#Flagpoles Etc

[flagpoleetc]

15’ - 80’ Aluminum Flagpoles | Flagpoles Etc.

From 15 to 80 ft flagpoles, we offer a variety in any size and style of your liking. Check out our heavy duty residential and commercial aluminum flagpoles.

[suppermariobroth]

In Super Mario Bros., the game is programmed to send Mario to the next level of a world whenever he touches a flagpole, e.g. touching the flagpole in 1-1 results in Mario proceeding to 1-2.

Replacing the final Bowser battle in 8-4 with a flagpole results in Mario proceeding to World 8-5, which does not exist in the actual game, with 8-6 etc. following. These levels are merely glitched versions of other levels from the game. However, something unexpected happens when Mario reaches World 8-9.

This level has a time limit of 0 seconds, resulting in Mario dying instantly upon entering the level, as shown in the footage.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Source: youtube.com user "Niko Anesti"

[taylortruther]

I also interpreted that like through the lens of 2016, her life burning down and having to rediscover herself and build anew. But also thinking thoughts about it through the lens of shining on my highest heels love, shining just for you, pathological people pleaser, etc. what does it mean to burn those files and forget your past lives in service of what and who.

it reads reads more to me as a song about how her life was falling apart behind the scenes, and no one knew - something she has felt many times, during red promo being heartbroken and slut-shamed, during 1989 itself and being raised up and down the flagpole of public opinion, the 2016 cancellation, during who knows what personal stuff we only learned about after the fact. so it's a song where the exact moments are less important than the overall message, right?

but is "burn all your past lives, and if you don't recognize yourself, you know you did it right" sarcastic? because i have to admit that doesn't feel like great advice. like, it feels like something 2015 "be that girl for a month" taylor would say, but not 2024 taylor, with all her "embrace your past, embrace cringe, let's revisit the last 15+ years of music, lalala." HELP.

[elismor]

Approximately 5000 years ago, I was one of the mods for the writers_choice community on LJ and I found myself wondering if there might be any interest is starting it again here on Tumblr/A03.

The idea is in the original tagline: Pick a genre, pick a character, pick up your pen!

Weekly prompts that are fandom-generic, so writers can apply them where and how they like. Min-words 100, maximum...whatever you can or want to write in a week, but the idea was ficlets/oneshots, etc...not epic pieces (though those are awesome too).

If you see this, pass it around to your writer friends and let me know? There might not be a market for this sort of thing anymore given all the bingos and exchanges and the like now...just running it up the flagpole.

[jungle-angel]

The One Where They Go To Florida: Part 1 (Frat!Rhett x Reader)

Summary: What happens when 70+ frat boys decide to take a vacation to Florida during Spring Break? The adventure of a lifetime

Warnings: Dumb frat boy shenanigans, mentions of a sexual incident with an apple pie, Rhett giving the newbies some sex ed lessons etc.

Tagging: @floydsmuse @attapullman @callmemana @bradleybeachbabe @rhettabbotts

"Alrighty boys," Rhett said, pacing up and down the row of pledges who were seated before him. "First thing's first, Spring Break is the most important part of Greek Life and therefore it is critical that ya'll pay attention."

A few of them scratched a few notes in the notebooks they had been given while Rhett continued.

"Our destination this year?" Rhett continued, turning to the portable chalkboard behind him. "Florida Keys, the ultimate spring break destination for snowbird college students. Now mind you, you will very quickly see why this earned the nickname, Florida Fuckfest."

"Um.....Professor Abbott? Can you expand a little further on this?" one of the pledges chuckled.

"Oh thank you Toby, I'm actually glad you asked," Rhett answered, trying to keep it together. "The term was coined in 1984 by a former Delta Tau member after witnessing the usual spring break bacchanalia in Miami. Many, many things thoroughly fucked that year including a flagpole and........a warm apple pie."

Rhett and the others shuddered at the memory of the apple pie incident.......wouldn't be the first time something like that had happened in the Delta Tau house.

"Now I know most of ya'll probably have never made it with a girl before," Rhett elaborated. "Ain't no shame in that, your big brothers were once there before too. But we're here to get ya'll ready for the royal shithouse mess that is this trip. Kayce?"

Kayce stood up from the window seat and hauled out of the living room closet, everything that would be needed for the demonstration.

"Alrighty boys," Kayce said. "Ya'll got the Delta Tau sex manuals?"

The boys held up their manuals, save for poor Oliver Scott who was still slightly engrossed in it.

"Oliver?"

"Yeah?"

You poor little dude you," Rhett chuckled, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "If ya'll haven't memorized that by now, you're a lost cause."

Oliver gave him a slightly sheepish look through the heavy duty lenses of his glasses.

"We'll getcha there," Rhett promised him. "Don't worry, ya'll just need some extra help."

Rhett and Kayce set up a few mannequins in the living room, each one with a black lace bra and matching panties on it. No one had any idea what they were in for, only that they were being prepared for something that every Delta Tau would be faced with in the days leading up to spring break.

"Alright hotshots," Kayce said to the pledges. "Your training for Florida Fuckfest starts now. Your goal is to get the bras off these mannequins in less than thirty seconds, GO!!!"

The pledges each rushed for a mannequin, trying with all the speed they could muster to unhook the bras on the mannequins. Rhett and Kayce cheered them on, urging them to go faster and to not knock the mannequins to the floor. The oldest of the pledges had the best time, getting it off in less than fifteen seconds.

"Looks like ya'll did pretty good," Rhett remarked, eyeing their handwork. "But remember, ya'll will be handling real girls and what ya'll do with a dummy, you cannot do with a woman. Remember that."

The next task was a little less than pleasant, a little lesson that every pledge and college student in general feared.

"Alright boys," Rhett said to the pledges. "General rule of sex ed?"

"Wrap it before you tap it," the pledges answered.

"Always, always, always," Rhett reiterated. "Till one or more o' ya'll are married, absolutely no raw doggin and if ya'll happen to be gay, Foster will tell you the same thing. A.......that shit hurts like hell for some people and B........ya'll don't wanna risk anything unseemly or knockin your partner up."

It was all too apparent that the pledges were nervous as hell, even as they looked at the little wooden holders each containing a cucumber and a wrapped condom next to it.

"Your task, should you choose to accept it," Rhett informed them. "Will be to unwrap the condom and have it around the cucumber, same timing as before. In most cases ya'll might have less than that......so get to it my pretties."

Kayce started the timer and the boys hurried to get the condoms out of the wrapper and onto the ends of the cucumbers. It wasn't easy at all, some of them being put on backwards, some a little too small or some a little too clumsy for their own good.

As soon as the time was up, Rhett went up and down the line, inspecting their work. "Think we're gonna have to spend some extra time on this," he concluded.

The boys went through each and every lewd task as Kayce and Rhett each made a note of who had done well and who needed work. "Poor Oliver, dude," Rhett chuckled as he marked off the scores on a sheet. "This kid's strugglin real bad."

"Think he'll be able to make it in time?" Kayce asked. "I mean not all of'em did too bad."

Rhett sighed and ran his hands over his face. "We've got a long way to go," he said.

[whinlatter]

Also how do you think ginny and Harry's marital life was? Did they get married early?Did Ginny sometimes resent her husband's profession? As a couple do you think they fought often?

Thanks so much for always replying to all the asks so wonderfully! You're so amazing!!!

I think Harry and Ginny's marital life was happy, of course! I think their marriage was a singular source of stability and renewing joy throughout their adult lives. (can you imagine if I was like... nah, it was garbage, divorce)

Without further ado... here's too many words and thoughts on Harry and Ginny's married life and careers, and some fic recs that have helped shape how I think about it dotted throughout. Come for the twee house descriptions, stay for the rant about neoliberal feminism at the end I guess!

On married life and the Potter household:

I love the idea of the Potters presiding over this ramshackle chaos household in big house near the sea, with a great big garden and treehouse for their kids and the cousins and various pets to maraud about all over the place. I actually think quite a lot about the house they'd be in. I love the idea of them building it from scratch, a big house with modern comforts but rustic, cosy, English country features, more horizontal than vertical (kind of farm/barn conversion vibes). In my mind, their house has lots of light, lots of beams and soft wood furnishings, and then a few quirky features and colours that are all Ginny's idea (Luna paints beautiful murals on each of the kids' walls). I imagine their house has lots of big windows with window seats so the adults can sit out and watch the kids play outside. I think the kitchen/dining room would be the heart of the house. Harry's doing the cooking, Ginny's writing at the table, kids are streaming in and out, it's just a real thoroughfare of teenagers and family friends and grandparents streaming through with the wireless on.

On marrying and having kids young:

I do really think Harry and Ginny got married early and had kids young. As I get older I only get more ok with that as a timescale for them. I think the intensity of their wartime experiences, their very involved role as godparents to Teddy (especially thinking maybe it might be nice for Teddy to have younger god-siblings), and their family reference points (both being from families where marrying young is quite normal, and where babies and toddlers are increasingly around a lot) are all factors that lend themselves to these two locking in in their early twenties. The pieces I love most on their marriage/babies etc are all ones that have a lot of humour and spontaneity and walk this gorgeous line between flippancy and total certainty - acesofdiamond's version of their wedding in Arran, Scotland, is canon to me, and also quickfire by flagpoles, on them having a shotgun wedding, is just so so so good and so them.

On Harry's career:

I think Ginny would understand why Harry chose the career he did, but I think it would be a source of tension for them. I'm thinking a lot about this at the minute for some writing (👀), but I think Harry as an adult would have to confront the fact that he intends to keep choosing to get back in the arena and fight Dark magic, this thing he does it to keep the people he loves safe but that also asks so much of the same loved ones who have to watch him do it. I think Ginny would try to push him to see that, but I don't think those would be easy conversations, and I do think it would be one of the things they argue most about on the occasions when they do, properly, fight. On the day to day, things they bicker over include: whose fault it is that the house is a mess (obviously it's both of them, plus the three messy children those two messy kids created); whose fault it is that the Potters are literally always late to everything (Harry blames Ginny, Ginny says the only reason he was ever on time before was because of Hermione, and he chose not to marry the punctual one so he just has to lump it); and Ginny losing her wand around the house/not keeping her wand on her (it takes Harry a long time to say it, but he's always just thinking of James on the sofa the night he died).

On Ginny's career:

I know this is a bit controversial, but I'm honestly happy with the idea of Ginny quitting playing professional Quidditch young. I think she quits after she has James, or maybe between Albus and Lily, so by the time she's about twenty four, twenty five. This is a bit of a soapbox one for me, and maybe one day I'll write about it in some form, but I think there's quite a lot to be said for freeing yourself from being accountable to career decisions and dreams you once had for yourself when you were seventeen, especially career plans that served as escape hatches from traumatic teen years (for the same reason, I like the idea of Ron quitting the Aurors after a few years). I think, as teenagers, we imagine futures for versions of ourselves we haven't met yet. Renegotiating your hopes and aspirations for yourself can be a real sign of growth; holding yourself hostage to who you thought you'd be can make you very miserable.

Relatedly, I do think Ginny in her mid-twenties might have a different relationship to her playing Quidditch than she has a teen. I think lot of her wanting to play professionally is about her having something to prove (I have also totally adopted the headcanon from this fantastic piece on Ginny wanting to be outdoors and in the air as a rejection of the chamber). It feels right to me that Ginny might reconsider her attitude to physical risk and injury by her mid-twenties, particularly if her children are watching her play an extremely dangerous sport week-in week out. I also think she might reconsider how much time she wants to spend away from her family. I wonder if Ginny would also develop a different relationship to the sport outside of a school context, especially the press scrutiny and the big business of sport on the outside. We know that when she quits playing, it's not the end of her professional life, and I think her writing about the sport, and being a voice in the culture of the sport but also in the Wizarding World at large, makes a ton of sense for her. But I think it's good to change jobs because what you want for yourself changes, and I really think it's not a feminist failing to want to spend time with your family and to look for jobs that are interesting and help give your life meaning but that also let you have a family life. It's boardroom girlboss neoliberal nonsense feminism that says wanting to spend time with your friends and family is less of a route to happiness than climbing up some horrendous hyper-individualist career ladder in pursuit of success (especially, in Ginny's case, in professional sport, where careers only ever end on a downturn).

Thank you anon for wanting to hear me bang on about all of this!

Fics mentioned here include:

dancing on to your heartbeat by aceofdiamonds - H/G wedding fic

quick-fire by flagpoles - H/G proposal and pregnancy fic

Little Sugar Men by dopeythedwarf - H/G, on Ginny and flying

[wordy-little-witch]

Oh God Oh man oh jeez

Okay so. Angst. But like.

I'll put trigger warnings for it but this occurred to me at work and I'm just losing my MARBLES but-

TW for mental health issues, SH topics, hurt/comfort

Buggy growing up on a pirate ship probably lead to more than a few bad coping mechanisms- add in the sense of inferiority, his general anxious demeanor, etc, he probably hid a lot of things, even from the people he trusted most- especially from the people he trusted most.

Buggy likely had anxiety attacks or panic attacks fairly often - at first, it was handled with care, but when it became a recurring theme, some started finding it troublesome or obnoxious. When Buggy got to a certain point, he'd slip away to handle it on his own.

The only ones who really noticed or even cared enough to follow after him were Roger, who rarely COULD follow, Rayleigh, who was also often involved in the fall out, and Shanks, who would try but couldn't always get to him. Eventually Buggy, losing his shit and alone, accidently gets hurt during one of the attacks, either by nails or smth else. And suddenly things start... feeling solid. Less blurry, less frantic. Everything narrows down to the sharp-sting-hot lines and the red on his skin.

It becomes smth of a crutch to him.

He takes to wearing wrist bands, gloves, he is a bit more feisty about privacy, but very few clock something being wrong. Only Roger, Ray and Shanks feel like something is slightly off. They notice things going missing, they see how Buggy flinches sometimes with certain movements, but there's nothing concrete. There's red flags but they can't see the flagpoles to chase them back to the source.

Buggy gets in the habit of cutting young.

And then suddenly there is a Devil Fruit on board. A map, a chance, a fortune - he loves this family but he feels they don't love him. He isn't LIKE them. He's not strong like them, fast like them, he's just... Buggy. He's always just been Buggy, and Buggy has never been enough.

He plans to steal away in the night, under cover of darkness, leaving the crew short some money, sure, but they won't have the added weight of himself. He is just an anchor to them.

But Shanks finds him.

Shanks startles him.

Shanks slaps his back, tries to cheer him up, and the fruit goes down his throat, the magic explodes in his stomach, he gets angry, so so so angry, he is seeing red and he's raging and he's falling and-

And he's drowning.

Oh.

It was a real devil fruit.

Well... one way or another... he wanted to leave.

Shanks jumps after him. Shanks saves him. Buggy is soaked, cold, coughing and dizzy, and Shanks is beside him, is warm, and he's tempted, so tempted to lean into it and so he does-

And Shanks is pulled away. He opens his eyes, and the crew is there. Someone had wrapped Shanks in a towel, was fussing over him, someone was cheering for his "bravery" and Buggy-

He's cold.

He staggers to his feet, dripping, and he stumbles towards his room. Roger tries to stop him, grabs his shoulders, but Buggy is dripping with more than just sea water even though the steady streams are just as salted, so he pulls away and he runs.

He dives into their room, grabs his knife, his knees hit the floor and he moves and-

He lost the fruit.

He lost the map.

He lost his whole hand just now too.

No pain, just a split over his wrist, surreal and impossible and he can't- he can't breathe, he- what-

He drops his knife, the hand reattaches and he curls into a ball, hands burying in his hair, and he cries - silent as the grave, he is sobbing, hiccuping and sniffling, pulling his hair and he can't, he can't he can't-

Arms wrap around him, big, warm, the scent of sea air and rum and spiced strawberries, and Buggy clings to his captain as he simply shatters.

Roger sees the scars on his limbs, but he doesn't respond beyond hugging Buggy a little tighter. He doesn't react as he helps Buggy change, as he wraps his kid in his coat and holds him close, as he stares at the far wall and wonders how long and why and why didn't I know?

He doesn't say anything that night - not to Buggy at least.

He does talk to Rayleigh.

He leaves both of his sons curled up together in his own bed, tucked in with his own coat, and he meets Shanks' eyes, nods to the hardened little fire burning within them, a silent conversation of look after him and I Will echoing in the wooden walled room, and he goes to the only other person who will understand the rage, the fear, and they hug one another in silence.

Buggy is not okay. He hasn't been for a very, very long time, but they refuse to let him slip through the cracks, even if they have to chisel their way down to him themselves.

And this? This action, this choice? It changes EVERYTHING.

[caesarsaladinn]

one of my professors this semester is so much of a byzantine history fanatic that it's already started to become a regular recurring theme in class. we are not in a class that has anything to do with history or the greeks in any way. i thought you'd like to know.

raucous cheering, guys scaling flagpoles, flipping over cars, etc

[lemonlimebitcoin]

A style of argument in the notes of my "HOMESTUCK READING LIST" post that I've been getting stuck on is that there's One Big Thing about Homestuck that people who skip are missing out on and therefore end up liking the comic wrong.

While I largely agree with the sentiment I think it's a kind of narrow minded view of the input -> output of reading homestuck; there are a lot of really effective plot devices! There are some phenomenal flagpoles for character growth that evolve from recurring bits. The degrees to which characters are unhealthy or "cruel" emerge from complicated circumstance and genuinely propel the story towards wonderful things. In my opinion Hussie is just a good writer! Even though the very dated language, hardcore fumbling of certain topics, etc - can make it grating to read, there are a lot of different ways you can climb onto Homestuck as you read it. It's a fun thing to do.

But you don't have to worship Hussie or even LIKE homestuck by the end of it - It will just do you a world of good to actually read the thing for what it is before you go writing analysis. I don't think anyone needs to come out of reading Homestuck thinking "Hussie is a genius and this was all worth it", but if you approach the work as a story and not a "Does This Do The Potential Of a Character Justice" machine you could have a really good time.

[arty-cakes]

hey ,, so,,, uh,, the art you just reblogged with the Palestinian flag and the caption "It has been 55 days and 75 years" (this one: /post/736588029339287552) is, like, 100% AI generated. you can tell from looking at the rendering on the background, the weird white between the flag and the flagpole, etc.

also it's been stolen from a different account, @a_muslim_soul_ on Insta (which also... seems to be just posting a lot of Palestine-related AI art...)

ohh duly noted 👍

[mitamicah]

Soooooo....

If you were in the käärijä watch party stream two days ago you may or may not hear me wanting to get a Paidaton Riehuja inspired tattoo

I did quickly mention it before but yeah this idea has had me in a chokehold so I'm thinking about say screw my 6 month plan and contact a tattoo studio in the new year :'D

Here is a bigger view of the concept

It is very simple really; just a flagpole with a t-shirt as the flag.

I have been having a lot very extreme feelings lately about my body - some days I sort of like it and can seem too excited about looking at myself or taking picutres. Other days I am hating it and worry about my appearance and whether or not I am "good enough".

Really, I should be doing what Jere is doing with the song: no matter how he looks he doesn't care - he has a need (not to be hot on stage) and a way to reach that need that doesn't harm anybody else (take off his shirt). This is already being conveyed in his opening monoloque where for a split second he looks subjectively at his body and worries about his looks before saying: whatever! (Iham Sama) and throwing off the shirt.

Because of this I want the words 'Ihan Sama' written on the shirt on the tattoo - it's a reminder to me that no matter if I have a good body or bad body day in the end it doesn't matter; I only have this one body and it's serving me just fine either way.

I am thinking about getting this tattoo on my stomach with the flag being around the navel (pictures above shows position) since I am definitely most dysphoric about everything from the navel down (excluding the chest area - that'll get its own tattoo in good time xD) - my hope is that by seeing the tattoo there everytime I look down I will be reminded good feelings not nesescarily connected to my body's appearance but what my body can offer me (a canvas, a way to experience käärijä's music etc.)

That is my idea - idk I was thinking about maybe making a poll so you guys could tell me if I am being too quick with this idea or not but at the same time I really want this one for what I hope it can mean to me and my body image - I am tired of these bad body days and while I know they wont probably go away because I get ink on my tummy I can't hurt to try :'D

That said if you have any thoughts about all of this feel free to share and I'll try to listen <3

I made it long again, sorry :'D

[flagpoleetc]

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[sekhithefops]

Pride Flags Removed From Embassies... BUT...

SO.

Recently there's been a lot of news about how American Embassies are no longer allowed to display pride flags on the flagpole at American Embassies.

However, there's some MAJOR details that seem to be getting left out which this article gives better notice to:

TL;DR:

The Flag thing was one of FORTY items the GOP tried to push through, several of which were designed to totally gut Trans health care both public and private. The other 39 measures all FAILED COMPLETELY and were removed.

This blocks the embassies from showing the flag on the main flagpole ONLY. They can still hang them from windows, display them in the buildings, wear Pride fashions, display other signs of LGBTQA+ pride, etc etc.

As a fun side note, this has the MAGA crowd blindingly FURIOUS that their 'fuck the queers' plan got thwarted. This is why Marjorie Taylor Greene right now is trying to oust the current speaker of the house in revenge.

So yeah. Food for thought.

[gender-void-partially-stars]

could you explain (as briefly or detailedly as you feel like, i'm just curious) what makes a flag better than another flag other than just a general like or dislike for the design? like how does one design an effective and "correct" flag? what makes some flags bad? i've been in so many different art and design classes and whatnot and have never learned about this but it interests me!!

oh my god absolutely. buckle up lol

so the main purpose of a flag in general is to symbolise something, in this case a country. a good flag should be something people can rally around. the most important factor there is if people actually like the flag (its not a hideous eyesore). but beyond that, there are a couple general rules that help flags stay unique and accessible so everyone in that country/state/organization/etc. that it represents will be happy with it.

First you have to think about where flags most commonly are: on flagpoles. a flag should not be designed to be seen from five feet away, it should be designed to be seen from hundreds of feet away. in that vein, it has to be simple.

heres the flag of panama and kentucky for comparison. panama’s flag is simple and neat, while kentucky’s flag has lots of little details that are hard to make out even on a phone screen

Secondly, you are not going to be seeing a flag on a flagpole straight on like these images. they will be fluttering in the breeze (AT BEST) and a portion of the flag will be obscured. you know what that means? NO TEXT. you cannot read shit if that flag is flying in the wind, even if you’re on the right side of it so the text isnt backwards. if the wind isnt blowing then youre out of luck

on the left is the german flag, which even if you didnt know was the german flag, you can still tell what it looks like. three stripes, black red yellow. on the right is the flag of illinois, which is trying to tell you its the flag of illinois but you cant tell because that text on the bottom is unreadable.

thirdly, for the purposes of being a good rallying icon, its good to use symbolism representative of what the flag is for

i dont really have a bad example here because this is subjective but on the left is the flag of new mexico. the red sun symbol is a puebloan symbol representing the native peoples who lived in whats now new mexico for thousands of years and the yellow background is for spain, who owned the land before the us took it. on the right is the flag of chicago, with two blue stripes represent lake michigan and the chicago river, and the red stars represent four major historical events

a lot of people will also say that you should only use two or three colors in a good flag but i think you can make more work, even though it might be harder

indonesia’s flag, on the left, is a flag with two colors that i would say isnt great (its almost identical to the flag of monaco, which existed already at the time indonesia chose theirs) and on the right is the flag of south africa, which is a flag with lots of colors that i would consider to be a good flag

all of that is to say, if you want to make a good flag, model it off an existing country flag. those are generally the best flags out there because they have the most pressure to be a good flag. most people who live in a country they’re proud to live in love their flags (theres a reason the us flag is so strongly associated with extreme patriotism!). The same cant be said of most states, as a lot of state flags have detailed designs and text, and especially cant be said of cities. i showed the chicago flag earlier because its one of the few city flags in the us that gets actual usage outside the government. chicagoans are proud of their flag as they should be and if youve been to chicago, youve seen the flag. they put that thing everywhere, from backpacks to water bottles. now to top it all off here are some of my personal favorite flags from around the world

left: the flag of barbados (i love the color scheme and the trident is a perfect stylized symbol) middle: the flag of yabucoa, puerto rico (a rare flag that uses purple, as well as having a pretty unique design) right: the flag of maryland, usa (a controversial pick, but its distinctive and marylanders wear it with pride (often literally))

[salemoleander]

Howdy and hello!

Updated 2.5.23

Hey y'all, I'm Salem! SalemOleander for long. They/them or it/its pronouns please! My username & icon are the same across Twitch, YouTube, Discord, etc. So if you see me someplace outside Tumblr, feel free to say hi ^.^

Generally I tag things with 'salem' followed by the simplest descriptor for that post type - salem fic, salem art, salem answer, etc. I tag for shipping and suggestive content, as well as blood and gore. Catchall tags are:

Salem tag - I made this post and it's about Minecraft

Salem chatter - I made this post and it's not about Minecraft

Web Weaves

Posted in my salem art tag. Follow @netloom to only see my webweaves!

What is a webweave?

Resources for creating your own

Life Series: Third Life | Martyn | Limited Life

Based on fics: Void Falling | Attempt 33 | Nightingale Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | singing songs to the secrets | A Hundred Things | solving counting sheep

Writing

My ao3 is salemoleander! Some smaller ficlets/writing is only posted on Tumblr, under the salem fic tag.

Untitled Ficlets: 3L Renchanting Wins | S9 Rift Saga Joe in Exile | Post-3L Grian Forgiveness | LimLife Martyn's Final Hour | Jimmy + Grian Anti-Angst | S9 Rift Saga Ren the Buried King | S9 Scar + Grian Resist Resisting

Titled Fics: Lines in the Dirt | the fragments that stick with you | Tesserae Toothache | With Soul Intent | WSI Chapter 2 | every fugitive hour leaves its mark

Videos

I post clips in the salem clip tag!

Fandom: Royal Court Innuendoes | Doc's Flagpole Innuendoes

Original: 'Ghost Blocks' Litematica Guide | Turtle Crime

MCNN

When I'm not working on personal projects, I'm one of the lead reporters at @minecraftnewsnetwork! We summarized Limited Life and Secret Life week by week as they came out over on our YouTube channel, and we are planning to do the same thing whenever Life Series 6 happens.

[dailyanarchistposts]

The Sorbonne Soviet

On Saturday 11 May, shortly before midnight, Mr Pompidou, Prime Minister of France, overruled his Minister of the Interior, his Minister of Education, and issued orders to his ‘independent’ Judiciary. He announced that the police would be withdrawn from the Latin Quarter, that the faculties would re-open on Monday 13 May, and that the law would ‘reconsider’ the question of the students arrested the previous week. It was the biggest political climb-down of his career: For the students, and for many others, it was the living proof that direct action worked. Concessions had been won through struggle which had been unobtainable by other means. Early on the Monday morning the CRS platoons guarding the entrance to the Sorbonne were discreetly withdrawn. The students moved in, first in small groups, then in hundreds, later in thousands. By midday the occupation was complete. Every ‘tricolore’ was promptly hauled down, every lecture theatre occupied, Red flags were hoisted from the official flagpoles and from improvised ones at many windows, some overlooking the streets, others the big internal courtyard. Hundreds of feet above the milling students, enormous red and black flags fluttered side by side from the Chapel dome, What happened over the next few days will leave a permanent mark on the French educational system, on the structure of French society and — most important of all — on the minds of those who lived and made history during that hectic first fortnight. The Sorbonne was suddenly transformed from the fusty precinct where French capitalism selected and moulded its hierarchs, its technocrats and its administrative bureaucracy into a revolutionary volcano in full eruption whose lava was to spread far and wide, searing the social structure of modern France.

The physical occupation of the Sorbonne was followed by an intellectual explosion of unprecedented violence. Everything, literally everything, was suddenly and simultaneously up for discussion, for question, for challenge. There were no taboos. It is easy to criticise the chaotic upsurge of thoughts, ideas and proposals unleashed in such circumstances. ‘Professional revolutionaries’ and petty bourgeois philistines criticised to their heart’s content. But in so doing they only revealed how they themselves were trapped in the ideology of a previous epoch and were incapable of transcending it. They failed to recognise the tremendous significance of the new: of all that could not be apprehended within their own pre-established intellectual categories. The phenomenon was witnessed again and again, as it doubtless has been in every really great upheaval in history.

Day and night, every lecture theatre was packed out, the seat of continuous, passionate debate on every subject that ever preoccupied thinking humanity. No formal lecturer ever enjoyed so massive an audience, was ever listened to with such rapt attention — or given such short shrift if he talked nonsense. A kind of order rapidly prevailed. By the second day a noticeboard had appeared near the front entrance announcing what was being talked about, and where. l noted’. ‘Organisation of the struggle’; ‘Political and trade union rights in the University’; ‘University crisis or social crisis?’. ‘Dossier of police repression’; ‘Self-management’; ‘Non-selection’ (or how to open the doors of the University to everyone); ‘Methods of teaching’; ‘Exams’, etc. Other lecture theatres were given over to the students-workers liaison committees, soon to ‘assume great importance. In yet other hales, discussions were under way on ‘sexual repression’, on ‘the colonial question’, on ‘ideôlogy and mystification’, Any group of people wishing to discuss anything under the sun would just take over one of the lecture theatres or smaller rooms. Fortunately there were dozens of these. The first impression was of a gigantic lid suddenly lifted, of pent-up thoughts and aspirations suddenly exploding, on being released from the realm of dreams into the realm of the real and the possible. In changing their environment people themselves were changed. Those who had never dared say anything suddenly felt their thoughts to be the most important thing in the world and said so. The shy became communicative. The helpless and isolated suddenly discovered that collective power lay in their hands. The traditionally apathetic suddenly realized the intensity of their involvement. A tremendous surge of community and cohesion gripped those who had previously seen themselves as isolated and impotent puppets, dominated by institutions that they could neither control nor understand. People just went up and talked to one another without a trace of self-consciousness. This state of euphoria lasted throughout the whole fortnight I was there, An inscription scrawled on a wall sums it up perfectly’. ‘Déjà dix jours de bonheur’ (ten days of happiness already).

In the yard of the Sorbonne, politics (frowned on for a generation) took over with a vengeance. Literature stalls sprouted up along the whole inner perimeter, Enormous portraits appeared on the internal walls: Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Mao, Castro, Guevara, a revolutionary resurrection breaking the bounds of time and place. Even Stalin put in a transient appearance (above a Maoist stall) until it was tactfully suggested to the comrades that he wasn’t really at home in such company.

On the stalls themselves every kind of literature suddenly blossomed forth in the summer sunshine: leaflets and pamphlets by anarchists, Stalinists, Maoists, Trotskyists (three varieties), the PSU and the non-committed. The yard of the Sorbonne had become a gigantic revolutionary drug-store, in which the most esoteric products no longer had to be kept beneath the counter but could now be prominently displayed. Old issues of journals, yellowed by the years, were unearthed and often sold as well as more recent material. Everywhere there were groups of 1 0 or 20 people, in heated discussion, people talking about the barricades, about the CRST about their own experiences, but also about the commune of 1871 , about 1905 and 1917, about the Italian left in 1921 and About France in 1936. A fusion was taking place between the consciousness Of the revolutionary minorities and the consciousness of whole new layers Of people, dragged day by day into the maelstrom of political controversy. The students were learning within days what it had taken others a lifetime to learn. Many lichens came to see What it was all about. They too got sucked into the vortex. I remember a boy of 14 explaining to an incredulous man of 60 why students should have the right to depose professors.

Other things also happened. A large piano suddenly appeared In the great central yard and remained there for several days. People would come and play on it, surrounded by enthusiastic supposers. As people talked in the lecture theatres of nee-capitalism and Of its techniques of manipulation, strands of Chopin and bars of jazz, bits of La Carmagnole and atonal compositions wafted through the air. One evening there was a drum recital, then some clarinet players took over. These ‘diversions’ may have infuriated some of the more single-minded revolutionaries, but they were as much part and parcel of the total transformation of the Sorbonne as were the revolutionary doctrines being proclaimed in the lecture hails. An exhibition of huge photographs of the ‘night of the barricades’ (in beautiful half-tones) appeared one morning, mounted on stands. No-tine knew who had put it up. Everyone agreed that it succinctly summarised the horror and glamour, the anger and promise of that fateful night. Even the doors of the Chapel giving on to the yard were soon covered with inscriptions: ‘open this door — Finis, le tabernacles’,‘Religion is the last mystification’. Or more prosaically: ‘We want somewhere to piss, not somewhere to pray’. The massive outer walls of the Sorbonne were likewise soon plastered with posters — posters announcing the first sit-in strikes, posters describing the wage rates of whole sections of Paris workers, posters announcing the next demonstrations, posters describing the solidarity marches in Peking, posters denouncing the police repression and the use of CS gas (as well as of ordinary tear-gas) against the demonstrators. There were posters, dozens of them, warning students against the Communist Party’s band-wagon jumping tactics, telling them how it had attacked their movement and how it was now seeking to assume its leadership. Political posters in plenty. But also others, proclaiming the new ethos. A big one for instance near the main entrance, boldly proclaimed ‘Défense d’interdire’ (Forbidding forbidden). And others, equally to the point: ‘Only the truth is revolutionary’, ‘Our revolution is greater than ourselves’, ‘We refuse the role assigned to us, will not be trained as police dogs’. People’s concerns varied but converged. The posters reflected the deeply libertarian prevailing philosophy: ‘Humanity will only be happy when the last capitalist has been strangled with the guts of the last bureaucrat”, ‘Culture is disintegrating. Create!’,‘I take my wishes for reality for I believe in the reality of my wishes’; or more simply, ‘Creativity, spontaneity, life’. In the street outside, hundreds of passers-by would stop to read these improvised wall-newspapers. Some gaped. Some sniggered Some nodded assent. Some argued, Some, summoning their courage: actually entered the erstwhile sacrosanct premises, as they were being exhorted to by numerous posters proclaiming that the Sorbonne was now open to all, Young workers who ‘wouldn’t have been seen in that place’ a month ago now walked in groups, at first rather self-consciously, later as if they owned the place, which of course they did.

As the days went by, another kind of invasion took place — the invasion by the cynical and the unbelieving, or — more charitably — by those who ‘had only come to see’. It gradually gained momentum. At certain stages it threatened to paralyse the serious work being done, part of which had to be hived off to the Faculty of Letters, at Censing, also occupied by the students. It was felt necessary, however, for the doors to be kept open, 24 hours a day. The message certainly spread. Deputations came first from other universities, then from high schools, later from factories and offices, to look, to question, to argue, to study.

The most telling sign, however, of the new and heady climate was to be found on the wails of the Sorbonne corridors. Around the main lecture theatres there is a maze of such corridors’, dark, dusty, depressing, and hitherto unnoticed passageways leading from nowhere in particular to nowhere else. Suddenly these corridors sprang to life in a firework of luminous mural wisdom — much of it of Situationist inspiration. Hundreds of people suddenly stopped to read such pearls as: ‘Do not consume Marx. Live it’; ‘The future will only contain what we put into it now’; ‘When examined. we will answer with questions”, ‘Professors, you make us feel old’ ; ‘One doesn’t compose with a society in decomposition”, ‘We must remain the unadapted ones’; ‘Workers of all lands, enjoy yourselves’ : ‘Those who carry out a revolution only half-way through merely dig themselves a tomb (St Just), ‘Please leave the PC (Communist Party) as clean on leaving as you would like to find it on entering ‘; ‘The tears of the philistines are the nectar of the gods’,’ ‘GO and die in Naples. with the Club Mediterranée’; ‘Long live communication, down with telecommunication’ ‘ ‘Masochism today dresses up as reformism ; We will claim nothing. We will ask for nothing. We will take. We will occupy’; ‘The only outrage to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was the outrage that put him there”, ‘No, we won’t be picked up by the Great Party of the Working Class’, And a big inscription, well displayed’. ‘Since 1936 l have fought for wage increases, My father, before me, also fought for wage increases. Now I have a telly, a fridge, a Volkswagen. Yet all in all, my life has always been a dog’s life. Don’t discuss with the bosses. Eliminate them.’

Day after day the courtyard and corridors are crammed, the scene of an incessant bi-directional flow to every conceivable part of the enormous building. It may look like chaos, but it is the chaos of a beehive or of an anthill. A new structure is gradually being evolved. A canteen has been organised in one big hall, people pay what they can afford for glasses of orange juice, ‘menthe’, or ‘grenadine’ and for ham or sausage rolls. l enquire whether costs are covered and am toad they more or less break even. In another part of the building a children’s creche has been set up, elsewhere a first-aid station, elsewhere a dormitory. Regular sweeping-up rotas are organised. Rooms are allocated to the Occupation Committee, to the Press Committee, to the Propaganda Committee, to the student- worker liaison committees, to the committees dealing with foreign students, to the action committees of Lyceens, to the committees dealing with the allocation of premises, and to the numerous commissions undertaking special projects such as the compiling of a dossier on police atrocities, the study of the implications of autonomy, of the examination system, etc. Anyone seeking work can readily find it. The composition of the committees was very variable. It often changed from day to day, as the committees gradually found their feel. To those who pressed for instant solutions to every problem it would be answered: “patience, comrade give us a chance to evolve an alternative. The bourgeoisie has controlled this university for nearly two centuries. It has solved nothing. We are building from rock bottom, We need a month or two...”

Confronted with this tremendous explosion which it had neither foreseen nor been able to control the Communist Party tried desperately to salvage what it could of its shattered reputation. Between 3 May and 13 May every issue of I’Humanité had carried paragraphs either attacking the students or making slimy innuendoes about them. Now the line suddenly changed, The Party sent dozens of its best agitators into the Sorbonne to ‘explain’ its case. The case was a simple one. The Party ‘supported the students’ — even if there were a few ‘dubious elements’ in their leadership. It ‘always had’. It always would. Amazing scenes followed. Every Stalinist ‘agitator’ would immediately be surrounded by a large group of well-informed young people, denouncing the Party’s counter-revolutionary role. A wall-paper had been put up by the comrades of Volà Ouvrière on which had been posted, day by day, every statement attacking the students to have appeared in I’Humanite- or in any of a dozen Party leaflets. The ‘agitators’ couldn’t get a word in edgeways. They would be jumped on (non-violently). “The evidence was over there, comrade. Would the Party comrades like to come and read just exactly what the Party had been saying not a week ago? Perhaps I’Humanité would like to grant the students space to reply to some of the accusations made against them?” Others in the audience would then bring up the Party’s role during the Algerian War, during the miners’ strike of 1958, during the years of ‘tripartisme’ (1945–1947). Wriggle as they tried, the ‘agitators’ just could not escape this kind of ‘instant education’. It was interesting to note that the Party could not entrust this ‘salvaging’ operation to its younger, student members. Only the ‘older comrades’ could safely venture into this hornets’ nest. So much so that people would say that anyone in the Sorbonne over the age of 40 was either a copper’s nark or a stalinist stooge. The most dramatic periods of the occupation were undoubtedly the ‘Assemblées Générales’, or plenary sessions, held every’ night in the giant amphitheatre. This was the soviet, the ultimate source of all decisions, the fount and origin of direct democracy. The amphitheatre could seat up to 5000 people in its enormous hemicycle, surmounted by three balcony tiers. As often as not every seat was taken and the crowd would flow up the aisles and onto the podium, A black flag and a red one hung over the simple wooden table at which the chairman sat. Having seen meetings of 50 break up in chaos it is an amazing experience to see a meeting of 5000 get down to business. Real events determined the themes and ensured that most of the talk was down to earth.

The topic having been decided, everyone was allowed to speak. Most speeches were made from the podium but some from the body of the hall or from the balconies. The loudspeaker equipment usually worked but sometimes didn’t. Some speakers could command immediate attention, without even raising their voice. Others would instantly provoke a hostile response by the stridency of their tone, their insincerity or their more or less obvious attempts at manoeuvring the assembly. Anyone who waffled, or reminisced, or came to recite a set-piece, or talked in terms of slogans, was given shod shrift by the audience, politically the most sophisticated I have ever seen. Anyone making practical suggestions was listened to attentively. So were those who sought to interpret the movement in terms of its own experience or to point the way ahead.

Most speakers were granted three minutes, Some were allowed much more by popular acclaim. The crowd itself exerted a tremendous control on the platform and on the speakers. A two-way relationship emerged very quickly. The political maturity of the Assembly was shown most strikingly in its rapid realization that booing or cheering during speeches slowed down the Assembly’s own deliberations. Positive speeches were loudly cheered — at the end. Demagogic or useless ones were impatiently swept aside, Conscious revolutionary minorities played an important catalytic role in these deliberations, but never sought — at least the more intelligent ones — to impose their will on the mass body. Although in the early stages the Assembly had its fair share of exhibited nests, provocateurs and nuts, the overhead costs of direct democracy were not as heavy as one might have expected.

There were moments of excitement and moments of exhortation. On the night of 13 May, after the massive march through the streets of Paris, Daniel Cohn-Bandit confronted J M Catala, general secretary of the Union of Communist Students in front of the packed auditorium. The scene remains printed in my mind. “Explain to us”, Cohn-Bandit said, “why the Communist Party and the CGT told their militants to disperse at Denfed Rochereau, why it prevented them joining up with us for a discussion at the Champ de Mars?” “simple, really” sneered Catala. “The agreement concluded between the CGT, the CFDT, the UNEF and the other sponsoring organizations stipulated that dispersal would take place at a predetermined place. The Joint Sponsoring Committee had not sanctioned any further developments...” “A revealing answer”, replied Cohn-Bandit, “the organizations hadn’t foreseen that we would be a million in the streets. But life is bigger than the organizations. With a million people almost anything is possible. You say the Committee hadn’t sanctioned anything further. On the day of the Revolution, comrade, you will doubtless tell us to forego it ‘because it hasn’t been sanctioned by the appropriate sponsoring committee’...”

This brought the house down. The only ones who didn’t rise to cheer were a few dozen Stalinists. Also, revealingly, those Trotskyists who tacitly accepted the Stalinist conceptions — and whose only quarrel with the CP is that it had excluded them from being one of the ‘sponsoring organisations’. That same night the Assembly took three important decisions. From now on the Sorbonne would constitute itself as a revolutionary headquarters (‘Smolny’, someone shouted). Those who worked there would devote their main efforts not to a mere re-organisation of the educational system, but to a total subversion of bourgeois society. From now on the University would be open to all those who subscribed to these aims. The proposals having been accepted the audience rose to a man and sang the loudest, most impassioned ‘Internationale’ I have ever heard. The echoes must have reverberated as far as the Elysee Palace on the other side of the River Seine...