the creative era

Give me 11 year old Remus Lupin with a stammer.

Give me little boy who can barely get one sentence out without tripping over and stopping after every word.

Give me a scarred boy who is so nervous in the new school he avoids talking to everyone where possible.

Give me Remus Lupin with a really bad stammer in classes, meals and social interactions.

Then give me a Remus Lupin minding his own business in the boys dormitory, who then stubs his toe badly on the bed post.

Give me an 11 year old boy with a stammer who lets out the most eloquent, coherent and violent string of curse words one has ever heard.

No stammer, just air turned blue from all the swearing.

Then give me the most shocked slow clap ever from one Sirius Black and James Potter.

Elective Classes (Marauders)

James: Photography; just imagine him getting technical to the point where his geek shows with the shutter speed and aperture and ISO and all that crap. Imagine him getting frustrated because he had the perfect shot and hurried to take the picture and hit the camera with his glasses (resulting in an unhinged temple and scratched display).

Sirius: Creative Writing; what if he was put in the class as a mistake but gave it a go and fell in love with reading short stories. Imagine him staying up trying to compose something and getting frustrated because it ‘just doesn’t sound right.’ Imagine his pride at recieving an A in the class.

Remus: Guitar; again, imagine him being uncertain about the class at first but then becoming really determined to learn all the chords and plucking techniques. Imagine him playing the Beatles and Pink Floyd in his free time but never letting anyone else listen because he’d feel like it would be too personal.

Peter: Religion; imagine me forcing him into it because he needs Jesus.

The Glass Bead Game / Musica universalis

“These rules, the sign language and grammar of the Game, constitute a kind of highly developed secret language drawing upon several sciences and arts, but especially mathematics and music (and/or musicology), and capable of expressing and establishing interrelationships between the content and conclusions of nearly all scholarly disciplines. The Glass Bead Game is thus a mode of playing with the total contents and values of our culture; it plays with them as, say, in the great age of the arts a painter might have played with the colors on his palette. All the insights, noble thoughts, and works of art that the human race has produced in its creative eras, all that subsequent periods of scholarly study have reduced to concepts and converted into intellectual property – on all this immense body of intellectual values the Glass Bead Game player plays like the organist on an organ. And this organ has attained an almost unimaginable perfection; its manuals and pedals range over the entire intellectual cosmos; its stops are almost beyond number. Theoretically this instrument is capable of reproducing in the Game the entire intellectual content of the universe.” 

-The Glass Bead Game: A General Introduction to its History for the Layman, The Glass Bead Game, Hermann Hesse

anonymous asked:

Your prompts are great! Any for a gentleman bachelor stealing a late night kiss from his new valet?

1) “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“A kiss goodnight, I should think.”
The valet’s heart stuttered in their chest, mouth going abruptly dry. They wondered if they were being teased, if they had been too obvious perhaps in their affections. 
Watching the way the valet had rooted to the spot, the gentleman crossed the room. Stroked his cheek, head ducking to examine his valet’s expression, before a small smile curled his lips. Then he kissed him. 

2) “I would not wish to make assumptions,” the bachelor began carefully. 
His valet all but pounced on him, fingers twisting into his nightshirt, and kissing him hard. 

3) “Oh - and one more thing.” 
The valet turned, only to find himself tugged closer to stand between the gentleman’s knees. “Sir-”
One hand slid up smoothly to cup his neck and pull him down into a kiss. Short, sweet, breathless. “For god’s sake man,” the gentleman murmured against his ear. “You’ve seen me naked, you have no need to be shy.”

Soviet Bus Stops

In the creatively stifling era of the soviet empire, architects exercised their imagination across the land in the one place they could: bus stops. Each one is unique, and doubles as a signature for the architect. Many of them are theatrical in quality, as though each man and woman waiting for a bus is merely a player in the stage of life, pausing between scenes. Others appear like beautiful picture frames, elevating the mundanity of waiting for a bus. Some of them seem to engage with the landscape, either in striking opposition or in harmonious response. Above all, each one appears like a porthole to another world.


It’s a revolution, not a war;

London, in the early 1900′s. Lady Morgana Pendragon is the highly controversial daughter of the Conservative leader The Rt Hon. Sir Uther Pendragon, MP. It has been widely speculated by the tabloids that the Lady Morgana is secretly funding the suffragettes movement. It would seem where the Lady Morgana would go she would attract attention from her bold fashion reflecting her general demeanour to her choice of “companion” with the young Miss Guinevere Leodegrance, a once servant to the Pendragons, now with the help of the Lady Morgana a sensation in London’s affluent music scene. 

On the other side of the Spectrum the working class are rising in the form of the Labour party, the leader is rumoured to be the opposition’s own wayward son, The Rt Hon. Arthur Pendragon, MP. who gave up his titles after his rebellion. Mister Pendragon is often criticised for the position due to his privileged upbringing, most publicly by a certain reporter by the name of Mister Merlin Emrys. Mister Emrys is The Guardian’s most favoured reporter, whose wish with the help of his undercover colleague Miss Mithian Nemeth it is to expose the Lady Morgana’s affair with Miss Guinevere, in the hope to use the scandal to bring upon an uprising against the Aristocracy for a modern Britain.  

gif/graphic tag game: favorite dw female character + favorite outfit (tagged by claraoswalder)
↳ tagging: whatisyourlefteyebrowdoingdavid+ heartbreakingtennant

She Left For The Highlands

She left for the Highlands one day,
and there was nothing I could do,
but watch from a haunted place in my mind;
the iron gates of my dreams 
overwrought with the poison of a dianthus 
in half-bloom.

& from an airplane, 
the clouds are mossed 
against the silver spread 
of a sky gone beautifully wrong.

Fog on the glass,
and the distant rattle of ice 
in a plastic cup, 

maybe a thin
economy class blanket 
keeping her warm– 
but not warmer than her
memories of a city left behind.

She goes where I cannot reach her,
and I imagine her room being overtaken
by people who know nothing of the metaphysic
of her world. 

All I know is that
nine floors up– 
behind the twenty-third door
of a building that touches the stars,

is where
my heart was last seen;
reduced to
a pair of coordinates 
on a rapidly burning map.

I since fear it has 
drowned in the Loch /
with no key in sight.

“Lon Chaney was my introduction to acting. The concentration, the complete absorption he gave to his characterization filled me with such awe I could scarcely speak to him. He demanded a lot of me. A lot of times I was afraid I wasn’t giving him what he wanted to play off, but I guess he thought I was okay … He was giving one of his absolute unique characterizations in this. His arms were strapped to his side. He learned to act without hands, even to hold a cigarette between his toes. He never slipped out of character. Watching him gave me the desire to be a real actress… An era went with him, an era of creative, daring, larger-than-life strivings. I have never, ever forgotten him and the inspiration he provided.”  – Joan Crawford

Happy Birthday, Lon Chaney