#creative napier
Text
In the Streets of Swellendam
View On WordPress
#creative napier#digital art#napier#Overberg#photo-graphic#south africa#streetphotography#Swellendam#Western Cape
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
just saw the new rumpleteazer makeup for the asia tour. nobody talk to me nobody come near me i need time to process—
#cats makeup talk#why. why does this happen to me. why can’t they fuck up somebody else’s design for once??#(as always this is not directed at the actors but the creative leads — i’m looking at you john napier)#(i’m also playing up how upset i am but it is extremely disappointing how they’re removing all of the life out of these characters)
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Golden Ratio - Part One
Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader
Warnings: Derogatory language, angst, mentions of parental death, mentions of infidelity.
Word count: ~4.5k
Chapter summary: Her relationship strains under the pressure of long distance, though she has her classmate, Michael, to help distract from the worst of it. Series masterlist.
Author's note: For @assortedseaglass. No tag list. Please follow @ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.
She is sweaty and exasperated as she drags her suitcase over the cobbles of Holywell Street. One of the already precariously wonky wheels had finally given up the ghost and broken off as she’d dragged it up the stairs of Oxford train station, making the fifteen minute walk to her accommodation more tiring than it needed to be.
But she was here, finally. Oxford University.
Her dad had sold the car to make sure she had money to live on until her student loan and maintenance grant had been paid to her. He didn’t want her taking a part time job to make ends meet, she’d worked hard to earn her place here, her focus should be on her studies. Coming from a low income family meant she had qualified for the maximum amount for both maintenance loan and grant, but her first set of application forms had been misplaced by Student Finance, so she’d had to send in a second set, meaning there would be a delay with her first payment.
An unfortunate consequence of her dad not having a car is that she’d had to get the train to London Victoria, a tube to Paddington, then another train to Oxford. But it is not the fact that she is seemingly the only student whose parents aren’t obstructing the pavements with their cars in order to drop them off that makes her feel like an outcast, there is something deeper, more sinister feeling.
She sees it as she struggles to get her bag across the lawn of the Halls, people grouped in little clusters, as though they’ve been friends forever. They dress in Juicy Couture velour tracksuit bottoms and brand name Ugg Boots, while she wears her mum’s old Dr. Martens and a tartan skirt she’d bought in a charity shop for one pound fifty. She doesn’t fit in. She feels she may as well wear the word “poor” across her forehead like a scarlet letter.
Having checked in at the Porters’ Lodge and been given directions to the accommodation, it’s lonely as she unpacks her things, her room feeling empty and quiet. The only sounds are muffled talking and laughter coming through the closed window from outside. She feels lonelier still when she pulls out the framed photo of her and Rich. They’re both smiling, his arms wrapped around her waist as she leans her head against his. It had felt like their relationship would last forever when that picture was taken. That seemed like much less of a possibility over the last couple of weeks.
She had met Rich at the beginning of sixth form. Having attended Chatham Grammar School for Girls, she had decided to stay on there to do her A levels. The mathematics department was decent, and she had heard Russell Group universities were more likely to consider applications that came from grammar schools. Rich had transferred over from Robert Napier School. Where she was shy, quiet and reserved, he was lively, outgoing and sociable. His zest for life had shone a bright light on an existence that was, for her, otherwise dull and grey.
They were an unlikely pairing. She was logical, analytical and studied maths and physics. Rich was creative, free spirited and guided by emotion. He studied art and music. They had been together for two years and she had thought he was the one. But then it came time for UCAS applications, and where she had applied to Oxford, Cambridge and York, Rich had applied to Leeds, Brighton and Glasgow. It seemed that no matter where they were accepted, they were destined to be apart.
When she had received an unconditional offer from Oxford she had been elated, however, the crushing devastation upon hearing Rich had been accepted into The Glasgow School of Art with a conditional offer had quickly dulled her excitement.
She had never felt like an outsider or a loner when she was with Rich. Basking in his sunny disposition had felt effortless, she never felt alone. He was going to take all of that away, and she was unsure of how to cope with it.
“We’ll make it work long distance, don’t worry,” he’d told her, and she’d believed him.
But then he had actually gone to Glasgow. Fresher’s week in Glasgow started a week earlier than it did in Oxford, so Rich had moved away first. It didn’t take long for the texts and phone calls to dry up into nothing. She had heard from him once in the last few days.
She sighs as she slides up the screen of her beaten up Nokia. Still nothing. She had text to let him know she was leaving for Oxford today and he couldn’t even be bothered to reply. She knows it’s his first week at university and he’s likely busy and having fun, but how was long distance going to work if they never actually spoke to each other?
Despite the loftiness of the dining hall, it feels stuffy as she moves through it later that evening, taking a seat at a long table crowded with other students. She had hoped that the Fresher’s welcome dinner would be an opportunity to make friends, but everyone seems to be deep in conversation already. The chatter hums loudly like white noise, until it comes to a sudden stop.
“FUCKIN’ ASK ME A SUM THEN!”
She turns, mouth agape, to look at the pair of boys sitting a few places up from her. One is darked haired and seems nervous and uncomfortable, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The other is blonde, an angry, intense expression on his face, shadows cast across it from the lamplight on the table, as he stares in wide eyed anticipation. It was him who had shouted, clearly.
“Four hundred and twenty three times seventy eight,” the dark haired boy asks quietly.
Instantly his friend replies, without missing a beat, “thirty two thousand, nine hundred and ninety four.”
Involuntarily her eyes widen in surprise. She sits there and does the calculation in her head, though much more slowly than he had.
Carry the two, eight times two is sixteen, plus two is eighteen, carry the one…he’s right. How is it possible that he came to that answer so quickly?
When her gaze lifts he is looking at her, observing her doing the working out in her head. He holds her stare, a smirk curving the corners of his mouth. He knows she knows he is right, and it’s clear he feels smug about it.
Quickly looking away, she reaches for her water glass, wanting something, anything, to distract her. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel uneasy.
God, I hope I don’t have any classes with him.
She holds her timetable for the week in her hands as she moves her way through the corridors towards the lecture hall the following morning. The first week looks to be fairly light touch, with an introductory lecture for each of the courses; algebra, analysis, probability and statistics, geometry, dynamics and multivariable calculus. Today is the introduction to analysis, and she is excited to study under the tutelage of Professor Helen Byrne. Her research focuses on the development and analysis of mathematical and computational models that describe biomedical systems, with particular application to the growth and treatment of solid tumours, wound healing and tissue engineering. Professor Byrne is someone she has admired within the field for as long as she can remember, and she is very much looking forward to her tutorials with her.
Her excitement fades when she enters the lecture hall and immediately sees the angry guy from the previous evening.
Just my luck.
The only available seat is next to him, so she sits down, dropping her bag to the floor by her feet.
A hand extends out towards her in her peripheral vision, taking her by surprise and she turns in her seat towards it, shrinking back slightly.
He seems utterly unperturbed by her reaction, keeping his arm extended. “I’m Michael Gavey.”
She blinks, regaining her composure as she leans forward, shaking his hand and introducing herself in return. His palm is clammy against her own, and she can still feel it there even after having let go and wiped her hand on her jeans.
“I saw you last night,” he says matter of factly, pulling his arm back and resting his elbow on the desk in front of him.
“Oh, yeah,” she says with a tight smile, nodding, “so you and your mate…is that like a party trick or something?”
“No, no party trick,” he says with a demure smile. “I’m a genius.”
She forces herself to laugh politely, assuming he’s making a joke, but she stops, her brow furrowing slightly when she sees he doesn’t share in the humour. He’s being serious.
Opening her mouth to ask a follow up question, she’s interrupted as Professor Byrne sweeps into the room. Her and Michael both face forward in their seats as she introduces herself to the class.
Over the next hour they are given an introduction to the course and what to expect in their first year, including an overview of the papers they will need to write and examinations that will be sat. She pays rapt attention, scribbling furious notes, until the lecture begins to wrap up.
“As it’s the first week, I will go easy on assignment setting,” Professor Byrne tells them all, “but there will be an assignment nonetheless.”
A loud, collective groan echoes around the lecture hall. Her and Michael are the only two not to join in.
“Now, now, settle down,” she chastises, “it’ll be fun. I’m sure you’re all aware of the Fibonacci Sequence, a series of numbers where each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers. Mathematically we can describe this as–”
She turns and scrawls xn= xn-1 + xn-2 on the chalkboard, before facing the students again.
“--I’d like you all to find an example of the Fibonacci Sequence in real life and present it back to the class during next week’s lecture. You’re to work in pairs, so buddy up, and see you all next week.”
Professor Byrne places the chalk back on the desk before striding back out of the lecture hall. The room is instantly a buzz with chatter, as people move between seats to find a partner.
She stays rooted in place, suddenly wishing Rich was here. It’s in moments like these that he flourishes, allowing her to take a backseat as he effortlessly navigates them through social interactions. Instead, she is alone and the space around her feels bigger and scarier with every moment that passes.
It’s only when she turns her head that she notices Michael has yet to move too. Gathering all the courage she can muster, she clears her throat and speaks to him.
“So…er…did you wanna partner up for this thing then?”
“I don’t like to work with others,” he says matter of factly, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.
“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either,” she says with a sigh, “but for this assignment we have to.”
“You’ve picked me because I’m a genius. You’ll expect me to do all the work while you get pissed with your mates.”
He fixes her with an accusatory stare, and she feels the heat of anger prickle her skin.
“Haven’t got any mates,” she mutters darkly.
He observes her for a few moments, elbow propped on the desk, jaw resting against his fist, and she fidgets self consciously in her seat. No wonder the other boy from last night had looked so uncomfortable. It feels like he’s studying her.
“Let’s go to the library,” he says simply, standing and picking up his bag.
“So, you’re a genius?” She asks, opening her notebook once they’re seated opposite each other at a table in the library, nervously tapping her pencil against the page.
“Hmm,” Michael nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, “I don’t even like maths, really. I can just…do it. Anything. In my head.”
She’s struck by how blunt he is, sucking in a breath as she considers what to say next. There is something so disarming about him, she gets the sense he’s analysing her every word and action.
“Right,” she begins, “so, er, for this assignment I was thinking about how Leonardo Fibonacci used rabbits to prove his theory. One hundred and forty four pairs of rabbits can be produced from a single pair of rabbits in a year, based on the sequence.”
“That’s fucking stupid,” Michael replies with a sigh.
“What?” She asks irritably, annoyed by his dismissal.
“What are you expecting us to do, go to a pet shop and buy rabbits? We’ve only got a week to do the assignment, we need to be more practical.”
She rolls her eyes. “I was using that as an example, not saying we do that exactly! Come on then, genius, what’s your suggestion?”
“Spirals,” he says with a slight shrug. He leans across, placing the tips of his fingers on her notebook and sliding it towards himself, before picking up her pencil. “There is a special relationship between the Fibonacci numbers and the Golden Ratio, a ration that describes when a line is divided into two parts and the longer part - A - divided by the smaller part - B - is equal to the sum of A + B divided by A, which both equal one point six one eight. This is represented by the Greek letter,” he stops to scribble a φ on the pad. “The ratio of any two successive Fibonacci Numbers approximates the Golden Ratio value.” He stops again, scrawling 1.6180339887 on the page. The bigger the pair of Fibonacci numbers, the closer the approximation. From there, we can calculate what's called the golden spiral, or a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor equals the golden ratio.”
She is stunned into a silence for a moment, a combination of his audacity to simply take her belongings, and awe at the rapidity with which his mind works. Collecting herself, she blinks a few times, looking up into his eyes.
They’re so blue.
“So…er…how do you propose we present this data back to the class?”
“A simple table is sufficient, look–”
His hand moves rapidly over the page, a complete table there on the paper when he drops the pencil into the gutter of the notebook and sits back in his chair.
“We present that,” he tells her, his eyes fixed on the page. “Using the values of the sequence as the edge length of squares arranged in the table, a spiral is generated.”
She leans over, sliding the notebook back to her side of the table, marvelling silently at his work. He is fascinating to watch. He’s right, he can just do maths.
“It’s good,” she says, eye flitting up to meet his, “solid. But it’s fucking boring.”
This time it’s his turn to be annoyed. “What?” He asks, eyes narrowing.
“Everyone is going to present something like this, because it’s easy,” she explains, “Don’t you want to stand out to Professor Byrne? We should do something outside of the box.”
“Hmm. Go on then, what are you thinking?” He rests his cheek against his fist, leaning against the table as he stares at her.
She feels herself grow warm under his scrutiny.
Does he always have to be so bloody intense?
“There are loads of examples of Fibonacci numbers appearing in nature. We could look for some? Flowers, perhaps.”
“I’ve got hayfever,” Michael states simply.
She sighs.
Of course you do.
“Then we’ll get you some Piriton! Come on, there are studies that show seed heads, pinecones, fruits and vegetables all displaying spiral patterns that when counted express Fibonacci numbers. This fits perfectly with the brief of the assignment and will leave a lasting impression.”
He moves his hand away from his face, resting his arm flat on the table and quietly drumming his fingers against it for a few moments. “Alright then,” he finally concedes.
“Great,” she grins excitedly, tearing out a page from her notebook and writing on it hurriedly. “Here’s my number, so we can meet up to work on it, and also my Hotmail address, in case MSN works better for you.”
He huffs through his nose as he takes the paper from her, a soft laugh escaping him. “The countess at hotmail dot co dot uk,” he reads with amusement, “very droll.”
“Shut up,” she grins back, “I made that in secondary school. Thought it was funny.”
Back in her room that evening, she’s excited to see she has a text from Rich, finally.
Hope ur enjoying it. Having so much fun here!
She sighs, throwing her phone down on the bed side table. No kisses, not even an “I love you”.
Watching out of the window, she sees the giggling groups of students making their way out into town, readying themselves to spend the night drinking, making friends and having fun. Just like Rich is doing, not giving her a second thought, while she stays cooped up in her room without a friend in the world.
Suspicion nags at her, so she turns on her laptop, loading up MySpace. Rich takes number one place on her top eight friends, and she clicks on his profile. It looks much the same as it always does, but she decides to snoop further, clicking into his friends list. She can see he has recently friended a girl named Sophie.
Sophie is pretty, bright pink streaks in her hair, and a nose ring. Exactly Rich’s type. Her most recently uploaded photos are of groups of people, clearly all taken during Fresher’s week. A pit forms in her stomach as she sees that in almost all of them Sophie and Rich have their arms around each other. Worse still, Rich occupies space eight in Sophie’s top friends.
She closes the browser, blinking back tears. Surely, she is just being paranoid. They’re just friends. Friends have photos together, and it was normal that he would make new ones when he went away to uni.
Opening MSN Messenger, she hovers over Rich’s username. Unsurprisingly, he’s offline, he always is these days. She smiles when an add request from [email protected] pops up. Of course he’d have Tau, the mathematical constant, in his Hotmail address. She clicks accept and he immediately appears in her online contacts. Looks like he isn’t out tonight either.
Double clicking his username, she chuckles to herself upon seeing his display picture is of Pythagoras. Such a dweeb.
“Want to work on our assignment tomorrow?” She types to him.
Barely a few seconds pass before she sees him typing back. “Yes. When?”
“We could meet at the Water Meadow at lunch time?”
“See you then.”
Straight to the point, no idle chit chat. She shakes her head and closes the messenger window, though finds herself strangely excited by the thought of seeing him tomorrow. She reasons that it’s because Michael is the closest thing she has had to a friend since arriving at Oxford.
She visits the nearby Tesco Express the following day, buying a meal deal for each of them and a packet of hayfever tablets for Michael. She has no idea of what Michael even likes, so plays it safe by buying a bottle of Oasis, a Crunchie bar and a ham and cheese sandwich for them both.
At precisely noon, Michael stands at the entrance to the Water Meadow waiting for her. She smiles as she looks at his t-shirt; maroon with a diagram of a circle on a gradient with a downwards acceleration of 9.81 meters per second, with the slogan “that’s how I roll”. A mechanics pun.
“Like your shirt,” she says as she approaches him.
He grins. “Thought you might, considering your email address.”
She averts her gaze. There is something about the fact that he’d thought of her when he’d chosen what to wear today that makes her tummy flutter.
Stop it. You’ve got Rich. Michael’s weird!
“I got you some hayfever tablets,” she tells him as they start to walk along the pathway that’s flanked by green space on either side. “Do you wanna have lunch first and then start looking for flowers?”
They settle, cross legged on the grass, Michael already having taken one of the tablets, chased with half a bottle of Oasis, and she spreads out the food between them.
She watches in fascination as his eyes widen at the sight of the Crunchie bars, snatching one up and tearing off the wrapper. Her mouth falls open slightly as she sees him hold it sideways, biting into it from the side, before devouring each of the pieces it inevitably breaks into.
“You like Crunchie bars then?” She asks, a little grossed out, but curious nonetheless.
He swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mother didn’t allow me to have sweets growing up, bad for your teeth, she said.”
She nods, a feeling over pity replacing the disgust that had roiled her stomach just seconds ago.
“So, is it your mum that pushed you into studying maths?” She asks, fiddling with the lid of her drink bottle.
“Sort of,” he says. “Mother never married, but she wanted a child. She used a sperm donor - a physicist, apparently - and was artificially inseminated to have me. She was thrilled when I showed a natural aptitude for maths, and has always encouraged me. It’s why I do it, why I accepted the scholarship, to make her proud. She’s been through so much to have me, it’s the least I owe her.”
Her face falls, a feeling of sadness overwhelming her, making her heart ache for Michael. There is something so tragic about the fact that he has lived his entire life adhering to the expectations of the person who had created him for their own selfish want of a child.
“What about you then?” He asks. “The bank of mummy and daddy paying for you to be here?”
She shakes her head. “I earned my place, just like you did, with straight As, though I don’t have a scholarship. Have had to take out loans to cover the cost. It’s just me and dad since mum passed away.”
“Oh,” Michael says, blinking rapidly, obviously surprised. “Apologies, I’d assumed a pretty girl like you would be the same as the rest of the vapid cunts studying here, if you can call it studying.”
She hums in acknowledgement, considering his words, turning her own Crunchie bar around in her fingers, focusing on the way the foil wrapper slides against her skin. His compliment makes her heart beat more rapidly, even if it is backhanded. “Like I said yesterday, I’ve got no mates. It was always Rich that was better at that sort of thing.”
“Rich?” Michael asks curiously, cocking his head.
“My boyfriend. He’s at uni in Glasgow.”
“Three hundred and sixty two point nine miles,” Michael states simply.
“Pardon?”
“That’s the distance between Oxford and Glasgow,” he explains, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How are you planning to make a relationship work with that sort of distance?”
“We’re doing long distance,” she argues, feeling herself growing defensive, scowling at him.
“Yeah, I bet that’s gonna work out great,” he scoffs, eyes widening, clearly mocking her.
“The Glasgow School of Art was the best choice for Rich to study what he wants to,” she retorts.
A grin spreads across his face. “Art?! I suppose you should be grateful he’s hundreds of miles away then, he sounds like a moron.”
She huffs, hurriedly shoving her things back into her bag. “Let’s just look for these fucking flowers and get this over with.”
The pair work for the rest of the afternoon in silence, the atmosphere is tense and angry, but they are productive nevertheless, settling on a patch of sunflowers to use for the assignment.
They look at the spirals of seeds in the center of the sunflowers and observe patterns curving left and right. Counting these spirals, their total is a Fibonacci number. They then divide the spirals into those pointed left and right to get two consecutive Fibonacci numbers.
Cutting down a couple of sunflower heads to use as examples, Michael also makes a diagram in his notes for them to present with their findings.
She feels satisfied by the time they part ways, but an uneasy feeling has settled over her that has dread gnawing into her gut as she thinks about Michael’s criticism of her and Rich’s long distance relationship.
Unsurprised to see she has no missed calls or texts from him when she goes back to her room, she opens up her laptop and logs back onto MySpace. This time when she looks at Rich’s profile her blood runs cold as she sees that Sophie now occupies space number three in his top friends. He’d had time to log on and change the position of a girl he’d met a couple of weeks ago, but couldn’t be bothered to send her a single message?
Before she can stop herself, she’s pulling out her phone and calling his number. She doesn’t care if this wastes all of her credit, she needs answers.
It rings for ages, and she anticipates being sent to voicemail, until he eventually answers, sounding breathless and distracted.
“H-hello?”
“Rich, it’s me,” she says quietly.
There’s a pause before he answers. “Oh…how’s my little nerd? Everything okay?”
She ignores the familiarity, keeping her tone neutral. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.”
Not giving him an opportunity to respond, she pushes on. “Has something happened between you and this Sophie girl I’ve seen you on Myspace with?”
Another pause, except this time she hears him inhale a deep breath. “I was going to tell you when we came home for Christmas break. It felt wrong to break up with you over the phone.”
It feels as though the bottom of her world has been ripped away, her heart twisting painfully as her vision blurs with tears. She swallows thickly, anger bubbling alongside her devastation, so that her tone is venomous when she replies “So, you were just gonna keep stringing me along for two months, so you could look like a good guy?!”
“Babe, no, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just–”
“You’re a piece of shit,” she cuts him off, “fuck you!”
She hangs up, chucking her phone down onto the bed, and immediately bursts into tears, holding her head in her hands as hot tears stream down her face, her shoulders shaking as her nose grows snotty.
Two years. Two fucking years and he’d chucked it all away for someone he’d known for two weeks.
She walks towards the sink in her room, looking into the mirror and sighing at her reflection. Her eyes are red and puffy, she looks a mess. Splashing cold water onto her face to rid herself of the worst of it, she then flops down onto her bed, opening her laptop.
Immediately she is met with her MSN chat window with Michael from the previous evening. He’s online.
Without thinking, she types out a message to him.
“Do you have any alcohol?”
Within seconds he’s typing a response.
“Would you like me to have alcohol?”
#michael gavey x reader#michael gavey x you#michael gavey x y/n#michael gavey imagine#michael gavey smut#michael gavey angst#michael gavey#michael gavey saltburn#saltburn michael gavey#ewan mitchell#saltburn#michael gavey fan fiction#michael gavey fanfiction#michael gavey fanfic#michael gavey fan fic#saltburn fanfiction#saltburn fan fiction#saltburn fan fic#saltburn fanfic
604 notes
·
View notes
Note
what do you think about Abbie Emmons? do you think she gives good advice? I'm wanting to become a writer and I don't want to listen to someone if they are giving wrong advice haha-
AuthorTubes to Watch
As with all writing advice, "good" is in the eye of the beholder. I haven't watched all of Abbie's videos, but I've enjoyed what I've seen and find her advice to be pretty solid. I think she does a great job of distilling things down so they're easy to understand, and I appreciate that she tackles things from a more technical/scientific perspective.
I do think it's a good idea to branch out, however, and not just take one person's writing advice. By getting different perspectives on the same thing, you can get a feel for what advice does/doesn't work for you, what you agree with and what you don't, etc. Other "Author Tubers" I think are worth checking out:
The Creative Penn
Merphy Napier (Dear Author)
Ellen Brock
Alexa Donne
Lindsay Puckett
Shaelin Writes
Alyssa Matesic
Liselle Sambury
Natalia Leigh
Hannah Lee Kidder
Jenna Moreci
Heart Breathings
Terrible Writing Advice
Bethany Atazadeh
Jane Kalmes
Lynn D. Jung
Kate Cavanaugh Writes
Kristen Martin
Mandi Lynn
iWriterly
Again... it's all about trying some different channels and seeing whose advice works for you. ♥
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!
LEARN MORE about WQA
SEE MY ask policies
VISIT MY Master List of Top Posts
COFFEE & FEEDBACK COMMISSIONS ko-fi.com/wqa
174 notes
·
View notes
Text
i did @birdietrait's base sim challenge <33
no. 1: aimee napier (they/them) - genius, foodie, loyal, computer whiz aspiration. they're very much inspired by rihanna's nineball from ocean's eight xD.
no. 2: alton layne (they/them) - cheerful, good, art lover, painter extraordinaire aspiration. they make pixel art look like a renaissance painting, i love them.
no. 3: sage moyer (he/him) - creative, neat, ambitious, bestselling author aspiration. he's got his life together and he looks like, always ready for a pr event in a snazzy suit.
no. 4: finley lauer (she/her) - active, romantic, cat lover, extreme sports enthusiast aspiration. the only thing she loves more than extreme sports is cats and her dream is to one day enter the winter olympics.
my headcanon is that they're all neighbours on the same apartment floor and their lives intertwine like in a sitcom xD
hope you like them <33
47 notes
·
View notes
Text
Merchiston Tower.
Also known as Merchiston Castle, has stood in the area since the mid 1400s. The castle, and the land surrounding it, belonged to Alexander Napier, a landowner and Provost of Edinburgh who gave the Napier University the was John Napier, the 8th Laird of Merchiston and the inventor of logarithms, he was born there in 1550.
Although it was originally intended as a country house for the family, the political turbulence of the 16th century meant that it soon had a more strategic purpose, with some walls as much as six feet thick – and it was frequently under siege. During restoration in the 1960s, a 26-pound cannonball was found embedded in the Tower, thought to date from the struggle in 1572 between Mary, Queen of Scots, and supporters of her son, James VI.
These days, the L-shaped tower forms the heart of Napier’s Merchiston campus which is home to the creative, computing and engineering students.
I wouldn't mind a wee look inside where there is a painted ceiling which dates back to 1581. The painting had originally been part of the ceiling at Prestongrange House until the Ministry of Public Buildings and Works and the National Trust had it removed and preserved. The artwork is grotesque - and no, that’s not a judgement on its artistic merit. ‘Grotesque’ means ‘of the Grotto’, inspired by the extravagant ancient Roman decorative art that was discovered at the end of the fifteenth century and then enjoyed a revival as a popular style across Europe. It’s likely that this example was done by a foreign painter, although it’s unclear who that might be.
Tours can be arranged to see the interior, maybe I need to enquire how to go about it.
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
Dread by the Decade: The Invisible Man Returns
👻 You can support or commission me on Ko-Fi! ❤️
Sequel to: The Invisible Man (1933)
Year: 1940
Genre: Sci-Fi Horror
Rating: Approved (Rec: PG)
Country: USA
Language: English
Runtime: 1 hour 21 minutes
Director: Joe May
Writers: Lester K. Cole, Curt Siodmak
Cinematographer: Milton Krasner
Editor: Frank Gross
Composers: Hans J. Salter, Frank Skinner
Cast: Vincent Price, Nan Grey, John Sutton, Cedric Hardwicke, Cecil Kellaway, Alan Napier
Plot: The brother of the Invisible Man uses his invisibility potion to save a friend from execution.
Review: Despite some entertaining beats, this sequel struggles to justify its existence. At best, it lumbers along, hemorrhaging from a Rains-shaped hole.
Overall Rating: 2/5
Story: 2/5 - Its connection to its predecessor is contrived, and, on its own, it lacks tension and compelling characters.
Performances: 3/5 - Price is simply not as effective as Rains, his performance being fairly one-note. Everyone else is either generic or a caricature of the working class.
Cinematography: 3/5 - Fine. One would think an invisible protagonist would inspire more creativity.
Editing: 3.5/5
Music: 3/5
Effects & Props: 3/5 - Decent enough for the time but substandard compared to the legendary effects of its predecessor.
Sets: 2.5/5 - Rooms often feel like the disconnected sets they are.
Costumes, Hair, & Make-Up: 2.5/5 - Much of it looks like it's from a cheap theater production. The Invisible Man resembles a cosplay.
youtube
Trigger Warnings:
Very mild violence
Animal experimentation
Alcoholism
Classist portrayal of working class people
Medical scenes (not graphic but involve needles)
#The Invisible Man Returns (1940)#The Invisible Man Returns#Joe May#American#sci-fi horror#Dread by the Decade#review
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
D.U.D.E Bios: Odin Rhydderch
The Ogre Duke of C.R.C Odin Rhydderch (2020)
Fionn's son and Rhodri's grandson, Odin. An Irish-Catholic living in Wales and a comedic and creative young man. He's another one of Kirby's first cousins once removed.
"Yeah, beauty isn't everything, for one."
Name
Full Legal Name: Odin Meriwether Hilarius Asmodeus Rhydderch
First Name: Odin
Meaning: Anglicized form of Old Norse 'Óðinn', which was derived from 'Óðr' meaning 'Inspiration, Rage, Frenzy'.
Pronunciation: O-din
Origin: Norse Mythology, English
Middle Name(s): Meriwether, Hilarius, Asmodeus
Meaning(s): Meriwether: From a surname meaning 'Happy weather' in Middle English.
Hilarius: Roman name derived from Latin 'Hilaris' meaning 'Cheerful'.
Asmodeus: From Greek 'Asmodaios' and Hebrew ''Ashmed'ai', probably from Avestan 'Aēshəma' meaning 'Wrath' and 'Daēuua' meaning 'Demon'.
Pronunciation(s): MEHR-i-wedh-er. hee-LA-ree-oos. az-ma-DEE-as
Origin(s): English. Ancient Roman. Biblical, Judeo-CHristian-Islamic Legend
Surname: Rhydderch
Meaning: From the given name 'Rhydderch', from the Old Welsh name 'Riderch', derived from 'Ri' 'King' and 'Derch' 'Exalted'.
Pronunciation: HRUDH-ehrkh
Origin: Welsh
Alias: Ogre Duke Odin Rhydderch
Reason: This is Odin's ring name
Nicknames: Odi
Titles: Mr
Characteristics
Age: 18
Gender: Male. He/Him Pronouns
Race: Human
Nationality: Welsh. Irish-Welsh Mix. Dual Citizenship ROI-UK
Ethnicity: White
Birth Date: December 13th 2002
Symbols: Ogres, Ogresses, Crowns
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Religion: Irish-Catholic
Native Language: Welsh
Spoken Languages: Welsh, Irish, Scottish (Scots Gaelic), English
Relationship Status: Dating
Astrological Sign: Sagittarius
Theme Song: 'Hurt' - Nine Inch Nails (2020-)
Voice Actor: Josh O'Connor
Geographical Characteristics
Birthplace: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales
Current Location: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales
Hometown: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales
Appearance
Height: 6'2" / 187 cm
Weight: 209 lbs / 94 kg
Eye Colour: Blue
Hair Colour: Ginger
Hair Dye: None
Body Hair: Hairy
Facial Hair: Clean Shaven
Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) 2
Piercings: Ear Lobe (Both)
Scars: Facial scars
Health and Fitness
Allergies: None
Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Smoker, Social Drinker
Illnesses/Disorders: None Diagnosed
Medications: None
Any Specific Diet: None
Relationships
Allies: (As of Jan 2020) The Rhydderch Clan
Enemies: (As of Jan 2020) None
Friends: Isidore Herbert, Napier Rhydderch, Gabriel O'Hannigan, Zayden O'Hannegan, Pacey Rhydderch, Zechariah Rhydderch, Eadberht Rhydderch
Colleagues: The C.R.C Locker Rooms / Too Many To List
Rivals: None
Closest Confidant: Saga Battaglia
Mentor: Fionn Rhydderch
Significant Other: Saga Battaglia (19, Girlfriend)
Previous Partners: None of Note
Parents: Fionn Rhydderch (47, Father), Unity Rhydderch (48, Mother, Née Sauvageon)
Parents-In-Law: None
Siblings: Rachel MacGregor (27, Sister, Née Rhydderch), Queen MacEntire (24, Sister, Née Rhydderch), Pace Rhydderch (21, Brother), Naomh Rhydderch (15, Sister), Macy Rhydderch (12, Sister), Comhghall Rhydderch (9, Brother), Kaiser Rhydderch (6, Brother), Jacinth Rhydderch (3, Sister)
Siblings-In-Law: Bruce MacGregor (28, Rachel's Husband), Coinneach MacEntire (25, Queen's Husband), Urve Rhydderch (22, Fionn's Wife, Née MacEalair)
Nieces & Nephews: Craig MacGregor (7, Nephew), Ceinwen MacGregor (4, Niece), Ceridwen MacGregor (1, Niece), Donald MacEntire (4, Nephew), Dougal MacEntire (1, Nephew), Vilija Rhydderch (1, Niece)
Children: None
Children-In-Law: None
Grandkids: None
Great Grandkids: None
Wrestling
Billed From: Anglesey, Wales
Trainer: The C.R.C Training School, Rhodri Rhydderch, Fionn Rhydderch
Managers: Saga Battaglia
Wrestlers Managed: Saga Battaglia
Debut: 2020
Debut Match: Odin Rhydderch VS Fionn Rhydderch. Double Count Out
Retired: N/A
Retirement Match: N/A
Wrestling Style: Grappler
Stables: The Rhydderch Clan (2020-)
Teams: No Team Names
Regular Moves: Rotating Punch To The Stomach, Backbreaker, Running Knee Lift, Belly To Belly Suplex, Diving Shoulder Block, Dropkick, Gorilla Press, Lariat, Scoop Powerslam, Spinning Spinebuster, Three Point Stance Tackle, Tiger Suplex
Finishers: Boston Crab, Senton, Sitout Gutwrench Powerbomb, High Angle Belly To Back Suplex
Refers To Fans As: The Fans, The Family
Extras
Backstory: Odin Rhydderch of the C.R.C (Welsh Wrestling League / Cynghrair Reslo Cymru) owning Rhydderch family. When Fionn dies Odin will have a 1/432th ownership of the promotion. Odin is an 'Ogre Style' (Grappler) trainer. He's mostly Welsh.
Trivia: Nothing of Note
#D.U.D.E#original character#Rhydderch#C.R.C Wrestling Family#C.R.C Wrestling Promotion#C.R.C Wrestling School
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Stay With Me — VoicePlay music video
youtube
During the first Sing-Off tour, the ever-creative guys of VoicePlay were collecting footage for a number of video projects that they edited and released over the following months. So naturally, on the second tour, they recorded and mixed a new song, then filmed and completed an entire video for it before they even got home. It's a good thing that the song in question is such a relaxing groove.
Details:
title: Stay With Me
original performer: Sam Smith
written by: Sam Smith, James "Jimmy Napes" Napier, William "Tourist" Phillips, Tom Petty, & Jeff Lynne
arranged by: Layne Stein
release date: 23 April 2015
My favorite bits:
the lowkey reggae twist they put on the arrangement
such lovely harmonies through the whole thing
Earl's rainfall of a riff on ♫ "clear to see" ♫ in the choruses
the smooth crescendo on ♫ "there's ne-e-ver words" ♫
Layne's bouncy percussion run leading into the second chorus
how much emotion they put into the bridge, even without lyrics
Geoff's velvety solo, letting a little extra Southern slip in on that ♫ "darlin'" ♫
the gorgeous four-part harmony leading into a beautiful final chord
Trivia:
VoicePlay had previously recorded an excerpt from this song as part of their "Aca Top 10 — Summer Hits 2014" countdown.
This song was part of VoicePlay's pre-show VIP set during the 2015 Sing-Off tour. Singing a tune every night for a month and a half is a pretty good rehearsal process.
The video was filmed on the streets of Denver while they were in town for the tour. Not even on a day off. They still performed a full show that night. (Though the next day was a travel day, so they could rest up a little on the bus.)
The fact that they released it the day after they got home from the Sing-Off tour garnered praise from musical director Deke Sharon.
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi!
How did you get into writing and what inspires you to write?
Hello @masterahmedx. I got into it when I was younger, which was by-and-large a time when I was left to my own devices. Coming from a relatively poor family, one of those devices was to make things up to keep myself entertained. Somewhere along the way, I started thinking, "Some of this is fun. I should write it down so I could come back to it later."
When I was about 12, there was a creative writing contest in my school for a mystery story contest. My story was called "The Great Fortune Cookie Caper" and I wound up taking 3rd place in a state competition. It was about then that I realized, "Hey... I think I might actually be kind of good at this."
In the years that followed, I submitted to every writing contest that my school held, whatever the genre. I got a taste for writing in sci-fi and fantasy genres and tried to branch out. But to very little success, I can't lie about that. I received a few honorable mentions and managed to take 5th place another year. But I never really got much recognition after that.
By high school, and being the introvert that I am, I had few friends and rather than engage in normal social activities, I used to carry around a notebook that was dedicated exclusively to writing down things that I thought would make good story ideas: everything from a random bit of dialog to a complete story plot idea - a habit I carry on with even into today. Though writing competitions were fewer in high school, I got top marks from my English teachers, one of whom affectionately referred to me as, "Damn little author".
High praise, no?
Every day in high school during lunch period, I kept myself occupied with an odd kind of game that I played to keep my imagination sharp. I'd go to the school library, pick a book completely at random off the shelf, flip to a random page, and try to build a story around what I read off that one page. If the book happened to have a picture, I'd build a story off that image: who was in the photo? What were they doing? Why? How did they get there? What happens next?
Developed into a very useful skill, that.
I say so because by the time college rolled around, and carried by a few very small scholarships, I had decided to pursue a career in creative writing. My first creative writing class usually began with a specific writing exercise: visual story telling. In which, my prof would show us a picture on a projector, and one by one, we'd all get up in front of the class and recite what we imagined was happening in each of those pictures. It was a sign of kismet, if I ever thought it was. If there are gods for writers, I was convinced that I had one all to myself after that.
A constant companion of mine always remained a trusty notebook, loaded with so many arcane scribbles, doodles, clipped pictures, xeroxes, and dialog it's as though Jack Napier himself could have written it. I have 27 such notebooks sitting on my shelf even now as I sit here writing this. And just as I did then, sometimes what I do is pick one at random, flip it open, and write about the first thing I read or see. And sometimes, I come across something that I wrote as a teen and say to myself, "Well fuck me ass, head, and hole! This actually isn't bad! I can do something with this!"
Occasionally, those random scribbles solve problems of being blocked in a current scene, give me a new idea to take my story in a new direction, help build back story, or worst of all, give me an idea about which character needs to die.
I like to think of this as "Recycle Writing". Sometimes something that I put in my books ages ago in what I can only describe as "a moment of useful prescient madness" comes to my rescue in the here-now.
But I'd be lying if I said my inspiration comes solely from scribbles, notes, and clippings from yester-decades. Inspiration strikes me, as I'm sure it strikes all of us, at the most random of times. I could be sitting reading a novel and simply the way a line is written will strike me like a lightning bolt and I'll say aloud, "Shit! That sounds beautiful!" Or I'll see the way a character, or a setting, or an event is described and the sheer simplicity, elegance, or downright poetic nature of it will set me to thinking, "I wish I could write like that." And then to try and conquer the impending Imposter Syndrome, I'll write. What I write may be terrible, or it might crush my own expectations, but it spurs me to do what I love the most.
✍️
#writers#writers on tumblr#writing#writing prompt#writer#my writing#daily writing prompt#daily writing#writing tool#story#write it#answers#my answers
6 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Source: the Citrus College Clarion, 21 April 1988
Les Miserables, the enormously successful musical play based on the classic novel by Victor Hugo, is coming to Los Angeles. It promises to revitalize the interest of jaded theatergoers with a big stage, big story, big score production that harkens both to the past and the future.
I recently saw the Broadway version during the Citrus Springtime New York Theater Tour. If the Los Angeles production approaches the overall quality of the New York show, it should enjoy a very long run.
Les Miserables is the story, familiar to high school students nearly everywhere, [was it really?] of Jean Val Jean, [almost] a French citizen who goes to prison for stealing a loaf of bread, escapes and starts a new life only to be pursued by a relentless detective.
Set during the French Revolution, [no] the story has a majestic historical sweep, depicting the plight of the lower classes in the midst of social upheaval. It offers a gleaming ray of hope, a dramatic commentary on the indomitable resiliency of the human spirit.
The novel Les Miserables, at first thought seems an unlikely subject for a musical. Dark and somber [I mean yes but not how I would describe it at all], it portrays heartbreaking situations of imprisonment, poverty, injustice and oppression.
However, as adapted for the stage by Frenchmen Alain Boubil [sic] and Claude-Michael Schonberg, Les Mis sets new standards for musical drama that lesser efforts can only dream of.
The musical is remarkably faithful to the text. Almost all the intricacies and subtleties of both plot and characterization are kept intact; [how can you just say that if you’ve never read the book?] no small feat when transforming a historical saga to musical entertainment.
The entire story is told in song, with the musical score by Schonberg and English lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer. The technique that Kretzmer uses, an original and stunningly creative method of setting such a complex story to verse, is brilliant.
As for the musical score, I have some reservations. Not being schooled in opera, I was not particularly enthralled by the melodies which in many places seemed repetitive and monotone.
I imagine that fans of opera will be entranced by the score, but as a Southern Californian raised on the unforgettable tunes of Gershwin and Porter, I was slightly disappointed to leave the theater without really remembering any one melody line as totally memorable.
That minor complaint pales, however, when measured to the astonishment and genuine awe that I felt for the sets, costumes and makeup. Seemingly produced on an unlimited budget, the sets designed by John Napier were as spectacular and extravagant as anything ever seen since the days of Cecile B. Demille.
The stage itself seemed as large as a soccer field and included a revolving center that was nearly full stage width. It was used with marvelous effect to symbolize the passage of time with its many slow revolutions.
The enormous scale of the barricade set, nearly three stories tall, was truly breathtaking as it was slowly lowered onto the stage, a two-story jumble of logs, timbers, wagons and debris that served as a centerpiece for the peasant’s battle against the soldiers.
The sewer scene was particularly imaginative, giving the illusion of rapidly swirling water without a drop actually used.
The costumes by Andreane Neofitou were equally extravagant and theatrical. Their authenticity and variety made the passage of time and the growth of the characterizations completely believable.
To appreciate the makeup, one had only to look at the program and realize that the entire cast bore very little resemblance to their stage characters.
From a technical standpoint it is hard to imagine that it could have been done any better.
The singing, dancing and acting were equally impressive. The entire cast maintained energy, conviction and utter professionalism throughout. It was an ensemble show and any faults that the cast had were invisible to my prying eyes.
One performance deserves special mention. Gary Morris as Jean Val Jean gave a stunning performance, keeping the drama, tension and tenderness at the perfect level. The excellence of his voice, his control and projection, show why his talents are in great demand.
One problem that American playgoers may have with Les Mis is its length. At three hours and 15 minutes running time, it is substantially longer than the comfortable endurance of many patrons. Les Mis is never boring but verges on being trying. Some judicial cuts could make this fine show even finer.
Currently Les Mis is being staged in London, New York, Toykyo, Tel Aviv and Buda-pest. Productions are being scheduled for Los Angeles, Boston, Paris, Madrid, Ankara, Copenhagen, Toronto and South America.
The play is an international success with a universal theme: man’s spirit will prevail. Doesn’t that alone make it worth the ticket price?
by Ron Secor Entertainment Editor
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Reflection on wood
Abstract photography: Herman van Bon
Prints in diverse sizes and media on order at Studio98 in Napier, South Africa.
View On WordPress
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
I know it’s been said before, but the way newer productions try to standardize designs frustrates me quite a bit, because it feels like, as the variety gets stripped away, so does the charm. Do you have any thoughts on that?
This is something interesting for me to provide an opinion on because I tend to be more forgiving of the standardization in a way, up to a point, given that I tend to notice the very slight variations in how each individual performer in any production looks.
Saying that, however, the move largely after the 1998 film to have productions increasingly similar has made the musical lose some personality. There was such great variation through the 1990s between productions like London/UK Tour, Broadway/US Tour, German, Australian, Japanese, and other productions. The problem is (seemingly according to RUG and the other main creatives behind CATS still going) that only the 1998 film is immediately recognizable, being the main entry point for most individuals seeking to learn about the show, and thus everything should be just like it to welcome familiarity, even if in present day that is not necessarily the thought.
We are/were at an interesting point where the standardized designs (outside of the US, but we will see what happens now that the US Tour is finished for good; and Japan, always Japan) are changing to John Napier's newer designs, which is not something that might be worldwide. As with any major shift for CATS, the 1998 film and the 2014 Revival as the key points to recognize when things started to change in a sense. With the addition of the new Napier designs, we can add another.
If we think back to earlier this year, every production had a somewhat distinct look (aside from a few similar designs), between US Tour 6, UK/International Tour, Asia Tour, the RCCL, and Japan. Despite the designs for these productions (aside from Japan) being based on the UK standard, I could tell they were different, but I am perhaps too deep into recognizing differences. The majority would not pick those up I think. Even with the blending of the UK and Asia Tour design wise, you still had four productions with different enough designs to recognize.
The same observation of productions looking standardized could have been said over the last 15-20 years ago as well. The German (2002 and onwards), Dutch, and UK productions (and others like Madrid or Moscow) of the 2000s and 2010s all had similar UK based designs, with US Tour 5, Australasia, and Japan being the notable outliers. Things started to became more standard for Australian productions after the 2014 Revival changes, but it was not until Asia Tour 2017 that the full transition was basically completed.
What does the future hold? Given that the Asia Tour will be finished in just under one week, and that the RCCL has added the revival Grizabella design after close to ten years, I would not be surprised if the standardization of CATS in the last decade slowly moves to the standardization to the new Napier designs worldwide. There is not my much going on in CATS for the first time in a while, which is the perfect opportunity to push forward changes without affecting other productions. Only Japan and the RCCL will be running for the time being, and even if the UK/International Tour comes back (which I am surprised we have not heard more about), it has already fully transitioned over. The Asia Tour was half and half, strictly in my view because of the returning alumni from the previous tour in 2020/2022 and the ability to easily reuse those costumes, but the new performers and alumni coming from older or other productions had the changes to their characters, costume wise. Makeup wise everyone was the new Napier designs.
All this to say that the RCCL is probably next for the standardization, and the same if another US production comes up. Only then, once it is confirmed that the new designs are the only designs that will be used, will we have lost full variation in my opinion.
#Apologies for the delay in response#There is probably more to say about this but it will delve too far into speculation#CATS Musical#CATS the Musical#The White Cat Speaks
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Creative Profile 8 - Rita Angus
"Henrietta Catherine Angus, known as Rita, was born in Hastings on 12 March 1908. She was the eldest of seven children of Ethel Violet Crabtree and her husband, William McKenzie Angus, who began his working life as a carpenter and went on to establish the major construction company W. M. Angus Limited. During Rita’s childhood, building contracts kept the family on the move between Palmerston North and Napier. From 1922 until 1926 she attended Palmerston North Girls’ High School, where her art teacher, G. H. Elliott, recognised her talent and encouraged her to undertake further study.
In 1927 Angus enrolled at Canterbury College School of Art to begin a four-year diploma in fine arts. From tutors such as Leonard Booth, Cecil Kelly and Archibald Nicoll she received a sound traditional training in life drawing, still life, and landscape painting. Art history lectures introduced her to what would become an enduring interest in Renaissance and medieval art. Just as important was her interest in composition, and in this respect the work of Vermeer and Cézanne made a lasting impression. Although Angus never completed the diploma, her studies at the school continued, with interruptions, until 1933."
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi, Strange! 😊 I hope you’re doing well. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a question. I think you said something about a creative reset. Like you’re going to delete your works and write new ones, I think. I was wondering… are you going to delete the “Darling Dear” Jack Napier/Ledger!Joker Oneshot? 🥺 I love that piece so much and I just wanted to know if you are going to delete it or if you might keep it. I hope you have a great day!😁
Im keeping it 😊😊. It was one of my first Ledger! joker things and I'm very proud of it so it is here to stay 💖💖
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lena Napier THE INVENTOR Creative Inventions Vintage Inventions Vintage Science
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
pearson-ga-living
Reedy Branch Equipment Co LLC
youdontknowhowmuchicried
Rachelle's Personal Blog
nueaheel
Ama et fac quod vis
cle02
Untitled
ask-badly-drawn-ren
hiya?