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scoundrels-in-love · 4 years ago

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Climb on your tears like a ladder to a rose, baby (There's a time to rest, There's a time to move on)

Three times Brienne doesn't have a birthday party and the one she does.

Also on AO3.

Disclaimer: This work is in no way or form related to author's personal life or personal wish fulfillment. /s

That said, early Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you for sharing so much love and creativity, whether in procuring new content or amazing comments, or pressing that kudos button! Best of wishes in the 2021, may we all find healing or at least a glimpse of hope it is possible.

Brienne is ten and there is a movie on the large, chunky TV that sometimes needs to be smacked to work right. Specifically, there's a birthday party scene, complete with pretty banners and colorful balloons in shapes she didn't know were sold, and they're singing Happy Birthday and the child is blowing out birthday candles. Making a wish. The girl shares it with her friend later and Brienne scoffs, because everyone knows you're not supposed to say your wishes out loud. (That way, your dad's eyes don't get sad when he knows he can't fulfill it.)

Other than that, she doesn't really think about it much, never has. It's as foreign to her as the palm trees and sipping juice from a coconut. She supposes it's real to someone, somewhere, but not to her. People of Tarth have a different song to sing, but most of them don't sing any at all, nor did they blow out candles before they picked the tradition up from Mainlanders recently.

At least, that's what Brienne thinks. It's not like she's been to any birthday parties. But that's what her dad has told her of how he grew up. And that's how it continues in their household.

She gets a tight hug and a kiss on top of her head and a few presents, and a cake that doesn't have a shiny candle in it, but tastes just as good.

It's good and it's warm, when winter winds run hungry for snow to chase, and she doesn't wonder if she'd be like that kid in the other movie, the one to whose birthday party no one came.

She doesn't.

She is twenty three and she is picking out her own birthday cake. Her eyes skip over the number candles, because she's far too old for that kind of thing, and she doesn't even want the cake. She just doesn't want to think how sad he'd be if she didn't buy it. It’s her first after his passing and the thought of his worry is sharp. It’s never been deserved, but inescapable, because that’s what parents do, except she never managed to do what children are supposed to - to provide and take care so the final years are long and kind.

The cake blurs slightly as she exits the store, across the street from her apartment complex that seems to have lost the last of its colors in these winter months and the few strung up Sevenmas lights highlight that.

Brienne thinks her peers would call her insane if she told them she thinks winter in King's Landing is a lot more bleak than the ones she spent on Tarth. There is sharp quality to the contrast between the pale sky and darkening, rich color of water, even the jagged cliff edges stretching toward the horizon. It keeps one vigilant, wakeful. Here, the mild autumn grows more dulled and wraps everyone in an unassuming cocoon that slowly drifts toward spring, which finally hatches not quite rested.

But they have called her uglier things, too.

"Words are wind," her dad would tell her, but the wind isn't the same here, it doesn't take anything with it, only swirls dust around her. Brienne chokes on it, chokes on the echo as well.

Her father had loved the best he could, loved her truly, and if that rent ravines in her ribs, prone to collapsing in on themselves until she stacks them up again like a house of cards, then what hope of being loved gently, wholly, purposefully does she have?

She misses being hugged and told it's okay even when it's clearly a lie. She misses the certainty that her own love wasn't selfish. "He is in a better place now," they had told her, as if it didn't mean she had failed him utterly, repeatedly, until she had carved a crypt in the stone with her pacing?

Brienne falls asleep crying in a bed that doesn't feel hers, but she can't remember last time anything did.

III

Brienne is twenty eight and she pauses at the hallway mirror to fix her ponytail. There is half eaten cake on the kitchen table, bought at half price as leftover from Sevenmas, and a freshly opened wine bottle. It's the same kind her dad had brought her for her eighteenth birthday and she's never bothered to find another one she likes. (It tastes like the kind of summer she's never had.)

In this light, it's hard to tell if the shadows beneath her eyes are from the bit of mascara she had tried to scrub away a minute ago or the exhaustion she unintentionally cultivates like a little succulent garden on the windowsill.

She doesn't focus on the ugly or the beautiful of her face now, it's not what caught her attention. Brienne just stares at her reflection and thinks how she looks neither young nor old, that she just is. And that she has no idea what it means.

Shouldn't she know? Shouldn't she know by now? Shouldn't she be past the age where she is grabbing at dream colored smoke? Shouldn't she...

Brienne looks away before the first tears fall.

She eats her cake and thinks how her dad had told her that hawthorn and cranberries alike turn almost sweet after the first frost. How many frosts have been there now? Brienne's lost the count and the feeling of warmth alike.

She ends up drinking a little too much of the wine and going to bed early, looking at the single candle-look alike flickering on the table and willing herself to sleep after this completely ordinary day that should’ve been something, but it never is. (She isn’t.)

+ IV

Brienne is thirty six and her sides hurt from laughing.

She extracts herself from the couch corner, which Jaime immediately expands into like a lazy cat while flashing her a grin. When she comes back, he might try to coax her into his lap and maybe she will even concede.

She opens another juice carton and refills her glass, leans against the counter and watches her friends arguing over a board game in the living room. It's odd, to know you belong and yet to be so aware of it in this moment, and she cannot quite throw herself back in there, even though it is no mirage she could simply crash through. Instead, Brienne follows the cool and tethering moonlight that has looped itself around her feet.

She steps out into the garden - because that's a thing she has now. There is a thin, crunchy layer of snow that will bite through her fluffy slippers any moment now, chasing her back inside. But for now, she cranes her face toward the sky, sending white little puffs of breath chasing after clouds that slip across the moon.

The door opens behind her and she doesn't look who it is, because there's no one here that she'd want to hide away from. She's lucky, Brienne thinks, that trust was never a truly foreign concept to her, though she's had to learn how to expand it and recognize its many forms like a toddler would with a shape sorter.

Arms wrap around her waist and Brienne allows herself to lean back and rest against Jaime's chest as he props his chin on her shoulder. She considers telling him that she's fine, because she likes to say that, now that she knows how it feels to truly mean it, even if it's not every day. Instead, she allows the bittersweet ache in her chest to mend itself with his quiet warmth.

She hopes that next time she dreams of her dad, she can tell him of this night, to not worry quite so much, and that peace sounds a little like the sound of her friends' laughter drifting through the door left ajar and Jaime humming in her ear.

#Jaime x Brienne #braime #braime ff #rainy writes stuff #my fic

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angstmongertina · 4 years ago

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judgment

So the inspiration for this one was that I really think Morgaine is manipulative and cunning enough to not directly show Lyon that she’s unethical, selfish, and indifferent (go big or go home, amirite). Of course, it did not actually go where I was expecting it to, but honestly, I like it even more now, and does explain something about why he still respects her, despite hating her at first.

Anything familiar was dialogue taken from the game!

Day Five: Worn

AO3 Link

It was more curiosity than any actual interest that led her to the grand library. Just in the past few days, the duke had already exhibited a tendency to forgo both meals and sleep, stalking the books with single-minded ferocity bordering on obsession.

The fact that she found him engulfed by a pile of books even taller than he only pushed the scale further.

Silently, she stepped closer, squinting at the nearest titles. A wide collection of manuscripts, ranging in topic from obscure philosophy to history and the natural sciences, completely surrounded him, many more than any one person could read in seven month, much less seven weeks.

Perhaps that was why he seemed to take no notice of her.

Then again, that was hardly a problem.

Leaning back onto her heels, she pursued her lips, examining the man sitting before her more carefully. Of course, she had heard rumors aplenty of the taciturn Duke—while Jiyel certainly put more stock into merit and logic than Revaire, the elite were still the elite, a collection of gossipmongers regardless of the kingdom of origin—but hearsay had long since proven itself to be unreliable at best. From the glimpse she had seen of him before the Welcome Feast, which, to be fair, she rather suspected was the only time anyone other than his butler had seen him, he was self-deprecating and reserved, but she could hardly blame him for that.

No, in fact, if the quickness of his wit and the sharp intelligence in the eyes that met hers were any indication, he could be a very useful ally indeed.

She plastered a cool smile on her face, the faint curl of lips a far cry from her usual arsenal of seductive expressions. “Good evening, Duke Lyon. I had thought to question your absence at dinner tonight but I believe I understand the predicament now; I fear simply extracting yourself could prove to be more perilous for your heath than skipping meals.”

“Lady Morgaine.”

“As you see.” She dropped into a brief curtsy, though more out of reflex than any real sense of necessity, confirmed by the raised eyebrow that was her only response, and she bit back a sarcastic comment, instead shifting to settle in an empty seat. “Good evening.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Direct and to the point, then. I like it.” She let her gaze soften, just a moment, taking the sting from her words before grinning once more. “Very well. I came to find you, Your Grace.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “And so you have.”

“Indeed.” When he made no effort to continue the conversation, she cleared her throat and craned her neck towards the text that once again threatened to ensnare his attention. “If I may ask, what are you reading?”

The faintest hint of a scowl crossed his expression, the momentary slip in control caught only through experience borne of necessity, and she barely resisted the urge to tense, until it faded into a thoughtful frown. “The Historian Kellem Ives’s philosophical treatise on the ethical impetus on actors of significant events to intervene versus unbiased documentation in terms of the impact on perdurable public good.”

She blinked, torn between amusement at the stimulus for the longest speech she had heard from the man and concentration at its actual meaning. “A fascinating subject, to be sure, particularly in light of our current circumstances.”

The eyes that met hers were still hooded, wary. “Perhaps, though it is less instructional than justificative.”

“Then what of your own thoughts?”

He visibly hesitated. “I… I confess I haven’t become of one mind on the matter. And you, Lady Morgaine?”

She paused, the heavy intent of his words catching her attention. There was something there, a hint of unusual gravitas considering the carelessness of their previous conversation. A test of some kind, perhaps, one she hadn’t had enough time to consider, and instead, she raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a teasing smirk. “I am usually a creature of many minds, thank you very much.”

To her disappointment, his expression didn’t change, nor did his angle of questioning. “No, what are your thoughts on the matter?”

She cleared her throat, mind racing. To be reading a treatise on the philosophy of ethics and public good, to openly discuss it with an enthusiasm that was almost incongruous to his existing reputation… She would have to approach the conversation with caution if she wanted to remain in his good graces.

Bowing her head, she schooled her features into careful solemnity. “It is a worthwhile exercise to consider. While much can be said about the virtues of inaction, just as much can be true for the benefits of action. And much can learned from either experience.” She drew a breath, willing her voice to remain steady, her face to bear no signs of derision. “Whether ‘tis nobler to sacrifice for the benefits of others, else to observe for those same’s benefit is a decision that is only left to the ethical standards of others, for better or for worse.”

The silence that followed her proclamation was almost stifling and she found herself having to look away from his keen attention, that seemed to look into her very soul itself with the intensity of its dark, unyielding gaze.

“I see.”

The ice in his words stung and she opened her mouth, but he shook his head, cutting her off before she could speak. “I comprehend perfectly, Lady Morgaine.”

“Do you?” She met his gaze, sudden heat flooding her chest at the condemnation in his voice, the judgment and mistrust, and she found herself on her feet, shaking with fury and glaring at him with liquid fire in her veins, pounding in her ears. “Do you truly, or do you only think that you do, like everyone of your ilk, who only consider the theory, the simplest solution in your idealized situation? The world is neither so straightforward nor so fair as you might imagine. It is easy for one such as yourself, in your ivory tower, to judge the world around you, Your Grace, and you are perfectly welcome to despise me if you so choose, but until you have lived it, have seen what your precious sacrifice and nobility and obedience can wrought, don’t you dare say that you comprehend anything.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and left, letting the door of the grand library slam shut with a resounding crash.

#7kpp #seven kingdoms: the princess problem #7kpp fictober 2020 #Duke Lyon #Tina writes stuff.#Tina plays 7KPP.#awkward duke of my heart #Lady Morgaine of Revaire

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orthogonals · 5 years ago

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Hey, I saw that you are taking prompts. I very much enjoyed your Achilles/Patroclus story so I'd be thrilled if you wrote more in that universe. Maybe a take on their relationship from another person's POV (eg Briseis, Thetis, Chiron...) Or a crossover with Merthur? :)

Thanks for the ask! Achilles/Patroclus always sends me in an emotional spiral. I wrote this for “their relationship from another POV,” hope you enjoy!

~A note on prompts: I won’t have much time to answer the in the coming months, but still feel free to send them in, and I’ll get to them when/if I can!~

through their eyes

rating: T

words: 1509

summary: Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.

“That is what a son should be.”

–

Five times Achilles and Patroclus were the subject of observation during their lives, + one time they weren’t.

read on ao3!

The games beat a broken path through Opus, a thousand calloused feet rubbing the dry dirt raw. Menoitides directed the affair with customary severity, ordering servants out to break rock and clear track until even the seething sun had taken rest. He held a hard nub of determination that his games would hail as the best of the generation, would bear glory upon his shoulders. Glory to rival the glow of Apollo himself; glory enough to erase the festering blight of his weak son, his simple wife.

The youngest boys formed their line, eyes glinting with excitement and the thrill of victory. Peleus’ son stood half a head shorter amongst them, impossible to miss. He reflected light like a piece of glass in the sand. Beside him, Patroclus fiddled dumbly with the wreath. Menoitides clenched his teeth until his jaw clicked.

Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.“That is what a son should be.”

And when Menotides exiled Patroclus to Phthia, shame and anger warping inside him, he spared the stupid boy only one parting wish— that he might learn something from Achilles’ shadow.

ii.

The fire cast Peleus’ chambers in a mute glow. Dim crackling filled the spaces between his words, a second voice mingling to tell the tale.Peleus sat deep in his chair, arms dangling like grapevines. Day by day, age seeped further under his skin, to his bones. He hardly felt like the man who had served Heracles and rode with Jason.

Achilles shuffled in the shadows, his eyes a glint of green from the dark. Peleus traced Achilles gaze to Patroclus, who had tilted his mouth in a sweet grin. Achilles’ teeth flashed white in return, and the smile was almost unnatural to see on his son.He remembered youth, of quick heartbeats and rushing hot blood. Of furtive glances at the sweat-coated curve of muscle that stretched across the back of his general. But Achilles, great as he might become, was not yet a man, had not experience nor understanding.

A hand shot out and circled around Patroclus’ ankle. Achilles’ snicker, half-covered, rolled into the air from his corner. Peleus did not miss the light brush of Achilles’ thumb against Patroclus’ heel, the softening of Patroclus’ face.

He called for an end to the night, carefully slipping mention of a servant girl who wished to bed Achilles. The sudden shutter of Achilles’ face confirmed all that remained unspoken.

iii.

The wind stirred the trees and sent air unfurling, crisp and clean, through the leaves. Chiron shifted his tail at the breeze, nosing the scent in the atmosphere. Rain was due by nightfall. He inclined his head towards the boys, a lecture on weather-reading in mind.Achilles and Patroclus were crouched in the grass beyond him, huddled so close that their hair brushed. Chiron heard their soft murmurs of conversation as they probed the ground for herbs. Their fingers touched and lingered among the green blades.

It was unusual for a hero to have remained so long in the crags and caves of Mount Pelion, more unusual still to have done so with a companion. Chiron never asked his heroes to go, yet the day always came when they donned armor and rode to battle.Young Achilles was birthed with greatness sighed above him, sticking on lips like honey. He would take whatever measures necessary to make the words true. Chiron knew Achilles, saw his unerring limbs and swift feet. Saw his blank eyes, the mark of all heroes.

Blank for all but Patroclus, who melted Achilles like brown sugar over fire, shifted his balance from half-god to half-human. Such a thing was as rare as juniper in spring, and Chiron could do little but to protect Achilles’ link to humanity.

Chiron called for them, amused as they leaped back from each other with pink cheeks.

iv.

Briseis lingered by the tent, the flap of the entrance thick and coarse beneath her fingers. The flat bottom of the plate pressed, heavy and cool, on her hand. She glanced at the berries rolling about on its surface, ripe and fat with juice. Their thick skins, washed clean, gleamed in the fading light like pearls. Her pulse thrummed in her neck. She would ask Patroclus today. The berries bumped off each other as she reached to open the tent.

A soft moan stopped her hand in midair, the ties still loose in her palm. She redid the ties with practiced ease, hissing quietly, and quickly backed away. Another sound joined the first, followed by an unmistakable sigh: “Achilles.”

Briseis stopped, eyes wide as the emerging moon, filled with a horrendous wonder.

A response. “Patroclus,” each syllable drawn out and rounded, the word infused with sweetness. More moans carried away by the evening air, stretched sighs that faded even as they reached Briseis’ ears. She willed her legs to move and carry her away, but they were frozen, stuck to the ground.

Finally, after the sun had slipped from the sky, came the sounds that peaked and tapered away slowly, leaving only breath behind.

“Patroclus.” Achilles’ clear voice, somehow warmed. “Therapon, philtatos.”

“Dikos mou,” Patroclus replied, the words sounding muffled by skin. She listened to his gentle kisses, her Greek proficient enough to understand what he had said.

Dikos mou. Mine.

Briseis left, haunted by the sounds of Patroclus’ love.

The ground hummed as Patroclus spoke, the throat of a melody. Thetis felt his pain course through the earth, making the grass shiver. He spoke of her son with words soft like cotton, as yielding as a freshly plowed field.

Humans were weak, rarely logical and far too easy victim to their emotions. Thetis expected Patroclus to rage of his anger, speak seething of the gods. To lament Achilles and curse his hubris. To give bitter insult to Neoptolemus, his refusal to give Patroclus proper rest.

Instead, all she felt from him was love, strong and coursing.

Below, Achilles’ sorrow speared through her in waves. Hades did not welcome those of Olympus, and her son ached like a limb, a part of her own body. Patroclus’ words washed over the grief that laced her skin, hers and Achilles’ together, soothing as a balm of yarrow.

As always, the salty spray of the sea sang to her, crowded the edge of her senses. But for the first time, she closed her mind to the waters and let herself listen. The hill vibrated beneath her feet.

She scooped away the stone like jam, carving the name with one dark fingernail. PATROCLUS. Together, with her son. In writing as in life, as forever in Elysium.

She smiled as she told him.

~vi.~

Agamemnon whirled towards Diomedes, face white and contorted.

“They have no sense of propriety.” He spit out the words through gnashing teeth, fury tightening his lips.

Achilles and Patroclus giggled at Agamemnon from behind an oak tree, fingers laced together. Patroclus gave him a hard eye roll, and Achilles blew a raspberry before quickly ducking back behind the trunk. Their laughter carried over, tinkling like windchimes.

Agamemnon clenched his fists until his veins popped. “This needs to stop. I will go to Hades himself if I must.”

Diomedes gnawed eagerly at his leg of lamb, letting out a chorus of appreciative moans.

“DIOMEDES!” Agamemnon stamped his feet. “Useless slob!”

Diomedes finally extracted his mouth from the half-eaten roast, lips slippery with oil and bits of herb plastered around his face.

“Give it a rest, Mem.”

“I will not—”

“Just because you got in a spat with your old lady—”

“DO NOT MENTION CLYTEMNESTRA!” Agamemnon toppled dangerously at the intensity of his yell, face coloring from white to purple.

“Look.” Diomedes sighed dramatically and placed a greasy hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder. Agamemnon immediately ducked away, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You’ve been on about this for, like, three thousand years of their time.” He pointed a finger upwards with emphasis. “When you first started ranting, we were still pissing in holes. In Elysium. Now, we have state-of-the-art toilets with bidets. Bidets, man.”

Agamemnon blanched, eying Diomedes like a particularly stubborn piece of mud on his shoe. “You talk about toilets. While eating.

“Just. Why don’t you go bother Odysseus and Penelope for now? They’re also looking pretty sickeningly happy.”

Odysseus and Penelope waved at them from the distance, and Agamemnon threw up his middle finger.

“Or, go to the sauna or something. You’re always less stressed after a spa trip.”

“Ugh.” Agamemnon grumbled, throwing another stink eye at Achilles and Patroclus, who were now sitting on the ground and giving each other butterfly kisses. “Fine. But I will get them. Mark my words.” He backed away slowly, keeping a menacing stare trained at Achilles. A rock caught his heel, and he stumbled over himself, tripping and falling with a thump.

Elysium echoed with laughter.

#tsoa #the song of achilles #patroclus #achilles #patrochilles #song of achilles #homer #the iliad #greek #mythology #greek mythology #*tsoa #*wtsoa #*goswrites

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architectnews · 4 years ago

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British Museum Great Court London

British Museum Great Court London Building Photos, Foster + Partners Architects, Location

British Museum Great Court

7 Dec 2020

British Museum Great Court Building in London

The Great Court at the British Museum turns 20 Date built: 2000 Design: Foster + Partners

Photographs by Nigel Young / Foster + Partners

The British Museum’s Great Court turned twenty on Sunday 6 December 2020. As the departure point for Museum visitors, it has transformed the experience of the Museum. Since it opened, 113 million people have walked under its arched glass roof with its 3,312 triangular panes of glass. On social media, it is the most photographed space in the Museum.

The Great Court is a two-acre space at the heart of Robert Smirke’s Museum. Originally it was conceived as a garden for promenading and discussing but it only lasted for a few years before his brother Sydney constructed the famous Round Reading Room at its centre. As lean-to book storage buildings were added, the Court was lost to the public until 1997 when the Library moved to St Pancras. The opportunity was then realised with our master plan to open it up for the public once more.

Marking the 20th anniversary, Norman Foster, Founder and Executive Chairman, Foster + Partners, said: “The rediscovery of the amazing courtyard of the British Museum – the Great Court – and its rebirth as a new social focus followed what I have often called the historic tradition of change, which respects the past while steadfastly reflecting the spirit of its own time. The simple act of opening it up as the spatial heart of the museum was a catalyst in the Museum’s reinvigoration. The celebration of its 20th anniversary this year is a reflection of its success and we join in congratulating the British Museum for its foresight and vision.”

Spencer de Grey, Head of Design, Foster + Partners, said, “The opening of the Great Court symbolised the excitement about the future that characterised the new Millennium. As a public space, it gave the Museum a new, much needed focus with a new public route through the building and much needed education, cafes, social and community facilities. Every time I visit the Museum, I’m heartened to see the many diverse groups enjoying its naturally lit, sheltered public space with its restored magnificent neo-classical architecture, just as so many others have over the past twenty years.”

Foster + Partners won the competition to reimagine the museum in 1994. The Great Court is in a continuing tradition by the practice working with numerous historic structures such as the Royal Academy of Arts and HM Treasury in London, and the Reichstag in Berlin. Central to our approach is to breathe new life into these buildings as part of our strong sustainable agenda.

The Great Court was opened by HM The Queen on 6 December 2000. At the opening ceremony, she hailed it as “a landmark of the new Millennium” and said “In the life of the nation, the British Museum is a remarkable phenomenon. It is an institution which has had a worldwide reputation for nearly 250 years and it is an enduring source of learning, inspiration and pleasure for millions of people who visit every year from this country and from overseas.

She added: “The Great Court will benefit the millions of people who come to the British Museum every year. We can be confident that it will become a landmark associated with the new millennium.”

To celebrate 20 years of the Great Court, Foster + Partners’ photographer has revisited the Great Court to capture the space 20 years on.

Facts about the Great Court

1. In the original Robert Smirke design for the Museum, the central space within the quadrangle of buildings was supposed to be a garden and an open courtyard for promenading. However, from 1852 lots of bookstacks were built in the space, and along with the Round Reading Room it became the home of the library department.

2. The library which was homed in the courtyard was formally separated into a new body – the British Library – in 1972. It wasn’t until 1997 when it moved to a new home at St Pancras. The Library’s move facilitated the Great Court development.

3. It takes about two weeks to clean the whole roof. It gets cleaned every three months because being in the centre of London, it gets very dirty. Cleaners can’t walk unaided on the roof – instead they have to be hooked on by a harness to a network of cables that run over the roof, which can’t be seen from below.

4. The current design is not the first at the Museum to have proposed using a glass roof. In the early 1850s, Charles Barry, joint architect of the Palace of Westminster, proposed roofing over the courtyard with sheets of glass supported on 50 iron pillars. Inspired by the famous Crystal Palace of 1851, it was to have served as a Hall of Antiquities, but never came to fruition.

5. The roof is made up of 3,312 individual panels of glass, and no two panels are the same shape. They are held together by four miles of steel and there’s enough glass up there to glaze around 500 household greenhouses.

6. The roof stands 26.3 metres above the floor at its highest point – that’s nearly as tall as six of London’s famous double-decker buses.

7. At two acres, it’s the largest covered square in Europe.

8. The 315 tonnes of glass that make up the roof are supported by a 478-tonne steel structure – in total, that’s equivalent to seven-and-a-half blue whales

9. During construction of the new space, 20,000 m3 of demolition material was removed from inside the courtyard, equivalent to twice the volume of the Egyptian Sculpture Gallery or twelve Olympic swimming pools.

10. On completion, the redesign grew the Museum floor space by 40%. For the first time in more than 150 years, the new two-acre Great Court gave visitors the chance to move freely around the main floor of the Museum.

11. The Great Court can also get dark when the roof is covered in snow, so floodlights are fixed around the top of the Round Reading Room, illuminating the space.

12. The cafés in the Great Court serve over 1 million hot drinks each year.

13. Famous guests to the Great Court include HRH The Prince of Wales, Nelson Mandela, Sir David Attenborough, President George W Bush, Angelina Jolie and Katy Perry.

14. In 2004 Great Court hosted a special display of costumes from the Wolfgang Petersen epic film Troy. These included the armour worn by Brad Pitt as Achilles, one of Helen of Troy’s gowns – played by Diane Kruger, and costumes worn by Eric Bana as Hector, Peter O’Toole as Priam and Brian Cox as Agamemnon. The film went on to be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Costume Design.

15. When The Queen opened the Great Court in 2000, our Visitor Services staff had the chance to put on the Windsor Livery, which can be worn on special occasions. It was granted to the Museum by King William IV in 1835, and consists of a blue coat with a scarlet collar and cuffs.

16. Engraved into the floor is an extract from ‘The Two Voices’ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. It says “and let thy feet, millenniums hence, be set in midst of knowledge”.

17. The £100 million project was supported by grants of £30 million from the Millennium Commission and £15.75 million from the Heritage Lottery Fund.

18. The after-party of the world premiere of the James Bond film Spectre was held in the Great Court, with a Day of the Dead theme. All the stars including Daniel Craig attended.

19. In 2008, the Olympic Torch passed through the Great Court as part of its world tour from Olympia in Greece to the Olympic Games in Beijing, China.

20. The space has been the home of numerous installations over the last 20 years, including the Tree of Life in 2005, built from decommissioned firearms from the Mozambican civil war, by artists Kester, Hilario Nhatugueja, Fiel dos Santos and Adelino Serafim Maté. Other installations have included a scale model of the ancient site of Olympia in 2004, a Volkswagen Beetle in 2014, Zak Ové’s Moko Jumbie figures in 2015, and Esther Mahlangu’s BMW Art Car 12 in 2016.

youtube

British Museum Great Court information from Foster & Partners, 071220

Previously on e-architect:

British Museum Building

British Museum Great Court Dates built: 1994-2000 Design: Foster & Partners

British Museum Building

British Museum Dates built: 1823-47 Design: Sir Robert Smirke

Address: Great Russell St, London WC1B 3DG

photos © Adrian Welch

BM building – aerial view photos © Keepclicking

Detail of the Great Court roof: photos © Keepclicking

British Museum entry facade: photos © Adrian Welch

British Museum Great Court: photos © AW

British Museum Conservation + Exhibition Spaces Dates built: 2007-11 Design: Rogers Stirk Harbour & Partners

Location: Bloomsbury, north central London

aerial photo © the Trustees of the British Museum

British Museum Great Court

Design: Foster & Partners

British Museum Great Court + existing space to east: photos © Adrian Welch

North facade, at rear of the British Museum: photo © Nick Weall

Foster + Partners

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British Museum Building Extension image © the Trustees of the British Museum

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British Museum architect : Robert Smirke

Location: British Museum, London, England, UK

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rancidtomatoes · 5 years ago

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What I’ve Learned from Training (in the Past Few Weeks)

The last month or so has been one of those periods when time seems to be moving too fast, and there aren’t enough hours on the clock to get everything done that I wish that I could. I thought it would be good to take a look back and see if I could extract something useful from the blur of life passing by. Here are the things that stand out amidst the noise:

I can train when I’m sick

I follow a training plan set out by my coach, and his rule of thumb when it comes to illness is “anything above the chin, train through it.” If it’s below the chin, we consult and make decisions based on what is happening. I had the opportunity to put strategy to the test recently, and although it wasn’t a good time, it definitely proved to me that I can train through a cold. I had a doozy, which swept through the whole family. It was bad enough that I found myself taking involuntary naps and pounding cold meds daily just to remain upright. It was very hard some days to get on the bike or the treadmill. At its worst, my resolve faltered and I texted my coach for guidance. He gave me an out, saying I could cut my workout for the day in half and reduce the intensity.

I agreed. But once I got on the bike, I felt a little better. That was something I noticed all along during the course of the cold; once I got moving, I felt a little better. My head drained out a bit, I could breathe a bit more, and I could keep going. I didn’t have the energy I usually would, but I could do the workout. And it didn’t make anything worse the next day. So I didn’t take the out; I ended up riding the full scheduled 1.5 hours.

My most eloquent of post-workout commentary

My over-arching goal when it comes to triathlon is to develop relentless consistency that will break my cycle of going on-again, off-again over periods of months or years. Proving that I can get through a cold like this and not miss a workout was a key experience for me.

It doesn’t hurt to exist

Something I noticed during the past few weeks is that a certain kind of feeling has disappeared from my daily existence. When I’m out of shape and overweight, there’s a lot of constant pain involved with just going about my day. My back often hurts. Standing for extended periods hurts. It hurts to stand up or to sit down. Putting on pants is an effort, as is putting on shoes. I can remember many times that tying my own shoes caused my heartrate to elevate and my breathing to become more labored.

Lately, most of that is gone. I can put on my pants easily, with solid balance. Standing and sitting don’t cause any extraneous pain, and my back has never been better. The only pain that I really feel is residual workout pain. Sore muscles, fatigue, overall exhaustion. I will take that over a general pain of existence any day, because it’s a sign of what I accomplished. It’s a good kind of pain, and it feels like strength.

The Garmin Forerunner 935 is great

Early in the year, I picked up the tri bundle that includes the Garmin Forerunner 935 watch. It was quite a while before I got the chance to really see what it can do, and how it would hold up, because I was confined to walking workouts on the treadmill and easy bike rides on the trainer while I worked through my concussion recovery.

Now that spring has sprung and my symptoms have all but disappeared, I’ve been using it much more extensively, and I have found it to be one of the best pieces of equipment I’ve ever owned. I went through two other fitness/sports watches before this one (a TomTom and a Fitbit Ionic), and both of them failed pretty miserably in various respects. So far, the FR935 has been rock-solid. I’ve used it in the cold, the heat, indoors and out, in the pool, with structured workouts, GPS navigation and external sensors; I’ve basically thrown the book at it and it has performed reliably through all of it. The one time I had a failure was in the pool, and may have been due to user error more than anything (I was so worn out I was smashing into the wall), but even in that instance it saved and recovered most of my workout so very little was lost. That’s something no other watch I’ve tried could ever hope to do.

I’ve been swimming with one arm tied behind my back

Almost literally. I recently took advantage of a swim analysis gift I received for Christmas, and took video of myself in the pool to send off to my coach. He analyzed my stroke and sent me a video back and gave me lots to think about. (I may do a video on this later)

An examination of where my arms *should* be

My biggest area of weakness right now is my left arm, which is dead weight and doing nothing to help me move forward in the pool. I had noticed that it didn’t seem to do the same thing as my right arm, but not coming from a technical swimming background, I didn’t know if that was normal or not. Turns out yeah, it’s not normal.

I also have a very low stroke rate, which needs to pick up. Apparently there is no ideal stroke rate that applies to everyone, but mine is low enough that it stands out as needing to be sped up quite a bit.

This is all great to know and will be an opportunity for measurable improvement. However, it’s also going to mean lots of hard drills in the pool. Time to smash against some more walls.

Perspective is everything

Since escaping the shroud of post-concussion symptoms, I have objectively been on a tear. My Training Peaks is green for miles. I haven’t missed a workout in months. I’m regularly achieving new peak performances and by the numbers, everything is trending steadily up. By all metrics, I’ve surpassed the fitness level I’d achieved last fall. If you put Now-Me against Pre-Concussion-Me, I don’t think it would even be a contest.

Welcome to Concussion Valley

Still, though, just last night I found myself deeply fretting about my upcoming schedule, the state of my training, and whether I was going to be able to achieve my goals. What if there isn’t enough time to get in shape enough for my 70.3? What if the concussion put me so far back, it’ll be an insurmountable challenge just to finish? In 2015 I ran faster than I run now. Shouldn’t I be fitter at this point in the season? Not to mention the fact that my weight has plateaued (again) and eating responsibly to lose weight remains an enormous struggle. And on and on.

There is no problem here except what’s in my mind. Which just goes to show how much of this sport is entirely mental. It’s a long game, with long trends. It’s easy to assume that the odds of success are long, too, since everything else is. When the reality is that if you put in the work, you will get better. And one thing I know for sure is that I’m putting in the work. That’s really all I need to keep doing, and all I need to remember.

from WordPress http://www.stevemaas.com/what-ive-learned-from-training-in-the-past-few-weeks/

#Blog #General #fitness watches #garmin #garmin forerunner 935 #illness #training peaks #triathlon tr

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bpcparents · 8 years ago

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The Life Lesson in Peanuts

“If you do not believe that hearts can bloom suddenly bigger, and that love can open like a flower out of even the hardest places, then I am afraid that for you the road will be long and brown and barren, and you will have trouble finding the light. But if you do believe, then you already know all about magic.” ― Lauren Oliver

My daughter was incredulous. Her favorite treat was eliminated from a local fast food outlet. It was a concoction that included peanut butter cups combined with soft serve ice cream. There was no warning. We showed up one day and it was gone. You could still get cookies whipped in the soft serve, or other candy but no peanut butter cups. We asked why this was the case and our server said, “well you know…the peanut butter.” But my daughter thought she knew the real culprit or culprits. “It’s those Westchester moms all worried about peanut allergies.” No kidding and she was still a little kid.

I don’t dispute that peanut allergies have become a real problem. I don’t dispute that there are many kids who have to be very careful about ever ingesting a peanut. For this I am sad and feel great sympathy for those kids and parents. However, I have always wondered where this particular allergy came from. I had never even heard of it until I was an adult. Peanut butter was one of the major food groups when I was a kid. To be allergic to it would have made you a real odd ball but now it seems that many if not most kids have some kind of problem with peanuts. I wonder why.

Some of the answer might be found in the new guide lines for peanuts and kids. It is kind of surprising. I recently read this in the New York Times. “Peanuts are back on the menu. In a significant reversal from past advice, new national health guidelines call for parents to give their children foods containing peanuts early and often, starting when they’re infants, as a way to help avoid life-threatening peanut allergies.

The new guidelines, issued by the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases on Thursday, recommend giving babies puréed food or finger food containing peanut powder or extract before they are 6 months old, and even earlier if a child is prone to allergies and doctors say it is safe to do so. One should never give a baby whole peanuts or peanut bits, experts say, because they can be a choking hazard.

If broadly implemented, the new guidelines have the potential to dramatically lower the number of children who develop one of the most common and lethal food allergies, said Dr. Anthony Fauci, the institute’s director, who called the new approach “game changing.”” (To read the entire article: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/05/well/eat/feed-your-kids-peanuts-early-and-often-new-guidelines-urge.html?_r=0 )

What is surprising is that it is counter intuitive. The obvious response would be to keep kids away from peanuts and that has been the recommendation for years. However, that only makes sense if you forget or are unaware of how our immune systems work. This is how we work. The way to get over something is to introduce it into the body and set up the immune response. It is true for polio, it is true for small pox, and they are even finding that it is true for cancer. It is how we are made. We get stronger through challenge. And this trait is not limited to the immune system. Humans grow stronger as the result of challenge. It is how we grow up physically and emotionally. And yet most parents hardly understand this idea. Kids are continually protected from every challenge as if they cannot handle adversity. To do this to a kid is to truly cripple him or her.

This is what happens when children are diagnosed with ADD or ADHD. To medicate a child for behavior problems robs them of the chance to meet the challenge. Parents, teachers, and schools are there to teach kids and the best teacher is adversity. Stimulants are a quick fix that do not help kids be better students in the long run. Medication does keep kids still. They can focus better on repetitive tasks. But they will never learn how to manage their impulses. And the price of this quick fix is a loss of appetite, stunted growth, a higher incidence of mental health issues going forward, and a whole host of side effects. I hardly think it is worth it and I am shocked that the very health conscious parents of this place and era would go for it. No yellow die #2 or too much sugar but mind altering medications are okay? It makes no sense and I pray that before putting a child on meds a parent might consider what might be gained by facing the adversity at hand. We might be surprised. Adversity is not the enemy. Take it from peanuts, it may be just the opposite.

Tim Ives is a Presbyterian Minister and a psychoanalyst in private practice in Bedford Hills. He sees many kids and teens and parents and offers alternatives to medicating children. He is married and has two almost grown kids of his own.

#Tim Ives #parenting #children #families

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architectnews · 4 years ago

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