floor, gave her a good twirl in the air, and chuckled into the material of her wig.
“Well, what are you waiting for? You asked for a dance, didn’t you?” If it weren’t for the smile on his face and the light in his voice, his words would’ve been downright rude. The girl nodded, finding her courage and twirled off to the beat of the waltz.
Tooru couldn’t count how many times he’s danced this exact same dance. At this point, it had to be over a thousand, but it definitely felt like a million. During this time, all he’d do is think. He’d hold the maiden close, let her have her fun, whilst he stared out at the crowd around him. Only on rare occasions has he ever had a fun dance. A dance where the entire floor clears out for him and a beautiful, blooming gowned noble to sweep through, the genuine smiles on both of their faces lighting up the room as they did. This, however was not one of those times. The only thing he could think about was the way his genitals were sitting oh so uncomfortably inside of his breeches.
He gave the girl one last absentminded twirl before she fluttered off towards a group of her friends. She was swooning, hand up against her forehead in the most pretentious way possible. Her friends clutched her shoulders and squealed, tugging at the sides of the poor girl’s wig and nearly making her topple over. Tooru found himself laughing at the melodrama as he cleared his way through the dance floor. Waltzes were never his forte. The aesthetic of pretty girls twirling by like silk butterflies was nice enough for the eyes, but for the heart, it was just too much. Tooru thinks he wasn’t meant to be a prince, let alone a king in his near future. He was told ever since he was a child that he was a natural born leader, but who was he to lead in a place like this? There was nothing to conquer, (unless he wanted to pick a fight with Prince Tobio of The Mountain of the Crows once again) and nobody to lead. He was a prince without a purpose. A price succumbed to luring in delicate butterflies with sweet fruit of his tending.
Tooru brushed himself off after pushing past the last waltzing couple. The way they had looked at each other made the child in him want to gag. Hajime must have noticed the sour expression on his face, because one he approached the latter, he had received an impromptu nudge to the rib.
“Are you having fun out there, Your Highness?” Hajime’s every word was sardonic, and if it weren’t for the fact that Tooru was in a room full of people dependent on his reputation, he would’ve punched him.
“What does it look like Hajime?”
“It looks like you’re about to kill a man… You know, on the other side of the room there’s a surplus of wine, I suggest you fill yourself up before the next lady approaches you.”
“Your provocation humors me, Hajime.” Tooru’s reply was bitter. The coy smirk Hajime shot at him had faded, and replaced with a frown.
“See any girls you like out there? Your father is expecting a marriage soon, and all your options, wealthy wise, of course, are in this room right now. They’re yours for the taking.” Tooru rolled his eyes at this. He readjusted his waistcoat out of force of habit, and tightened his cravat.
“Marriage my ass.” He snorted.
“Somebody’s vulgar tonight. I suggest you take my invitation to wine.” Hajime shot him one last, lingering glance, then set off to talk to a group of young noblemen Tooru had never seen. In the midsts of his thinking, standing there lonesome, he had attracted a bit of a crowd. He hadn’t realized they were there until a powdered wig tickled his chin. He had jolted, holding his hand out in front of him in urge not to scream.
“Hello, Your Highness!” She peeped, and the cycle began again.


Tooru barely had any sense of time once the ball had ended. His bad knee was starting to flare up again, though. He swore it was the works of that one overweight mistress who kept insisting he hold her up in the air. A few couples still lingered around in the ballroom, chatting away with other couples as if they had lived here. He had made his way through them all unnoticed, which he was deeply grateful for, and scurried out the back doors of the hall. He was hoping he wouldn’t run into either of his parents out here, for he was sure he was to receive a scolding. They would start with “treat your subjects kinder” and end with “disgrace for a prince”, as they always did. Just like everything else in his life, this has been going on for years. He was bitterly used to it.
The grand clock in the corridor struck half past one, and the mere chime was enough to worsen Tooru’s headache. He could bolt straight for his room, but he reckoned he’d see somebody up there. Maybe he’d get himself lost in the palace, as he did most nights, and wake up on a balcony. He found solace in the world outside, as of late. Sometimes he wondered if he was born as a commoner, would he be able to explore the vastness more often? In this day and age, the poor gained experiences what they didn’t money, and the rich, as loaded as they may be, were on a repetitive cycle of counting their cash and getting drunk on wine from Italy. The crown on his head told him he was important, but was he?
He came across a balcony off the East wing of the castle. The chilly April breeze was enough to make him regret this decision entirely. The wind blew the drapery around against its will, and through the fluttering of fabric, Tooru swore he saw a figure standing outside. He took a few steps forward and paused because yes, indeed there was a person outside on the balcony. His balcony. He furrowed his brow and stepped off onto the balcony before clearing his throat and muttering, “Miss?”
The woman turned around with irritation irked all over her face. Tooru immediately took a few steps back, not because he was intimidated by her, but rather the broken wine glass in her hand. She wasn’t anything like he had ever seen before, in the negative connotation, that is. She wore little to no makeup upon her full face, powdered wig as absent as her decency. Her long blue ball gown would’ve sweeped the floor if it weren’t for the fact she was holding it up past her ankles with pins.
“Oh, Prince Tooru, pleasure seeing you here.” She smiled. The smile was obviously fake, but Tooru wasn’t in the mood for calling her out upon it. Her hand tightened around the neck of the broken wine glass with each step Tooru took forward. Her knuckles were turning white, and he feared the glass would shatter in a matter of seconds.
“Likewise, Miss.” He bowed, before clearing his throat and leaning against the cast iron railing beside her. “Any particular reason why you’re still lingering around here?”
“Any particular reason why I’m not?” She shrugged. Her grip on the glass has loosened, and now it just hung idly by her fingertips, at risk of falling. It was giving Tooru a heart attack.
“Well, I think you look absolutely stunning tonight, Miss…”
“__. __ __.”
“Yes, Miss __. A gem.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, your highness. Don’t expect me to run off and brag about my encounter with the Prince of the Succulent Valley, now.”
“I wasn’t planning on you doing so.”
There was something about this woman that Tooru had liked. Of course, he was raised being told that woman should always respect you as prince, no matter the circumstance. Although, there was something about being disrespected that Tooru found spellbindingly amusing.
“May I ask, where do you come from, Miss __?”
“The Mountain of the Crows, your highness.” She shrugged. Tooru noticed she finally regained a stable grip on the glass, but held it straight up against the railing. She was going to let it fall, Tooru thought, and his heart was pounding. Except, she balanced it nicely mere centimeters away from the edge, letting it sit there in inevitability of tumbling.
“Well, that explains most things. Tobios your ruler, huh? Must be tough, having someone so stubborn keep your people regulated…”
“Actually, he’s rather intelligent. I’d much rather have someone with a thick skull over a shameless flirt.”
Tooru furrowed his eyebrows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smirk. __ brought provocation at its finest to the table tonight, and Tooru was absolutely starving. He began to chuckle under his breath. The sheer irony of the situation was enough to make him burst into tears, and the poor woman had no idea why he was laughing so hard.
“Your highness, I know you’re prone to psychotic episodes, but do you need me to fetch your father?”
“That won’t be necessary, dear __.” He choked out between a fit. “My dear, would you like to know something?”
“I’d like to know a lot of things, your highness.”
“I like you.” He stated, deadpan. She cocked her eyebrow, and for some reason, began fiddling with the god forsaken broken glass again.
“Is that so? Or do you say that to all the maidens you meet on balconies?” Tooru found the coy smile on her face infectious. He found himself smiling too.
“I only say that to people like __ __. You people from the Crow Kingdom, you’re hysterical. Why don’t any of you travel out here more often?”
“Well. Your nights, I can’t remember the names of them exactly, but I do remember he very much resembled a turnip, wouldn’t let us in unless we had an export that would be valuable to you.” She shrugged. “I didn’t quite mind. I like the mountains better, anyways.”
“Well, you must like the fields just a little bit. You’re here right now, aren’t you?” Tooru found himself slinking closer to her. She held his eyes in a death stare, failing to even blink. Tooru seized this opportunity to snatch the glass from her hands and hide it behind his back. Although, she barely seemed to notice.
“They come up close as a runner up, I’d say.” She smiled up at him then. Their eyes continued to stay locked until she blinked, and turned fast on the ball of her heel. Tooru was confused, to say at the least, but said nothing as she undid the clips on her dress, letting the skirt fall to cover her ankles.
“It gets hot out here, sometimes, your highness. I think it’s a little unfair that we ladies can’t find a way to cool off in the slightest. Sorry if I cast sin upon your holy eyes” She hummed, turning to face him once more whilst letting the pins fall to the floor.
“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily call my eyes holy…” He was cut off with a harumph. He knew she had meant every word sarcastically, but there was something fun about irking her, he thought.
“Well, your highness, this was a very nice chat we’ve had. Pleasant way to spend a Saturday evening.” With that, she curtseyed, and exited the grand entrance to the inside.”
It took Tooru a moment to process what had just happened before he leaped into action. He let the wine glass fall to the concrete and shatter into pieces, but in that moment, he didn’t mind.
“Wait, Miss __?” Tooru called out. She was halfway down the hall now, but spared him a glance over her shoulder.
“Yes, your highness?”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“Depends, your highness. Would you like to see me again?” Tooru couldn’t bring himself to admit that he found interest in her, but without saying anything, she knew. So he just nodded and relished in the small, half smile she shot him, and melted at the sight of her bouncing down the hall, the soft click of her shoe reminiscent in the back of his mind.
Well, maybe now these balls were a little bit more his forte.

I have a weird background.

I mean, that’s true on a plethora of levels, but today I’m just talking about the genetic one.

Technically speaking, I’m mixed-race. My father’s a member of the Eastern Band of Cherokee and his father was born on a reservation – didn’t have a birth certificate until he got an affidavit for it upon joining the Army. But to look at me and talk to me you’d only see and hear the generic white mongrel of various Northern European immigrant strains, from pre-Revolutionary War to WWI. I didn’t grow up living the experiences of the visibly mixed, and I’m afforded all the racial privileges of someone who’s fully white.

It’s odd. As fiercely proud as I am of having Native heritage, I don’t know much of any of the Native side of my family, either in person or their history. Not knowing feels like a gap in me. Yet there’s a lot of ugly family politics in the way of me and finding out more about where my father came from.

I can’t in good conscience call myself mixed or biracial outright. That would be callous and grossly disrespectful to those who are visibly mixed and treated differently for it.

I can’t in all accuracy call myself white, either, because I don’t want to erase the part of my heritage that survived the unspeakable – it would feel like recanting on them.

So, I don’t know what I really am.

Nothing new there.

Because, GOSH DARN IT, its the Culloden-versary and I need some fluff.

This li’l bit was invented just for the sake of being adorable. It does fit into the Stones timeline, but it won’t be part of the chapters.

The premise: Julia (aka Faith, for the newcomers) has traveled back in time to 1767. She’s spent the last six-ish months with her biological parents and is somewhat adjusted to living in pre-Revolutionary America. Spring has arrived, allowing for the Frasers of the Ridge to visit River Run/Cross Creek. In honor of her niece’s visit, Jocasta Cameron is throwing a dinner party.


“Will there be dancing?” Julia asked. She spun on her toes into the center of the expansive rug.

Jamie made a sort of noncommittal, yet somehow affirmative, sound at the back of his throat. He had turned away from her to more closely examine a piece of his aunt’s artwork that hung on the formal salon’s wall, but came to attention when I nudged him.  

“I dinna ken, a leannain,” he added with a look of apology to me. The three of us had just finished our grand tour of River Run, this being Julia’s first time at Jocasta’s estate, and now that we had finished where we started, we were quickly losing Jamie’s attention.

“Hmm,” she pondered. Her arms out wide, head back, eyes closed, and a relaxed smile played on her lips.  “I don’t suppose I’m old enough to go to a ball anyway.”

A ball. She thought her aunt was throwing a ball in her honor? I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her that a dinner party with Cross Creek’s finest would be a far cry from Cinderella’s ball. Although, at the rate Julia kept misplacing her shoes, she may very well be down to just one when the clock struck midnight.

A new idea lit her face and Julia dashed over to Jamie, pulling him by the hand back to her spot in the middle of the room.  She laughed at his surprised countenance. “C’mon, Da! Dance with me!”

“Dance?” He asked, catching my attempt to stifle a laugh of my own. Jamie was as tone deaf as a rock and was well aware of the fact. His brows rose as he gave me one of those looks over the top of Julia’s head.

“It’s easy! Just follow me,” she took both of her father’s hands and stepped backwards about an arm’s length. “Ready?”

Without waiting for his answer, she began to hum as she moved thru the steps of a slow waltz. She didn’t bother to count the beats and steps to him, but let the tune of her song carry them along. It sounded familiar, a melody I recognized, but couldn’t quite place.

“Good!” She beamed up at him.

“Does it have words?” He inquired of her tune, returning her ear splitting grin. Jamie may not be able to tell one note from another, but he had a great appreciation for lyrics.

Nodding, Julia started to sing as they made their way around the floor.

“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.”

A chill went down my spine as I listened. How many times had I walked with her in my dreams?

“I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.”

She was so familiar to me. So familiar and so foreign all at once. The child I had known and carried and cared for had grown up without me, yet she was still the same. She was still my beautiful Julia, the child of my heart.

“And I know it’s true, that visions are seldom all they seem.”

The little girl who had visited me in my every waking and dreaming moment was now dancing in front of me, in the flesh. The ghosts I couldn’t bear to let go of, I could now hold in my arms.

“For if I know you, I know what you’ll do.”

I knew Jamie. I knew he would be a wonderful father, he had been then and he would be now. My heart ached for our other child, the daughter Jamie would never meet, separated from us not only by space but the chasm of time. The two of them were so alike, Brianna and Julia.

Suddenly, it all fit together. I could see Brianna dancing in my mind’s eye: twirling about the kitchen, singing in her angelic voice. It was this very song. Brianna had sung this song for weeks after we took her to see Sleeping Beauty at the cinema.

“You’ll love me at once,”

My throat tightened as Jamie brought Julia closer to him while they danced. He bent to place a gentle kiss on the top of her head, their matching russet curls intertwining for a moment. I would never get used to the sight of them together.

She had arrived into our world just as suddenly the second time as she had the first. It comes without warning, that instant of introduction. The moment when you meet the physical embodiment of every ounce of love you have within you. You would think the unending weeks of pregnancy and hours of labor would prepare a mother to meet the child they carried, but it doesn’t, not really.

“The way you did once upon a dream.”

I no longer had to dream. I was here with Jamie. Julia was here with us. Brianna was safe in the future. My eyes slid shut as I willed the tears forming at the back of my eyes to go away. Jamie’s arms closed around me and I couldn’t help but smile as I felt him shrug.

“Dinna fash, mo beag nighean, they’re happy tears.”

The Martha Washington, Fashion Queen Post

Okay, so I feel I have to address an issue, I, as a thoroughly ignorant Brit, didn’t know until now.

WHY DID NO-ONE TELL ME MARTHA WASHINGTON WAS A FASHION QUEEN?

Now, granted, I’ve not had much exposure to American history, outside of my gran showing me Gone With The Wind, and the little I gleaned growing up from Alvin and the Chipmunks, The Simpsons, and National Treasure.
Watching Turn and having international friends who are enthusiastic about their history was a massive epiphany for me. Wait, there’s a whole new arena of history I haven’t explored? Sweet!

But on of my pre-conceived notions from all that pop-culture was that Martha Washington was a Founding Grandmother. You know…

Looks like little Red Riding Hood’s granny…

Look, granny! Carries knitting in one hand (possibly patriotic knitting. After all, Betsy Ross doesn’t just get dibs.)

Why Grandmamma, what big 1780s caps you have! (all the better to be First Lady with, my dear…)

From the paintings and iconography of Martha Washington, I’d have been very surprised if she didn’t own a rocking-chair. And I’m sure, in later life, she did. But that wasn’t ALL there was to Martha….

Wait, THIS is Martha, too?!


At first, there seems nothing to connect the staid, sensible-looking old lady in the first few portraits to this reconstructed painting of young Martha Washington, or the “Widow Custis.”

One of the first things I was struck by was that for a long time, Washington wasn’t really “George Washington” pre-Revolutionary War. He was the ‘Widow Custis’ husband’.

Now, according to Wikipedia:

“Martha Washington has traditionally been seen as a small, frumpy woman, who spent her days at the Revolutionary War winter encampments visiting with the common soldiers in their huts.”

I think the Widow Custis’ rather fabulous wardrobe would beg to disagree!

See the colours up there? Blue - especially that deep indigo blue - was tradionally one of the most expensive dyes available. No-one who could afford indigo is EVER going to be accused of being frumpy by 18th century peers.

Also - I could write a whole essay about Martha Washington and the colour yellow.

This particular shade, known as “Imperial yellow” ,was a big thing in both 18th century East and West. Like the fad for Chinoiserie that was prevalent at the time, this was a cultural fashion import from China.

According to an article by the University of Nottingham,

“Yellow, as one of the five colours derived from the Five Elements Theory surpassed the other colours when it became the emblem of emperor. It was thought that the emperor was located in the centre of the five directions and the centre was represented by the element earth and the colour yellow. “

The idea struck a chord with the 18th century west, and yellow became an increasingly popular colour in gowns for the upper class, gradually filtering down to the middle classes towards the end of the 18th century. Back in the 1750s when Martha was the young, attractive, fiery Widow Custis, this would have made one heck of an impact, especially in the colonies. It showed her wealth and status in one go as well as - her ability to source fabrics from the other end of the earth.

I’m also going to add that when marrying Washington, Martha’s wedding gown of choice?

Imperial Yellow. Plain and frumpy this ain’t. Martha’s practically wearing a solid gold dress.

(Reproduction on display at Mount Vernon)

And, keeping up that ‘indigo blue/purple’ is one of the most expensive dyes around theme?

May I present the First Lady’s extremely sassy wedding shoes? In purple silk and gilt thread - and with that ahem, ‘imperial yellow’ silk lining peeping out there?

to quote the excellent @americanrevolutionhotties, these were the ‘Manolo Blahniks’ of their day. And they certainly say “you are one LUCKY man, Georgie boy” in spades (although George was by no means a shabby dresser himself, the gorgeous red-haired dork.) Martha was 27 when she married him, a young, attractive widow  and businesswoman with two children and an incredible inheritance from her previous husband. This must have been the powerhouse wedding of the century!

Being an absolute costume nerd, I did a bit more research into Martha Washington’s wardrobe. What else did this fashion forward woman have in her linen press?

Well…

This gown’s an absolute confection! Pink, embroidered satin, muslin and fine lace sleeves - and don’t froget, touch of yellow in the florals there. Martha still kept her style!

It’s sometimes incorrectly named her ‘inaugural ballgown’, as it’s part of the Smithsonian’s First Ladies Inaugural Gown collection. Martha strongly disapproved of George being President and actually didn’t show up for his inauguration. She was at home, busy ‘packing’. (So you can add strong-willed and independent to the list of amazing things Martha is, too)

There’s also this rather fantastic gold brocaded ballgown. The colours have faded, but you can see traces of the original colour in the bodice -and can you imagine it glittering by candlelight at a dinner table?

In her later years, Martha adopted a simpler transitional 1790s style that’s mostly commonly shown in the portraits of her as an older lady; practical, in keeping with her status, but a little more restrained (as befits a sober older lady, by the standards of the time) Still, amazingly classy in silk…

(Also, plus-size, and still rocking it. You go, girl!)

Loving the button detailing, very chic.

Sadly, these are the only gowns that survive intact from Martha’s wardrobe. Martha was nothing if not practical and a lot of her and George’s clothes were cut up and distributed to admirers and friends. But luckily, Mount Vernon has a great collection of these remnants of finery, so I’m going to post the “scraps of history” here, with a few thoughts on what they might have been…

Gorgeous red brocade with blue and gold trailing flowers! You can still see the folds where it was pleated, probably into a robe francaise. According to Mount Vernon, the little circle you can see cut-out is too small to be an armhole. It was probably used by her granddaughter to make a pin-cushion.

MOAR IMPERIAL YELLOW. YESSS, MARTHA. WEAR ALL THE YELLOW.

And this lovely green damask - hey, there’s something that probably looked like the gown Martha wears in Turn! Full points, costume designers!

AMAZINGLY similar lace, saved from Martha’s wedding gown. The exquisite lace sleeves would be re-used on other gowns as an accessory. Again, 10/10, Turn costume designers!

one of my favourites out of the Mount Vernon collection. The peach and white and brown… oh, would look stunning on a brunette!  I can only imagine this in an open robe, or a robe francaise, or anglaise, or… *grabby hands at fabric* 

well, look who’s rocking 18th century fuchsia and imperial yellow together! DAMN IT MARTHA, GIVE ME YOUR FASHION SENSE.This is my other favourite, in case you couldn’t tell…

and finally, this gorgeous white handpainted silk. You can only imagine what this must have looked like in a gown.

Fashion history lesson over, kids. Spread the word. Martha Washington was an outrageous, daring, fabulous fashion queen.

Head’s up! Viz’s Revolutionary Girl Utena manga box set is now up for pre-order on Amazon! The deluxe box set includes both the original manga & the Adolescence of Utena in hardcover, with some pages presented in color, as well as a new fold out poster! This new set will be released February 7, 2017 and retails for $49.99.

anonymous asked:

queer is a slur hon :)

i’m CRYING this is so fucking funny… i can’t believe people still send this stuff to me.

on that note, if anybody wants to know any real facts about the use of queer throughout history, I’d suggest reading A Queer History of the United States by Michael Bronski (which you can take a look at here). It tackles the evolution of gender and sexuality throughout the history of the US, (as well as pre Revolutionary War) and touches upon the evolution of the language used to describe it.

I’ve only just started it, but it’s well worth the time it takes to read! At the very least, it’s a better use of your time than sending things like this to young queer people, anon.

Dance With Me

Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler

When Rose has an anxiety fueled dream about a historical figure, the Doctor’s comfort takes an unexpected turn.

(read: unexpected literally only for him.)

Birthday fic for the lovely and adorable tinyconfusion and graciously looked over by rudennotgingr.  Happy Birthday, Jenny!

“Who is she?”

“Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, known to her friends as Reinette. One of the most accomplished women who ever lived.”

oOoOo

“So, that Doctor, eh?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well. Madame de Pompadour. Sarah Jane Smith. Cleopatra.”

“Cleopatra. He mentioned her once.”

“Yeah, but he called her Cleo.”

oOoOo

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m very afraid. But you and I both know, don’t we, Rose, the Doctor is worth the monsters.”

oOoOo

“We can’t fly the Tardis without him. How’s he going to get back?”

oOoOo

“Are you alright?”

“I’m always alright.”

oOoOo

Rose woke with a start and blinked tears out of her eyes, the Doctor’s heartbroken posture and expression still swimming in her vision, the very picture of loss.  After a few seconds, though, her sympathy started being drowned out by an intense rage at everything that happened in the dream before that, leading to that.

He’d left her and Mickey in a stupid abandoned spaceship for some french bird who had called Rose a child!  Of all the stupid…always had to show off, Rose knew that about him, but he left!  And just after saying that wouldn’t happen to her, too, the bloody liar.  Yeah, alright, maybe she wasn’t “one of the most accomplished women who ever lived”, but she bloody well deserved better than that!

A tiny voice in her head told her she was being ridiculous, that it was just a dream, but she ignored it as she shoved her covers aside and stomped out into the hall.  She’d had a niggling worry about the firmness of her relationship with the Doctor since the school, no matter how good of terms she’d ended on with Sarah Jane, and it felt good to be angry instead of just nervous and uncertain.  For the moment, anyway, she was fully willing to embrace that, no matter how ludicrous and unfounded it was.

Keep reading

This is a Catrina, not “a sugar skull” the meaning of La Catrina is way more deep than you think. it’s a satirical representation of a culture, not a costume for halloween. 

“La Calavera Catrina (‘Dapper Skeleton’, 'Elegant Skull’) is a 1910–1913 zinc etching by famous Mexican printmaker, cartoon illustrator and lithographer José Guadalupe Posada. The image depicts a female skeleton dressed only in a hat befitting the upper class outfit of a European of her time. Her chapeau en attende is related to French and European styles of the early 20th century. She is offered as a satirical portrait of those Mexican natives who, Posada felt, were aspiring to adopt European aristocratic traditions in the pre-revolutionary era. She in particular has become an icon of the Mexican Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead.”-Wikipedia

The reason of the skelleton is because my people were starving.

They were almost dead but they were trying to look like the upper class because of the discrimination.

i ’m not saying that you ’ Should not dress like La Catrina , i ’m just trying to say: Please, do not  dress like a whore while you are trying to look like a Catrina , stop calling it “ Sugar Skull”, do some research before, respect other’s traditions . You do not get the black mood of mexicans , you do not get our satirical festivities . Respect us and as we say in Mexico, “No la chinguen”

Jealousy

Pairing: Ivan Braginski/ Yao Wang (Russia/China)

Summary: WW2 AU. Insane Russian Commander Ivan Braginski is the terror of his battalion and his enemies alike. He controls the lives of thousands - but it is the memory of one that controls his own. Tie-in to ‘Lily of the Lamplight.’

This is a tie-in fic to my ongoing WW2 AU series. Like 'My Echo,’ it will be a collection of short chapters and flashbacks - from Ivan’s point of view - following the main storyline to my PruAus story, 'Lily of the Lamplight.’ It probably won’t make much sense unless you read that one also, I’m afraid.

WARNING: Although this story is part of the Veraverse, please be warned that it is very dark, potentially unsettling, and a very different type of 'love story’ to the others in the series. Warnings for the story include a rather creepy Ivan, age difference, violence, and dubious consent. Please do not read this expecting a fluffy romance – and if the previous themes bother you, then please do not read this at all. You do not need to read this story to understand 'Lily.’

Summer, 1943

The Russian Front

The noise from the wireless radio drifted into Ivan’s mind like droning, senseless whispers: futile and immaterial, lifeless and empty. Strange words in English he could barely understand; sentimental words in Russian he did not want to. Ivan wondered vaguely if he should turn it off, then wondered uncertainly if it mattered, then wondered angrily who had placed this whispering machine in his makeshift quarters to hum and drone and mock him with its bleak, cheerful, vacant lies. Ivan attempted to ignore it as he stared at the papers on the desk before him. The lying sighs from the radio bled into the senseless words on the page. These words were not for him to understand. Ivan was no man of words - he was a commander. He told men who to kill and how to bleed and where to die. He did not draw lines through letters - that was the business of lesser men. These words belonged to others. Belonged to men like…

“Eduard!” Ivan called the name lightly. Officers who shouted did so because they could not control their men; because they were not loved, feared, or honoured. Ivan had no need to shout. So why, now, was he was not being answered? “Eduard!” he called again. Where was his Estonian? Why did he not answer? The tent flap was open. Ivan frowned at the evasive words laughing up at him. His Estonian would understand these words. He would turn them around and put them in order and send them away somewhere they could not confuse and disturb and mock and laugh. But why was that radio still murmuring, still mindless and pointless and grating and endless and…

Jealousy. Was only through jealousy, Our hearts were broken

And angry words were spoken.

Now all I have is memory

To cherish so tenderly…

Ivan clenched his teeth and tasted blood. The chaotic, clamouring wireless whispers twisted into evil words, sung with a deceitful English voice, hammering into his skull and screaming at him accusingly and no, he did not need Eduard, he needed his Lithuanian, he needed… “Toris!” Ivan snapped his head to see the tent opening flapping in the wind. Flapping vacantly, incessantly… no one entering, and no one standing beyond… and why was there nothing but these words and this void and this noise, this ceaseless noise, these rough, shrill, mocking echoes merging with these empty, laughing words that would… not… stop…

Twas all over my jealousy,

My crime was my blind jealousy,

My heart was afire with desire for you

But I never thought that your love was true…

Ivan shook his head. He fought for breath. He felt it all diminish, and collapse, and cease. Then the world turned white; and Ivan remembered.

Autumn, 1930

Leningrad, Russia

Yao belonged to Ivan. He belonged to him from the very second Ivan first beheld him, on a freezing morning in late autumn, standing proud yet wary in the vast, bare, silent entrance hall of Ivan’s vast, bare, silent manor. His hair as long and black as midnight in winter; his eyes as dark and narrow as the slowly collapsing hallways of the crumbling Braginski mansion. So small, so fragile, like a frightened orphaned cub left alone and helpless in hunting season. They said he had come from China: he and his sister, the bland little girl who stood uncertainly in her lovely brother’s shadow. Both pretty teenagers who would work hard, require little, and most importantly, had no family to ask questions. Ivan’s blood burned through his veins, his breath hot and thick in his lungs. His back straightened; his chin rose; his eyes flashed as they drank in his dark, beautiful, proud little orphan cub. Ivan said the words aloud. “He’s mine.”

The boy’s eyes widened at that, fixed rigidly on Ivan’s own, sharp and alarmed. It was a look Ivan recognised - one he knew well. Fear. Ivan returned the stare evenly.

“Vanya, darling, we don’t own people. He is to be a servant, not a slave.”

Ivan ignored his older sister’s words. The boy was his. From that moment, Ivan knew. The boy was his, and always would be. “He is my servant, then. My private servant. No one else’s. Do you understand?” Ivan turned a dark glare on Katyusha. She nodded hastily and looked away.

“Why would you want him anyway, Vanya?” asked Natalia haughtily, sashaying too close to the Chinese siblings and inspecting them disdainfully. Her bright gold, jewelled gown clashed magnificently with the dark remnants of pre-revolutionary décor along the walls. The boy blinked carefully towards her as she smirked. “I doubt this little weakling will last the winter.”

Ivan smiled indulgently. “I will dress him in furs, and lay him before the fire, and he will survive because I wish it.”

Natalia laughed her high, cold laugh. “Like a little doll!” She ran a hand along the boy’s narrow shoulders, touched his hair airily. His delicate features furrowed, insulted and slightly angry.

“Yes,” said Ivan smoothly, his greedy gaze locked on the affronted boy, enjoying the collection of emotions that danced across his face. “My pretty little china doll.”

Natalia stood behind the boy, gently playing with his hair. She smirked again, staring at Ivan through those midnight black locks and her own lowered lashes. “But Vanya, you always broke our dolls, don’t you remember?”

“Natalia!” said Katyusha disapprovingly, warningly. “Leave the poor child alone.”

Natalia groaned, flicked the boy’s hair one last time, and pushed between the siblings, flourishing her wide skirts as she did. “Whine whine, moan moan, Katya. You do little else these days. And just what are you wearing, dear sister? You look like a housemaid. You should give that horrid dress to the little Chinese girl.” Natalia threw the girl a mocking glare. “Though I don’t think the poor thing could fill out the chest.”

Katyusha frowned reproachfully, twisting her hands nervously before her. “Talia, dear…”

“The girl will go to the kitchen,” Ivan interrupted. He had no time for his sisters’ inanity, or for the insignificant girl with the flower in her hair. “The boy stays with me.”

At those words the boy turned red, his hands clenched into fists, and he took a firm step forward. “My name is Yao. I am not a child, I am sixteen years old. And as the lady said earlier, neither am I a slave. My sister’s name is Mei. We are here to work. We expect to be paid, and we expect to be treated with respect.”

A brief silence followed the words, before Natalia broke into high peals of laughter. “Sixteen, Vanya! And the little doll speaks Russian! Is his accent not pretty?”

Ivan smiled in agreement. “Pretty.” As pretty as his soft, bow-shaped lips; as his brave, empty words. Yao’s bold gaze faltered as Ivan’s grew deeper. Immediately, the hall felt too crowded. Ivan wanted the others gone. “Go.”

Ivan merely spoke the order, but his sisters reacted immediately. Natalia rolled her eyes and swept from the room, glowering fiercely at Yao one last time. Katyusha looked concerned as she took the girl’s hand. The girl stared wide-eyed at her brother, clutched at his hands, cried frantic words Ivan did not understand. Yao responded reassuringly, smiled and nodded, even as Katyusha spoke kindly and led the girl from the room. Always kind, always fretful, always obedient Katyusha.

The vast hall fell finally silent, the last of Katyusha’s nonsense words fading to echoes against the barren stone. Yao took a few moments to turn slowly back. His hands were still in fists; his eyes still wary. Ivan took slow, deliberate steps through the heavy air to stand before him, over him, so close Ivan’s coat brushed the tips of Yao’s shoes. Yao did not back away.

“Yao.” Ivan said it slowly, savoured the feeling of the word on his lips for the first time. He liked it. Short and fleeting: a soft yet strong beginning yielding to a gentle, almost lingering finish.

“Mei… my sister…” Yao’s chest rose and fell, an evident attempt to grasp for control. Ivan smiled at the futile effort. “I promised her we would not be separated.”

Ivan lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “You should not make promises you cannot keep, Yao.” Yao placed a hand to his mouth briefly, as though he was holding something back. On some strange impulse - one Ivan did not recognise and did not understand - he continued to speak. “She will be looked after. Katya is often tending to strays.”

Yao creased his smooth brow, parted his lips, drew his arms to his chest. He did not respond, so Ivan let the silence fall between them. There was so much you could tell from someone through silence. Ivan was intrigued to watch Yao thinking, to see him trying to comprehend. It was enthralling: the boy’s initial look of fury, his desperate glance back at the front entrance, the final resigned understanding on his face. The first of the winter snowdrifts were building against the door. The lost little cub had nowhere else to go.

But silence could only tell so much. Ivan reached out a hand, rested it in the air by Yao’s pale cheek. He could sense the warmth pulsing through Yao’s veins. “Why are you here in Saint Petersburg, little Yao?”

Yao’s dark, thin eyebrows drew together. He seemed at a loss for what to say. “I thought this was the old name, Saint Petersburg. Is not the city now called Leningrad?”

The smile fell immediately from Ivan’s lips. His hand closed in a fist. His very bones seemed to seize, a furious surge of anger filling his chest. He refused to call his city by that name. He refused even to acknowledge that name. Ivan gritted his teeth as he asked again, loud and demanding. “Why are you here in Saint Petersburg, little Yao?”

Yao flinched, then quickly blinked it away. He hastened to answer. “The journey is not a tale worth telling. These are desperate times. Men will do what they must when they are desperate.”

Ivan laughed bitterly. He expected such words. “Desperate enough to serve the broken nobility of Russia.” Since the revolution, domestic servitude was an underground practice – never spoken openly, never revealed to the world. But the Braginski mansion was trapped in the days of the Tsars, darkly defiant of a changing country. Tradition still lingered in this place, faded and broken.

Yao stared up at Ivan with a look now less fearful, yet tinged with uncertainty. His pale cheeks were darker now, his chest still rising and falling in that vain attempt for control. “Why do you speak like this?”

Ivan paused at that. Those words he did not expect. His brief anger fell away, his hand falling to rest lightly on Yao’s slight shoulder. “My words upset you?”

Yao looked warily at Ivan’s hand, then back into his eyes. “They confuse me. There is something behind them.”

Yao’s eyes were like fire. They looked too closely; they pierced too deep. For the first time Ivan could remember, he felt unsettled. He tightened his grip on Yao’s shoulder in response. “And do you always speak so plainly, Yao? Do we not all hide behind our words?”

Yao took a sharp breath, but did not shrink from Ivan’s clenching hold. “Only when we have something to hide.” Such remarkable composure. Ivan wondered what it would take to break it. “Truth is told not in word, sir, but in action.”

Ivan was both fascinated and disturbed. This little stranger had angered him, unsettled him, enchanted and surprised him, all in mere minutes. Ivan refused to allow him such control. “From now on, Yao - whether through word or action - there is nothing you can hide from me.”

Yao’s response trailed into silence when Ivan leant down slowly, touched his lips to Yao’s temple, inhaled the smell of him. Something young like newly-picked oranges, yet old like deep-forested trees in winter. Ivan let out a breath like a growl, and heard Yao’s own breathing quicken in response. It made him smile. “Are you afraid of me, Yao?”

Yao’s words came slower when he answered. He again drew his arms to himself, and his burning brow was beaded with sweat. “I… do not know yet.”

Intriguing. Ivan drew back slightly. “Do you think I will hurt you?”

Yao turned his face to Ivan. This close, his cheeks were aflame; his lips humid; his eyes startlingly dark. Ivan could hardly distinguish the pupil from the ink pool around it. Yao replied with defiant honesty. “Yes.”

“No.” Ivan gently released his grasp on Yao’s shoulder, brushed Yao’s hair from his collar. These clothes were too thin and ugly. Ivan would replace them with garments as silken as these black locks. Ivan would brush his hair and stroke his skin and control his insolent, charming words. “No, I do not hurt my things, Yao.”

“Things?” Yao’s features immediately twisted. He blinked alertly, spoke angrily, as though broken from a trance. “Who are you to speak to me so? Who are you to say any of this to me? These words of yours go too far, sir. I am not a thing. I am most certainly not yours, and I…” Yao’s cheeks reddened as his speech tumbled from him, incensed and unchecked and useless. Ivan just smiled and ran his hand lightly down Yao’s arm. “I am here to work,” Yao continued, his voice rising apprehensively at the touch. “I do not know what sort of work you expect from me, but…”

Yao broke off with a gasp when Ivan abruptly gripped his wrist. Ivan tilted his head curiously, amusedly. Such pretty defiance. Such brave, angry words; so easily stifled. “No, Yao. You are not a thing.”

Yao’s dark eyes widened. Ivan could feel his blood throbbing beneath his skin. So thin; so breakable. Carefully yet firmly, Ivan took Yao’s fingers in his own and forced his clenched fist open. Yao parted his lips, but did not speak. Again he looked afraid, but this seemed a different fear than the last. Ivan pressed a kiss to Yao’s burning, open palm, keeping his eyes fixed on the unfathomable, inky darkness of Yao’s own. This defiance was nothing. Ivan had already decided: he wanted this boy. And Ivan always got what he wanted. “But you are mine.”

 

1943

The memory slowly faded; the world came back, harsh and white and obscure. The wireless whispers still droned, futile and senseless. Ivan drew a very slow, very deep breath of air into his lungs. Then, with a hot rush of fury and a sudden, almost unbidden twitch of his arm, Ivan snatched the radio from his desk and hurled it to the ground. It splintered and shattered, bleeding a last high-pitched whine before finally falling silent. Ivan stared at the lifeless, broken pieces, feeling only brief, hollow satisfaction.

Polkovnik?”

The word was spoken carefully, barely more than a whisper. Ivan looked up sharply. His Lithuanian stood uncertainly in the tent entrance, clutching a folder to his chest, a familiar look of fearful apprehension on his pretty face.

“Toris.” Ivan lifted his chin and gestured for the private to join him. Toris hesitated before doing so. Another day Ivan might have punished him for such a hesitation. But this pounding rage still boiled his blood, that taunting song still rang in his head, and he needed explanation. “These words.” Ivan gestured over the maddening papers on his desk. “What do they mean?”

Toris glanced at the papers briefly before answering. “Kalova requires reinforcements, sir. The Germans are retreating, and HQ requests that you send a battalion to take the village.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Kalova?” The hot fury began to cool. There would be time enough for that in battle. The blood and the fury; the bitter, roaring chaos of it. Ivan relished his time of deafening, silent madness. “The little fortified village in the forest.”

Toris nodded hastily. “A prison unit will take the Germans’ place – there is only believed to be fifty men or so. It could easily be taken with a company or two.”

Ivan felt he could breathe again, the white haze clearing from the room. War and battle and death - this he knew. This he could understand. “A prison unit? Intriguing. ”

“An easy defeat.” Toris did not sound like he believed his words. “Our presence will hardly be required.” Poor, lost Toris, who felt so strongly and worried so much.

“Perhaps not so easy. No, I think I will handle this personally.” Ivan adjusted his scarf, twisted his lips in a smile, and ran a hand down his Lithuanian’s cold, pale cheek. Toris did not react. Ivan’s Lithuanian was pretty, yes, but his eyes were too light and his defiance long vanquished. “Do not underestimate desperate men, Toris.”

To be continued…

 

The rank of 'polkovnik’ is roughly equivalent to a colonel.