#it was the first time I had watched something so uniquely audaciously terrible that I had to look up reviews afterwards to make sure I wasnt

[theexorcistiii]

Help me I just remembered when I was watching a really terrible Netflix horror series & got to a part where a cop is having what seems to be a discussion about child custody arrangements with his ex on the phone & then he hangs up & says I miss you man& it pans to a framed stock photo of a golden retriever on his desk with a light pointed directly on it & nothing else & I felt like I was going to have a fucking fit

[wordy-little-witch]

Buggy brainrot-

I spent a few hours today in the EER with mama and had to distract myself Somehow so you get my silly lil snippets of music video stories in my head-

Buggy accidentally seduces a bunch of people and doesn't even NOTICE because of his special brand of oblivious survival rizz

Basically during the 2 year skip where he gets named a Warlord, he does in fact attend a meeting or a few. The first one, he's a mix of audacious loudmouth show boating and critical assessing eyes.

By the second one he's decently comfortable with knowing the names and faces of his vicinity - he's plotting and he's got more than a few cards, knifes, and other items up his sleeves.

At some point, the meeting goes from relatively calm to absolutely hog fucking wild and somehow, someway, someone's belonging winds up damn near launched into the upper rafters of the room. There's a strict No Devil Fruit policy, enforced by a seastone earring, so while the arguments and in-fighting ensue, Buggy just kind of scoffs, walks put, comes back with a pole, jams it into the broken tiled flooring and proceeds to ignore them while he climbs. Pole art isn't too terribly different from his aerials and trapeze, and he's done just about EVERYTHING under the sun at last once, so it's nothing unfamiliar. His gloves are uniquely textured so he can safely handle his Muggy and Buggy Balls, too, so carefully using his momentum and muscles to climb and shift up the pole smoothly is a pretty simple matter.

He gets to the top, hooks his legs and feet properly, and twists his spine to reach out, unaware of the sets of eyes boring into him.

Mihawk is stone faced, but there is a heat to his gaze. Doffy's sunglasses have slipped down his nose a little. Kuma is pointedly Not Looking. Hancock is... frankly pretending to be uninterested but lowkey is staring. Buggy is oblivious, retrieves the hat or sash or earring, whatever it was, and shifts his weight, releases a hold and smoothly drops, stopping just before the floor to daintily rise, sashay over, and plopped the item on the table, fixing his gloves.

It's the silence that has him looking up, arching a brow. "What?"

Then he sees the time.

"Oh. Meeting's over. Bye~"

And baby boy DIPS.

(Nickelback - Midnight Queen)

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Shanks POV post-Rogers-disbanding, pre-Execution, the cabin brats solo on the seas

He's watching Buggy charm the absolute hell out of a guy at a bar in some no name little town. They've been landlocked for nearing a week now, their previous ship shot to hell by a pirate crew hounding their tail after they'd been sighted some three islands back. The ship held together long enough to pull a full miracle put of nowhere, helped along by a storm. Since then, they'd been gathering cash to pay off her repairs to keep moving, unwilling to part with Speed after all she'd done for them so far.

One source of income came from Buggy's silver tongue and sticky fingers.

The blue haired pirate was leaning over the counter now, twirling a loose lock of hair as he giggled, fluttering his lashes. The man he was buttering up was a few years their senior, bejeweled and slicked hair, a flush of intoxication on his cheeks as he warmly regarded the pretty thing at his side. Shanks could relate, at least a little, on the way the man's attention was focused so thoroughly on Buggy.

Pink tinted lips quirked into a smile, head tilting invitingly, to which the man responded as expected. He was under the blue haired pirate's spell already - Shanks checked the time - three minutes in. Not a new record, but close.

He wasn't sure how to feel about it all, honestly. It was not jealousy, not truly, that curdled his stomach. Instead, something bloomed viciously in his abdomen, something akin to possessiveness. Sure, he figured absently, people can find Buggy pretty in his disguise.

But Shanks was the one who saw his entirety.

Shanks saw the tan lines on pale skin; Shanks knew the taste of his freckles and skin; Shanks knew the scars on his left hip and between his shoulder blades; Shanks could map Buggy's face from memory with lips alone, and he damn well knew it.

The world can be played by Buggy, but Shanks would know the game.

And an hour later, outside of that little bar, he would welcome the smaller body leaning unflinchingly into his side, arm around the other's shoulders, heart full and his lover's pockets heavy, and Shanks would look back, would meet wide, dark eyes with a pink smudge on his chin. And Shanks would grin, sharp and unrepentant, turning to guide those same pink lips up to his own.

He's wear his boyfriend's lipstick with pride.

((NEFFEX - Rumors))

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy wears skirts whenever the fancy strikes, and sometimes it works perfectly for parties. He'll be the first to say that people who don't love dancing in skirts have never tried it before. While his fashion tastes aren't always expected, he revealed in the freedom there - and his crew thrived in such environments.

That was why he hadn't thought to make a big deal out of the first skirt day since Cross Guild was established. It simply WAS, in the same way as the weather, the same way as the meal plans, simply just footnotes in it all. He'd gone most of the day without seeing the two newest additions to the island, and frankly had forgotten to be vigilant of them.

It was a good day, a new shipment, a celebration, nothing too extravagant, just a fun night with his people. Really, Buggy hadn't even thought to glance up for yellow or violet eyes.

The crew was boisterous, but that was normal, music playing and laughter ringing. Buggy was sandwiched between Alvida and Marianne, a newer islander from a small island out East. The dialect there was unfamiliar by and large, but Buggy had grown up learning it from a man he considered a father, and Mari had so few who spoke her mother tongue.

Buggy simply had the idea to make tonight Extra fun.

After all, nobody partied like a Roger, and Roger always had the best songs. Bugs wasn't too bad with a fiddle. When asked, Mari beamed, no slouch herself, and offered to take the lead.

So they took to the stage, each swiping an instrument with playful glares, and heels tapped the rhythm as they began, hop-skipping as they bobbed and weaved, clapping joining as people whooped and hollered, making merry and enjoying themselves.

It was midway through that Buggy was caught playfully, fiddle lifted as one of the older mercenaries bowed him out, picking up the tune. He laughed happily, hands fisting his skirts as he twirled and danced, thoroughly enjoying himself-

And then he caught sight of Mihawk. He was watching, an odd note in his eyes, and Buggy could just barely see the way the other seemed to lean into the music. Fueled by a wild idea, high on the adrenaline and joy, Buggy walked over and offered his hand.

And Mihawk accepted.

He was a great dancer, and Buggy was delighted to be lead in a familiar dance, beaming boldly at the goth man before him. Traditional dances like this were few and far between - it only made them more fun.

That night began a change - first of which culminating into Mihawk fluffing Buggy's skirt with an almost-smile, a quiet statement following. "I should quite like to do this again some time."

Buggy only realizes later what that implied.

((Celtic Woman - Níl Sé'n Lá))

[shirlleycoyle]

Eric Weinstein Says He Solved the Universe’s Mysteries. Scientists Disagree

The quest to come up with a successful “theory of everything” is one of the guiding lights of modern theoretical physics, reconciling general relativity and quantum mechanics. The inventor of such a theory would no doubt be hailed among the all-time intellectual giants of science, and Eric Weinstein really wants everyone to think it’s him. 

Weinstein is primarily an investor, but also a self-styled public intellectual. He graduated with a PhD in mathematics from Harvard, and is currently a managing director of Thiel Capital, which invests in technology and life sciences. He also belongs to and coined the name for the “Intellectual Dark Web,” largely a crew of reactionaries with public profiles that includes Jordan Peterson and Ben Shapiro. He is also the inventor of what he calls “Geometric Unity,” a theory of everything that he’s been flogging since 2013. 

At that time, Weinstein―by then long out of academia and working as a consultant for a New York City hedge fund―made waves after promoting his theory by giving a lecture at the University of Oxford and scoring a write-up in The Guardian, instead of writing a scientific paper. The Guardian article was titled: “Move Over Einstein, Meet Weinstein.” Typically, researchers produce a paper containing equations that is then pored over by the wider community of scientists; this element of peer review and discussing ideas and evidence in the open is generally accepted to be a critical part of the scientific process. Weinstein’s audacious approach earned as much criticism as the theory itself, and his latest move has ignited furor all over again. 

Earlier this month, Weinstein finally posted a paper describing Geometric Unity online, uploaded the Oxford lecture to YouTube, and went on Joe Rogan’s immensely popular podcast to discuss it. There’s even a website called pullthatupjamie.com full of videos and resources on Geometric Unity that was created to make it easy for Rogan’s tech guy, Jamie Vernon, to pull up videos on the podcast. 

The appearance on Rogan’s podcast, which has been previously used as an uncritical platform, has generated both new interest in Geometric Unity and intense criticism from scientists who remain unconvinced. 

On the podcast, Weinstein said that his theory is an attempt to go “beyond Einstein” and push theoretical physics forward that could unlock amazing possibilities or terrible power.

”I was somewhat holding this back because I’m afraid of what it unlocks,” Weinstein said, “and now that I know we're willing to elect Donald Trump, not store masks, play footsie with China, be Putin's bitch, all of this stuff… to Hell with this.”

When Rogan asked what the main fear is, Weinstein recalled that “the last time we gained some serious insight into how nuclei worked,” nuclear weapons were invented. But, if the theory is correct, it might also give us the needed insight to make humanity into a multi-planet species, Weinstein said.

“One of the great dangers is, great power…. I cant tell what the power would be if the theory is correct, it might give us the ability to escape,” he said.

Rogan, for what it's worth, didn’t seem overly impressed with Weinstein's theory. In an attempt to explain his complicated theory, Weinstein handed Rogan a water wiggle (one of those cheap toys that looks like a small balloon filled with water), and explained how it symbolizes the mathematical concept of a U(1)-bundle. Rogan looks down at the toy in his hand while Weinstein speaks and gets progressively, visibly confused and angry. 

"I don't know what the fuck you just said," Rogan finally says. "How about that?"

So, what is Geometric Unity? At the moment, modern physics has two frameworks that do not nicely unify: general relativity and quantum mechanics, which describe reality at two vastly different scales. Whereas other physicists might try to square this circle by attempting a quantum version of general relativity, Weinstein's proposal was to begin with general relativity and its geometric descriptions of reality to try and discover equations describing the universe in its mathematical reality instead of our observable one. 

At its core sits the idea of a 14-dimensional "observerse" which our four dimensions (the three spatial dimensions, and time) lie within. A Guardian article at the time described the interplay between these two dimensional spaces as "something like the relationship between the people in the stands and those on the pitch at a football stadium" in that we are observers who can see and are affected by the observerse, but cannot possibly notice or detect every detail. Weinstein's theory proposes that there is a set of equations in these 14 dimensions that encompass Einstein’s equations, as well as several other famous equation sets, that altogether account for all fundamental forces and particle types. 

Timothy Nguyen, a machine learning researcher at Google AI whose phD thesis intersects with Weinstein's work, co-authored a paper based on Weinstein’s Geometric Unity lecture evaluating the idea in February. The paper identified gaps in Weinstein’s theory “both mathematical and physical in origin” that “jeopardize Geometric Unity as a well-defined theory, much less one that is a candidate for a theory of everything.”

In a blog post accompanying the paper, Nguyen wrote that the theory does not actually bring in quantum theory, relies on a poorly-defined “Ship in a bottle” (Shiab) operator of Weinstein’s own invention, and contains anomalies as well as a dubious assumption about supersymmetry in 14 dimensions. After Weinstein published his paper, Nguyen wrote on Twitter that it “addresses none of the technical gaps presented in our response,” although he did describe it as a “testament to perseverance.”

“If you’re interested in technical gaps, the gap most glaring arises from the ‘Shiab' operator. It is one of several uniquely idiosyncratic operators of Geometric Unity (it does not exist anywhere else in mathematics), unlike supersymmetry which is already a well-established and well-defined notion,” Nguyen told Motherboard in an email. “Weinstein fails to define the Shiab operator properly and so his theory does not even make mathematical sense, a more egregious problem than having desirable physical properties.”

Nguyen said that Weinstein’s initial PR splash was confusing at best, and that the resulting paper didn’t clarify the most important points. 

“Much of Weinstein’s Geometric Unity involves using obscure notation for objects that nobody else has defined and which he disingenuously expected others to understand from watching an over 2 hour long YouTube video,” Nguyen added. “Now that he has released a paper, we find that even Weinstein does not know how to construct the Shiab operator (he makes many qualifications that he no longer has the details).”

Richard Easther, a cosmologist and professor at the University of Auckland, pointed out some eyebrow-raising aspects of the idea in a 2013 blog. For one, a Guardian op-ed by Marcus du Sautoy―Weinstein’s chief academic promoters―seemed to hint at a dynamic constant in the universe, while most physicists support the idea of a constant that is, well, constant. What Weinstein eventually published didn’t impress him, he told Motherboard.

“The theory itself has had no visible impact, and what Weinstein actually delivered looked massively undercooked after the buildup it got from du Sautoy,” Easther said in an email. “A throwaway comment at the time suggested that it might predict a time-varying cosmological constant, but I haven’t seen any meaningful developments about this.”

Weinstein did not respond to Motherboard’s request for comment. 

All of this matters because despite the criticisms, Weinstein only finally released a paper this year after years promoting the theory in public forums while questioning the legitimacy of peer review, lamenting the need to provide evidence, and otherwise dismissing critics or skeptics hesitant to accept his theory with open arms. In a May 2020 interview, he said skeptics that wanted him to publish a paper on his idea for verification were simply “irritated” and “pissed off” at “themselves.” 

On Rogan’s podcast, Weinstein painted the academic field of physics as being generally untrustworthy and stifling, which is why he didn’t share his theory in full until now.

“I don’t trust these people,” Weinstein said, referring to physicists at universities. “It’s an entire system that believes in peer review, it believes in forced citations, you have to be at a university, you have to get an endorsement to use a preprint server. It’s too few resources, too many sharp elbows.”

Nguyen said he was spurred to evaluate Weinstein’s idea after this attitude set off alarm bells. At first, “It was refreshing to see a former part of my life being discussed outside the cloistered walls of academia and in the wider context of the world," Nguyen said. But after multiple conversations with Weinstein and watching how he interacted with his fans, Nguyen says he realized none of it was "consistent with my image of how a good-faith scientist engages with his audience." 

Many scientists do in fact unveil their work before peer review on popular sites such as arXiv. However, they do it in paper form (“preprints”) and with the goal of submitting their ideas to the wider community for approval or rejection. Authors do have to have an endorsement from someone in academia to post on arXiv, specifically, but in theory that shouldn’t have been an insurmountable obstacle for Weinstein; du Sautoy has posted several papers to arXiv. Besides that, papers can be posted anywhere, even a dedicated website as Weinstein has now done.

“Even if the physics isn't interesting, this story does say interesting things about the science. Einstein wrote up his ideas [and] submitted them for peer review just like everyone else―but many self-described ‘outsiders’ portray the scientific community as a closed shop,” Easther told Motherboard. “There is undoubtedly ‘sociology’ at work in the community at times, but anyone making a serious attempt to sell a new idea knows they are asking for busy people to give them a slice of their time and attention―and one of the ways you do that is by making your work as accessible as possible to the people you want to understand it.”

Releasing a paper did not silence the critics. Nor did it vindicate Weinstein’s PR-focused approach to sharing his theory. And all of this may well end up being rather pointless, because the paper ends with disclaimer that Weinstein "is not a physicist and is no longer an active academician, but is an Entertainer and host of The Portal podcast." The paper, the disclaimer ends, is merely a “work of entertainment.”

Now that Weinstein has finally published a paper describing his theory, it’s entirely possible that further analysis and investigation may show it to be more interesting than its critics have so far found. As Weinstein said on Rogan’s podcast, “I’ll find out [if] I’m wrong.”

But for now, it seems the only relevant question is: Are we entertained? 

Eric Weinstein Says He Solved the Universe’s Mysteries. Scientists Disagree syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[yeoldontknow]

It Was The Night: 3

Author’s Note: i hope you all are enjoying this little story <3 i know its short and slow going but still! happy chanvember! Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: drama; historical au; suspense; romance Rating (this chapter): PG Word Count: 2,070

III.

For the rest of the month, very little occurred that would cause one to be suspect of anything untoward within the walls of the opera. The days began to blur into one endless stream of music, costumes, and rehearsals, each the same as the last. Having turned seventeen with almost no pomp and circumstance, and priding myself on a rather mature sense of pragmatism, I very nearly forgot the incident altogether. 

The fault, in my mind, was in the trick of the light and the general uneasiness one falls victim to when walking alone in dark corridors. In this resolve, I was resolute, moving through the opera house without any sort of fear, wholly unplagued by the memory. 

Even still, as the thoughts of shadows moved through my mind, I found it impossible to replicate their motions with the flames of my candles. When each bit of darkness is unique, each sway of light singular and fleeting, how then can one prove they had seen anything at all? I deemed this memory a fallacy of youth, the last bit of my childhood fading as I moved towards womanhood, letting it die as I did memories of my emotional turmoil throughout puberty.

This was, of course, until the day a rather mysterious, five act opera appeared on the seat reserved for our illustrious conductor.

Morning rehearsals had barely just commenced, each choral member still shaking away the full shapes of our yawns, when Monsieur Letrouc shouted in a rage at the mess. We all bristled, I especially, at the thought of a manuscript left unaccounted for, or, at the very least, left about and carelessly forgotten. Sheet music for an opera, we were taught, is akin to the bible, something holy and therefore sacred. Such a thing is a guide, all answers contained within its dictation, and to leave it so recklessly behind is a cardinal sin of theatrical production.

While we waited for its owner to stake claim, Monsieur Letrouc’s brow furrowed from anger and disdain, to confusion, a bewildered sort of expression making haste along his features. Glancing over its cover, and even at its thickness, we soon realized this was not, as we assumed, the music for Les Abencérages but instead something different, and unexpected, altogether.

Penned by man named Aeon Smith and based on the tragedy of Antigone, it was regarded with much skepticism and laughter throughout the corps for being ‘terribly presumptuous,’ and assumed to be ‘absolute drivel by a first time writer.’ No one had ever heard search a name, not even the international members within the orchestra who hailed from London. This was a man born of obscurity, and was audaciously presenting his work to the most renowned corps in the country. We called him ignorant, we called him foolish, but soon we all were forced to wear the blush of embarrassed prejudice in the wake of the music.

On a spot of daring wit, one of the chamber string players took a page from Haemon’s death, tearing it from the script with raucous glee, and stood in the center of the stage with a wicked grin. At once, he made every effort for the performance to toe precariously on the line of the absurd. Though, try as he might, it was simply impossible to render the exquisite brilliance of the piece anything apart from perfection. With just one page, the orchestra had become lost in a wave of emotion and we were rendered into silence. There wasn’t much deliberation after that, it was simply agreed upon that this would be our show and we were swiftly given new lines to learn.

It was assumed the music was delivered by a night messenger from an English writer, with such a name as Smith we could only assume this was the nature of its origins. Whispers from the choir girls alluded to a member of the kitchens having composed such delights, while the boys each boasted to having written it themselves once alone and separated from their friends, scratching the notes into parchment by candlelight. I believed neither of such accounts, and instead took to obsessing over the memory of my shadowed angel.

Looking back, I do not know why I titled him as such. Perhaps, it was his lack of an origin that persuaded me to call him so, though I daresay there was a sort of divine truth in the name. In the end, I think my essence called to him, named him as my own before I had ever set eyes upon his face.

In those early days, logic told me there was no such person, but then where else could an opera, with such an unusual writer as Aeon Smith, come into existence? I had the pieces but was completely without the ability to connect them. Conclusions were drawn from one to the next without any thought to their sheer impossibilities. The script was far too clean and precise to have been written by a child, the pages free from stray porridge stains. In my mind, the biggest clue was that the tale was far too romantic to spawn from the dreary, unfeeling heart of an Englishman. Eventually, I decided that its parentage was of little import to me and what mattered most was that it existed, and, therefore, required the length of our souls in its performance.

In a sense, I was devout to this opera, and, thus, devout to Aeon Smith.

Soon after rehearsals commenced, I began to experiment with the bending of rules and the thrill of teenage rebellion. On one particular evening, I snuck out of the bed chambers with Jacqueline, Charlotte, and a publicly mild mannered girl named Annessa. There was such excitement to be had from slipping beneath the watchful eye of Madame Catherine, the pull of adult whim tugging gently on our fingers. It was fleeting, these sensations, but we chased after the temptation of autonomy with bare feet and flushes at our cheeks. Our favourite private insurrection was, as one would assume, the performance hall.

As members of the chorus, none among our group very talented ballet dancers neither were we full members of the corps, we were regulated to the sides of the stage for the full run of an opera. At night, with only the dim glow of an oil lamp as our spotlight, we would stand in its center. With my eyes closed, I could imagine the adoring eyes of an audience, the weight of an aria burning at the rim of my diaphragm. This was where I was meant to sing my prayers, before red velvet chairs, beneath the glory of a crystal chandelier. The gold of the room always drew me in, wrapped tightly around my breath to keep me fixed in a permanent state of awe.

Annessa, never one to admire the beauty or importance of cherished spaces, took to the very center with an eagerness that bordered on aggression and began to sing, loudly, the aria of Antigona’s death. 

It was the only role in the entire opera we could even attempt to sing, the character written for that of a soprano. As not all of us had yet completed the trials of puberty, we were still viewed as half-formed singers, the lower end of the musical scales still perilously out of our reach. Though Ismene had, in my opinion, far more challenging and bewitching arias written for her character, Antigona was the only option for our group to idly learn. Yet, Annessa sang with such boisterous enthusiasm I found myself scowling in the heart of my sanctuary.

‘That is not how it’s meant to be sung,’ I shouted, stopping her in the middle of the aria. At my sides, my fingers were tense, twitching in irritation at her seeming indifference to the character’s lament.

‘Sorry?’ she asked, bewildered. She rounded on me with a hiss through grit teeth. Yet, she did not intimidate me.

‘Antingona is about to die, she knows this fully,’ I explained gently. ‘She has disobeyed her uncle most egregiously, and has now been sentenced to be walled into a cave. At best, she would be reflective. Mostly, she would be sad, yet proud of her choices. She cremated her brother, defied the law, and loved with all her heart. So young and so in love with Haemon, mourning the future she will never have with him. And so, there is no happy ending. She sees Creon for who he really is, and absolutely cannot come to terms with the truth.’

I paused to bite my bottom lip and continued in a more resolved, severe tone, one I had never affixed to my voice.

‘There is no space for triumph here. I’ve never been one for grief, but I do understand mortality.’ 

It felt like a relief, saying it, letting her know that she had completely missed the point of the opera, the music, Aeon Smith himself. My thoughts and feelings had felt like a secret which was now being poorly kept, and I was grateful for the admission.

‘Well, if you’re so clever why don’t you sing it?’ Annessa challenged, finally, the sneer in her voice not going unnoticed by me, and likely the others.

I shall never know what sort of bravery possessed me the moment I accepted her demand, and only looking back now I can almost point towards the exhaustion of restraining my sudden, teenage competitive nature. In the end, I believe wanted this moment, wanted the pride, wanted the sin of it all - wanted, more than anything, to let the Godless city into my veins for once and for all. I took to the center of the stage with delight pulling at my shoulders, lifting my posture and with memories of a boasting Father Ezekiel lingering like phantoms in the back of the theatre.

And so I sang, with full voice and relaxed palms, jaw loosely set and diaphragm open. The words came easily, memorized through repetition in rehearsals and their natural cadences. As I sang, every act on stage became tangible. Soaked into my hands was the blood of my slain brother; before me, my young groom, with dagger in hand, visible only through a fissure of stones. My heart ached with closeted familial betrayal, and my tongue burned with the words I wanted to shout, at France and at God:

Do not believe that you alone can be right. The man who thinks that, The man who maintains that only he has the power To reason correctly, the gift to speak, to soul–– A man like that, when you know him, turns out empty.

I kept singing, wishing I could cry for all my losses and all my future gains, the vitriol pouring out of me in a deluge, much akin to flood.

You’ll never see me taken in by anything vile.

And then, with wide eyes, I saw the shadow looming in the dark at the top of the third level balcony. I remembered my ghost, my shadow in the mirror, and suddenly felt a surge of elation. Here now was proof and not just for my own eyes!

Immediately I stopped singing turning back to my friends, gesticulating vigorously into the dark, just beyond the glow of the oil lamps.

‘Look, in the balcony! The opera ghost!’

They all ran to me, squinting in the direction of my finger and I smirked, fully prepared to clarify the proof of childish, erroneous tales. But when I looked back, there remained only the night, with no welcome shadow to put conviction to my name. My friends laughed the entire way back to our quarters, laughed at my eagerness, my foolishness, my sudden, unpredicted turn towards belief. I’d never once scorned a shadow but, on that evening, I wanted the dark to wither beneath my feet.

The following morning there was a folded piece of parchment, sealed in blood red wax, placed directly in the center of the recital hall. As our conductor opened it, his brow grew over more into a concerned furrow and his eyes, upon completion of his read, bore into mine with tremendous distaste.

He read aloud:

‘By order of Aeon Smith, Y/F/N Y/L/N is to play the role of Antigona. There shall be no exceptions.’

[class-of-its-own]

BEHIND THE MIND OF AN ENFANT TERRIBLE IN YACHTING

Coined l'enfant terrible in the super yacht industry for his somewhat controversial and daring designs, it is time to delve into the mind of Alexander McDiarmid, whose creativity is constantly at the forefront to outdo the norm and whose 3 ½ year old son is his biggest critic. Is it a case of the good, the bad and the ugly, or simply genius? We let you decide.

Who is Alexander McDiarmid in your own words? A humble design merchant serving his clients as a purveyor of creativity.

Who is Alexander McDiarmid to the outside world? “Beautiful designs.” “Incredible design from an incredible designer. Truly spectacular.” Some might say audacious. You have to be if you want to achieve anything great in life.

When did you know you were a born designer? I had an early Montessori education and remember overhearing the teacher talking with my mother regarding something that I had created that day. Later on, brilliant high school teachers who encouraged and pushed me. Industrial design is in the middle of the art and science spectrum so it made sense to study the subject.

Where does your creativity stem from? They say the creative adult is the child who survived. As the son of an engineer and private chef, I was always reading about how things work, drawing with my father’s drafting equipment and building things, all while watching beautiful, edible creations come to life.

Five words to describe your design style/ethos. I don’t have a style. That’s five words. Designers should not follow trends especially not for superyacht design. 

"Take pride in your work and set yourself apart from the rest. Trends fade, style lasts."

Do you think your personal or professional parcours has shaped who you are? Absolutely and you are continually shaped by your environment and experiences both professional and personal. Long standing industry friends who have and continue to be with me from the start of which I am very grateful for their continued influence, help and guidance.

What rocks your boat in terms of design? Not necessarily yachting related… I love aviation design, fast jets in particular, military and civil design. Car design, futurism, absolute crisp graphic design and beautiful furniture design. I find angles, surfaces, details and symmetry exciting yet all very soothing.

Who branded you with “enfant terrible” and do you think you are? A Canadian luxury lifestyle journalist based in Shanghai, Stephan Luc Larose. He was one of the first journalists to see my early concepts and feature them in a Chinese yachting article. Shortly afterwards Michael Howorth of Superyacht News amongst others and it stuck. It is a label but very humbling at the same time. I guess it’s a reflection of my work in what is still a very conservative yachting industry. A rebel with a design cause you could say.

What is your stance of the yacht designs we currently see at sea? We are in a sea of utter mediocrity with regards to the majority of current yacht design. While there are some gems out there they remain few and far between. I’m always curious to see the differences in exterior design and styling solutions by Naval Architects and Industrial Designers. You cannot command both disciplines and expect great results yet sadly it occurs all too often. When you read certain comments in the yachting press you can perhaps see why many yachts look the same: I try to repeat some details that I’m particularly fond of but give them a new twist and make a little change here and there to make it more original and ensure that the clients feel that they’re getting something completely different. The continued selling of on-spec, usually white or beige, same-as-it-ever-was yachts to repeat customers seem to be the only profiles that regularly move and keep the industry afloat. With the arrival of M/Y A and more recently S/Y A these are true bespoke superyachts in every sense of the word. Not just for their LOA or size as is often the case, but fresh design thinking by their brave, innovative and visionary owner. They are by no means to everybody’s taste but that really does not matter.

Name one factor that makes your projects unique or is their unique selling point? I’m very lucky to have an imagination and often just joining the dots by making relevant connections.

What is the next step in yacht design? Introduction and integration of the new and next generation of owners who will bring their visions of yacht design to the industry. It is the job of the designer to provide intelligent solutions for their clients and even the most adventurous designs can be regulated. Reading a recent interview with one of the main brokerage companies who in describing the next generation of new build owners concluded:

"They like daring designs, and they don't want to own a yacht like their grandad’s."

What’s your favourite yacht design to date? The one we are currently working on. It’s pretty. And daring.

Who loves/loathes your designs? My son. At 3 ½ years old you will not find a more honest design critic. However it has always been and continues to be a succinctly love or hate reaction to my work. I have heard that there are some traditionalists in the yachting industry but things are changing.

Ecological yachts - your take on them? I don’t think we will ever see a true ecological yacht if you think about the materials that go into the construction. It’s clever ‘Green Marketing’ industry wide but we do need cleaner propulsion and stricter sustainability in material choices. They say 25-30 years for electric aviation solutions so a similar time for yacht propulsion. You cannot rush chemistry in terms of battery technology so we are still a long way off from being able to power and propel a 100m+ superyacht by battery alone.

If you could have any yacht in the world, which one would it be and why? If I could be an owner for the day only… Christina O, the original superyacht and to sit at ‘Ari's Bar’, created by the original superyacht owner. She was originally a WWII anti-submarine River-class frigate. True visionary, conversion thinking for the time by her owner, old school elegance.

What in your mind are the key amenities any yacht should have? Owning a yacht should be fun above all else. Amenitiessuch as light, space, volume, comfort, privacy, relaxation should contribute to this enjoyment. Heli deck, beach deck, wellness area, submarine and a well stocked tender garage of toys. Dare I say some real innovation too?

Client vs Designer or Designer vs Client? Client is always King & Queen. It will always be their yacht design project. But a designer must have the crucial ability to say ‘No’ to their clients if needed. If the laws of physics or manufacturing dictate something cannot be done… Find a solution.

What do you do to make the world a better place?

For the design world I try to give younger designers their first experience and opportunity in the industry. I remember that feeling landing my first design job and starting my career. For the real world, Aix-en-Provence is a very wealthy society bubble and with this comes a lot of homelessness. We regularly bring food and water to those who need it especially during the current heatwave. In general I am a stickler for recycling also.

Outside of the realm of design, what do you enjoy? My wonderful wife and our family time. Watching our two young, bilingual children growing up, their creativity astounds me. Also cooking. We have beautiful fresh, local and seasonal ingredients here in the South of France. The French really know how to live well.

Your favourite spot in the world? Our ‘Mas’ home set amongst the olive and almond groves of Provence. We are on the ‘Route des vins’ and spoilt for choice with Côtes de Provence.

What is one question you would like to be asked, that has yet to be asked and what is the answer? Do you have a design hero? Industrial Designer Raymond Loewy for the magnitude of his design projects across a variety of industries. He dreamed big and made the 20th Century beautiful.

www.alexandermcdiarmid.com

For more information contact Natalia Langsdale of Bright Creativity.

[themadameditor]

When you take in the whole of this tightly curated and uniquely displayed exhibition and examine the sum of its parts, one thing will always remain, it will leave you utterly spellbound. The simplicity and mastery of Balenciaga remain unparalleled, it leaves you with a feeling reserved for a particular time, one that is captured in the essence of this exhibition, that traps you in this space of sheer brilliance seeping from every window you stop and look at. It holds you there. Cristobal Balenciaga swung between two worlds, where opposites came together to fashion something astounding. Bold and simple, daring and cautious… you could almost see the designer examine the restraints on the one end whilst letting his imagination run wild on the other- its the exaggeration of sleeves, the ballooning of a hem, or the simplicity of a black dress in a sack fit.

His skill was in every aspect of the garment making process, from designing to cutting to tailoring, he mastered every one of them but his starting point was always the fabric.

It’s the fabric that decides

This is the reason he was able to shock with his simple yet audacious pieces over the years, working with the exquisite fabrics in Europe often, specifically, France, Italy and the UK. The impracticality of the envelope dress meant it was a hit with the press but performed terrible commercially. No matter, he included it in his first retrospective in 1970. He was painstakingly exacting in his designs, often making alterations to his atelier’s work, and had a thing for sleeves, for him they were fundamental to the fit of a garment, if the sleeves weren’t right the whole process was started again. Looking at the exhibition, one immediately understands that sexiness was not at the root of his designs, he was about the construction and the fabric, it is no surprise he pioneered many a free flowing silhouettes: the sack, the semi fit, and the perfect loose fit amongst others. At his heart, its almost as if he meant for women to be first comfortable and then everything else falls into place. His many influences besides the fabric is tied to his faith, some of his designers were ecclesiastical, his Spanish roots run deep to his mind’s eye, flamenco and bull fighting. This was not geared towards populism or commercialism, rather it was about so much more than selling clothes, a dangerous thing for any desgner, to jettison the commercial aspect of their clothing, but somehow Balenciaga got his clients and got to do what he loved for fifty years. He transports us back to another time, to his ateliers in San Sebastian and Paris as we watch X-ray images of the clothes takes us into the detail, deep into the seams to see the manipulation of how the pieces come together. This is about craftsmanship and skill and utter brilliance.

Cristobal Balenciaga was born in 1895 in Gertaria in the Basque region of Northern Spain. From a young age he was introduced to fashion by his mother who was a seamstress and at age twelve started his apprenticeship in San Sebastian where he opened his first boutique a decade later in 1917. He lived through world and civil wars, which affected his business, had to close his atelier in San Sebastian because of the conflict, lost a partner which was most certainly at odds with his faith as a devout catholic for that era, and was a designer for the greater part of his life. A life he was extremely reticent about; in all that time he only gave one interview the year before his death in 1972. All of this only adds mystery to his legacy.

The upstairs of the museum hosts designers who were influenced by works of Balenciaga most impressive of which I found to be Hussein Chalayan, Nicholas Ghesquiere, Gareth Pugh too. It is easy to see his influence through the ages but Balenciaga remains head and shoulders above the rest. His vision was far superior even today his work is principled and singular and this exhibition shows it which is why we are in a hurry to return to the intimate salon downstairs to be amongst his creations, most of which were donated by private clients, look little closer, feel a little more. His legacy remains unsullied even as his fashion house, revived in the 90s, has become more commercial it doesn’t blur the lines here, this is pure unadulterated talent, raw and superior, of an old master allowed to revel in his brilliance.

Go see this, you won’t regret it.

Balenciaga; Shaping Fashion, showing at the V&A in South Kensington until February 2018

London | Balenciaga @ The V&A | Simplicity At Its Finest When you take in the whole of this tightly curated and uniquely displayed exhibition and examine the sum of its parts, one thing will always remain, it will leave you utterly spellbound.

[theworstbob]

the thing journal, 6.25-7.1

capsule reviews of the things i attempted to take in last week. in this post: super! pop psychology! oxymoron! crush! beyonce! fake sugar! ctrl! 45 jokes about my dead dad! southsiders! the retrieval! before sunset!

1) Super, dir. James Gunn: A film I think about a lot is Observe & Report. That is an insane film that people were actually given money to make, and it's insane because it plunges deep, deep inside the mind of this psychotic man who thinks he's the one standing between order and chaos, and it's great for that reason, because it doesn't shy away from the ludicrous darkness of that crazy, crazy person. The only way this film is worth watching is if this film takes an Observe & Report-deep look at the motivations of its protagonist, and it doesn't come anywhere close to being that audacious. But this film is dealing with a deeply crazy person, a man who dresses in spandex and beats people with a pipe wrench, and it needed to treat that person like a crazy person, not like a hero. When Ellen Page (the absolute highlight of this film) starts taking it too far, Rainn Wilson can't suddenly pull back, the film either needs to show how he encouraged that wanton violence or have him standing to the side, beaming at the great work his protege is doing. Like, the Crimson Bolt is aware on some level that what he's doing is wrong, and the film doesn't work precisely because the character has that awareness. Not the worst film I've seen all year (I was lurking in a Twitch stream (this one, it’s dope) last night where people in the chat were defending Sausage Party and I swear to Christ I was ten deep breaths away from getting myself banned for yelling at them for their bad opinion), but definitely a bummer.

2) Pop Psychology, by Neon Trees: this was a good album. you know the thing about listening to a three-year-old pop album, though? regular soda pop has an expiration date of three months. but it's not like pop really goes bad, it just kinda falls flat, so if you were to ever drink a three-year-old soda pop, it'd still have that same coke taste, it just wouldn't have the bubbles, wouldn't have that texture. and it's not this album's fault i let it expire, we've been over this, i wasn't doing my part in the mid-tens, if i got this fresh out the fridge i'd have much fonder memories (insofar as anyone remembers a specific soda, and not the general memory of drinking soda pop on summer nights). but this wasn't really designed to be consumed three years after production, and that's too bad, neon trees always made really solid pop music, and i'm sure they could've made something truly dope if they put their minds to it. pop ain't bad, though.

3) Oxymoron, by ScHoolboy Q: Gang life is a nightmare and this is an album that puts those nightmarish aspects at the fore. Like, one of my favorite albums of last year, The Game's 1992, didn't necessarily shy away from the horrors of the life, but it also coated over them with the '90s nostalgia, The Game occasionally getting lost remembering listening to 2Pac and Dre and thinking about the OJ trial, whereas this album says "No, this sucks," with these loud and jarring beats and Q's constant growling painting a portrait of the violence and the constant anger one experiences being caught in that life. It's a notably unique vision, but more importantly, it's honestly a joy to listen to, it's an exceedingly dark album but it never feels like a burden, Q is still making music that is meant to be enjoyed and not just pondered over. It's awesome. All of you who've already listened to it should strongly consider giving it another spin.

4) Crush, by 2NE1: I said I wanted to explore the music of 2014. I said I needed to get caught up on the music that wasn't made by white dudes with guitars. I wanted to travel the world. This showed up on the list of notable 2014 releases. So: here we are! Though like let's be real the only difference between this and any other pop music is the language, and even then, I'm sure 2NE1 is saying nice things about love or mean things about a former lover. I thought this three-year-old K-pop album was very nice, and I do not regret listening to it! Than you, K-pop! We'll catch up again when I get to 2011 and the attendant Girls' Generation release

5) Beyonce: the album everyone said was very good that whirlwind night in 2014 was abso-goddamn-lutely right. like, i'm not gonna go too in-depth because you could read any number of thinkpieces and the album is, in a word, flawless, but it's kind of a bummer for me that the consensus is that Lemonade is better than this. I think Lemonade's more ambitious and deals with more personal issues, but, and I will say this a billion times before I eventually abandon this series where I try to talk about anything, heartbreak and sadness are not inherently deeper emotions than love and happiness. Like, "Daddy Lessons" is the best song on either album bar none (and even that's a jubilant sort of fuck you), but there's at least five songs on here that are better than the second-best song on Lemonade. Don't try and tell me "XO" ain't better than "Hold Up." Things that are about nice things are good, y'know? That's just how I feel.

6) Fake Sugar, by Beth Ditto: I can't believe I nearly forgot to include this album. Like, I had the other ten bitlets written, I was ready to copy+paste into the tumblr text field, and I said, "Didn't I listen to something really cool while trapped on the bus on Wednesday?" and I looked in my recents and THERE WAS THIS. THIS GODDAMNED TOWER OF SYNTHPOP MASTERY. I was intrigued by this album because the AV Club's preview said it had a Nashvilley sound to it, and I'm like, hey, I'm down for something vaguely country, and like. This isn't? country? But it's just like insanely good, like I was just blown away, I hadn't expected it to be epic soaring synthpop but epic soaring synthpop is my jam and I was there for it. (It should be noted that I hadn't actually heard of Gossip before like two weeks ago, and now I'm really stoked to sink into their back catalogue once I get out of 2014.)

7) Ctrl, by SZA: "this album is so good in ways i'll never be able to properly articulate," bob said for the hundreth time, relaxing after another bitlet well wroted flew from his hands into the eyes of ones Like, just the way it gets slowly more surreal as the album proceeds, SZA, like, I dunno, gliding in and out of this dream state while still keeping just in touch with reality enough that she never goes too far out of grasp? Look I'm not smart, I'm not gonna pretend I know what I'm talking about after just a couple listens, I just know it's heckin' great and well worth your time. It's so dope, and I feel like I'm failing this album by not coming up with anything substantive to say about it. We got, what, six deep into this post before I apologized to some entity or another for not being able to properly express my love? New PB. We'll get that perfect post one day.

8) 45 Jokes About My Dead Dad, by Laurie Kilmartin: it says a lot about my sensibility that i knew i'd be into this album the second i saw this album title, like hell yeah, i am in here for all these jokes about your dead dad, HIT ME. i am a fan of jokes about dead parents. it's an incredible album, like, there's a joke where her son asks her why everyone at the funeral is sad and she says it's because they're at a funeral and her son asks "are you sad because i'm not playing Minecraft?" while reaching for her phone and that joke sent me soaring above the tallest remaining rainforest where i mingled with the clouds and the other blessed creatures, and it maybe cracks the top ten. it's so good! like, i legit listened to it twice in a row, that was something where i knew i missed so much from laughing too hard. good work and sorry about your dad.

9) Southsiders, by Atmosphere: Whenever I feel disconnected from Minneapolis, I remember that I live in the same city as the Rhymesayers offices and reroot myself. I will cop to not being that deep in the Rhymesayers catalogue, but knowing my local music scene makes vital and lasting records means a lot to me, and the main thing that keeps me from moving to another city, apart from the fact I don't drive, is that I'll never feel as close to whatever music that city makes as I do to Atmosphere. This isn't really a review insofar as it's me writing a love letter to Atmosphere.

10) The Retrieval, dir. Chris Eska: Dear MUBI, either I'm blind or there were no subtitles available for this film, and if there WERE no subtitles, I am hella available to offer transcription services for you. (I am not a professional transcriptor and have not transcribed anything before, don't hire me.) 'Cuz hoo boy, these were some mumbly, mumbly people. You can figure out what's going on because the plot isn't terribly complex (it's vaguely reminiscent of the single-greatest achievement in filmmaking history, Brother Bear) and all involved are giving wonderful performances, you don't necessarily need to hear Scruffy tell Band of Outsiders "He's a good kid." It communicates its story visually, and that's a dumb thing to say about a movie, but I'm dumb at movies so heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

11) Before Sunset, dir. Richard Linklater: I'm going to be referring to this as my favorite fantasy film of all time. NUTS TO YOU, PRISONER OF AZKABAN. (I don’t watch much fantasy.) The first film does have some plausibility, and it probably even actually happened, you spend one magical night with someone and spend the rest of your life thinking about them. I remain convinced that my soulmate was this girl I hung out with at a Cub Foods family picnic the summer before seventh grade. (An Atmosphere reference and a Cub Foods shout-out. This is a Minnesota-ass journal this week.) But there's no chance that you'd ever actually see that person again, so this film, about two people who have spent nearly a decade thinking about each other and letting that inform their lives, letting the love from that night sort of ruin the way they looked at love, seeing each other again is roughly as implausible as an orc. And it's that layer of fantasy that makes this a much more fulfilling movie than the first one. It's not just two twenty-somethings in love, it's two thirty-somethings who've lived and loved and hurt and now have an hour and change to express everything they've been thinking about the source of that life and love and pain for the last decade. And it's beautiful, like, I wanna have the scene where they talk about desire and goals and process playing on an infinite loop on some screen in my house. ("Isn't not wanting anything a symptom of depression?") I'm way more psyched to get to Before Midnight after this than I was for this after Before Sunrise.