#the sedulous revolutionary

[torturingpeople]

flumblr cameo tag game :-)

i was tagged by @staring-at-my-keyboard and @letters-of-fire!

rules: show your oc’s cameo vs what they actually look like in art or picrew! (all cameos can be found here on the wiki)

now i have a LOT of ocs. and i also like to be extra. so above the cut is pcs with actual cameos, and then below the cut is cameos i've chosen/i would choose for my npcs. i also decided to include cameos i've drawn for my pcs :-)

without further ado...

edison

harper

dove

freya

these are my npcs based on which cameo i would hypothetically pick for them :-)

marie

dionysia

rosier

filip

vasily

esther

this has put into perspective how many ocs i have LMFAOO

it also made me think about like. how little i base my ocs off their cameos... i always tend to come up with a design on a whim first and then put name and backstory to face after

also the lack of masculine cameos with long hair hurts my soul /j

this took me like 3 days to finish thats why i didnt post this immediately LEL

i am tagging @tequila-sunfall, @your-friend-s-santos, @szilverer and @thegreatyin (apologies if you guys have been tagged already!!)

[torturingpeople]

this has made me realise i have also never stated my characters accents or speaking styles+habits...

player characters

edison: standard english with an accent somewhere between rp and estuary english. no contractions, but uses innuendo often and elongates his words for effect

harper: german accented standard english (sort of like lme) which mostly comes out in his inflections and the way he pronounces "th" and "w"

dove: northern accent with a heavy dialect and slang usage. but she can imitate a lot of other accents including rp, cockney, irish, french, american etc etc but her comfortable normal speaking accent is northern

freya: rp but contracts her words and uses slang and leans a tiny bit more into cockney when she's stammering/fumbling her words or swearing

non player characters

marie: standard english and a very old fashioned and overemphasised rp accent. trills her 'r's in a way she doesn't need to and puts a lot of effort into sounding "posh". also speaks in a quiet and lilting tone to entice the listener if you will

dionysia: english with some contractions but minimal slang and a southeast london accent. not quite essex but not exactly estuary english either. speaks quite quickly i.e. hurrying to get her words out, a lot of her speech lacks quality

rosier: transatlantic american/english accent and standard english. scarcely ever uses contractions. usually appends his sentences with a question i.e. "is it not?" or "are you not?" or fronts them with "why". very standard 'trad husband of the 20s' speech type

filip: polish accented standard english with contractions, and can be rather rude in his speech. one to swear and insult quite often

(bonus) vasily: russian accented broken english. refuses to learn standard english but also doesn't use contractions because he omits the article (i.e. "you are an idiot" becomes "you are idiot")

esther: essex/southeastern accent. can speak in rp/standard english if she wants and will do so in formal settings but at work or home her natural accent is between medway and essex

Realized I’ve never said what accents my Fallen London blorbos have—

Atlas: French + Northern (was more comfortable with French as a kid, learned to speak and pronounce English in the North but never really lost their first accent)

Thomas: RP

Carlo: South London

Agamemnon: Greek

[ruminativerabbi]

Independence Day 2020

Tomorrow is the 224th anniversary of American independence and, as such, a day for all Americans—even despite the turmoil of the last months and weeks—for all Americans to celebrate and to honor. The revolutionary spirit, after all, that moved our nation’s founders to feel that they were behaving nobly and well rather than reprehensibly and treacherously by renouncing their allegiance to their king is alive and well in our nation’s apparently systemic need constantly to re-evaluate the givens of our national life and to revise where necessary. This is a very good thing!

It’s taken a lot to get this far. The American republic was, after all, a very different place on July 4, 1776, when independence was declared. All thirteen of the original colonies condoned slavery within their borders and although they differed dramatically in terms of the numbers of enslaved individuals present in each (ranging from more than 187,000 in Virginia to fewer than a thousand in New Hampshire), there was no state in the new nation that did not have slaves among its populace. Nor were they any in which women could vote, hold public office, or appear in court on their own behalf. Nor was public education a right extended to all regardless of financial or social class, or ethnic or religious background; it wasn’t until 1870, almost a full century after independence, that every single state had tax-subsidized elementary schools open to all. (And it took another half-century after that—until 1918—for every state in the Union actually to require its children to attend elementary school.)

Even from the beginning, America was a work in progress. New ideas, new institutions, new ways of seeing things and doing things—these were the hallmarks of Americanism even as early as the first decades of the republic. And they remain in place even today—the nationwide demonstrations in the wake of George Floyd’s death while in police custody were an affirmation of American values, not a repudiation of them. And yet the concept of Americanism itself has fallen into desuetude: I can’t actually remember the last time I noted someone writing seriously about it or even using the term other than cynically. So I thought that this week, in honor of Independence Day, I would write about Americanism and see if the reticence so many seem to harbor about using it to define our national ethos is justified or not.

Part of the problem has to do with patriotism’s malign stepsiblings: chauvinism, jingoism, nativism, and unfounded exceptionalism. But setting aside the kind of skittishness that thought naturally engenders, the more basic question to ask is whether Americanism has an actual definition. Or is it one of those words that simply means whatever someone using it wills it to denote?

To many, Americanism is rooted in the “city on a hill” concept according to which the specific mission of America is to serve as a beacon of light and hope for the world. That was how John Winthrop used it when he preached a sermon on board the Arabella in 1630 and called upon his fellow Puritan emigrants to imagine that they had been called by God to build in a new land a society that would exemplify the ideals and moral bearing that they found it impossible to embrace in England, one that would serve, to use Thomas Paine’s turn of phrase, as “asylum for mankind.”

That was certainly what President Kennedy had in mind in 1961 when he declared that the point of America existing in the first place is to prove to the world that the finest philosophical principles—equality before the law, for example, or the supreme independence of the individual—could actually serve as the ideational underpinning of a nation of like-minded individuals seeking not to admire that “city on the hill” from the distance but actually to live and thrive in it. And it was equally certainly what President Reagan had in mind in his farewell address to the nation when he spelled out what the image of the shining city on the hill meant to him personally:

I've spoken of the shining city all my political life, but I don't know if I ever quite communicated what I saw when I said it. But in my mind it was a tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, wind-swept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace; a city with free ports that hummed with commerce and creativity. And if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here. That's how I saw it, and see it still.

In my opinion, those words from decades ago define the great challenge facing our nation on this Independence Day.

My readers know that I am at heart a nineteenth-century man, one whose literary heroes—Melville, Hawthorne, Whitman, Fenimore Cooper, Irving, Twain, Emerson, and Thoreau—all came and went within that one century’s boundaries. (Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper were born in 1783 and 1789 respectively, but both only started publishing as adults. Mark Twain died in 1910, but all of his major works were published before 1900.) All, with no exceptions at all, addressed the question of the American ethos in their writing. But, of them all, it was and is Whitman—Long Island’s single greatest contribution to American culture—who spoke and speaks the most loudly and clearly to me on the topic of Americanism and its potential, even today, to inspire us and lead us forward.

I’ve had a copy of Leaves of Grass close at hand for most of my days. (The teenager in my story, “Under the Wheel,” who always has a copy in his backpack is some version of the teenaged me.) But I also have a 1921 book in my library entitled The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman. And it is within the pages of that book that I have found the verses that I hope can serve as my Independence Day gift to you all.

What is America? Whitman knew! “Center of equal daughters, equal sons / All, all alike, endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old, / Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich / Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law, and Love / A grand, sane, towering seated Mother / Chair’d in the adamant of Time.”

What is American freedom? Whitman knew that too. “Land tolerating all, accepting all, not for the good alone, all good for three, / Land in the realms of God to be a realm unto thyself, / Under the rule of God to be a rule unto thyself. / (Lo, where arise three peerless stars, / To be thy natal stars my country, Ensemble, Evolution, Freedom / Set in the sky of Law.) / Land of unprecedented faith, God’s faith / Thy soil, thy very subsoil, all upheav’d, / The general inner earth so long so sedulously draped over, now hence for what it is, boldly laid bare, / Open’d by thee to heaven’s light for benefit or bale.”

What is American destiny? “Equable, natural, mystical Union thou (the moral with immortal blent), / Shalt soar toward the fulfilment of the future, the spirit of the bod and the mind, / The soul, its destinies. / The soul, its destinies, the real real / (Purport of all these apparitions of the real); / In thee America, the soul, its destinies, / Thou globe of globes! thou wonder nebulous! / By many a throe of heat and cold convuls’d (by these thyself solidifying), / Thou mental, moral orb—thou New, indeed new, Spiritual World! / The Present holds thee not—for such vast growth as thine, / For such unaparallel’d flight as thine, such brook as thine, / the FUTURE only holds thee and can hold thee.”

And, speaking of the future, Whitman could see that clearly too: “Others take finish, but the Republic is ever constructive and ever keeps vista, / Others adorn the past, but you, O days of the present, I adorn you, / O days of the future, I believe in you—I isolate myself for your sake, / O America, because you build for mankind, I build for you….”

To me, these verses exemplify the best of Americanism, combining proud determinism with a sense of our national destiny to create a republic that does not merely pay lip service to the philosophical principles of equality and decency of which our Founders spoke, but which seeks constantly to morph forward, even if in fits and starts, to a future in which the ideals of the Constitution serve collectively as the paving stones of which is constructed the road forward for a nation united by trust in itself and hope for the future.

Our nation in floating forward on troubled seas. In my opinion, we are tormented by a lack of moral leadership in the highest offices of the land, by a malignant willingness to accept vulgarity and tawdriness as things that can be condemned but not truly eradicated, by a national malaise born of inequality going back to the dark days of the era of Reconstruction that followed the Civil War, and, now, by a relentless virus that is stalking our nation’s streets and public places. But I am a Long Islander now…and Whitman is my man. He lived through the Civil War and saw for himself the almost unimaginable carnage it left in its terrible wake. He lived through the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, regarding whose terrible death he wrote some of his greatest poems. He wrote one single book, which he spent his life endlessly revisiting and revising. (In that, he was America personified.) And he left behind a dream for us to embrace as Americans seeking to make real the vision he codified in his verse, the one in which America is exceptional not because of its wealth or its military power, but because of the strength of its core ideas…and the power of its will to create in this place something new and truly remarkable.

[textoparaprenda]

There have probably been secret societies since the first homo sapiens formed the first community. Whether based upon principles of religion, politics, or philosophy, these societies all have certain common characteristics of structure and function. They are, by their very nature, exclusionary; they tend to have secret ways of recognizing fellow-members; they tend to have secret initiation rituals; and they usually develop their own myth-based histories and symbology. Secret societies are made up of persons presumably oriented toward similar ends, and these ends usually manifest the characteristic differentiating secret societies from all others -- that is to say, the ends are secret. Moreover, admission to membership almost always involves the explicit obligation to preserve such secrecy, and penalties for its violation are likewise explicitly stated. The explicitness involved may sometimes apply only to the members of the society, for secrecy may be so complete that even the existence of some societies are not revealed to outsiders; revolutionary, heretical and similarly subversive societies are cases in point. Many secret societies operate through a system of degrees of progressively higher rank in which secrets are revealed step by step. Initiation is therefore hierarchical; members at the higher levels are more fully aware of the ends pursued by the society than are those at the lower. Consequently, secrets of recognition are graded. That is to say, although there is ordinarily a grip, password, ceremonialized greeting in question and answer form, esoteric phrase, or secret jargon serving many of the purposes of a special language that distinguishes even the lowest initiate from nonmenbers, the society has secrets within secrets. Those more fully initiated make every effort, by the use of special names, ordeals or revelations, to set themselves apart, on the one hand, and on the other to stimkulate the lower ranks to the effort necessary to reach the exalted degrees. The sedulous preservation of higher secrets serves several other purposes. For instance, beginning initiates are thereby impressed with the necessity for silence. Not only is this the case, but the art of remaining silent without giving offense to fellow members at lower levels is imparted by direct example. This is especially important when the "final truth" and the real ends of the society are known only to those in the more advanced degrees, and even more so when, as in a few societies, the supreme leaders remain unknown to the rank and file membership. An essential technique in all of this is that secrets remain unwritten, so far as possible; they must therfore be transmitted verbally in a master-pupil situation.

Concept text ___fabrics interseason: lodge fall 2001/2002

[shirtysleeves]

From Musæum Clausum

OR

BIBLIOTHECA ABSCONDITA

CONTAINING SOME REMARKABLE BOOKS, ANTIQUITIES, STATION & MOTION PICTURES & RARITIES OF SEVERAL KINDS, SCARCE OR NEVER SEEN BY ANY MAN, WO OR OTHERWISE, NOW LIVING

18. “Asexual Healing” (1981).

While it is more or less widely known that in the interval between his separation from Janis Hunter in 1979 and his death in 1984, Marvin Gaye was almost monastically chaste, practically nobody knows the extent to which he had adopted chastity as a modus vivendi by the beginning of this interval, let alone the extent to which this selfsame MV was seminal (an admittedly inapt but no-less-admittedly infungible adjective) to the composition of his chart-topping quasi-swansong “Sexual Healing.”  The history of this seminality reads as follows: within weeks if not days if not hours if not minutes of his last-ever meeting with Hunter, Gaye happened to be vouchsafed a viewing of Chaka Khan’s promotional video for “I’m Every Woman” and was immediately struck (or stricken) by this video’s simultaneous presentation of four fully mobile clones of Ms. Khan—and struck (or stricken) by that presentation not, as might be expected, in appreciation of it qua electronic Kunststück, qua virtually guaranteed elicitor of an ejaculation of Wonderful what we can do nowadays! but rather in appreciation of it qua presumptive first-bringer-to-mind of the potential gratuitousness of sexual coition to biological reproduction.  Chaka can do it on her own, he is reported to have murmured in presumptive émerveillement whilst spectating on this video; she don’t (sic) (sic) need a man to help her.  This viewing was the genesis of a hymn to parthenogenesis, “Asexual Healing,” which Gaye categorically envisaged being released in tandem with a promotional video essentially identical mutatis mutandis to the one for “I’m Every Woman.”  But alas!: the Havana-puffing fatwigs at Columbia (the record label, not the U.S. state-capital or U.S. federal district) put their collective foot down on this envisagement.  The videodisc [for so music videos were then quasi-universally called, incredibly appalling though this may sound to present-day LaserDisc gourmandizers and Martha Quinn-stalkers alike], quoth these foot-downputters, is the most-prestigious music-presentation genre of the immediate future; we can’t have our flagship male soul-cum-R&B artist releasing an instantiation of this genre that simply echoes what Chaka Khan has already done, that in visual terms effectively merely proclaims ‘I’m every man’ in an erotic, non-Hofmannsthalian sense.  Whereupon Gaye is reported to have consternatedly cried: Shia, Neroni! I already done (sic) (sic) recorded the whole damn song.  Do you fatwigs really expect me to toss the whole damn thing in the skip (sic) (sic) and book the Fellas [“the Fellas” being Gaye’s priceless nickname for his powdered coke-powered team of session musicians] for a whole ’nother weekend? Faute de mieux, the fatwigs expected him to do just that, and entirely on his own dime.  But ever-resourceful and ever-adept at the most minute minutiae of electronic studio w****dry, not to mention acoustic English prosody, Gaye quickly concluded that via a deletion of the unaccented a from each occurrence of asexual in the main vocal track, the song could be salvaged in its entirety, admittedly to the utterly fatal detriment of its potentially What’s Going On-eclipsingly revolutionary denunciation of the entire world-governing coitional dispensation. But Gaye, being at heart and bottom more of a Stoic than a stoichiometrist, took a philosophical attitude to the entire artistic debacle.  When they finally let me both make the video I want to make and restore that unaccented ‘a’, he mused, the true message of the song will be all the more devastating for having been so vociferously heralded by its antithesis. Sadly, on April Fools’ Day, 1984, Marvin Gaye, Sr. put paid to all hopes for the making of that video, and consequently “Asexual Healing” has finished up being the last thing in the world its composer ever wished it to become –viz., the ultimate hookup track.

 19. “(Don’t Fear) the Umlaut” (1976).

Blue Öyster Cult recorded this track for both inclusion in or on their album Agents of Fortune and release as that album’s first single. Reportedly, the principal impetus to or catalyst of its composition was lead guitarist Donald Bruce “Buck” Dharma’s annoyance at thousands of queries and complaints from fans, critics, and compositors alike regarding the band’s surmounting of the second vocable in its name with an umlaut that admittedly flouted English orthographical conventions to no apparent phonological purpose, inasmuch as not a single BÖC-member had ever been heard by an interviewer to pronounce that second vocable as anything other than an exact phonological copy of the famous upmarket first pronunciation thereof in the Gershwin brothers’ “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off,” let alone as even the vaguest approximation of the Franco-German œ, to which it, the umlauted o, was and ever had been appropriated by default. (Impetus-aut-catalyst-wise the remonstrations of compositors in particular must not be discounted, inasmuch as back in those footy days of pre-desktop publishing, the acquisition of the so-called supplemental Eurotrash grid comprising the first tier of diacritically enhanced cast-lead forms could set the purchaser back several thousands of those days’ dollars, an imponderably large sum for all but the largest metropolitan newspapers [and hence {perhaps damningly?} well beyond the reach of such college rags as the Stony Brook Statesman, whose concert-review page had undoubtedly contributed a good meganewton or so to the initial rocket-boost of publicity that had thrust the ’Cult {not to be confused with the transpondial and as-of-then-not-yet existent cult-ensemble The Cult} into the Billboard-bathing limelight].  What I meantersay here is that vis-à-vis the compositors’ particular case, Dharma may very well have been reacting defensively—i.e., in preemptive disavowal of all remorse at any financial hardship he may have occasioned the poor sods.)  Perhaps not quite needless to say, the audio-rushes of this song were not favorably received by the Havana-puffing fatwigs at Columbia (yes, the same record label referenced in the preceding entry in this catalogue and presumably presided over by an executive team of H-PFs exactly three-fifths identical to the one that were [sic] destined to put the kibosh on the tune-video referenced therein [the three-fifths figure is extrapolated from data presented in that now-classic 1996 analysis of the actuary actualities of corporate boardrooms The Silver Ceiling by the eminent Anglophone sociologist of undetermined national passportship, Brad Macpherson Caputo]): dreading to the depths of their hobnailed jackboots a backlash from Anglophone consumers of virtually every shape, nationality, and stripe [for this was, after all, a mere 31 years after the conclusion of the so-called Second World War, when every umlauted vowel was instantly evocative of Nazi Germany and hence resuscitative of potentially lethal cardiac-arrest-or cerebral hemorrhage-inducing memories] those selfsame fatwigs reportedly required each and every such transcript to be ingested by a goat that was to be cast immediately thereupon into the core of a nuclear reactor lest some intelligible trace of the lyrics survive in its excreta.  This requirement having been completely efficaciously fulfilled, no complete transcript of the lyrics of the song survives, but a Tonemaster C-60 cassette comprising the otherwise worthless so-called session diary of Seth Meyers (no, not that or the Seth Meyers [at least I think not that Seth Meyers, but who the heck can be arsed to check]), the Agents of Fortune sessions’ coffee-gopher, affords us the following tantalizing glimpse of but a few of the presumably umpteen-trillion glories contained in the Liedertext of “Don’t Fear the Umlaut”: Nietzsche and Strindberg / Are united in eternity / Ninety million people every day / Like the Germans both East and West / Not to mention the Swedish / (Albeit not the Danish) / All use the umlaut / We can be like them.  Inasmuch as here in contrast to the otherwise consubstantial case of “Sexual Healing,” the crux of the fatwigs’ beef hinged on the lyrics of the song, and especially on a portion of those lyrics that contained an accented syllable, any circumvention of the fatwigs’ fiat by studio w******y was absolutely out of the question, and even if it had not been, the band were [sic] then so inured to being led about by the nose-ring by their producer, David Lucas (so Bob Sedule, music critic of the abovementioned Statesman), himself a notorious fat- wig chattel, that they would not have lifted a finger, let alone fingered a lift, in demurral at the fiat.  And so Dharma dutifully penned what he only-decades-afterwards, and only after much Jello-shot-fueled plying, described as a “dull-as-dishwater knock-off of a Black Sabbath death ode,” an ode to whose poetic and prosodic niceties he reportedly (i.e., via the reportage of the above Jello shot-plyer, who must remain anonymous) devoted so little attention that he managed to Bic or Biro “the f**king execrable scrap of doggerel” out in its entirety with his left foot onto a discarded square of toilet paper while employing his right-cum-writing (albeit cum-non-onanizing) hand exclusively in a game of darts, a game in which he solidly won via a hat-trick of bull’s eyes despite reportedly (i.e., via the reportage of the abovementioned Mr. Sedule) being the worst darts player west of East Hampton-cum-east of Westport.  In the light of all o’ the above, it will readily and correctly be inferred that the notorious once-per-beat cowbell-clunking of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” was also part of the soundscape of “Don’t Fear the Umlaut”; and in the light thereof it will perhaps at least be queried whether the  notorious prominence of the cowbell vis-à-vis the first song enjoyed some rationale in “Don’t Fear the Umlaut” that it lost in being recast as “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” The answer to this query is an unqualified if ultimately disappointingly prosaic Yes.  You see, the abovementioned David Lucas, having enjoyed a holiday in the prevailingly Germanophone Bavarian-cum-Swiss-cum-Austrian Alps, and almost exactly contemporaneously purchased and listened to Karajan’s recording of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony, concluded that there was something inalienably Alpine and consequently umlautine about the cowbell and thereupon insisted upon that instrument’s accentuation in the instrumental mix.  And as they say the rest is [far too abominable a(n) SOA to be denoted by mere farting noises].

20.  The Pope of Greenwich Village (1984).  Not to be confused with a certain film of the same name shot on the same location in the same year by the same production crew with the same cast.  The scene is the eponymous Village in ca. 1950.  Lex (Mickey Rourke) is a struggling garret-dwelling poet who obdurately insists on composing exclusively in metrically unimpeachable heroic couplets as if it were still ca. 1699.  Dick (Eric Roberts), an unmistakable if corporeally unlikely stand-in for Allen Ginsberg (although he reportedly gained 96 pounds and had 98 percent of his head hair transferred to his face for the role, the results of this exercise in De Niro-esque hyperMethodism are ultimately unconvincing), is an unstruggling ground floor-dwelling poet who prosodically (not to mention extra-prosidically) lets everything hang out to resounding critical and financial success.  The all-too-memorable climax of the film centers on Lex’s disruption of Dick’s reading of his epoch-making narrative-cum-epic poem Ouch! at the GV Brentano’s, as follows: “Though as self-styled King you may rob and pillage / I’m the only proper Pope of Greenwich Village” (to which Roberts all-too-deflatingly retorts: “Yes, you are indeed the only Pope of Greenwich Village, inasmuch as you are the Village’s only avowed imitator of Alexander Pope.  But what of that?  Can I get on with my reading?” and Rourke counter-retorts in abashed Pindaric non-numbers, “Yes, by all means. / Please do continue.”). Geraldine Page garnered a second best supporting actress Oscar nomination for her portrayal of Djuna Barnes, the Queen of Patchin Place, in a grand total of thirty seconds of screen time spent haggling mutually unintelligibly over the price of a shorty of Southern Comfort with a Basque liquor-store proprietor, portrayed by an impeccably vocal-coached Bill Macy (not to be confused with William H. Macy, then still a struggling garret-dwelling stage actor).  Although the film postdates the nascence of so-called rap or hip-hop by a full half-decade, it has been name-checked, as they say, at least once by every so-called rap or hip-hop so-called artist who has since emerged into provincial, let alone national or international, prominence, owing to its implicit promulgation of metrical monotony and copularly sequestered rhyme as prosodic norms.  For example, in 1993 the self-styled Dr. D** ejaculatively opined, That bitch, what’s his name, played by what’shisgoddamnmuddahfuckin’name—brother o’ that bitchess Hotlips Julia [here he is obviously confusing Roberts’s performance with Rourke’s]—the one that played that high-class ho opposite Richard Gere back in nineteen-naughty-ought…well, anyway, never mind that goddam bitch’s name: the point is, I done learnt everything I know about rhyme-hemorrhaging from that muddafuckin bitch, from the way he hemorrhaged rhymes in that movie from way back in the first Reagan administration…Shiah…what’s it called? etc.  The circle of influence came full circle in the most appalling fashion in 2015 with the unkenneling of the unspeakable hip-hop pseudo-musical Hamilton, wherein brutalized sub-sub-sub-approximations of heroic couplets were placed in the mouth of a near-contemporary of Alexander Pope whom the latter presumably would have smothered in his crib like the Heraclean serpent (had chronology permitted) on account of his manifestly Whiggish political orientation.

[collegeessaysus-blog]

The problem of contrast concerning the traditional and manufactured building in Great Britain

Once successful and profitable brunch, British verbalism intentness appeared on the edge of the crisis in the 90s of the pull round century. Due to the little management, the select of constructions left(p) much to be desired. The clients complained about drudgery and bad quantify of the companies. Despite this fact, the out design of handed-down buildings remained superb as well as the costs for buildings such(prenominal) expensive sedulousness with its nonorious results could not remain unchanged. At that moment ii groundbreaking constitutions on the future prospects of the diligence came from Michael Latham and John Egan.\n\nThe Latham report appeared at the rattling peak of the crisis and contained expound characteristics of the causes which do British buildings so less-traveled and dangerous for the temperament of the industry. Noted politico and engineer, Michael Latham suggested real shipway to solve the enigma which encompassed responsibility of the manufacturers, feel of the new constructions, and precaution to the demands of clients. Partnership and aggroup constructing which never took present in the tralatitious building appeared as one of the revolutionary issues of the Latham report.\n\nSome more changes have been made by known industrialist John Egan in 1998. The Egan report likewise put pains on quality and timing of constructing and responsibility of manufacturing companies before their clients. These two reports perfectly worked unitedly and made a transition from traditionalistic to fabricate building in the country. Thus, the construction industry in Great Britain obtained a new probability to gain popularity. The two reports on manufactured construction also have a great cheer to other countries with the akin problem.'

[torturingpeople]

i felt like i should give dionysia some actual colours + reveal her design so i drew this up ^_^ i also wanted to show off how short marie actually is LOL

[torturingpeople]

thoughts on loneliness

[torturingpeople]

i decided i should make a comprehensive post for all of my non-pc fallen london characters that i can link to my pinned post so here we are *<:o)

my fallen london non-player characters:

lady marie brutus: the vicious capitalist a profit-loving, fascist, masterfucking cannibal that owns her late father's factory. she truly embodies the idea of a machiavellian leader. fires used to be a close ally with her father and is now an even closer ally with her. she's generally fond of all of the masters and dotes on them like a housewife. including the scolding and yelling. she's absolutely fucking horrible. she's got some scary yuri going on with @your-friend-s-santos's scuba intro post + tag

madam dionysia marinou: the sedulous revolutionary the foil to marie - a steadfast radical leftist with dubious methods of taking marie down. her moral compass is very much centred around "the greater good" but she is similarly machiavellian to marie in that the ends (liberation and a revolution against the masters and monarchy) justify the means (typically illegal and involving assassination). will suck up to anyone to try and kickstart the revolution probably. something something horseshoe theory tag mr. rosier steinmann: the sordid devil the devil who stole freya's soul after dating her for years. sunk cost fallacy had him totally roped in. he's very much a 1920's traditional husband and currently lives in hell with a decent amount of money and a fair reputation to his name for taking freya's soul. king gaslighter and extremely manipulative. very unlikeable tag + rosier/freya tag dr. filip soból: the outré geneticist a geneticist/toxicologist and campaign of '68 war veteran. he enlisted at 16 and was hoping to be promoted to staff sergeant but @staring-at-my-keyboard's carlo got the double promotion to sergeant major first. he is very very very bitter about it. he's rather strange and offputting and works at the university as a geneticist but practices toxicology because he plays the great game and heart's game. he is gay and vaguely erotic in every action he takes, as are most heart's game players. he's also kind of going through some toxic yaoi with carlo. and his roommate vasily rasputin that he hates deeply and sleeps with tag miss esther welfare: the chatty servingwoman the singular servant of harper - her job typically consists of cleaning the home, preparing meals and greeting/guiding his clients to the therapy hall. even though she is young she is very much a big sister of the home and will try her best to mother harper despite him being double her age. good friends with freya! very sweet and lovely tag