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script-a-world · 11 days

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Submitted via Google Form:

How much can a city get away with not actually giving streets a specific name? As in all the streets are like First Street, or First Street West, etc... Any names are descriptive and the only thing available like if there is one hospital the street it's on might be called Hospital Street, and the road that leads to the only train station is called Train Street, the street with the only university is called University Street. Even when they have actual names, the street is still just descriptive. I think this might make a place very easy to navigate? The only thing is you've got to know where those unique descriptors are. Something like this has got to be planned right? Because if things get changed, it can go awry. The streets will have to fairly straight in a grid layout right so streets can't crisscross every which way or be too curvy.

Licorice: In my town, which was founded in Roman times, we do indeed have streets called “Street of the Hospital”, “Street of the Train Station”, “Street of the Cathedral”, “Street of the Cliffs”, “Street of the Windmills” and so on. Most UK towns have streets called “Station Road”, “Church Road”, and of course the ubiquitous “High Street” where all the shops are congregated, which in every town is always known as the High Street even when its official name is something else. It’s the equivalent of Main Street in the USA.

Does one need to know the location of the landmarks after which these streets are named? I don’t see why one should. Once you find a road called “Street of the Train Station”, you can be pretty sure it’s going to lead you to the train station.

A lot depends on whether your city is a planned city or one that has grown up organically over the centuries.

Street names in older, organic cities tend to derive from one of the following sources

A landmark on the street, e.g. Church Street. The landmark doesn’t have to be man-made. Fleet Street in London was, in the middle ages, a street that ran along the river Fleet, which no longer exists.

The place the road leads to, e.g. Oxford Street, Liverpool Street

The occupation of the people who lived and worked on that street, e.g. Threadneedle Street

Streets in planned cities or planned subdivisions are named by the planners and often follow some kind of theme. In the UK, new housing developments in Victorian times might commemorate famous battles (Alma Terrace, Lucknow Terrace), places in the colonies (Canberra Drive), historic figures (Wellington Road), and so on. In my European town, one of the main streets is named after the date on which we were liberated from occupation by Napoleon.

In Hamilton, Ontario, which was constructed on a grid system in the 19th century, the main streets are (if I recall correctly) named after the family of the founder, George Hamilton, or the family of Sir Allan Napier McNab, a local bigwig - they’re called John Street, James Street, Mary Street and so on.

Trees are a perennially popular naming theme for street planners in North America. Chestnut Street, Elm Street, Mulberry Street….

The Romans built a lot of new towns. The grid system was widely used by the Romans and was based on the layout of their army camps. You might find it interesting to look up Roman city planning and see how they named their roads. It sounds like you want your city to be a practical city, and the Romans were eminently practical people. They knew how to design a town that people would find it easy to live in.

Utuabzu: A lot, really. Kyōto has gotten away with it for over a thousand years in its historic core. Venice has street names, but few signs or indicators of what street one is on or what address a building has, and it has also been functional for over a thousand years. In a lot of older cities, people navigate more by landmarks than by street addresses, which makes sense, because any urban environment older than about 150 years was built to be navigated on foot, and likely has a bunch of little alleyways and shortcuts that wouldn’t show up on a street map but which all the locals know and use constantly. Pre-internet and without a car, getting directions in the form of landmarks was generally going to be more useful than a street address, particularly because, as Licorice pointed out, most streets in older, organic cities were named for landmarks or some visible characteristic (like who lived and worked there).

Even when the landmark is lost or moved, the name often still endures as a fossilised bit of urban history. The hospital might move, but the street it was on would still get called Old Hospital Street, because everyone was used to it being Hospital Street and it’d be annoying to have to learn a new name for the place, while the new location would either keep it’s pre-existing name (eg. the new hospital is on Station Street, so they call it the Station Street Hospital) or it would get called something like New Hospital Street.

Oftentimes old cities are very dense and have narrow, winding street networks with names that seem to change arbitrarily, but this isn’t always the case. Almost all Roman cities were founded with a grid, and the Roman foundation is roughly square or rectangular (eg. The City of London, Jerusalem’s Old City*, Florence), although these grids all break down very quickly outside the original Roman walls. Cities in the Sinosphere (the region of the world historically under heavy Chinese cultural influence) were also often initially built on a grid, such as Kyōto, which I referenced earlier. And like Kyōto, many don’t have regularly used street names. Grids are also common in Spanish colonial cities, because almost all of them were laid out following the regulations in the ley de los indes, a Spanish law that (among other things) governed how and where new colonies were to be established. Consequently, almost all Spanish colonial cities have a very similar layout in their historic cores, with a central square and a grid radiating out from there.

Prior to the late 19th Century and the creation of the suburbs, most of the time these grids broke down because of unplanned informal development outside the area covered by the initial city plan. In a lot of the world this still happens frequently. And oftentimes these informal settlements become officially part of the urban fabric simply because it would be too much work to remove them.

#google submitted #geography #mapmaking #map making

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mariacallous · 2 months

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From the homeless to a new global color line to immigrant “safe havens,” the harm will be absorbed by the unseen and the unheard.

While I’ve been at a mind-jolting workshop in Canberra about “progressive” foreign policy, my head has just been spinning the entire time from everything going on in the world. Countless political cross-currents happening at the speed of Twitter right now.

But the J.D. Vance thing stands out as singularly significant, in part because people can’t help but comment on it while appearing to be confused about what the Vance nomination actually means for everything from the defense budget to “great-power competition,” and from NATO to war in America.

This take, for example, from Murtaza Hussain—who is generally of quite sound mind—totally misreads Vance based purely on a selectively hopeful reading of Vance’s rhetoric.

I’ve made it a point to digest every Vance speech, quote, or piece of writing since 2017 (or at least as much of it as I could find). Not because I thought he’d be Veep.

Rather, initially, I was trying to understand right-wing #NeverTrumpers (he had once been one). But Vance also intrigued me because it was obvious from the beginning that he was a class subversive, cosplaying as an Appalachian working-class explainer while actually following a typical Ivy-League-to-finance-bro pipeline. He was exploiting, rather than representing, a particular rural, white working-class grievance—and that made his presentation distinct from typical defenders of ruling-class privilege.

Now, you don’t need me to tell you all the reasons why he’s a bad candidate or a danger or whatever. Plenty of people doing that right now.

What I can add is an explanation of:

How Vance’s ideas about violence are explicitly racialized (envisioning a Global Color Line),

Why a Trump-Vance presidency will never yield foreign-policy realism (because of neocon infiltration), and

How the political terrain we’re operating on has changed (Washington’s foreign policy imagination is becoming post-hegemonic in a particularly reactionary direction).

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coolasakuhncumber · 8 months

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Far out i love canberra on summer. Being out late and not freezing

#summer #canberra #currently #houseparty #midnight garden party #getting to a houseparty after 10pm sounds like such a thing i used to do lol #glad i went even though staying home and knitting was a vibe #the party was a bigger vibe

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dreamsgazer · 2 years

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A Bit Closer

Anon requested this fic (my answer here), and I don’t dislike how this turned out!

Hope you all like it, and if so, please comment and reblog, it’s always so appreciated! If you have a request, feel free to send an ask !

Masterlist | AO3 here

Warnings: swearing, mention of blood, murder

“No.”

“Bro-“ Lemon sighed pinching his nose.

“Absolutely not!” Tangerine reiterated, rebelliously lifting his chin.

“We need her.”

“The fuck we do!” the man hissed back, ice-coloured eyes sparkling with outrage “The last thing we need is a rookie to fuck up with the assignment!”

“I’m right here, asshole!” you pointed out from the couch where you had been sitting for the last ten minutes, done with being ignored by the Twins.

Tangerine scoffed, glaring at you, but you firmly cut whatever foul reply he was going to spit “You are right, I’m not as seasoned as the two of you when it comes to killing people. However, this mission requires someone smart enough and subtle enough and discreet enough to infiltrate that mansion, retrieve the envelope, and get out as quickly as possible. Neither of you can do that without leaving a trail of corpses behind.”

“Hey, come on now!” Lemon’s outraged voice didn’t stop you “Also, your last mission was such a clusterfuck that I’m surprised someone is still willing to hire you.”

This last part wasn’t exactly true, and you were aware that things in Dubai went south well before the Twins appeared in some sheikh’s palace, but you couldn’t hold back your resentment at being treated like an incompetent child by Tangerine.

“Ok, ok, calm down now. Both of you!” Lemon interjected, pressing a hand on his brother’s chest “I would say to try working together just this once. I dunno about you two, but I could use the money.” Tangerine huffed and cursed before accepting, and he made sure you knew he was agreeing only because the job was ridiculously well compensated. You rolled your eyes at that but refrained to underline you all worked that kind of job for the exact same reason. “And I’m no rookie when it comes to stealing stuff and information,” you added tightening your lips, still offended “Just because I stir away from corpses and troubles doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. Which is why I was contacted as well for this operation!” Despite the rough start, the mission went incredibly well, all considered – sure, Tangerine had to help you at a certain point, but while retreating from the opulent estate, the envelope full of compromising photos of a very prominent political candidate enjoying himself a bit too much was safely in your hands.

The Twins escorted you to the place agreed for the exchange, and an hour after the photos were gone and your trio was a bit richer.

Lemon grinned “Well, I don’t want to say I’ve told you so, guys-”

“Then don’t,” Tangerine huffed, arms crossed over his chest and a frown barely hidden by his Versace sunglasses.

His Twin tutted “But I did tell you two that it was worth a try!”

“Agreed,” you conceded because not doing so would have been both rude and dishonest, especially towards Lemon. Tangerine could go fuck himself, but his brother had been nice to you for the entirety of the mission. You were just too stubborn to admit that Tangerine was there as well, when you needed a quick way out from that party, having heard someone approaching the studio you were in. He hadn’t left the villa until you both could walk away unnoticed, his arm on your back guiding you outside as if you two were just a couple of bored guests at a normal party.

Lemon beamed at your words snapping you back to the present. He had insisted to give you a lift to the airport. It had been a surprise that Tangerine wanted to tag along.

After that mission, you interacted with them a bit more often. You sold the Twins some intel for a task in Bucharest, then accompanied them to a quick negotiation with some gang about a ransom, and once you flew to Canberra to help them deal with a “fucking authentic Diesel” according to Lemon. The Diesel was dealt with before the day was over, and you found yourself patching up both in a tiny safehouse in desperate need of a cleaning. Truth be told, you expected Tangerine to fuss more about your doing when you pressed a cloth against his ribs, but the massive blood loss and possibly some exhaustion made him quiet and almost… collaborative. As quickly as you could you cleaned his wounds and stitched them, noticing for the first time that his skin was warm, and his muscular torso littered with scars and tattoos. Some of them were nice and others had been clearly done after a job. You wished you had the courage to ask him about them.

“For how long have you been doing this job?” you heard yourself asking, instead. An answer wasn’t really expected, but he surprised you “More years I care to remember. Got my first assignment when I was 18.”

Your eyes widened and he almost challenged you to say something. Which you did, and from his expression, it was clear it wasn’t the reply he wasn’t expecting “It must have been hard. But no wonder you are such a skilled hitman, after all.” A beat of silence, and then he snorted “Are you going to make us pay extra for the nursing service?” You looked him in the eyes, noticing a mischievous grin dancing on his face. Repressing your equally wide one was hard “Of course. And if you don’t stop moving, Tangerine, I’ll double the price.” Tangerine’s laugh was unexpected. It was nice and warm, boyish, in a certain way. You scolded yourself for thinking something kind about him. You berated yourself even more in the weeks after that chat when you finally admitted to yourself how enjoyable it had been to have him pleasantly talking to you, and how nice his skin had felt under your fingers.

You weren’t utterly surprised when the Twins recruited you for another mission. Nothing too big, they said, but they needed someone expert in recognising a counterfeit document. You weren’t sure what to expect from Tangerine after Canberra, but it was disappointing to see he had retreated again into his shell, barely talking to you.

You flew from London to Paris, and he seemed lost in thought, leaving you and Lemon to chat and occasionally glancing at him. They had booked an elegant hotel suite near the Tour Eiffel, and you couldn’t contain your enthusiasm about it. The enthusiasm slightly faded after dinner, when Lemon out of nowhere asked you if you ever carried a gun with you. Tangerine and he had already had a first contact with the gang boss who had the document they needed to inspect, and when they returned to the hotel where they left you the Twins were clearly annoyed and wary.

“No,” you replied, pulling your eyes away from the enchanting view of Paris at night “I don’t usually need a weapon, so I don’t have one. As you could see, my style is more… a sneaky one.” “Did you ever hold one, though?”“Of course, I held a gun before!” you replied, indignantly, hands planted on your hips. Lemon nodded “Cool, and did you ever shoot anyone?”

You hesitated and Tangerine scoffed from behind his book. Your cheeks flushed in annoyance and a hint of embarrassment. Lemon was kinder to you “That’s alright, I’d say you have been lucky if you never had to kill anyone. However,” he said while taking out a second gun from his holster “you’ll need to learn. Just in case.” “I thought this was going to be an easy job.” Tangerine’s voice intervened calmly “It will be easier if we don’t have to worry about you strolling around without protection. Lemon has a fucking “bad feeling” about it.” Lemon didn’t seem to care for his brother's sceptical attitude and just nodded in agreement.

You weren’t too pleased that their afternoon meeting risked putting you in a situation where you were going to need protection. Shooting was not definitely something you were eager to do. Killing, even less.

There was a precise reason you had decided to stick with theft, spying, and selling information here and there, and that was because you didn’t think you had in yourself the will to end someone else’s life. Destiny may had forced you in this peculiar field, but you had sworn to yourself you would stir away from troubles as much as possible.

Maybe collaborating with the Twins was a terrible idea, after all. Troubles seemed to like and follow them, and you knew – you feared – it was only a matter of time before you got involved in a situation you were unequipped to handle. Not that it was your intention to say that out loud. Tangerine would probably mock you forever and possibly gloat at finding out you were so scared at the mere thought of shooting. Apparently unaware of your internal conflict, Lemon brought you to the other side of the suite. A good chunk of time passed before he declared his satisfaction after teaching you how to properly hold a gun and keep the correct pose “You are not bad at this. I think you could actually hit a possible target, if they don’t move too much.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and handed out the weapon to him.

“Keep it,” he shrugged “just in case.”

Your thanks were sincerely grateful, but you so much hoped the gun wouldn’t be needed.

Except that you ended up needing it. Someone snitched on your trio, possibly one of the many enemies the Twins had made in the field. The meeting set up to allow you to inspect this infamous piece of paper was a trap, and guns appeared everywhere.

Tangerine pushed you beyond a staircase, shouting at you to not move from there, before running to help Lemon. It had been when you thought that the worse was passed that you saw a man getting up from the floor, grabbing a shotgun laying next to him. Your hands moved before your brain could process the thing. One moment that man was aiming at the Twins, and the moment after you were pulling the trigger of the little gun Lemon had given you.

The sound was so loud it hurt your ears.

The man fell on the ground with a sinister thud. The blood slowly started to spread under him. He was dead. You had killed him. Someone was talking to you and you swallowed the bile in your throat, trying to focus on the voice suddenly so close to you. “It’s okay, darling. Give me the gun now, it’s over.” You ignored Tangerine’s voice could be so gentle. He quickly grabbed the weapon from your frozen fingers, passing it to Lemon and not letting your hands go “Good girl. Look at me. We gotta move, alright?” You nodded once, your head spinning, and Tangerine’s free hand cupped your face “He deserved it, I promise. You did well, so, so well.” Unsure of what answer would be appropriate, you followed him when he gently tugged you, his arm resolutely holding you against his side, his body shielding your eyes from keep staring at the corpse on the floor.

Lemon’s smile was as gentle as his brother’s grip around your shoulders when he opened the car door for you “Tangerine is right, you did nothing wrong. You saved our lives!”. The drive back to the hotel was unnaturally silent and keeping your body’s trembles at bay was the only thing distracting you from the thought of what you did.

Lemon proclaimed he needed a shower as soon as you set foot in the suite, and with great surprise, Tangerine didn’t go to his bathroom. Instead, he forced you to sit on the velvety sofa and gave you a glass of whiskey. His hands around yours, he helped you drink a sip of two. It was disgusting, but the warmth it spread in your limbs was welcomed. Tangerine smiled at you, tentatively “I need to shower as well. I suggest you do the same. It… helps, trust me.” It helped a bit, but the echo of the shot was still in your brain and the sight of the dead man planted in your brain when you reached them in the living room, seeing they had the room service deliver a dinner you barely touched. Nobody talked much and you felt their eyes checking every single movement. Lemon called your name “We are sorry things went shit like that.” You nodded, sipping a bit of water “It’s ok, I should have expected that sooner or later – well, it was meant to happen, right?”

That night you couldn’t sleep. Clearly. Maybe crying would have helped, but your throat felt dry and constricted, your eyes even worse. You were frozen in shock and fear. The bedroom seemed too little and the ceiling too close. With a gasp, you threw your covers away and quickly walked in search of fresh air. Tangerine was laying against the balcony’s railing in the living room. You hesitated, but he turned sensing your presence and motioned for you to go to the terrace with him.

“Can’t sleep?” a flicker of light sparked in the night and he lit his cigarette with expert gestures “Want one, love?” You didn’t know if it was his unexpectedly kind voice, or the fact that he used a pet name, or the fact that it felt as if the two of you were the only ones awake in the entire city, but you couldn’t answer, a painful lump of tears forming in your throat. You just hoped that the relative darkness of the terrace was enough to hide your distraught state.

“Perhaps I should go – I should go back inside,” you murmured, clearing your throat and clasping together your shaking hands. It was not a surprise, but a real shock when Tangerine took a step closer to you, his hands gently enveloping yours to steady them. You felt everything at once, your eyes finally swelling with tears, your lip wobbling, cheeks flushed in mortification and a not little amount of pleasure in having him so close, despite everything.

A huge sob escaped your contracted lips regardless of your valiant efforts to compose yourself.

Tangerine paused the tiniest fraction of a second before taking you in his arms. Pressing your face in the gentle curve where his neck met his shoulder, you wept and sobbed for what it felt an hour. Only when your sobs started to slow down enough for you to take a quivering breath, you realized Tangerine’s hand was moving in slow circles on your back, the other one lightly holding the back of your head. You knew you shouldn’t have lingered against Tangerine letting him softly cradle you, let alone closed your eyes focusing on your heartbeats.

Surely, he was going to recover from that moment of weakness soon enough, pushing you away and hurting your feelings. Feelings that you are too tired to hide anymore, at least to yourself. Pressing your forehead against his shoulder, you wondered when it happened, exactly. When did you develop feelings for him? When did you start hoping he would text or call about a job just to have the resemblance of a contact?

You should have known you were heading in that direction the moment you jumped on an airplane to Australia just because he was there. You should have suffocated whatever you felt but you couldn’t, and now your heart was at risk to be broken. You sighed against him. It was stupid, but oh you were so ready to take the risk.

“Better?” His voice was tender, tickling your temple. You straightened your shoulders, gently pushing against his body “A bit, yes. I’m sorry.” His hands slipped from your nape and your back, just to lend on your elbows, not really allowing you to go too far away from him “What the fuck are you sorry for, love?”

You laughed despite yourself at his quizzical face and choice of words, a solitary tear dropping down your cheek with the movement. Tangerine caressed it away with his thumb, following an imaginary path util he could reach your lower lip, slowly stroking it. The fire under your skin roared alive, making you feel giddy and tingly.

He slowly bent over, clearly giving you time to stop him, to walk away as you should have done if either of you had an ounce of common sense.

Tiptoeing, you instead surged forward, quickly mimicking his previous gesture, and grabbing his nape with shaking fingers.

His pleased laughter died against your lips, when you opened them for him, swallowing his thrilled groan, your doubts, the horror of that day. Every caress of his hands had you feel more centred again. Every swipe of his tongue against yours had you moan and push away bad thoughts. You wanted everything he could give you, and he felt so willing to indulge you.

Tangerine backed you up against the wall, keeping you pressed between the marble surface and his body, squeezing you so tight you weren’t sure off where he started and you ended.

“I’m so fucking sorry I pulled you into this mess,” he panted, his lips kissing every inch of your face he could reach “and you shouldn’t be around us. I can’t guarantee you it won’t happen again, love.”

“I know,” you replied breathlessly “I know. But you didn’t pull me, I decided to -”

He kissed you again, almost ferocious and then he breathed his confession against your swollen lips “I did it. Lemon didn’t want to get you involved this time, he suspected something was off before we arrived here. But -“

Tangerine stopped, his moustache twitching with the nervous movements of his lips “I wanted to see you and I didn’t want to simply pop up at your home and ask you out. Couldn’t risk embarrassing myself if you told me to fuck off, could I?”

You couldn’t hide your surprise and he grunted “I understand if you don’t want to have anything to do with me ever again. If I had listened to my brother... but you know how I am, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” you nodded slowly, hands caressing his handsome face “you are stubborn and have the mouth of a sailor, and care for the ones you love more than you care for yourself.”

“A pretty flattering portrait,” he smiled, grasping your wrist and pressing his mouth there.

“What happened wasn’t your fault. Or Lemon’s. You were right to mock me because I don’t usually carry a gun with me. I’ve been naive for too long, for someone working on this kind of job.”

“I wasn’t mocking you. I was laughing at myself, because you are too good for this life, too innocent, and I’m a dangerous man who does terrible things, and I should just tell you to fuck off and never return, you know?”

You nodded “Yes, but I wouldn’t listen to you if you tried.”

“Yeah, I feared that much.”

You hugged him, needing to let him know that you wanted this - him - as much as he did. Things weren’t going to be easy all the time, but you genuinely thought you could build something glorious together.

“Tangerine?”

“Yes, love?”

“As soon as we are back home, you are going to properly ask me out, ok?”

“More than ok.”

He sealed the promise with a kiss. You were in this together.

#tangerine bullet train #bullet train tangerine #tangerine x fem!reader #tangerine x reader #tangerine #dreamwrites #lemon and tangerine #tangerine x you #bullet train movie #bullet train fanfic

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autismtana · 4 months

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so you wanna write a heartbreak high fic, but you're american (part 3)

I decided to create a separate post for the HSC, ATAR, uni and post-secondary study because our system is so completely different to American systems (and because my previous post was too long).

In Australia, tertiary study falls into two categories: higher education, and vocational education and training. This post will touch on university, as well as other forms of tertiary study and trades.

The uni part of this will be the longest because it tends to be the thing most people get wrong.

Preliminary/HSC

In NSW, year 11 (Preliminary) only goes for three terms. In term 4 of the calendar year in which you started year 11, you start the HSC course, which goes from term 4 of that year to term 3 of the following year. Midway through term 3, you do your trial exams (if you are doing music/drama/languages/anything with a performance/oral component/major work, you will have your practical exam/major work submission in the latter part of term 3). You then will have a graduation ceremony at the end of term 3, and your HSC exams will happen in October-November (term 4), while the kids in the grade below you are starting their HSC coursework. Nothing you do in year 11 counts towards the HSC (until term 4); in fact, nothing you do in any year up until you do your first HSC assessments counts towards your HSC. We don't have grade point averages here. Actually, your rankings in your individual subjects are probably more important than your actual marks (this video explains it). More academic kids might get a bit more competitive about rankings but also tend to want to work together to ensure that they all do well.

ATAR

After you do your HSC exams in year 12, depending on the combination of subjects you did and how well you did in your courses, you get an ATAR, which determines what courses you can get into at uni. This article explains somewhat how different subjects are scaled (because there are some that are perceived to be more difficult than others; this is objectively true in some cases, for example, advanced maths is called advanced for a reason so a higher mark in advanced should be seen as more meaningful than a higher mark in standard, but in other cases, it gets a bit more confusing). What it boils down to is certain subjects tend to attract more 'high achievers' than others, so get scaled higher. That being said, the prevailing advice is that everyone should choose the subjects they like and are good at, not what they think will get them into uni.

Higher education

Firstly, we call university "uni" here. We don't say "college" or "school" to talk specifically about university (if an Australian person is talking about going to school, they're either still in compulsory schooling, i.e. K-12, or they're a teacher). We do sooooort of have college here, but I'll touch on that later.

In Australia, kids apply for the course, not the university. Whether or not you get into the course you want is, for the most part, dependent on your ATAR. The exception is if you're applying for something like a creative arts course that might require an audition, or submission of a portfolio. Most unis offer early admission, particularly for kids who live in rural areas, and UNSW has a program for indigenous students for Business, Education, Law, Medicine, Social Work, or Science & Engineering. The most common universities you'll hear about in Sydney are USyd, UNSW, UTS, Western Sydney Uni and Macquarie, then there are ANU and UC in Canberra, LaTrobe in Albury/Wodonga, CSU in Dubbo/Bathurst/Wagga Wagga, UNE in Armidale and Newcastle Uni. There's also Notre Dame, which is a private, religious institution, and a bunch of other smaller schools.

USyd is the oldest university in NSW; it's referred to as a sandstone uni and tends to be the most sought after one that most people want to go to.

Most courses here are Commonwealth Supported, and domestic students are allowed to claim what's called HECS, meaning that you defer payment of your uni fees until you start earning a certain amount of money, and then it comes out of your taxes. In some cases, scholarships are offered, but those are generally more academic scholarships, or, say, for students studying to be teachers, they might get offered a scholarship to teach a certain school subject and as part of their scholarship get a guaranteed position at a hard-to-staff schooling area. As I said in part 2, we don't have anything like the NCAA here (it's not like the Sydney Uni basketball team has a mega rivalry with the UNSW basketball team like UNC vs Duke for example). Australian kids also don't have to pay exorbitant fees to apply for the courses they want. When I was applying to uni as a year 12 student, I paid something like $30 to UAC and applied for every arts/law course available in the Sydney area. I think there's a limit on how many courses you can apply for (maybe 16 or so) but it has been a while since I've applied for an undergrad uni course, so I could be wrong. That being said, a kid might be eligible for a scholarship if they excel at sport, but I believe they'd have to be already enrolled in the university and achieving academically at a certain level first.

Coming back to the "college" thing - a lot of kids tend to go to uni where they live and commute to and from there. That being said, sometimes kids come from towns where there are no universities, or kids from Sydney might end up going to uni interstate or to somewhere like Charles Sturt, which has campuses in Dubbo and Bathurst. "College" in Australia refers to the residential housing available to students living on campus (usually kids studying away from home, but some locals also choose to opt for this as well).

As for uni life, I'd suggest researching the different social clubs and societies different universities have.

Vocational education and training

Not everyone chooses to go to uni after they leave school. A lot of schools actually offer school-based apprenticeships and traineeships (SBATs) in a number of different industries, which counts towards the HSC and is professional work experience. Early childhood and automotive tend to be really popular. TAFE (Australia's largest vocational education and training provider) provides a lot of courses and opportunities for people (some of the courses are actually really cool; a friend of mine did a music course through TAFE and recorded a bunch of singles).

Work experience

This isn't really related to post-secondary schooling, but is still a pretty important aspect of the NSW school experience. Usually in year 10, kids spend a week doing work experience (there's actually a plot in the original Heartbreak High series about it that Jane and Leanne from Snarkbreak High talked about). Kids generally have to organise it themselves and it's usually related to a career they'd like to have after school. My younger brother did his at our local vet, and after that, he realised he no longer wanted to be a vet.

Other resources

Wikipedia (don't let anyone tell you not to use it - it's one of the best peer-reviewed journals ever and all the info on Australian schooling there is completely legit)

NESA

Bored of Studies forum

Snarkbreak High podcast (this is run by 2 Australian teachers; I think they're from Melbourne and they're currently only doing the original series but they have some great commentary, and they've even had Scott Major, aka Peter Rivers, aka Darren's dad as a guest)

Sydney Morning Herald (they always have a ton of articles about NSW schooling)

UNSW Indigenous Pre-Program

#heartbreak high #fanfic advice #basically a guide to how to write about school in australia if you're american #life in australia #i actually know way more about this shit than i have any right to wtf

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sebrrari · 1 year

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need to find a lover that's gonna last

sebastian vettel/mark webber, au, 4.1k, rated r

aka, the drag au that no one asked for and that i wasn't fully able to flesh out, so i'm posting the dash/not!fic to get it off my chest. happy martian monday to the squad!!

_________

it’s august 30th, 2013, and mark has just signed the last page of the legal paperwork to buy himself out of his future engagements with infiniti red bull racing, effective immediately. they’re going to call up daniel from toro rosso, and mark is going to take the first plane going his way so he can be home in time to start licking his damn wounds before the news hits the press.

christian shakes his hand and tells him to call if he changes his mind.

he won’t. he can’t. the last few years took just about everything from him, but not his integrity. he’d never come crawling back to the machine that spit him out on track and let his teammate run him over.

his phone starts buzzing as he’s crossing the parking lot of the factory - call from sebastian v.

mark scoffs and swallows a burning feeling, then pops the battery out of the back of the phone and shuts the car door. the driver pulls out of the lot smoothly, and mark doesn’t watch in the rear view mirror as the looming building disappears.

and, somehow, life goes on.

_________

freeing himself means no more lavish lifestyle - not that he got quite as extravagant as some of the others when he had the chance. he does the shopping at night, just before the grocery closes, and sends out for most everything else so he doesn’t have to stomach any knowing stares. it takes a few months of skulking around his house (paid for, in cash, with a reasonable savings fund for improvements) and drinking a few too many beers alone before he finally gets back to living.

there are friends he makes, and people he cuts off. hobbies he tries, old habits he tries his best to quit. and, one spring day, one of his gym buddies invites mark to a brunch where he’ll be performing down in canberra, and mark’s therapist talks him into going - he can leave if he wants to, but he should stay for a fry up, just for his troubles, at least. it’s a hell of a trek, but it’s something to do.

his performing friend ends up being phenomenal - after mark stops looking for his crew cut and tank top, and realizes he’s - she’s - the one in a meter-high blonde wig and impeccable makeup. she lights up the room and takes each proffered dollar out of her patrons’ hands with a wink and a smile.

mark leaves after his friend bows and exits the lit up, glittery stage, but it’s with a bit of something simmering in his chest. the drive home is a breeze instead of an exercise in teeth grinding and measured breathing.

he’s straightening up the kitchen after dinner and realizes - he didn’t catch a single person glancing his way or snapping a covert picture of him to tell their mates they saw an all-time formula 1 failure during their meal.

he calls his friend up the next day, and asks him - her? - to lunch, where he’s enlightened on the culture of drag, and drag brunch, and gender identity. he feels… lighter, and like the world has righted its axis after years of wobbly spinning.

he’s also been kindly informed that he’s been a member of a gay gym in a gay part of town for going on six months now. that gets a laugh out of him, a sound so foreign to his ears now, and he can’t stop once he starts.

once he’s recovered and paid the tab for them both, he tells evan that he’ll see him at their usual time for an extra difficult weight circuit tomorrow night.

“i’ll bring my sport mode heels, then,” evan says, and mark groans, and is pretty sure that isn’t a thing.

_________

months later, after a lot of soul searching, and therapy sessions guiding him on how to try new things, and many a craft night with evan and some other local girls, tara rocco makes her debut at a bar’s talent show on a dare.

it’s been a wonderful exercise in determination (drawing eyebrows on yourself is something that doesn’t come easily), endurance (dancing in a corset with stilettos while remembering lyrics should be officially on the iron man course, he thinks) and competition (a talent show, with a $50 prize, to be tipped to the bar staff when he wins).

his muscles awaken after years of being forced ramrod straight. his entire being stretches back into existence. it's delightful. the applause helps, too. he gets a pretty good round for a 9pm wednesday crowd.

“are you sure you’ve never worn heels before? like, ever?” ray asks while they’re stripping the glue off mark’s natural eyebrows with some kind of industrial solvent that stings like hell.

“not that i can remember,” mark says, his mouth dry from some stiff drinks and from the makeup remover he got on his tongue.

“well, love, you should think about wearing them more, because you’re a bloody natural. your proportions are to die for, and you’ve got rhythm. you’d be booking more nights than half the queens in the state on those credentials alone.”

_________

ray is mark’s first call when he decides to do another talent show, no peer pressure needed. then another, and another, until they decide mark needs a signature look if he’s going to start “getting those bookings you’re entitled to with the way your arms look next to a black leather number like that corset you’ve picked up, mark.”

it’s like unleashing the marvel within himself, the one he used to know - it’s just shaped differently. there’s prep meetings (to go over the set list, tweak any tracks that lagging or to add a specific song for an event or holiday), press (a few pictures for the venue’s posters and social media, all retouched a bit much for his liking, but he’s choosing his battles), practice sessions (blocking the routine in his open-concept kitchen and living room, with ray laying down post-its to serve as the stage dimensions and evan and his partner acting as an audience for mark to play to), then show time.

and he’s never known anything but a full fucking send.

the rush feeds him like it always did, even with the stakes so low. he can’t really deny that he loves looking like this - beautiful, sculpted, powerful, in charge.

it’s intoxicating without being consuming, fun and adrenaline-inducing without the sour taste of loss when the lights go down.

when he takes the drag off and wipes his face clean, he’s just mark again - mark who ran, once, but who stands tall now, with a little help from some friends.

and god, his ass looks good in fishnets. it truly does.

_________

aussie drag culture is insular and so no one really gets a whiff, and he lives pretty comfortably off his bar appearances and an occasional tour spot in peak months.

once every couple years, a promoter calls him up and sounds business-minded and not like they've just found his wikipedia page and intend to add a new section titled Downfall and Public Outrage to it with their fucking scheme. those are the people for whom he hops into a dance studio and gets a routine in shape to trot around a few states, and hey. his heels are shorter and his splits aren't what they used to be, but he still manages to put on a show.

he keeps in touch with barely a handful of people from his old life, but seb's retirement announcement sends shockwaves big enough that he'd have heard about it if he was six feet under. something like hunger pangs through his core, hollow and longing for the gentle fall into glory and grace he was never afforded.

but he's happy for seb. he's made his peace with it just like he's made his peace with the fact that red lipstick will never really suit his skin tone and he has to cheat towards purples. there are facts of life, after all.

one of the facts is that what goes around will always come around. at barely 8 am, knocking incessantly and ringing the doorbell for good (ungodly) measure.

he checks the front door camera feed, and thinks he's finally cracked.

but no, seb's really on mark's fucking doorstep, with the same smile on the same face but through layers and layers of time and a lot more facial hair.

mark's not sure what he must look like - loose gym shorts that hit mid-thigh, smoothly waxed legs, a rumpled and mustard stained shirt from MARY'S POPPIN EST. 2016 ADELAIDE'S FINEST DEBAUCHERY. seb doesn't seem to notice - or care - in the least. he just asks to use the toilet.

it's the first time mark's heard his voice in person since - since. mark's stomach roils and he can only nod and choke out the directions - down the hall, second door. seb thanks him and makes his way.

mark goes back to making the coffee, dazedly pulls down a second mug from the cabinet and fishes the sugar out from the bottom shelf of the pantry. seb always took his sweet on early mornings at the track.

mark is just finishing up, kitchen towel in hand to dry a spoon for seb to stir with, when the soft squeak of seb's trainers on the tile snaps him to attention. the pot of coffee is full now - mark realizes just how long he's been waiting for seb to come back in.

he did say the right door, didn't he? he said the second door down the hall. he did. he did.

much like a cat, though, curiosity was always seb's weapon of choice.

"this must look absolutely delicious on you, mark," seb says, and it's a purr of victory to mark's ear, a predator’s grin before its jaw snaps shut around naive prey.

he doesn't want to turn around. he doesn't want to see the corset in seb's delicate grasp - the one that needs a little TLC after last weekend, an eyelet hanging loose off the leather from rough treatment during his finale. he doesn't want to see the laces hanging off the constructed garment, lifeless and boxy without something to wrap around.

the spoon clatters in the sink. he realizes he’s holding his breath.

how in the fuck is he going to explain to sebastian vettel that he couldn't fucking stand playing second fiddle and begging for scraps anymore, so he blew his bank accounts to smithereens, fucked off back home humbled and rough, and now he does drag twice a week and tours during peak season.

how is he going to explain to a four-time world champion of motorsport, someone who eclipsed his life to the point that he ran, that he even likes it.

seb’s made himself his coffee like this is a hotel breakfast bar and not mark's life being turned upside down and shaken by the ankles.

"i always knew," is one of the first things seb says after he's apologized and laid the corset gently over a kitchen chair.

mark nearly chokes. "knew?"

"that you were, you know. i mean, it takes one to know the other? is that how you say it?"

"knew?"

"i'm - me too, mark. i'm gay. queer, if we're putting a finer point on it. not that crossdressing is-”

seb sucks on the spoon, then lays it on a napkin and sighs.

“oh, hell. mick gave me such a good talk about this, and i am putting my foot in my mouth. i really do mean to be better about this. i have so much reading to do, now that i have more time, i must sound so foolish. forgive me."

"you're gay."

"yes. and i thought-"

"you thought.”

"i thought a lot of things, but then you were gone. i have no idea what you have even been up to. and now that i am here, i feel as though maybe that was on purpose.” seb takes another sip and swallows carefully. “i did not mean to just barge back in and-"

“but you did.” that's exactly what seb did - barge. mark can feel angry heat coil itself around his spine and get his pulse going.

it gets tense at the breakfast table while they continue their stilted conversation, but mark susses out that seb thinks the corset is some fetish thing - he still doesn't know know.

small, twisted mercies.

seb leaves eventually, around lunch time. the hollow feeling is still floating heavy in mark's gut, but it's not as painful as he thought it'd be to accept the hug seb pulls him in for, to say sure when seb says they should meet up one more time before seb goes back to europe. he says he's in queensland for a month, some eco-vacation-caravan-docu-whatever that he hopes to invest in has him here to pitch him and let him get his hands a little dirty in the bush.

he trusts seb to not like, tell the fucking papers or whatever someone might do with this information (nando comes to mind, since mark is feeling especially bitey). but it’s not like it’s a secret, either. he’s just been lucky until now - lucky that he fell so far, so fast, that the bright lights and nosy pundits of f1 don’t stoop to his level.

it’s been a week and no one comes calling. no one emails him asking for a fishy interview. the publicist he still pays - a joke of a retainer, if he’s honest, bless her - doesn’t text him.

he does his usual show at his usual regionally-famous bar, and gets his usual amount of not-as-much-as-you-might-think in tips.

he gets the mended corset back from his seamstress and hangs it up carefully in the closet next to the others, buttery black leather all lined up in a row.

there’s one pushed a little farther back than those in regular rotation, still shiny and hardly worn. it had seemed a little on the nose when he tried it on after buying it online one night, a few glasses of chardonnay too deep in his favorite leather website.

it’s red for the bulls he couldn’t wrangle, for the misdeeds that put him out on his ass.

he fishes it off the rack and caresses it, sets the laces right, then carefully tightens it around his waist and turns to the mirror.

and he knows, as he poses for himself, checks his silhouette, skims his eyes across the shoes laid in pairs on the floor against the wall, exactly what his opening number will be next week to kick off his summer tour.

what he doesn’t know is who is going to be sitting three rows back and dead center when the lights go down, the curtains part, and mark makes his hips swivel and sway to the opening synth hits of "little red corvette."

_________

seb is waiting at the stage door exit when mark comes through it, and mark tries to guess how long he must’ve been waiting here. he'd spotted seb in the audience during the third number of the evening, and like a true bred professional, he kept going. he didn’t run. he kept going.

now, though, with the adrenaline worn off and his quads killing him, he just wants answers.

“you-” mark stutters. “how did you know?”

seb licks his lips and smiles playfully. it’s only because mark had known him for so long that he doesn’t mistake it for venomous.

“well,” seb says, dragging the word out, “they do advertise your shows, don’t they? i saw it in the paper.”

“bullshit,” mark scoffs. “you wouldn’t buy a paper, it’s wasteful. why are you here, seb?”

seb kicks himself off the brick wall of the theater and steps towards mark - mark steps back just as nonchalantly, a dance in keeping his distance that he could do with his eyes closed - but seb doesn’t back down. he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

“i wanted to see you.”

“you could’ve called.”

seb does scoff, then, the first hint of frustration mark’s seen out of him since old team meetings and press conferences. it hits a nerve, but it’s a dull pain that makes itself known then retreats.

“would you have answered?”

mark casts his eyes downward, caught in the truth.

“i really enjoyed tonight, mark. you’re a true performer. i want to hear all about how you come up with these shows. can we go somewhere and talk?” seb asks, still pressing at the opening he sees.

mark can’t suss out if seb really wants to know all that, if he’s really telling the truth. but he remembers how the world didn’t come crashing down after he let seb in the last time. he breathes - in for three, hold for three, out for three.

“okay,” mark says, clears his throat. “alright. my feet are fucking killing me, though. let’s just go back to the hotel.”

_________

they talk, sure. there was definitely talking - seb’s always had a way with words that unravels mark to a point no one else can. seb casts a lifeline with his earnestness and reels mark in with his humility and wit, and it’s like all the anger he thought he still had isn’t where he thought he left it. there are other, smaller jagged edges that need examining, but the big wound has closed up while he was assuming it still festered.

there were other things that led them to the position they’re in now, though- mark on top of seb’s bare body in a chain hotel’s queen bed, the mattress squeaking as they get comfortable.

he’s moving on instinct, all groans and animal desires. it’s been so, so long since someone’s gotten under his skin enough to bring him to this point - or maybe someone never left their spot there, buried just like he thought all his racing past was.

he doesn’t want to think about that anymore, or to talk, though. he just wants.

“i-” mark inhales deeply, gets the smell of seb’s lavender and pine soap, then something muskier underneath. he holds his breath, devours the scent like he’s starved for it.

mark wants him. he wants seb so badly he’s on fire with it after denying himself for so long.

“say it again,” seb gasps, and mark bites down on seb’s neck just enough to pinch, then kisses the spot wetly and makes his way down seb’s chest.

“i want you, seb,” mark groans hoarsely, like he’s worked a sore muscle into relaxing. it’s an intoxicating hit of relief. he sags towards seb’s body, ruts his cock against him over and over again until he glides smooth with sweat and precome.

“mark, you can-“ mark noses back up to seb’s throat and kisses his adam’s apple open-mouthed, rubs his lips against the stubble there until they’re red and tingling.

“you should,” seb corrects, his voice thin but sure. “you should fuck me. before this is over too soon, no?”

the haze in mark’s mind retreats a little. he blinks and gives a parting lick to seb’s pulse point, gets one more thrust of his hips against seb’s soft stomach before he lifts himself up, arms on either side of seb’s ribcage.

he hasn’t fucked anyone in quite some time, and he hadn’t let himself really think-

he needs to get out of the habit of thinking, it seems, when it comes to seb. because with him, he can just be. he can just trust, if what his gut is telling him remains true.

he can just want.

and he can have.

he doesn’t ask seb if he’s sure - he’s smarter than that, at least. he knows now that seb goes after what he truly wants, only offers what he’s already been ready to give.

he just cups seb’s face with a shaking hand and kisses him slowly, fire on his tongue and an ache in his chest, let’s the spark of anticipation charge up til it’s consuming him whole.

“can i go slow?” mark asks against seb’s lips. “it’s been so long since… since.”

“we have all the time we need, mark.” seb bites his lip for a moment, then whines and smiles up at mark with the mischief that makes mark’s good sense go out the door. “but let’s get started, shall we?”

_________

in the time between summer club season closing and next spring, there’s a whole book’s worth of development. there’s a journey of shame to acceptance for mark because he almost got away with seb thinking this was a fetish, and that fetishes are normal and okay and can be locked behind a door - when you actually remember to bloody lock it - but to mark it's so much worse.

because it’s not a fetish - it’s his livelihood, and how does he even look millionaire activist and beloved hero sebastian vettel in the eye once he knows mark dances in a tight corset and a barely there skirt for money?

he does, though. he does.

he can hold his own in 4-inch pumps against even the youngest queens because he lost a lot of things, but never his competitive drive or the muscle tone in his calves. and he didn’t think that could matter to a man like seb, who’s off to see the world and save it bit by bit with a dazzling, crinkly smile and a soft touch of kindness for everyone he meets.

but seb is there, telling him it does matter, simply because it’s mark. that it’s mark that seb’s here for, and the rest they’ll figure out.

and they will, because they’re not ones to quit. not for something that truly, truly matters to their hearts.

it's also about love and self acceptance and queerness and kinkiness and how mark looks hot and dangerous and masculine and divinely feminine all at once. it’s about how seb can't believe he ever let mark run away without telling him that he is enough to love in every form, and how mark grows to believe him in time, in his own shape.

_________

and there's another side to the story, one that's waited patiently and knew to bide its time to be heard.

this side thinks that, if things were different, maybe seb wouldn't be treated to the sight of mark bent over the same kitchen table he was ready to lunge over just a few months ago. and how maybe mark wouldn't trust seb to smear his lipstick and untie his laces, to gently pull his tights down and off.

this side is about how, if he hadn’t called in a favor from jenson to get mark’s address after years of restraining himself from searching, seb might not have the absolute privilege of dropping to his knees and worshiping mark until they’re both full to bursting with something seb’s not sure he’s ever felt - even as fireworks erupted over his car in abu dhabi what seems like a century ago, even as he took his final laps in the kind of machine he spent his life trying to tame.

this is something new, something precious and strong that seb wants to make bloom in vivid color. he could spend the rest of his days learning the taste of whatever this is.

seb signs on as a producer for the ecological reserve’s new sustainable tourism and documentary project. he cancels his flights and books his rented, sensible bungalow indefinitely.

he’s hardly there.

because he’s with mark and he can’t get enough, even when it’s tough. even when mark spooks, even when he tests seb’s patience like he’s always done - seb wouldn’t rather be anywhere else than where he’s meant to be, and that place cannot be anywhere but with mark, and he knows it.

because when seb watches mark onstage, with his smoky eyes and his long, mesmerizing legs, his mouth waters. he longs in a way he didn’t think he’d ever be able to again.

and when he meets mark backstage after opening night of this newly revamped show - rev tara’s engine on tour! - with a bouquet of red, red roses in hand, mark’s right there with his makeup half off and sweats pulled over his fishnets, and it makes seb’s pulse jolt.

he’s real. what they have is shaping up to be, too.

he just has to go get what he's after, and something about mark has always made him relish the chase.

mark catches sight of him in the big mirror he’s seated in front of and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline, but he softens into a grin. seb smiles back, bites his lip.

“these are for you,” he says, and offers the bouquet. mark stands immediately, takes the flowers and sniffs them indulgently before depositing them gently on the vanity among his tubes of lipstick and eyeshadow palettes. seb was ready to feel silly for bringing flowers to a drag show, but mark takes them for the gesture they are and treats them like something precious, something greater than the handful they exist as.

he rises on his stocking feet and steps up til he’s toe to toe with seb. there’s a shadow of eyeliner still clinging to his waterline, accenting the spark in his eyes as it smolders and crackles something electric.

“thank you, i love them, sebi,” mark says, his breath skimming seb’s lips, and seb can’t let himself miss.

he steadies himself by the dip in mark’s cinched waist, and kisses him to unleash everything he’s been holding, lets his heart flow right out of his chest and through his lips.

mark covers seb’s hand with his bigger one, his palm soft and warm and trembling, and receives the love seb has been waiting to give.

___________________________

thanks @kritischetheologie @mwebber and @vetterrari and the other people who i made read this awhile ago!!!! love u all for being so encouraging and unhinged with me - you make this fandom what it is xxxxxx

this thing's google doc is titled "spreading you open is the only way of knowing you," a fine line reference but also something i'm finding to be a little too astute. count yer days harry if i ever see you in person i have my therapists superbill in my purse with your name on it.

#my fic #martian monday in pst still!!!!! so!!!!!!#mark webber x sebastian vettel #whether the medicine is enough #it's truly - in the tradition of old - a not fic. we go from full scenes to meta in a matter of seconds so just like be prepared lol #nsfr #drag mark au

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soup-mother · 3 months

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I used to be a member of SAlt, but I left due to personal life reasons, as well as feeling kind of icky about selling newspapers. Over time, I have come to understand some of the issues of Trotskyism, but I never really got a full grasp on that org and what it does. Do you have any criticisms of SAlt? I dislike the org now, but my understanding of it is limited.

they're not active in my state (of Australia) so my interactions with them have been limited to when I'm in canberra.

if you want personal anecdotes they absolutely cover everywhere they can with posters (i suspect there's a quota to do so idk) even if there's like 10 right next to them and their newspaper sellers singled out my friends and i as being the most visibly trans ppl around and basically went "trans right? buy newspaper?" because there was something in it about trans ppl. i was just trying to go to the park to have my halal snack pack. also i wasn't there but they like super hijacked the protest against posie parker in canberra and led everyone away instead of confronting her (loser shit, i hear this is a common trend).

from their online presence i know they seem to LOVE getting members to debate ppl in Instagram comments all the time (waste of time) and they literally CANNOT let you go 1 day without reminding everyone in their online news accounts that they REALLY DON'T LIKE STALIN. like you have to know that they're still mad about the stalin thing.

I've heard a lot of talk that there's real bad like sexual harassment culture in the org and that it's covered up incredibly shittily, which would not be surprising.

they sorta just seem like your average Trotskyist party really, like from my understanding of global Trotskyist movements it seems to be a lot of common trends. idk that's all i got capn, if you want more you've gotta buy my newspaper :p

#asks

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firstruleofmethclub · 5 months

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@quannaix tagged me like only 100 years ago for this and I'm already doing it.

Comfort Books Okay so like here's not one but two embarrassing truths. The first is that I really don't read a whole lot any more. Since living in Canberra means that public transport is essentially off the table I lost my #1 reading opportunity I took advantage of beforehand, and getting into a relationship I put as much of my time as possible into in which parallel-play is really not on the table either, that also rules out "while I'm just hanging out at home". So I just don't read books very much. That's truth one. Truth two is that when I do just kill time by reading something I've read before, nowadays it's almost always something that I've written.

That said, comfort books as a kid were Konrad, Lord of the Night, Legend of Zagor, and Artemis Fowl (just the first one).

Comfort Movies Doomsday, Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Idle Hands, Super Troopers, Atomic Blonde, Moana, Mean Girls, The Return of the Living Dead, Gremlins 2: The New Batch, Club Dread, Megamind, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Happy Death Day, Jurassic Park, The Mummy, Underworld 1 & 2, any Friday the 13th including Freddy VS Jason, any Predator movie except AVP 2 or The Predator, Starship Troopers, Knives Out, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 1 & 2 okay I literally have to stop or I will keep going forever.

Comfort TV shows Community, Axe Cop, China IL, Bob's Burgers, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Over the Garden Wall, The Addams Family, Batman: The Animated Series, Bravest Warriors, Clone High, Letterkenny -- or Skins if I need to make myself cry.

If @yahookilledthepornstar, @nomnomlexy, @geeses, @caucasianbuttslut and/or @due-to-the-fact-that-im-a-slut wanna do this thing too that'd be like cool I guess

#gimly #about me

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celticcrossanon · 2 months

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BRF Reading - 16th of July, 2024

This is speculation only

Cards drawn on the 16th of July, 2024

Question: Will King Charles make it to Australia for his planned tour in October?

Interpretation: The odds are not in his favour

Card One: The Page of Wands in Reverse

Pages are messages, Wands are creative ventures or PR, and in the reverse things are going wrong, it is a bad message rather than a good one.

The energy I am getting from this card is of negative PR. A promise has to be broken, and/or The King will be seen as unreliable, and that will generate some negative PR - not against the King as such, it is more a disappointed energy. Wands can represent energy, the life force, and in the reverse there just is not enough energy/life force to do what you have to do or want to do. I'm also getting apology energy from this card, which is odd as that is usually Cups, not Wands.

The King is old and ill. He is the reverse of the young, energetic Page of Wands. The tour has already been cut down to just Canberra and Sydney for the King before he flies to CHOGM in Samoa. I think that as the time draws nearer the King may find that he just does not have the energy for what he planned to do on the tour, and it will be cut back further to either a quick stop in Canberra or no visit to Australia at all.

Card Two: The Wheel of Fortune

The Wheel of Fortune is about a change in fortune, and as it is upright that change should be for the better, which kind of contradicts the energy of the first card. However, the card can be taken as an indicator of change, both good and bad, cycles, fate, and decisive moments.

I'm not getting good fortune energy from this card. What I am getting is an energy of fate, cycles, and having to make decisions that will influence the rest of your life.

I think that closer to October something will happen that will force the King to either cancel his planned tour or to cut it down to the bare bones. I'm leaning towards cancelling at this point in time. It is going to be something that can be seen as fate, or the end of a cycle. It could be something like The King having to admit that he is just not well enough to do any long distance travel anymore. It feels like a fated moment and something that will stand out when you look back in time as the moment that people started to realise X was happening. I'm not getting any more details, so let me draw a clarifier.

The clarifier I drew for this was The Emperor in reverse. The Emperor represents King Charles, and in the reverse it is him not being healthy and strong. Something is going to happen that puts King Charles 'in reverse' and makes it impossible for him to visit Australia. The most obvious issue at this point in time is The King's health and him not being well enough to travel.

I'm getting a very strong energy of fated-ness around The Wheel of Fortune card. Whatever happens, it was fated to happen at that point in time. This isn't something that could be avoided by e.g. lifestyle changes - it has a strong sense of 'meant to be' around it.

Card Three: The Two of Pentacles in Reverse

The Two of Pentacles is a card of balance, of deciding where to invest your energy/resources for the best result. When the card is in the reverse things are out of balance. You have either taken on too much and are exhausting yourself, or you have put too much energy in one area to the detriment of others.

The energy of this card is of things being out of balance through not having enough energy to do everything that you want to do. You are trying to do too much for your current reserves of energy and things have to be pruned down so you can spend the little energy you have in the most important areas. Going on tour, while nice, is not a crucial part of being King. I think that The King will have to cut down or cancel the tour so he has energy for more important matters, such as attending CHOGM, if indeed he is able to travel so far - he may have to send a representative or telecommute instead of going in person. Like the first card, this card speaks of a drain on The King's energy and not having the energy to undertake long distance travel or go on tour.

Underlying Energy: The Ace of Cups in reverse.

Aces in reverse are No cards, so this card is saying that The King will not be able to make it to Australia for his planned tour. No matter how much he wants to go or how much he cares for the country, he won't be visiting it in October. If he does gather up the energy to visit, the tour will be so short as to be insulting. The King is not going to be able to renew the ties of relationship between himself and the people of Australia (the would be Ace of Cups in an upright position). I think that his will upset The King (the Ace of Cups in reverse can be an emotional loss or feeling unloved), but there is nothing that he can do about it. At this point in time he will not be able to visit as planned.

Conclusion:

At this point in time, it looks like The King will not make it to Australia for his planned tour in October. He won't have the energy to undertake the long distance trip and the tour. The most obvious reason for this based on how he is currently is his health, but it could be something else. Something will happen, an event or a realisation or a medical report, and The King will realise that he can't make the tri, or in the best case scenario that the trip will have to be a very, very short one. This will lead to some disappointment that will show up negatively in the PR around the event and that may make The King feel unwanted and unloved, in part because The King is going to be very sensitive about having to cancel/cut down the tour in the first place.

There is a fated energy around whatever event or realisation happens that leads to The King not having the energy to undertake the Tour of Australia as currently planned. It is a point of change in how he and his reign will be perceived in the future.

I am hoping that the energy changes and The King is able to come here as planned. (My hopeful self says maybe I am getting the energy that led up to the tour being shortened (past energy) and not the energy of October). I am just uneasy/unsettled when I think about this tour. It may be nothing. Whatever is niggling at me may pass long before October arrives. At the moment, things are not looking good for the tour, but I can hope that they will change somehow.

I will have to come back to this next month and see how things feel then.

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