youth creates

I went to look for the “Alchemist who travels time” and I found reccords of the Count of St. Germain.On the page, they say it’s indeed the man Hoshino was inspired about

There’s some interesting things in the wikipedia page of that man…

The Comte de Saint Germain (Born ~ 1691 died 27 February 1784) was a European adventurer, with an interest in science and the arts. (…)

In order to deflect inquiries as to his origins, he would invent fantasies, such as him being 500 years old


“He sings, plays on the violin wonderfully, composes, is mad, and not very sensible. He is called an Italian, a Spaniard, a Pole; a somebody that married a great fortune in Mexico, and ran away with her jewels to Constantinople; a priest, a fiddler, a vast nobleman. The Prince of Wales has had unsatiated curiosity about him, but in vain. However, nothing has been made out against him; he is released; and, what convinces me that he is not a gentleman, stays here, and talks of his being taken up for a spy”


Walpole concludes that the Count was ‘”a man of Quality who had been in or designed for the Church. He was too great a musician not to have been famous if he had not been a gentleman'”  Walpole describes the Count as pale, with 'extremely black’ hair and a beard. '”He dressed magnificently, [and] had several jewels’ and was clearly receiving 'large remittances, but made no other figure”’.


A mime and English comedian known as Mi'Lord Gower impersonated St. Germain in Paris salons. His stories were wilder than the real Count’s (he had advised Jesus, for example). Inevitably, hearsay of his routine got confused with the original.


“St. Germain gave himself out for a marvel and always aimed at exciting amazement, which he often succeeded in doing. He was scholar, linguist, musician, and chemist, good-looking, and a perfect ladies’ man. For a while he gave them paints and cosmetics; he flattered them, not that he would make them young again (which he modestly confessed was beyond him) but that their beauty would be preserved by means of a wash which, he said, cost him a lot of money, but which he gave away freely.”


“This extraordinary man, intended by nature to be the king of impostors and quacks, would say in an easy, assured manner that he was three hundred years old, that he knew the secret of the Universal Medicine, that he possessed a mastery over nature, that he could melt diamonds, professing himself capable of forming, out of ten or twelve small diamonds, one large one of the finest water without any loss of weight. All this, he said, was a mere trifle to him. Notwithstanding his boastings, his bare-faced lies, and his manifold eccentricities, I cannot say I thought him offensive. In spite of my knowledge of what he was and in spite of my own feelings, I thought him an astonishing man as he was always astonishing me.”


Myths, legends and speculations about St. Germain began to be widespread in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and continue today. They include beliefs that he is immortal, the Wandering Jew, an alchemist with the “Elixir of Life”, a Rosicrucian, and that he prophesied the French Revolution.

[He is still claimed to have been seen since then, up ‘till 2004]

This is fascinating… 


The children of Queen Daenerys I and Jon, King in the North

I Prince Jaeherys/Prince of Dragonstone/King Jaeherys III of the Seven Kingdoms

Jaeherys was born during the Long Winter, the only one to be born in Winterfell. He was truly his mother’s child, ambitious, intelligent, cunning, not fond of war and battle, but skilled at tactics.Out of his 6 siblings, he was closest to Aelinor, and many people though they were twins. In his youth, he traveled the Free Cities where he met the ill-fated Kara Rogarre. She was the grandaughter of a wealthy merchant, a great Valyrian beauty, but extremely wilful. The young Prince fell in love in her and demaned marriage. Relucantly, the Westerosi monarchs agreed, but as his mother predicted, the marriage was dreadful. Kara hated Jaeherys’ beloved Dragonstone and the dragons themselves, which caused straign and their marriage resulted in one heir, Princess Rhaenyra, later Queen Rhaenyra II. Kara died in a shipwreck when her daughter was 9, thus never becoming Queen consort. As King, Jaenerys annexed the two thrones and mended the Seven Kingdoms forever. He was a great King, but a heartbroken man.Jaeherys was tolerant, kind, he supported the Great Reformation and the introduction of Parliament his mother started. He rode a silver dragon named Aellyx.

II Princess Aelinor/ The Lady of the Bay of Dragons/The Spring Princess

Aelinor was born in spring,which made sense considering her kidness and beauty. Known as the Pearl of the Realm, she a was great singer and a sought out bride. She was crowned Queen of love and beauty by many, charismatic and lovely, but her fate was different. Her mother and father recognized her talents and sent her of to take care of the Bay of Dragons which her mother conquered in her youth. She created a new system and reigned as Lady of the Bay for many years. Her ideas and reforms were used by many leaders after her. She returned to Westeros many times, to serve as her brother’s Hand, to try to mend his marriage, for weddings and namedays, but she found her true home in the Bay. When it came to marriage, she married twice. She first married Illio Magyr of Volantis but that marriage wasn’t as happy as she thought so she got an annulment. She later met Domeric Dayne in Westeros and would eventually marry him and have three daughters and a son: Daenerys, Daena, Eleana and Aenys. When she was young, Ser Davos joked with her father how he would need to send her off to the other end to the world to keep her suitors at bay, and so it happened. She eventually rode Meraxes, a burgundy dragon hatched by herself.

III Prince Eddard/Duke of the North/The Wild Wolf

A Stark through and through, Eddard was the wildest of his siblings, leading expeditions beyond where the Wall once stood. As a child he was close with his father and aunt Arya as well as his cousin Robb Baratheon. Ned enjoyed pulling pranks on people, his favourite targets were his sister. When he was 5, his uncle Brandon named him as heir, so when he turned 16 Brandon renounced his position and left, never to be seen again. Young Eddard was an efficient duke with the help of his paternal aunt, Princess Sansa. But, he had a bad habit of womanizing which his mother dissapproved of. He had numerous mistresses until he met Alyssane Blackwood, which caused him to stop. He loved Alyssane deeply and she was kind and loving to him, they had four boys, Jon, Brandon, Rickard and Torren. He was afraid oh heights and thus never even tried to come near one the numerous dragons. Winterfell was his most beloved place, where he was burried alongside his Alyssane.

IV Princess Lyarra/ The Artist/Duchess of the Riverlands

Lyarra was a gifted artist from early childhood. She painted many portraits and was fond of large companies, she enjoyed her friendship with Tyrion Lannister’s daughters. Lyarra designed Summerhall again, made numerous sketches for King’s Landing which were turned later into reality by her mother and brother, her ideas and solutions were used for hundreds of years after her death. She married Hoster Tully, Duke of the Riverlands. They had three children, Minisa, Bryden and Jonnel. She was a briliant mathematician and spokeswoman, an accomplished rider and talented dancer. Lyarra rode Greywind, a kind dark grey beast. Greywind died before her in a spear incident, breaking her heart. Lyarra enjoyed parties and people and her people loved being in her company.

V Prince Aemon/Prince of Summerhall/The Wind

Just like the rest of his siblings, Aemon was educated in self defence, but he enjoyed war. He loved battles and horses and whenever there was a rebellion he’d be the one to kill it off. Aemon was nickanamed The Wind after he stormed a siege in a minute with his dragon Sunfyre, a large yellow beast. He was hot-headed and impulsive, but he looked up to his father and wanted to be a great warrior, just like him. He traveled with his Aunt Arya. He led a happy life, married Serena Dondarrion and left 6 children: Daenys, Rhae, Aegor, Daeron, Visenya and Maekar. He was close with Eddard and enjoyed spending time in the North, but after they re-built Summerhall his family moved there. Aemon’s best friend was Jason Lannister. The two men waged war on the behalf of the Westerosi monarchs many times. 

VI Princess Rhaella/The Historian/Princess of Dorne

Rhaella and her fraternal twin Alyssa were an untter surprise to her parents. Tyrion Lannister joked how the King and Queen went out with a bang for their last two children. They were a surprise, but they were beloved. Rhaella was a shy, well-read girl, profficient with a bow and arrow like her older sister Aelinor, but she preffered reading about history. Rhaella wrote 35 books historical pieces that are used as a source now, without her so much histrory would be lost. She and her sister were close until she married Mors Martell, son of Princess Nymeria, who she met as a child. They’d eventually have 3 children, Arianne, Oberyn and Loreza. Arianne and Rhaella were always close, and little Oberyn idolized his grandparents. Rhaella’s value as a historian is unmeasurable. She rode Valarr, a small tope dragon, but after an injury she retrieved from riding and focused on writing everything down in her beloved Watergardens.

VII Princess Alyssa/The Wise Princess/Goldhands

Alyssa learned to read at the age of 4. She was an avid learned and wanted even to join the Citadel, considreing she spent time ther ewith her Uncle Sam who was Archmaester there. But, she realized the Citadel’s flaws and decided to found Westeros’ first university, which she was named Alyssaniaum in her honour. She opened many school for everyone during her life, reforming education and making it mandatory from age 7 to 18. She wrote many laws and critiques, believed in knowlegde and valued it above else. Alyssa’s library contained over 5000 books which were open for the public at every time. Alyssa rode Rhaenys, a beautiful red beast and waged wars with her siblings. She refused to marry, but rumour had it she kept paramours such as Talia of Myr and Rohanne Webber, even rumour had it she had an affair with Alyssane Blackwood’s younger sister Asha. Her greatest achievment was increasing the number of literatte people, dividing the sectors of education for maesters and opened the Citadel for women. She was the biggest influence in Princess Rhaenyra’s life after her mother’s death. She was close with her father and Aunt Sansa. Many men proposed to her but she used to say if there’s anyone who can impress her with his wit she’d marry that person. Alyssa was called Goldhands after her ability to make money, which she inherited from Tyrion Lannister.

One of these is a nonsensical shitpost

1.) Joan of Arc has an alternate version of her created by a Gilles de Rais maddened by his knowledge of Cthulu. This alternate version of her drinks an elixir from Gilgamesh, the Mesopotamian King, in an effort to upstage a female King Arthur’s alternate version in a Santa hat. The elixir turns out to be a youth elixir, and creates an alternate, younger version of Joan of Arc’s alternate version, in a Santa hat.

2.) Kotomine Kirei, a sadistic priest, enjoys extremely spicy mapo tofu because every time he eats it, while he feels nothing, he can imagine the pain others might feel upon eating it and this gives him sexual pleasure.

3.) An ancient Aztec warrior possesses a twenty-something Japanese woman and runs around in a tiger fursuit attacking people with a broom.


Project: Scrapbook — Horrificator (Part One)

Project: Scrapbook Masterpost (tbp)

Comic By: @daughterofthestars08 (lineart) & @artgraveyard (lineart and color) & @chalala-chan (color) 

Written By: @purr-cat-stinate & @mimosaeyes

Beta’d By: @miraculousandcute & @emeralddrop

Summary: N/A

Words: 5671

Despite the chilly season, the sun was already gracing the citizens of Paris with its warm rays of sunlight that poured from the clouds down onto the earth. It was a lovely day, perfect for picnics, and walks in the park. It was a lovely day to discover something new; or perhaps to create something new.

Keep reading

i’m 25 now and i hope that no matter how old i am or how educated i become i never talk over young LGBT kids or tell them they’re wrong. i mean shit, i have some pretty strong feelings about things like the split attraction model – i don’t condone things i think can be painful or invasive for kids to publicly divulge, especially in the interest of keeping young lgbt kids safe from predators.

but i’ve tried to relax a lot in my politics, and as i get older i try to remain helpful and willing to listen, even to young inexperienced or uneducated kids.

i see these 30-50 y/old queer studies majors just rolling their eyes at young lgbt kids for “not knowing their history” and shit like that – which is hilarious, because coming from a position where you have been afforded a degree and years of education you would think you of all people would know how important it is to listen to the young & struggling voices in our community, but i guess not.

as adults in our community it’s not just important to carry on our history, but to also not lose sight of how the landscape of our community’s oppression changes for generations younger than us.

being lgbt isn’t rocket science, and talking about your experiences does not require some kind of prerequisite understanding of our history in order to talk about how homophobia/transphobia/biphobia/transmisogyny/lesbophobia hurts us individually. it’s ok for young kids not to want to be called or identify with words or use terminology the way our community did decades ago. things change.

the thing about being marginalized is that being educated or older doesn’t mean you inherently Know More about oppression and the lgbt experience. there are homeless trans kids who didn’t even finish high school whose experiences and insight are just as important as the voices of educated Queer Elders, if not moreso.

i personally never want to seem like i’m beyond being wrong. i don’t want to be a part of a community that talks down to our youth and creates an environment where they feel stifled and not listened to.

the knowledge of our history is VITAL, and making sure the youngest in our community know the struggles, accomplishments, and experiences of those that came before us really is crucial. i will always advocate for this.

but LGBT history is not a tool adults should constantly use as a way to shame or write off young folks and their experiences, their comfort, etc. there’s a difference between “this is ahistorical and you should be aware” and “these STUPID KIDS who think [x] is a slur/transphobic just DONT KNOW!! I CAME OUT BEFORE YOU WERE BORN”

maybe it’s just me, but that sure doesn’t seem like a very helpful or radical attitude to have.

you ever get really emo bc youre thinking about nct dream and how theyre all gonna grow up together and become adults together one day and through everything, they’ve done it together and i mean they got their first win together and what other feats are they gonna accomplish together next?? like !!! binch !!!!! nct dream created youth and friendship!!!!!!!!

Sometimes Rain Falls

A BTS Fanfiction

Type: AU/Alternative Universe

Summary: Sometimes a normal life is a good one to lead; its nice…its easy…
But sometimes, normal isn’t the way that things were meant to be. And when you’re chosen as a possible candidate for one of the kingdom’s 7 princes, life isn’t as nice and easy as you always presumed it to be…especially when you catch the eye of more than one of them…

A/N: I will warn you all now, that this fic is going to be VERY different to my usual stuff, but you can expect a hell of a lot more twists, turns, secrets, and debauchery than ever before… ;)

Disclaimer: I will put warnings on any chapters that challenge social acceptance, however, as an overall warning, this story will contain themes of sex, fear, control (of one person over another), and elements of a gothic nature! 


Part 1


It was so…dark.

All the stories that you’d ever heard about the castle had been about how music sang from the walls, how long clouds of silk curtains billowed gently in the breeze that wafted through the grand windows, how the place was decorated with ornaments, paintings, crystal vases galore…

But the first thing you noticed as you walked through the tall, oak doorway…

…was the darkness.

‘I don’t think we’re allowed to be down here.’ You murmur to the man pulling you along by the hand, your eyes wide as you watch the water dripping down the dank walls of the corridor you’d come to find yourself in after climbing down numerous stairs to what you thought would be the library, but what was starting to look more like a dungeon.

‘Don’t worry. I know where we’re going.’ He murmurs amused, the humor-filled lilt of his voice not working to reassure you at all as you begin to drag your feet, struggling to hold the bottom of your dress off of the floor so that it wouldn’t get wet as you watch him stare excitedly in front of himself.

‘I really think we should head back- what if someone sees-‘

You’re cut off when he suddenly stops, spinning back to pin you against the wall, his eyes dancing excitedly over your face for a moment before he pushes his lips against yours, ducking his head down and softly pressing his mouth to yours, practically being able to feel the adrenaline running through him in the kiss.

‘I have to show you.’ Is all he says as he pulls away, staring at you almost piercingly as he grins, and you swear you see his eyes flash a different colour momentarily, your heart racing in your chest with the sight of the abnormality, before you’re being kissed roughly, yet briefly, again, and once more he begins to drag you along the corridor, his grip on your wrist having tightened somewhat compared to before.

You remain silent as you follow after him, the only sound being your slightly ragged breathing, trying not to trip over your feet as he out-paces you, getting lost in your thoughts as the image of his eyes flashing repeats over and over in your mind. But just as you go to stop him once again, you look up to see that you’d arrived at the end of the dark corridor, a large solid oak door standing in your path.

‘This is it.’ He whispers to himself, turning to look at you with his lip caught between his teeth as he grins, the expression telling you that you were meant to be as excited as him, but all you could focus on was the way your heart was racing in your chest at the prospect of the unknown, your nervousness making you stare at the gold buttons decorating his chest rather than being able to look him in the eye.

‘Princess?’ he murmurs, the unexpectedness of the word forcing your gaze to his, and the minute you look into his eyes you wish you didn’t; seeing the same flashing of colour greeting you as he grins down at you devilishly.

‘Are you ready?’

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An ask made me realize this still doesn’t seem to be conveniently available anywhere, so Warren Ellis on Superman and Lois Lane circa 1998 (with some pictures thrown in by me):


Brief, Disconnected Notes On An American Mythology—Warren Ellis

I’m not a superhero fan. I had to learn the subgenre when I began writing for the States. I’ve had to learn to read them. Now, I can appreciate some of them. Not many, it has to be said…but some.

The one I always wanted to like was Superman.

Superman is a uniquely American icon, and the first true myth of the electronic age. One special facet to it is that it began as a myth told to children by children. Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster were youths when they created Superman, a far cry from today’s handful of twentysomethings and carloads of middle-aged men who give today’s children their superheroes.

(Perhaps this is why, to me, a strong adult story told with Superman would seem curiously inappropriate – and, conversely, the 20th Century social nightmare given inky form that is The Batman seems to me strangely inappropriate as figure of children’s tales.)

Superman, then, is the agent of modern fable – the most compelling fable the 20th Century gave us. Soap opera is unworthy of him, and, as has been proved many times, is not big enough to contain him and the central concepts of his story. At the heart of myth and legend is Romance. That is not the same as the weak, whiny demands of soap opera that begin with “characterization” and crap on with demands for ever more levels of “conflict”, “jeopardy”, “ensemble writing”, “tight continuity” and all the rest of that bollocks. These things are unimportant. Many of them just completely get in the way of the job at hand.

SUPERMAN requires only the sweep and invention and vision that myth demands, and the artistry and directness and clean hands that Romance requires.

SUPERMAN is about someone trying their best to save the world, one day at a time; and it’s about that person’s love for that one whose intellect and emotion and sheer bloody humanity completes him. It’s about Superman, and it’s about Lois and Clark. And that’s all there is. That’s the spine. That must be protected to the death, not lost in a cannonade succession of continuing stories.

That’s what, in the continuing rush to top the last plotline, I see getting lost.

I understand, accept and even to an extent agree with what’s going on; The SUPERMAN creators are trying to keep the books vital, keep them moving, keep those sales spikes coming. But they seem to me to be getting away from the sheer wonder of the Superman myth.

(The single title that does seem to be hewing to the line I’ve just scratched in the sand is Mark Millar’s charming and energetic SUPERMAN ADVENTURES.)

What SUPERMAN must avoid is genericism. It must live up to its billing. The comics must crackle with invention and mythic power.  They must always resolutely be of Now, be utterly modern – if not utterly of Tomorrow. They must thrill and frighten and inspire and give us furiously to think.

Crucially, they must not simply offer us a parade of costumes and odd single name/titles. There must be stories where something important is at stake. Something worth saving, be it the life of a human, the soul of a city, the fate of a world, or the future of a child.

Mike Carlin always characterizes the ongoing thrust of the Superman titles as the “Never-Ending Battle”. Those battles must have stakes beyond those of smacking about this month’s new costume with an odd name.

(Superman tackles natural disaster and human crime. It’s his belief that nothing else falls within his purview. War and the politics of famine, he feels, are part of human government, and so not his place. He will not interfere in the growth of the human race, as much as it sometimes breaks his heart.

He merely, obliviously, shows the human race, by example, how to be great.)

shadeofazmeinya  asked:

from the prompt list: #35 “You make me feel safe.” freewood, any au you're feeling

yikes im sorry this took a while to get out but here we go! i hope u like it shade <3 (ao3 link)

The sun dips below the horizon, casting Gavin in a deep glow as he concentrates on the energy reserves. His toga, the iridescent fabric that shifts between green and gold, is swept around his body, leaving nothing to the imagination while not truly revealing anything. He is storing his power for the night, a part of his self protection.

“You doing okay?” Ryan asks softly, coming up behind him as the glow of the sun shadows him too. Gavin casts a glance to the side, and he sighs.

“Just more threats on my solar magic by some radioactive leecher twats,” he responds, the sun disappearing completely. Ryan’s arm is slightly cold, like he always is, and he gazes at the twilight gradient of the sky. “They’re getting worse. Radioactive leechers, and there’s rumours of a man practicing blood magic to come find me.”

“Well, you’re well sought after,” Ryan says, though his voice holds no humour in it. “The ray of sunlight that created the god of light. They all want a piece of you.”

“Thanks for that,” Gavin says, nudging him. “You make me feel real safe.”

Ryan sighs softly as the cool light of the moon comes over their throne, the obsidian and gold reflecting the light in their own different way. “I’ve been hearing those rumours too.”

“I know,” Gavin turns to look at him, his golden aura dancing faintly off of Ryan’s pale skin. “You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”

“We had a deal, we’ve always had a deal,” Ryan tilts his head back to watch as the stars begin to show themselves. “These people could be dangerous, and if they hurt you, the balance of the world is thrown.”

Keep reading

I always feel like Irish students and characters got no love in Harry Potter (Seamus Finnigan was a huge stereotype, even if he was likable), so consider:

☛ Students speaking Irish amongst themselves and splicing Latin with Irish to create new spells (or disasters)

☛ The Quidditch team having Cú Chulainn in their fireworks instead of a leprechaun

☛ A regional magical sport which is essentially hurling but with sliotars that can move once on the ground in whatever direction they choose, and occasionally fly away from players when they lose momentum in midair. Not practiced officially in Hogwarts (yet) but students start to band together to form a club for the game.

Irish Mythological and historical figures being cited as witches, wizards, or having other magical significance e.g. Cú Chulainn being a werewolf as a result of actually receiving a bite from Culann’s hound before killing it (explaining his “distortions”), The Morrígan being an animagus (turns into a crow), Deirdre having Veela blood (people literally killing each other to get in her pants)

☛ Oscar Wilde is a noted wizard and author. He knew Dorian Gray, who attempted to gain eternal youth by creating a horcrux, but eventually fell into madness and destroyed his own horcrux, killing himself. Wilde, while distraught, accidentally let this slip to a muggle friend, and covered it up by writing a story about it. Wilde’s own portrait now hangs in Hogwarts. He offers writing help, life advice, and complains about the wallpaper opposite him.

Additions welcome get in here and get this express rolling

A letter from former Artistic Director, Dominic Dromgoole

A letter to the next Artistic Director.

Dear Fearless, and Fortunate soul,

Twenty years ago, Mark Rylance and Lennie James led a company in a modern dress production of Two Gentlemen of Verona, the first production in the new Globe.  Much scholarship went into the show, and twice as much free-wheeling invention. Happily, exhilaratingly, no-one knew entirely what they were doing, and they and the audience joined to discover a new language for making theatre. An adventure was launched, which led to twenty continuous years of chance-taking, boldness and surprise. Six people in pyjamas doing Cymbeline; scrupulous Original Practice work; throwing a roof on the building for Titus Andronicus; building rose gardens in the yard for Merry Wives; and yes, phantasmagorias of light and sound for last year’s Dream; and brute urbanising for Imogen. Shakespeare done with freedom and a curiosity to match the audience’s. 

That is the Globe tradition. It was new, and it is still new. A newness that begins again every afternoon and every evening when the audience come in and draw their breath at the sun, the wood, the colour, the swirl of it all, and each other. Newness is not easy for everyone. The bile towards the Globe was there at the beginning, was felt keenly by Mark, was ever-present in my time, and spilled out last autumn hideously from those both pro- and anti-Emma Rice. It goes with the territory. The Globe is forever breaking moulds, that inspires fear, and fear can lead to loathing. The rush of energy that accompanies the new, and the roar of approval from those happy to climb on board is more than ample compensation. Dear Fearless and Fortunate Soul, above all else keep the Globe new.

From the very start, the Globe pushed the boundaries on BAME casting, an action which we continued in my time with the natural joy of walking into a brighter room. Emma has carried that torch. Globe gender-bending began with Shakespeare, and Mark extended it with Vanessa Redgrave as Prospero, and with three all-female companies, including Phyllida Lloyd’s first Shakespeare with a female company, a seedling which grew into a spectacular tree. We carried this on, and were proud to transfer two successful plays by women writers to the West End in my last year. Emma extended this experiment much further, and she was right to. Carry on pushing these envelopes.

Mark experimented with new plays, a risk that grew fast as we presented countless big new public works. New writing beside a Shakespeare is a constant reminder that Shakespeare himself was once new, and the energy of the former electrifies the latter. Emma has carried that on, and, for me, it should remain at the heart of the Globe.

The Globe’s youth creates endless opportunities. It fits no particular mould – neither subsidised nor truly commercial – so is still free to invent itself. Over the last twenty years, it has freestyled different ways of playing Shakespeare; created a small-scale touring network, both national and international; built a new theatre, the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse; held a huge International Festival, and created a filming programme and a VOD platform. Contrary to some bizarre lies which have been circulating, all done within its unsubsidised means. Emma came in with a host of new directions, of new ways to facilitate artists, and with a large-scale intervention into how shows are staged.

The fact that Emma has been stopped in fulfilling her ambitions is heart-breaking. It is also wrong. The spirit of a theatre is that it should follow the lead of its artistic director. And an artistic director cannot usefully be anyone but themselves. The fact of your contract is also that, unless otherwise specified, you are free to invent as you wish. The only people who have the moral strength to get rid of you are the audience. No-one else, not the board, not your supposed colleagues, not the vulture punditry, just the audience. Emma had lost a little of the Globe audience, but all the evidence is that she had gained some as well. Please remember, F, and F Soul, that your first responsibility is to yourself, and to them.

At the heart of the Globe are, for me, two things. First the £5 ticket for the yard. Over the last twenty years that single fact has given over five million people an extraordinary experience for less than a sandwich costs. They have seen Mark in his pomp, Gemma Arterton’s Rosaline, Gugu Mbatha Raw’s Nell Gwynn, Roger Allam’s Falstaff, Eve Best’s Beatrice and Cleopatra, and countless others for only £5. It is a miracle. For all the talk of accessibility elsewhere, there is nothing equivalent to touch it. It makes many uneasy, many who espouse accessibility write with a shameful snobbery about tourists and students as if they were a sub-human species. There was also a steady pressure internally to raise that price, a pressure which Mark and I and Emma resisted. The £5 ticket is at the heart of the Globe’s success, you must fight for its survival.

The second thing at the heart of the Globe, for me, is playing in a shared light. A democratic space where a story unfolds as an imaginative agreement between text, actors and audience. It is this that Emma experimented to change, and which is at the heart of her disagreements with colleagues and the board. For me, shared light was the unique Globe tool, which subverted the orthodoxies of director’s and critic’s theatre, and which handed back to the actors and the audiences the capacity to collaborate together freely on making an imaginative experience occur. Taking away that uniqueness doesn’t strike me as radical, it strikes me as conformist. Every theatre has light and sound, the Globe didn’t. This uniqueness matters to me, and for me, F and F Soul, it is important to preserve.

However Emma didn’t come in to emulate myself, or Mark, she came in to be herself, and so she triumphantly was. As an Artistic Director myself, I respect Emma’s choice in doing so, and I cannot respect the blocking of her choice. No-one, not committees, not cabals, not connivers, no-one can set this policy but the AD. They have to make these choices with passion and conviction for the whole of the rest of a theatre to make sense.  Early on in your time, you will find it invaluable to listen to the many experienced voices around you, and also invaluable to be exceptionally wary of those who do not want to advise but who want to influence. Everybody wants to be Artistic Director. They can’t all be. Only you can. It is vital, Dear F and F S, that you ring-fence with iron and steel your own freedom and ability to make choices. This must be put down in black and white, and made public, and it must be adhered to. With an ear to what the audience wants, and with an eye for where to take them, no-one should set artistic policy but the Artistic Director.

Now that Emma has carried out her experiments with light and sound, it is pointless to pretend she hasn’t. What has happened, can’t unhappen. Many felt alienated by it, many loved it. To write it out of the Globe story and say it can’t happen ever again is fundamentalist, and as daft as any form of fundamentalism. Emma’s experiment should be folded into the Globe’s story as gleefully as all the other experiments have been; new work, internationalism, modernising, design interventions. For me, the majority of the work should be in a shared light, and with natural sound, but to make it that and that only, just doesn’t add up. Dear F and F Soul, fight to keep room for manoeuvre.

You will notice, Dear F and F Soul, that some of my comments have alluded to negative energy. It would be foolish to pretend it isn’t there. The Globe has its enemies without - many don’t like the freedom of the place, its open-ness and its warmth. Some simply can’t cope with its happiness. Our culture and its commentators often prefer the shrivelled sausage to the plump one, and the Globe is fat and juicy. The degree of bile can be disabling. I have just had my own and my family’s Easter wrecked by some pathological viciousness, and I’ve been gone a year. Emma has had to put up with much worse.

Sadly the negativity doesn’t only come from without, there is also a fair sum within. There are structural problems, there are personality problems, there is too much fighting for territory, and there are too many who feel free to comment on work without ever taking the risk of making it. It is absurd that out of the mess of last year, the only person to be suffering the consequences is Emma. However the Globe is taking steps to address the problems, you have an excellent CEO in Neil Constable, who has copped too much of the blame for last year’s imbroglio while doing all he could to avoid it, and you have the best theatre department in the country. The fact that the Globe has gone on making excellent work through summer and winter, with so much distraction, is testament to their excellence. Dear F and F Soul, you will have to be prepared for tough decisions, you will have to be strong and independent, but you will have some of the best around you.

Above and beyond all else, Dear F and F Soul, if you inhabit the same office which Mark, I and Emma were blessed to sit in, every day through the long summer, you will hear at 1 o’clock, and at 6.30, a bubbling hubbub of excited chatter, and standing to look out you will see a snaking queue of four or five hundred people, eager to charge through the doors, and jostle their way to the best positions in the yard. The quality of their excitement and anticipation, of their sheer appetite for a great afternoon or evening, of their big human hope - there is no price that can be put on that. It is one of the biggest privileges in the world of theatre to be able to join with it.

Relish, enjoy, make their hopes and yours real.

All the best,
Dominic Dromgoole

hello, society (isaac x woc!reader)

A/N: hi guys!!!! i’m so so so so happy to post this first part of the series where Isaac is dating an ethnic person (so not white lmaooooo) this is so special to me so I hope you like.

y/e/n: your ethnicity

prompt: y/n talks about her fears of dating a white guy.

Liking boys like Isaac Lahey never seemed to end well for me. He was charming and attractive and knew all the right things to say and just when to say them. He had a jaw that looked like it was cut straight  from the gods themselves and cheekbones that sat perfectly where they needed to be on his face. His bright blue eyes and dirty blonde hair created a youthful effect on his face and since both were always shifting colors it seemed like he was a new person each time I saw him. He knew the words that would make me melt and the words that would make me hate him. But most of all he knew how to make me happy. It was safe to say that Isaac Lahey was perfect.

But he wasn’t. Throughout the entirety of my life every time I would so much as to think a white guy was attractive, I’d be told “Oh you’re like one of those y/e/n girls that only like white guys.” Hearing that statement the first time shocked me, but by the fiftieth time I was pretty much numb to being the “y/e/n girl that only likes white guys”. It was so far from the truth but every time I would try and explain myself I would get immediately shut down. Eventually, I stopped sharing my feelings about certain boys and girls to my friends and family, even though every time I saw an attractive white person I wanted to scream about how hot they were from the top of my lungs.

So Isaac being white was a flaw for me, not that him being white changes how I felt about him and how he made me feel. There was just this feeling inside me that hasn’t gone away since I first started liking a white guy in middle school and felt insecure since there were no interracial couples at my school. As much as I hated to admit it, I never thought I could date a white guy publicly with out feeling paranoid and scared that people were talking about us, saying things like “he only likes y/e/n girls.” and vice versa. So, I promised myself I wouldn’t, and that’s just what I did.

Thats what I did, in fact, until Isaac’s hands found my waist at Lydia’s birthday party and he started leaving sloppy kisses on my neck and bare chest in Lydia’s pantry. If you were to ask me I probably wouldn’t remember how we got to that place, I would just remember how much I was enjoying it and how much I wish I didn’t.

“Isaac!” I called for help reaching on the tips of my toes, trying to reach the top shelf where the chips were.

“Yeah, what’s up?” He answered opening the pantry door and closing it as he wandered in.

I let out a loud sigh turning around to face him, not realizing how close he already was to me.

Looking up at him I sighed again and smiled sweetly, “Would you mind grabbing the chips for me?”

He chuckled a bit and lightly took my chin in his hand and said “Anything for you, Princess”

I actually got goosebumps when he said that.

I let my eyes flicker down to his lips which was a huge mistake on my part, but I wasn’t in control of my own body now. That became obvious to me after what happened next.

I’m guessing he took my innocent glance at his lips as a cue to press them to mine in which I immediately responded by deepening the kiss.

I brought my hands to his neck pulling him down closer to me while he pulled my bottom lip in between his teeth. He started leaving small and sweet kisses on my jaw, bringing his large hands down to my waist.

He then started to suck on my neck in which I responded with a breathy moan that snapped me back to my reality. I was making out with Isaac Lahey in an oversized food pantry.

“Stop.” I gently placed my hands on his chest.

Isaac retreated from my neck smirking and licking his bottom lip. I felt frozen, I just wanted some pita chips. His close proximity and hot breath left me flustered and my chest was rising so rapidly I don’t think he needed to be a werewolf to hear how my heart was beating.

“Shit. Sorry”

I laughed nervously as if everything was okay, as if I wasn’t soaking.

“It’s okay.”

I looked down at my shoes and bit my lip to avoid eye contact with him.

“You sure? You don’t wanna ta-”

“No. I just want the pita chips.” I said looking to the side, still avoiding eye contact with him.

“Y/N-” He sighed.

“It’s okay, I’ll just ask Stiles or eat the dip by itself, I gotta go.”

I pushed past him and quickly grabbed my jacket off of the table while saying quick goodbyes to everyone and heading out.

I planned on avoiding Isaac forever.

He wouldn’t let that happen.

He even showed up to family dinner after talking to my dad at his job.

So now here I sat, eating my dinner across from Isaac Lahey, the one guy I was avoiding because my dad invited him over because he thought he was a “nice friend of mine.”

My dad would have never let Isaac walk through the doors if he knew what he had done to me in that pantry.

“The food is amazing Mrs.Y/L/N. It has so much flavor.”

I nearly gagged when he said that. This was amazing.

“Thank you, Isaac. I actually think this is kind of bland, but I knew you were coming so I toned it down for you.”

This time I actually gagged, bringing everyones attention to me.

“What’s funny, Y/N?” Isaac asked with a fake sincerity.

I took a sip of water. “Nothing.” I smiled.

“Dad, can I leave the table? I have an Economics test to study for.”

“Oh yeah, you’re in my class, we could study together. Can I be excused as well?”

This motherfu- “No, that’s fi-”

“Sure, both of you can go, studying is better when it’s done with someone.”

I rolled my eyes and went up to my room, as Isaac followed behind me.

As soon as we got in my room Isaac stood oddly in the middle of the room.

“Close the door, Isaac.”

“Are they okay with that?”

“Does it matter? Close the door.”

He looked taken aback but shut the door slowly as I threw myself on my bed.

“Do you have a problem with me or something? Because I am so sorry about what I did at the party, I just thought you were okay with it since you were kissing me back an-”

“No, I don’t have a problem with you at all, thats the problem.”

Isaac looked confused so I motioned over to him to sit on my bed.

“Look, I like you a lot. I think it’s obvious how much I do.”

“Actually, it’s no-”

“Be quiet and listen.” I took a deep breath. “I’m scared of what people with think about me and you. I mean, are you really okay with dating a y/e/n girl?”

“Of course I am. Your race is a huge part of who you are, I mean it is who you are, but it doesn’t make up what makes you you, and what makes you important. I don’t like people just because of their culture or what they look like. I mean, you aren’t bad to look at, like at all, but you are an amazing person who makes me very happy and I can see myself with you. You shouldn’t be scared to date me because of what other people think, you should only care about what you think. You like me, I like you and I want to make you happy.”

I had sat up at this point and was nearly crying.

I pressed my lips to his.

“You do make me happy, let’s make this work.”

“Having reduced Christianity to a message, we create an emotional experience as a gateway to dispensing the message. But this is a sign that we have given up on incarnate modes of formation bequeathed to us in liturgy and the spiritual disciplines. Instead, we have created youth ministry that confuses extroversion with faithfulness. We have effectively communicated to young people that sincerely following Jesus is synonymous with being “fired up” for Jesus, with being excited for Jesus, as if discipleship were synonymous with fostering an exuberant, perky, cheerful, hurray-for-Jesus disposition like what we might find in the glee club or at a pep rally.

The result, I would caution, can be disastrous. If we effectively communicate to young people that being a serious follower of Jesus is synonymous with being an extrovert for Jesus, then all of our young people who simply are not wired that way are going to quietly assume they can’t be Christians. If the exuberance of the energetic youth pastor is taken to be exemplary, then all sorts of young people will mistakenly conclude that they simply can’t be Christians. And so the unintended consequence: in the name of curating an exciting, entertaining “experience” to keep young people in the faith, we end up only creating consumers of a Jesus message while disenchanting vast swaths of other young people who simply can’t imagine signing up for a Jesus glee club.” -James K.A. Smith, You Are What You Love
LeBron James to open public school for at-risk kids
LeBron James is teaming up with Akron public schools to open the "I Promise School" dedicated to aiding at-risk children who might otherwise be left behind.

Lebron James is known to make an impact on the basketball court, but that’s not the only thing that’s got people talking.

It’s the recent announcement that the Cleveland Cavaliers star would be opening a public school in Akron, Ohio, his hometown, for at-risk youth, that’s been creating a buzz.

The “I Promise School,” which is set to open in fall 2018, will receive funding from the Lebron James Family Foundation. Before expanding for children in grades first to eighth, it will begin with third and fourth graders.

“This school is so important to me because our vision is to create a place for the kids in Akron who need it most – those that could fall through the cracks if we don’t do something,” says James.

James could have been one of those kids, but he was given the opportunity and support to strive for better, putting him in the position he is in today. This is why he’s been so dedicated to helping the youth, especially those in Akron.

It’s always great to see NBA stars, like James, giving back to the community in any way they can.


Together with @unfpa, the United Nations Population Fund, 80 youth volunteers in Syria created murals inspired by ideas of equality and non-violence.

Our colleagues from UNFPA in Syria deploy dignity kits, reproductive health kits and equipment, and medical personnel to assist communities affected by the conflict. They also offer psycho-social support and outreach programmes for youth.

Ficlet: A Secret to Share

Summary: Shiro kept a secret from Keith - but it just might save his life. 

A/N: Quickly written to satisfy my burning need for a resolution to the Kuron issues. Btw, if Voltron is going the route of clones and alternate dimension, I can have this.

Keith sat down in the Black Lion’s pilot seat, closing his eyes and letting out a deep sigh. The team was coming along, but he wanted – needed – Shiro back. And Red had located Keith before. Why hadn’t Black gone after Shiro – wherever he was.

Keith curled his hands about the Black Lion’s controls and murmured, “Help me. Please. Tell me how to find him.”

The Black Lion growled to life, but when Keith opened his eyes, he no longer sat in the pilot’s seat but stood to the right of it, where he always stood when near Shiro. Shiro sat in Black’s chair, and for a moment, Keith’s breath caught in his chest. Shiro was here? Shiro was back? But when he lurched forward, his hand swiped right through Shiro’s shoulder, like how the Black Lion phased through solid objects.

So Shiro wasn’t really there? Was this a memory?

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