private retreat

6

False Bay Writer’s Cabin in San Juan Islands

This 500 square foot island cabin designed by Olson Kundig serves as a private writer’s retreat and guest cottage. The owners wanted a space that would feel totally connected to the natural landscape, allowing them to take full advantage of the mild climate, scenic views and the proximity to wildlife; at the same time, they needed the cabin to be easily secured when not in use.

The cabin is basically a glass house surrounded by three wooden slat decks and topped with an inverted hip roof with deep overhangs. Through a system of hydraulic winches, wire rope, pivoting sheaves and lead blocks, these decks can be raised to serve as shutters, completely closing off the cabin. Open, the shutter-decks are outdoor living space, connecting to the interior with 10 foot tall windows and sliding doors. The south shutter-deck can be opened independently of the other two, and an interior fireplace can rotate 180 degrees to be enjoyed from the exterior. The inverted roof forces water to drain to the rear of the cabin, eliminating a drip edge on the shutter-decks.

3

Back in the heart of summer, King Marketing & sports apparel company 2XU approached me to create images of their newest sponsored face, Colorado Avalanche player Matt Duchene. 

We travelled up to Halliburton to photograph the young talent in his private retreat and had an awesome time with him, his family, and the 2XU crew. 

These images will start making there way across the continent in different stores and magazines.

Thanks to Kareem Ibrahim for producing and 2XU President Nikki Beal.

To see a behind the scenes look at days shoot, click here

Mise-en-abîme- Chekov x Reader

A/N: Goddamnit I hate the fact I’m fond of this trope (slight mythology parallels, Chill older brother!Kirk-not yet but there will be, all of it). But the tag needs more fics and here, have one and have a long-ass one :) Also enjoy my philoso-babble at the start, let’s hope I can bullshit my exams this well. Um yeah, it’s gonna parallel Psyche and Cupid, take your feelings and run. Translations are ripped from google translate (sorry).

Part 1 of 5

It is known to all who study Earth History, that the within study of the Western World; religious beliefs have shifted from that of the Polytheistic to the Monotheistic. Evidence of which can be traced from the study of literature of antiquity.

Yet above all, it should be noted that humanity worships love. This notion is to be found within the basis of all major Earth religions (see Chapter 3 for further elaboration). The fixation with the idea that we are not wholly alone in the world and are destined for an inextricable connection. Platonic or erotic. Romantic or eternal. Whether this love transcends class, race, gender, species or divine nature; it is to the discretion of the individual and society for whom these texts resonates with.

The Mise-en-abîme- a dream within a dream, a story within a story that parallels the key narrative- of the tale of Eros & Psyche is a notable example. Found within Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, it remains a prime example of an allegory and, of humanity’s ability to relate to the transcendent concern of obstacles to love. Yet it is worth noting that in this instance, it is the woman who is undertaking the physically perilous trials of love as opposed to the literary trope of the “knight in shining armour”. This trope itself; resulting in the hyper-masculinity of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, was resurrected in Walter Scott’s 1820 novel: Ivanhoe. This courtly love, while catering to conservative Victorian sensibilities as a departure from the seemingly-libertine nature of Byron strains of writing, do not remain eternal and do not truly represent human nature when it concerns love. Humanity is ultimately drawn to those tales of Eros and Psyche, Persephone and Hades, Achilles and Patroclus: reiterations of which are implanted within our minds from our childhood fairytales of forbidden love. It is emphasised by the novels of our youth, then cultivated in the next generation; as we from our deathbeds, spin a final enchanting tale for our grandchildren.

-An Extract from M Reyes, The Human Story: A study of societal perceptions of fictional and non-fictional literature. Required reading for graduate-level Earth History cadets.


“You’re ensign [y/n]?” You stood nervously, fiddling with the sleeve of the blue uniform you’d spent a childhood dreaming of as you roped poor elder and younger siblings into playing ‘diseased- patient-on-an-away mission’ while yourself played the Starship Captain or the Science Officer or the Chief of Medical interchangeably. However it was most frequently the role of Science Officer that you played as your friends’ defeated Klingon warbirds. The bridge of the Enterprise, fuck that, just to be part of the Enterprise crew was notoriously difficult. But apparently your ability to bullshit was sufficient.

That was a bit of an understatement, you would fight anyone, tooth and nail to get here.

But Captain Kirk continued to stare at you evenly, observing his PADD with your details before him. He smiled encouragingly as you confirmed your details, impressed with your exam scores. Well he should be, you spent night after caffeine-fuelled night studying chemical formulae and the biology of various planets. You stretched, using textbooks to lift your leg in the splits as you revised nineteenth-century authors and their works. You memorised mathematical equations, an old-fashioned marker correcting integrals on the bathroom mirror. You were discouraged as a precocious nine year-old for aiming too high, the Enterprise only accepted the best they had told you, and you re-tied the ribbons adorning your pig-tails and said “fucking watch me”.

Your eyes now began to observe the brilliant array of personnel aboard the bridge, lingering briefly on an ensign about your age at the helm, before once again attempting (and failing) to make eye contact with Captain Kirk.

“You specialise in scientific research? That’s cool-“ Kirk looked up, pointing at your diploma displayed on-screen in his lap.

“Jim, no one says ‘cool’ anymore,” You recognised the quiet sass to come from the Lieutenant Uhura, and you suppressed a snigger. This crew was practically legend, everyone in the Academy talked about the gorgeous Captain Kirk and his equally as talented crew, navigating deep space, surviving John Harrison and Romulins and Klingons.

“Aye captain,” You nodded, holding your hands behind your back to calm your nerves, appearing to be brave. “I took a double degree, majors in Xenobiology and Xenoarchaeology-“

“It also says you took courses in Creative Writing and Earth History?” Kirk raised a brow in amusement, smile playing on your lips. From the corner of your eyes you sensed both men at the helm turning to face Kirk’s command chair. This time you took a proper look at the boy about your age, dark-blond curls adorable messed as he offered you a shy, reassuring smile. Navigator, his position must be navigator. Why else could he be seated at that position with such authority?

“I like too many things?” You replied unsurely with an uncomfortable grin. Your eyes instead met the smiling boy’s as he held back a quiet laugh, tilting his head down at a reproving glance from his companion. Kirk laughed in delight at your cheek and stood, shaking your hand. He congratulated you and with a rather brutal clap of your shoulder, told you that you’d love shadowing Dr McCoy for the first few weeks. The doctor in question seemed to perpetually wear a frown, but with a terse smile he led you to the turbolift to what you knew would be the med bay. Glass panels slid before your eyes, taking one last look of a bridge that you hardly dared believe you would see again. You bid a quiet farewell to the polished surfaces and the efficient crew as sliding doors silently slid before your eyes. The pristine-white panels, chrome detailing reflecting artificial light and a crew who were easily the best in Starfleet. You felt a slight lurch as the lift began it’s descent to a wholly new world below the bridge, one far more chaotic and experimental than the necessary control of the navigators and linguists and commanders above.

The likelihood was that unless you rapidly ascended the ranks or, someone managed to get severely pissed-off enough with Commander Spock to murder him, you wouldn’t be seeing the Bridge anytime soon. It was a nice dream, a sweet dream to be remembered when the hours spent staring at data got far too much. Or perhaps it was more convenient to imagine the Bridge as Doctor McCoy grumbled on and on about how a single hole in the hull of the ship could boil everyone’s blood to-

Well, you didn’t like to dwell on it. The next five years were going to be absolute  fun.



“Mr Chekov, I understand you are as of now, off duty.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Chekov nodded anyway at Spock, acknowledging the Vulcan as he vacated his post for the next shift. He couldn’t quite place the name of the particular Lieutenant in question, but he gave a cheery greeting anyway before walking over to Spock.

It was always ‘do this, Mr Chekov’ and ‘don’t press that, Mr Chekov’ and his absolute favourite:

“Kirk, doesn’t the lad look adorable?” Scotty would pull the engineering goggles off his head and ruffle his curls with no small amount of pride, “he’s going to be a bit of a heartbreaker when he grows up, just watch,” and of course, Captain Kirk would reply with:

“Curls get the girls, Mr Chekov- or really, anyone.” With a snide grin and a wink, attempting to set him up with crewmates about his age, or attempting to teach him how to flirt-

He was never following that particular piece of advice ever again, not if he wanted to remain alive for the next five years.

“Yes, Commander?”

“Mr Chekov, would you mind delivering this PADD to Doctor McCoy and his assistant-“

“Ze new ensign?” Chekov interrupted Spock, a little excited. It had been nearly three months since they’d left Yorktown and he hadn’t even had an opportunity to greet her, let alone get her name. In his mind she was just fleeting glimpses of a short, blue hemline and snippets of laughter and conversation. Always rapid-paced and always intelligent. She was the embodiment of excitement and passion, finishing her lunch in the mess hall before bidding her friends goodbye and returning back into her lab. Their shifts never aligned, he ran regular daytime shifts while it seemed she worked irregular in the laboratory as she seemed to enjoy, spending the rest of her time either observing Doctor McCoy or watching some old earth film in the recreation hall.

“Yes, ensign [y/n].” Spock confirmed. Chekov felt his pulse begin to quicken a little, the barest hint of perspiration forming at his temple. He was nervous now, why was he nervous? “Mr Chekov, are you well?”

“Eh-ah… yes, sir.” He was sure he’d more-or-less snatched the PADD from the Vulcan, raising a brow in silent question before turning away.

The brief trip to Medical Bay was boringly familiar, most people retreating to private time within their rooms for showers and calls home. He had hoped no one noticed his slight nerves, after two months of only seeing part of her, he would be able to address her directly. That was new.

And also somewhat terrifying.

He could do this. After all, he was seventeen when he first came aboard the Enterprise, surely talking to a girl was easier.

“Chekov! Spock told me he’d be sending you down,” Bones turned the corner, exiting a small room. His eyes were first drawn to a slumped figure, seated upon a stool as she had evidently grown tired of waiting for the computer to analyse the unknown samples, “that the PADD?”

“Yes sir,” Chekov handed the PADD over as they both stood over the young ensign’s shoulder. Chekov found her slow breaths enchanting as her chest rose and fell in the rhythm of sleep. Her hair gently cascaded from a ponytail, fanned over the stainless steel bench, her elegant head resting upon her forearm in what he could only guess was a terribly uncomfortable position. “Ees she asleep, sir?”

“[Y/n]? She’s been down here for three days, only left to grab food from the mess hall.” Bones shook his head in consternation. “She’s an absolute sweetheart- got all the work done- but gone and burned herself out. She sleeps deeper than a comatose patient, knocked over some equipment earlier and she didn’t even make a peep.”

“Reelly, sir?” Chekov was interested more with the gentle flutter of eyelashes against her warm cheek and the slight shadow they cast. She looked so wholly at peace, so different to the literal ball of energy who would bump into him in corridors, attempting to find a colleague in order to corroborate her hypothesis. What clever mind lay asleep there? “она хорошенькая,” He stopped himself before he could continue, noticing the incredibly satisfied smirk on Bones’ face.

“She got you all hot and flustered now?” He whispered in amusement, “I have no idea bout what you said-“

“I said-“

“Whatever it is, don’t be mean to the poor kid, you’ve no idea how many loops she’s flown through to get here,” Chekov nodded at Bones’ warning, brushing a strand of hair away from her serene face.

“нет, I don’t theenk I ewer could,” Chekov’s reply was mostly to himself, quiet and delivered with a small smile on his face. No, he never would.

Translations:

She’s pretty
No

Tags: @daftqunk, @arunawayheart

The Studiolo di Gubbio, or private retreat, of Federico da Montefeltro, “the Light of Italy”, lord & Duke of Urbino, 1444-1474.  A great humanist leader, he commissioned the construction of a great library, with his own team of scribes in his scriptorium and supported the training of fine artists, including Raphael.    

“There must be a place
a room and a sanctuary
set apart for silence
for shadoews and roses…”
   Carl Sandburg 

US President Bill Clinton (L) carries his new chocolate labrador named ‘Buddy’, followed by First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton © and daughter Chelsea ® as they arrive at Beaufort Marine Corp Air Station in Georgia, 30 December. The Clinton family is on their way to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for the annual Renaissance Weekend, a private retreat for families of innovative leaders.

anonymous asked:

29 - Tony / ABO AU

(This is the start of how it all ever ends/They used to shout my name, now they whisper it)

Yellow Flicker Beat

When the world finds out, the people almost seem relieved. “Yes,” they breathe, laughing under their breath. Vindicated. “He’s exactly the monster we always thought he was.”

Keep reading

6

Billionaire Private Islands: 10 Luxurious Retreats and Hidden Hideaways

If a man’s home is his castle, a private island is his kingdom. And while you don’t have to be uber-wealthy to buy an island—a small one can be had for about $50,000—many of the globe’s most exclusive properties are owned by billionaires.

Here’s a sampling of some billionaire-owned private islands, from pristine secluded havens—ideal for modern day Robinson Crusoes—to tropical eco-friendly luxury resorts. Read more >

4

Kanopi House (Blue Lagoon, Portland, Jamaica) :: A tropical jungle of vine-drenched, 100-foot Banyan trees; soaring chartreuse bamboo and flowering magenta ginger lily descending into a secluded, white sand cove.

Where an elegant, earth conscious oasis of chic-ly appointed, ‘tree houses’ is linked by a winding pathway sliced through a sun dappled rainforest overlooking the Caribbean Sea. 

A private shoreline that wraps around a blue lagoon, ringed by an untouched coral reef; purple manta rays gliding through clouds of colorful fish in a warm turquoise sea, glazed in a layer of cool from the mountain stream that flows into, and over, it. Kanopi House is an environmentally friendly hideaway.

anonymous asked:

'if he's okay with what wifey is doing' ➡️This man hates social media - and 'wifey' spreads his life right there. You can be sure that he's not okay with the fact that his private life is no longer private. He is retreating more and more, fans only see him at official signings, his behavior is almost that of a hermit. As a longtime fan you can see that something is wrong - but of course we must be sorry that this man and his well-being is important to us!

Yeah people change but still I don’t think he’s ok with all she does. I think he just deals with it at this point. But he has to know people take what she says as fact and know more about him then I think he would want people to know you know? 

Mental health, in fact, is a paradigm case of how capitalist realism operates. Capitalist realism insists on treating mental health as if it were a natural fact, like weather (but, then again, weather is no longer a natural fact so much as a politicaleconomic effect). In the 1960s and 1970s, radical theory and politics (Laing, Foucault, Deleuze and Guattari, etc.) coalesced around extreme mental conditions such as schizophrenia, arguing, for instance, that madness was not a natural, but a political, category. But what is needed now is a politicization of much more common disorders. Indeed, it is their very commonness which is the issue: in Britain, depression is now the condition that is most treated by the NHS. In his book The Selfish Capitalist, Oliver James has convincingly posited a correlation between rising rates of mental distress and the neoliberal mode of capitalism practiced in countries like Britain, the USA and Australia. In line with James’s claims, I want to argue that it is necessary to reframe the growing problem of stress (and distress) in capitalist societies. Instead of treating it as incumbent on individuals to resolve their own psychological distress, instead, that is, of accepting the vast privatization of stress that has taken place over the last thirty years, we need to ask: how has it become acceptable that so many people, and especially so many young people, are ill? The ‘mental health plague’ in capitalist societies would suggest that, instead of being the only social system that works, capitalism is inherently dysfunctional, and that the cost of it appearing to work is very high…. By contrast with their forebears in the 1960s and 1970s, British students today appear to be politically disengaged. While French students can still be found on the streets protesting against neoliberalism, British students, whose situation is incomparably worse, seem resigned to their fate. But this, I want to argue, is a matter not of apathy, nor of cynicism, but of reflexive impotence. They know things are bad, but more than that, they know they can’t do anything about it. But that 'knowledge’, that reflexivity, is not a passive observation of an already existing state of affairs. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Reflexive impotence amounts to an unstated worldview amongst the British young, and it has its correlate in widespread pathologies. Many of the teenagers I worked with had mental health problems or learning difficulties. Depression is endemic. It is the condition most dealt with by the National Health Service, and is afflicting people at increasingly younger ages. The number of students who have some variant of dyslexia is astonishing. It is not an exaggeration to say that being a teenager in late capitalist Britain is now close to being reclassified as a sickness. This pathologization already forecloses any possibility of politicization. By privatizing these problems - treating them as if they were caused only by chemical imbalances in the individual’s neurology and/or by their family background - any question of social systemic causation is ruled out. Many of the teenage students I encountered seemed to be in a state of what I would call depressive hedonia. Depression is Usually characterized as a state of anhedonia, but the condition I’m referring to is constituted not by an inability to get pleasure so much as it by an inability to do anything else except pursue pleasure. There is a sense that 'something is missing’ - but no appreciation that this mysterious, missing enjoyment can only be accessed beyond the pleasure principle. In large part this is a consequence of students’ ambiguous structural position, stranded between their old role as subjects of disciplinary institutions and their new status as consumers of services. In his crucial essay 'Postscript on Societies of Control’, Deleuze distinguishes between the disciplinary societies described by Foucault, which were organized around the enclosed spaces of the factory, the school and the prison, and the new control societies, in which all institutions are embedded in a dispersed corporation. Deleuze is right to argue that Kafka is the prophet of distributed, cybernetic power that is typical of Control societies. In The Trial, Kafka importantly distinguishes between two types of acquittal available to the accused. Definite acquittal is no longer possible, if it ever was ('we have only legendary accounts of ancient cases [which] provide instances of acquittal’). The two remaining options, then, are (1) 'Ostensible acquittal’, in which the accused is to all and intents and purposes acquitted, but may later, at some unspecified time, face the charges in full, or (2) 'Indefinite postponement’, in which the accused engages in (what they hope is an infinitely) protracted process of legal wrangling, so that the dreaded ultimate judgment is unlikely to be forth- coming. Deleuze observes that the Control societies delineated by Kafka himself, but also by Foucault and Burroughs, operate using indefinite postponement: Education as a lifelong process… Training that persists for as long as your working life continues… Work you take home with you… Working from home, homing from work. A consequence of this 'indefinite’ mode of power is that external surveillance is succeeded by internal policing. Control only works if you are complicit with it. Hence the Burroughs figure of the 'Control Addict’: the one who is addicted to control, but also, inevitably, the one who has been taken over, possessed by Control. Walk into almost any class at the college where I taught and you will immediately appreciate that you are in a post-disciplinary framework. Foucault painstakingly enumerated the way in which discipline was installed through the imposition of rigid body postures. During lessons at our college, however, students will be found slumped on desk, talking almost constantly, snacking incessantly (or even, on occasions, eating full meals). The old disciplinary segmentation of time is breaking down. The carceral regime of discipline is being eroded by the technologies of control, with their systems of perpetual consumption and continuous development. The system by which the college is funded means that it literally cannot afford to exclude students, even if it wanted to. Resources are allocated to colleges on the basis of how successfully they meet targets on achievement (exam results), attendance and retention of students. This combination of market imperatives with bureaucratically-defined 'targets’ is typical of the 'market Stalinist’ initiatives which now regulate public services. The lack of an effective disciplinary system has not, to say the least, been compensated for by an increase in student self-motivation. Students are aware that if they don’t attend for weeks on end, and/or if they don’t produce any work, they will not face any meaningful sanction. They typically respond to this freedom not by pursuing projects but by falling into hedonic (or anhedonic) lassitude: the soft narcosis, the comfort food oblivion of Playstation, all-night TV and marijuana. Ask students to read for more than a couple of sentences and many - and these are A-level students mind you - will protest that they can’t do it. The most frequent complaint teachers hear is that it’s boring. It is not so much the content of the written Material that is at issue here; it is the act of reading itself that is deemed to be 'boring’. What we are facing here is not just time-honored teenage torpor, but the mismatch between a post-literate 'New Flesh’ that is 'too wired to concentrate’ and the confining, concentrational logics of decaying disciplinary systems. To be bored simply means to be removed from the communicative sensation-stimulus matrix of texting, YouTube and fast food; to be denied, for a moment, the constant flow of sugary gratification on demand. Some students want Nietzsche in the same way that they want a hamburger; they fail to grasp - and the logic of the consumer system encourages this misapprehension - that the indigestibility, the difficulty is Nietzsche. An illustration: I challenged one student about why he always wore headphones in class. He replied that it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t actually playing any music. In another lesson, he was playing music at very low volume through the headphones, without wearing them. When I asked him to switch it off, he replied that even he couldn’t hear it. Why wear the headphones without playing music or play music without wearing the headphones? Because the presence of the phones on the ears or the knowledge that the music is playing (even if he couldn’t hear it) was a reassurance that the matrix was still there, within reach. Besides, in a classic example of interpassivity, if the music was still playing, even if he couldn’t hear it, then the player could still enjoy it on his behalf. The use of headphones is significant here - pop is experienced not as something which could have impacts upon public space, but as a retreat into private 'Oedlpod’ consumer bliss, a walling up against the social. The consequence of being hooked into the entertainment matrix is twitchy, agitated interpassivity, an inability to concentrate or focus. Students’ incapacity to connect current lack of focus with future failure, their inability to synthesize time into any coherent narrative, is symptomatic of more than mere demotivation. It is, in fact, eerily reminiscent of Jameson’s analysis in 'Postmodernism and Consumer Society’. Jameson observed there that Lacan’s theory of schizophrenia offered a 'suggestive aesthetic model’ for understanding the fragmenting of subjectivity in the face of the emerging entertainment-industrial complex. 'With the breakdown of the signifying chain’, Jameson summarized, 'the Lacanian schizophrenic is reduced to an experience of pure material signifiers, or, in other words, a series of pure and unrelated presents in time’. Jameson was writing in the late 1980s - i.e. the period in which most of my students were born. What we in the classroom are now facing is a generation born into that ahistorical, anti-mnemonic blip culture - a generation, that is to say, for whom time has always come ready-cut into digital micro-slices. If the figure of discipline was the worker-prisoner, the figure of control is the debtor-addict. Cyberspatial capital operates by addicting its users; William Gibson recognized that in Neuromancer when he had Case and the other cyberspace cowboys feeling insects-under-the-skin strung out when they unplugged from the matrix (Case’s amphetamine habit is plainly the substitute for an addiction to a far more abstract speed). If, then, something like attention deficit hyperactivity disorder is a pathology, it is a pathology of late capitalism - a consequence of being wired into the entertainment-control circuits of hypermediated consumer culture. Similarly, what is called dyslexia may in many cases amount to a post-lexia. Teenagers process capital’s image-dense data very effectively without any need to read - slogan-recognition is sufficient to navigate the net-mobile-magazine informational plane. 'Writing has never been capitalism’s thing. Capitalism is profoundly illiterate’, Deleuze and Guattari argued in Anti-Oedipus. 'Electric language does not go by way of the voice or writing: data processing does without them both’. Hence the reason that many successful business people are dyslexic (but is their post-lexical efficiency a cause or effect of their success?) Teachers are now put under intolerable pressure to mediate between the post-literate subjectivity of the late capitalist consumer and the demands of the disciplinary regime (to pass examinations etc). This is one way in which education, far from being in some ivory tower safely inured from the 'real world’, is the engine room of the reproduction of social reality, directly confronting the inconsistencies of the capitalist social field. Teachers are caught between being facilitator-entertainers and disciplinarian-authoritarians. Teachers want to help students to pass the exams; they want us to be authority figures who tell them what to do. Teachers being interpellated by students as authority figures exacerbates the 'boredom’ problem, since isn’t anything that comes from the place of authority a priori boring? Ironically, the role of disciplinarian is demanded of educators more than ever at precisely the time when disciplinary structures are breaking down in institutions. With families buckling under the pressure of a capitalism which requires both parents to work, teachers are now increasingly required to act as surrogate parents, instilling the most basic behavioral protocols in students and providing pastoral and emotional support for teenagers who are in some cases only minimally socialized. It is worth stressing that none of the students I taught had any legal obligation to be at college. They could leave if they wanted to. But the lack of any meaningful employment opportunities, together with cynical encouragement from government means that college seems to be the easier, safer option. Deleuze says that Control societies are based on debt rather than enclosure; but there is a way in which the current education system both indebts and encloses students. Pay for your own exploitation, the logic insists - get into debt so you can get the same Mcjob you could have walked into if you’d left school at sixteen… Jameson observed that 'the breakdown of temporality suddenly releases [the] present of time from all the activities and intentionalities that might focus it and make it a space of praxis’. But nostalgia for the context in which the old types of praxis operated is plainly useless. That is why French students don’t in the end constitute an alternative to British reflexive impotence. That the neoliberal Economist would deride French opposition to capitalism is hardly surprising, yet its mockery of French 'immobilization’ had a point. 'Certainly the students who kicked off the latest protests seemed to think they were re-enacting the events of May 1968 their parents sprang on Charles de Gaulle’, it wrote in its lead article of March 30, 2006. They have borrowed its slogans ('Beneath the cobblestones, the beach!’) and hijacked its symbols (the Sorbonne university). In this sense, the revolt appears to be the natural sequel to [2005]’s suburban riots, which prompted the government to impose a state of emergency. Then it was the jobless, ethnic underclass that rebelled against a system that excluded them. Yet the striking feature of the latest protest movement is that this time the rebellious forces are on the side of conservatism. Unlike the rioting youths in the banlieues, the objective of the students and public-sector trade unions is to prevent change, and to keep France the way it is. It’s striking how the practice of many of the immobilizers is a kind of inversion of that of another group who also count themselves heirs of 68: the so called 'liberal communists’ such as George Soros and Bill Gates who combine rapacious pursuit of profit with the rhetoric of ecological concern and social responsibility. Alongside their social concern, liberal communists believe that work practices should be (post) modernized, in line with the concept of 'being smart’. As Žižek explains, Being smart means being dynamic and nomadic, and against centralized bureaucracy; believing in dialogue and co-operation as against central authority; in flexibility as against routine; culture and knowledge as against industrial production; in spontaneous interaction and autopoiesis as against fixed hierarchy. Taken together, the immobilizers, with their implicit concession that capitalism can only be resisted, never overcome, and the liberal communists, who maintain that the amoral excesses of capitalism must be offset by charity, give a sense of the way in which capitalist realism circumscribes current political possibilities. Whereas the immobilizers retain the form of 68-style protest but in the name of resistance to change, liberal communists energetically embrace newness. Žižek is right to argue that, far from constituting any kind of progressive corrective to official capitalist ideology, liberal communism constitutes the dominant ideology of capitalism now. 'Flexibility’, 'nomadism’ and 'spontaneity’ are the very hallmarks of management in a post-Fordist, Control society. But the problem is that any opposition to flexibility and decentralization risks being self-defeating, since calls for inflexibility and centralization are, to say the least, not likely to be very galvanizing. In any case, resistance to the 'new’ is not a cause that the left can or should rally around. Capital thought very carefully about how to break labor; yet there has still not yet been enough thought about what tactics will work against capital in conditions of post-Fordism, and what new language can be innovated to deal with those conditions. It is important to contest capitalism’s appropriation of 'the new’, but to reclaim the 'new’ can’t be a matter of adapting to the conditions in which we find ourselves - we’ve done that rather too well, and 'successful adaptation’ is the strategy of managerialism par excellence. The persistent association of neoliberalism with the term 'Restoration’, favored by both Badiou and David Harvey, is an important corrective to the association of capital with novelty. For Harvey and Badiou, neoliberal politics are not about the new, but a return of class power and privilege. ’[I]n France,’ Badiou has said, “Restoration’ refers to the period of the return of the King, in 1815, after the Revolution and Napoleon. We are in such a period. Today we see liberal capitalism and its political system, parliamentarianism, as the only natural and acceptable solutions’. Harvey argues that neoliberalization is best conceived of as a 'political project to re-establish the conditions for capital accumulation and to restore the power of economic elites’. Harvey demonstrates that, in an era popularly described as 'post-political’, class war has continued to be fought, but only by one side: the wealthy. 'After the implementation of neoliberal policies in the late 1970s,’ Harvey reveals, the share of national income of the top 1 per cent of income earners soared, to reach 15 per cent … by the end of the century. The top 0.1 per cent of income earners in the US increased their share of the national income from 2 per cent in 1978 to over 6 per cent by 1999, while the ratio of the median compensation of workers to the salaries of CEOs increased from just over 30 to 1 in 1970 to nearly 500 to 1 by 2000…. The US is not alone in this: the top 1 per cent of income earners in Britain have doubled their share of the national income from 6.5 per cent to 13 per cent since 1982. As Harvey shows, neoliberals were more Leninist than the Leninists, using think-tanks as the intellectual vanguard to create the ideological climate in which capitalist realism could flourish. The immobilization model - which amounts to a demand to retain the Fordist/disciplinary regime - could not work in Britain or the other countries in which neoliberalism has already taken a hold. Fordism has definitively collapsed in Britain, and with it the sites around which the old politics were organized. At the end of the control essay, Deleuze wonders what new forms an anti-control politics might take: One of the most important questions will concern the ineptitude of the unions: tied to the whole of their history of struggle against the disciplines or within the spaces of enclosure, will they be able to adapt themselves or will they give way to new forms of resistance against the societies of control? Can we already grasp the rough outlines of the coming forms, capable of threatening the joys of marketing? Many young people strangely boast of being "motivated”; they re-request apprenticeships and permanent training. It’s up to them to discover what they’re being made to serve, just as their elders discovered, not without difficulty, the telos of the disciplines. What must be discovered is a way out of the motivation/ demotivation binary, so that disidentification from the control program registers as something other than dejected apathy. One strategy would be to shift the political terrain - to move away from the unions’ traditional focus on pay and onto forms of discontent specific to post-Fordism.
—  Mark Fisher, Capitalist Realism
luna: view five

She had always had a certain affinity for hidden places. Even as a very small child, she would vanish for hours at a time. Neither of her parents found this particularly concerning, and it was unclear whether Xenophilius noticed how the stretches of time she was gone increased after her mother’s death.

Hogwarts cracked open to her like an oyster. She had no map to guide her way, but she still managed to find her way to the places that each house considered its private retreat. The lush secret gardens Hufflepuff students tended in their spare time were among her favorites.

It was never purposeful. She wasn’t the sort to go ferreting out secrets. She simply looked at the world with wide open eyes. It was incredible how much was right there in plain sight, if only one was willing to look.

A Lightened Soul

Prompt from @limax25: First of all, LS is one of my favorite stories EVER. And that’s saying something. So well done you! I was wondering how and why Jamie found himself up on that rooftop the night he met Claire and if she ever asked him about it.

Hi guys! Hope you all like Jamie’s pov of their first meeting. Let me know what you think and feel free to send me anything you’d like to see. I’m not writing the story in a linear fashion anymore, so literally anything :) Enjoy. Side note, I didn’t edit this a lot, so there may be errors

Catch up on the series here.


“Jamie?”

“Hmm,” he hummed against her damp neck, kissing a drop of water away.

They were snug in the small tub at Murtagh’s flat. The air was heavy with steam and the vanilla candles Claire had bought were scattered around the room, giving it a nice romantic feel. His legs were bent and toes smashed at the end of the porcelain. Claire fit snugly in between his thighs, her own toes just reaching the end of the tub. He buried his nose in the nest of curls atop her head while their fingers played together, twined tightly.

Murtagh had been so kind as to let the (semi) newlyweds have the flat to themselves for the weekend while he made the excuse of visiting friends in Glasgow. 

Jamie had gotten the news yesterday that their now mold-free flat would be ready at the end of next week. Tonight was a celebration of sorts.

“You never told me why you were up on the rooftop the night we met.”

“No?”

“No, I think I would remember,” she teased, her eyes glowing in the candlelight and vanilla air. 

He cleared his throat in preparation for the story and she snuggled back under his chin.

 “Ach, well, it was after a long night at the bar and I needed to clear my head, ye ken?”


Jamie took a big gulp of air as he finally opened the door to the roof. It finally felt like he could breath again. Too much time in the city wasn’t good for his mental health. He missed green things. He missed open landscapes with no buildings but land as far as they eye could see. He missed home.

Jamie knew it was ridiculous, but he felt some sort of comfort when he looked past the lights of London and to the north. It was the way home.

 It had become somewhat of a habit for him to go up on the rooftop. The bar he worked at to fill up his time was right across the street. And it was one night that he just walked in, took the elevator and found his way. Perhaps not the most legal thing, but he wasn’t bothering anyone. The roof was always empty. He found that no one noticed him slipping in after dark and he cherished his private retreat. A home away from home in a way.

Jamie felt a stab of pain in his chest thinking about how that home was so changed since the last time he had been there and the humiliation of not being able to muster up the courage to go back.

The thought of seeing his father’s grave filled him with so many emotions, he had to clutch the knob of the rooftop door to keep himself steady.

He was about to turn around and go back when he heard a noise. A sniffle? 

Jamie squinted in front of him in the dark to see a figure standing by the edge of the building, clutching the cement for dear life and the force of their sobs shaking their whole body.

Christ, were they going to jump?

A gust of wind came around him and the stranger and he noticed that thick brown hair twirled around the person. A lass, then.

 He struggled for a moment, thinking the best way to approach her if she was thinking about jumping. Should he just run up and grab her while she isn’t expecting it? Or just talk to her?

Well, if she isn’t suicidal, she’ll think ye one draftie if ye run up and grab her, he thought to himself.

 He tentatively took one step towards her and spoke softly, “excuse me, lass?”

 She jumped about a foot in the air when she heard his voice, causing him to panic even more. The lass turned to face him and even in the dark, he could see her red face, wet with tears. Another pain struck his chest like a lightening bolt, but this time, it wasn’t from pain.

She wiped her blazer’s sleeve across her face, trying to hide her discomfort.

“I’m sorry. I thought…I didn’t realize anyone else was up here.”

Calculating his next move, he carefully edged a few feet closer to her. He didn’t think she was going to jump, but he still couldn’t be sure.

“I come up here sometimes to clear my head. It’s peaceful, ye ken?” He spoke in the most soothing voice he could muster, but what did he know about comforting distraught lassies?

A few feet more now, she was almost in reaching distance. He read her face carefully, but saw nothing but simply curiosity towards him, not alarm. Good.

“My name is Jamie,” he said with a smile, reaching his hand out to her, slowly.

She stared blankly at him and his hand for a moment until a flash of comprehension and then horror washed across her face.

“Oh, I wasn’t going to…” she waved her hand out towards the city and the ledge, “I wasn’t thinking about jumping, I just needed air.”

Her voice broke on her last sentence and he could see the silver tears beginning to flow down her face again. She turned slightly away from him to hide them. 

Jamie felt something inside him, deep and powerful, as he saw her crying. It was an emotion that he didn’t recognize at first because he had never felt it in this way before. Something he couldn’t understanding feeling for a stranger he had just met not but a few minutes ago.

 But all the sudden she was in his arms. He wrapped his arms tight around her, as if to protect her from the pain she felt. To protect her from feeling that isolating feeling he intuitively knew she was crying about because it was all too familiar.

She melted into his arms and she fit like she was made for him. Her brown curls tickled his nose as he whispered Gaelic into her ears while she cried into his chest.

She wrapped her hands tight around his body and suddenly home didn’t seem so far anymore.

“That’s when I first kent I loved ye,” he whispered into her ear, coming back to the present as the story ended, brushing away a few stray bubbles from her chin. 

“Oh, Jamie,” she whispered, turning around to look at his face. “Oh, I do love you.”

He leaned forward to met her lips, running his tongue across her bottom lip, cherishing her taste.

She pulled back and wrapped her legs around his hips, making the water ripple around them and the candles on the edge flicker in the dimness.

“Turns out that when I needed home the most, home is what showed up,” he tapped her one the nose, making her giggle.

Her eyes filled with tears, but tears so different than the night they met, and he knew exactly what she felt inside. A feeling that words fail to ever describe.

“I ken, Sassenach,” he said softly as she wrapped herself around him in a promise that he echoed. To never let her go. “I ken.”

Played by Fate pt. 1

She was an independent woman, and shehad her venomous vocabulary to defend herself. Perhaps that was why she was always the sober watchdog at her friends weekly bar parties. Keeping an eye on her friends and directing any unwanted attentions away when these said friends were too wasted to think straight was her self-appointed duty.

Now, it seems like she had her own trouble to deal with.

Levy’s birthday was supposed to be a small gathering, but after Cana was appointed the party planner, that was irrelevant. The bar they normally hit up on Fridays became the main center of birthday shots, keggers, and drinking games.

Gajeel, Levy’s boyfriend, invited many of his coworkers and their co-worker friends. This spiked the attendance to startling levels. There were new faces everywhere, and new hopeful men to reject.

 Lucy honestly wanted to stay home tonight. Tomorrow, she started her new job as a secretary at Fairy Tail Co. The company was only the top competitor of all things magical.

They manufactured SE Plugs, self inflating balloons, S-Color machines, custom fireworks: name it and Fairy Tail had it.

All her life, Lucy wanted to work at Fairy Tail, keeping her novel writing career on the side. At last, her friend had made a interview with the manager, giving her the chance to finally live her dream. 

Erza had really come through, and Lucy didn’t want to waste her efforts.

Sending another pouting man on his way, Lucy watched Levy down more shots just to spite Gajeel, who was laughing his big rear off at his girlfriend’s spunk. The blue haired woman would be plastered and Lucy couldn’t do a thing about it. Cana had specifically told her to be ‘off duty’ and to 'loosen up’. The blonde didn’t know if she should be relieved or offended.

Still, as her next drink tasted more of tequila than the fruity mixture, Lucy figured that she did need a night of not babysitting her crazy friends.

“Is this spot taken?” A voice asked. 

Lucy swallowed the mouthful of drink before turning to politely tell the newcomer that she was saving the seat in question for a foot rest when his face came into sight. 

His eyes, so dark and mischievous, stared at her as if scanning her very soul. His lips were curved in a smirk, sharp canines making her wonder just how nice they would feel against her lips. It was his hair that really caught her attention, spiky pink locks fitting him so naturally.

His voice, though, was so deep but light at the same time. Lucy wanted to pretend she was hard of hearing, just to hear him speak again.

She decided a better way.

Keep reading

We love an unexpected twist and surprising details in a classic space like a bedroom. Light, airy colors, striped carpet and mismatched end tables are lovely but the ceiling had us inspired. Laying wood or laminate flooring overhead to create an unexpected architectural detail draws attention upward, adds depth and creates a soothing and organic feeling space perfect for a restful and private retreat.

Earthy elegance. You don’t need a green thumb to design a welcoming, nature inspired seating area. Varying types of stained wood, adding flowers and using a botanical inspired print on the chair paired with a gorgeous black and white photo gallery makes this a private reading retreat in your living room. When creating a gallery of images, remember to layout on the floor first to ensure you achieved your desired look before hanging on the wall. Worried about the photos being straight? Don’t forget to use a level.