#tiling sunshine coast

[bathroom-renovation-queensland]

Licensed Tiling, Waterproofing, Carpentry and Bathroom Renovation Contractor Queensland

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[urbnroofing]

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[numberonesublimestarlight]

https://www.carpetcleaningaura.com.au/

[brightaireservices]

Do you have a tiled commercial kitchen, bathroom or public area that requires regular professional tile & grout cleaning on the Sunshine Coast? Brightaire Property Services can clean your tiles & grout outside of regular business hours to ensure there is no interruption to your commercial operations.

[1800titz]

The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin. 

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places. 

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter. 

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals. 

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents. 

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes. 

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.” 

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder. 

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band. 

“Can I grab you another?” 

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip. 

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth. 

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?” 

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice. 

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures. 

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc. 

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation. 

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth. 

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again. 

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split. 

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation. 

It’s a different story behind the door. 

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges. 

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?” 

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again. 

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together. 

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.” 

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.” 

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.” 

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway. 

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet. 

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters. 

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing. 

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to. 

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana. 

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.” 

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph. 

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough. 

Eventually. 

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat. 

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock. 

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry. 

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.” 

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing. 

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head. 

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini. 

[brighter-by-the-daly]

Rachel Daly x Reader

Right Person, Wrong Time

Part of the Beth McCarthy mini song series

She Gets the Flowers

But she gets the flowers, right?

The posts made about her

A love that is perfect, a love I deserved, yeah

A love that I gave

I got excuses and you got to use this

Leave me in the dust with nothing and just walk away

But she gets the flowers, right?

You hate horrors but being out voted by the rest of the squad meant film night was a terrifying ordeal at best. Scattered around the room on bean bags and blow up chairs were the England senior squad on our last night before leaving for the Sunshine Coast. Determined to stay awake as long as possible so we’d all sleep on the plane we had gathered all the sweets, cake and ice cream we could find out of chef’s kitchen before curling up in the games room. After Millie snatched your phone away earlier for distracting yourself from the gorey scenes with Candy Crush you were left with no option other than to give the film your full attention. Either that or count the tiles on the ceiling. You had tried to make an exit when you were out voted but being promptly sat on by Mary meant you were forced against your will to participate in film night. The snacks sort of made it worth it and the movie was kinda bareable until it got dark and they refused to turn the lights on. The thought of sleeping alone tonight was unbearable as you hid behind your cushion.

“FUCK OFF!” screaming and launching your pillow of comfort in their direction after being jump scared by Rachel and Millie.. again! More like daly annoyance than daly brightness! They found it absolutely hilarious sneaking up on you and as they dodged your pillow flying towards them with the camera rolling, your patience had worn out causing you to storm out. They knew you were scared and still played pranks on you, the worst friends a girl could have! There’s never a dull moment with them around but you hated being the butt of their silly jokes.

Earning your caps one after the other in 2016 meant you’d been firm friends throughout your senior careers and undoubtedly this World Cup will probably be your last all together. You’d been determined to enjoy every moment of it but when making that pledge you did not anticipate it starting with a film that would give you nightmares. You were quite susceptible to bad dreams lately, probably the stress and worry of travelling so far away from home. Living by yourself meant there was no one to comfort you when you awake in cold sweats and that’s probably the worst part of being single.

Your face glowed from the light on your phone, you’d woken up from a nightmare just as you had expected. Groaning at the time being only an hour later from when you flopped onto the mattress, you scoured Facebook trying to make your heartbeat return to normal. When that didn’t work you turned to your trusted Candy Crush, completing a few levels until somebody noticed you’d been recently active on Facebook.

R - Why you awake?

Y - Nightmares

R - Want company?

Y - 🤷🏻‍♀️

Not thinking Rachel would actually come over you grunted at having to get out of bed to answer the gentle knock on the door. Immediately crawling back under the covers and picking up your phone again “why were you awake?” you asked her with a mumble into the duvet. “Nightmares too, it’s very far away from home.. can I?” pointing towards the bed waiting for an invitation to get in. Patting the mattress to give permission she crawled inside the covers pulling you onto her chest and stroking your back. “Sorry for teasing you earlier, we went a step too far” humming in agreement as you continued the level on your game. You weren’t really in the mood for talking but you couldn’t hide the fact you instantly felt better with someone to comfort you. Spending 5 years single since your last relationship meant you missed being held and having skin to skin contact with someone.

A knock at the door awoke you both from your slumber, as Rachel went to answer it Millie’s loud voice made you wince. “OOOOHHH! What’s going on here then?” screeching as she entered the room. “Nothing, we both couldn’t sleep” Rachel dismissed your friend immediately. “Yeah, yeah I’ve heard that before!” she taunted you both, sitting herself down on the bed. You and Rachel had an on/off FWB situation since you first met but when she started dating Kristie and Millie T, that ended, well.. paused. For the most part anyway. You had linked back up again in between relationships (and during, mistakes on both your parts) but nothing ever developed further, just using each other to fill a void that was otherwise missing in your lives. At the time you were both young and neither could give yourselves to each other completely. You were at Arsenal, Rach was in America and you hadn’t hooked up since Millie T came on the scene. You knew how to fit together, no pressing conversations about actual couple drama like bills and schedules. Rachel’s needs were always physical however yours was more emotional and when you found yourself longing to be snuggled up with her whilst with your girlfriend, that’s when you knew nothing was going to work out for you unless it was with Rach.

You had started to find yourself jealous every time Rachel and Kristie posted about each other, then every game Man U won, Rachel would send Millie flowers. You gave her your undivided attention, always wanting a little bit more than she was willing to give you but that didn’t appear to be a problem for Kristie or Millie. The company at night was what you missed the most, knowing that was when your demons reared their ugly heads but when you were with Rach, that didn’t happen - maybe your brain knew something your heart refused to admit at the time. Your relationships just never felt the same, no one gave you the spark that Rachel did and that’s why nothing ever worked out long term for you. Choosing to put your career first rather than finding a mate and deciding you’re destined to be single for the rest of your life. Being held by her last night felt nostalgic no less.

—————

Finally in Australia you were close to falling asleep on the table you were stirring your coffee on when a camera was shoved in your face. “Here’s my roomie!” Rachel shouted, the noise making you cover your ears and delayed processing what she had said. When it finally hit, you jumped up with excitement nearly knocking over your coffee as your hip nudged the table. Squealing with her, pleased you had someone to bunk with you at least knew well enough to make the tournament bareable. The younger players didn’t know what was about to hit them - more rigorous training, tactics coming out their eyeballs, your fans being minimal compared to what’s expected at home. You were pleased you had a friend to share your mutual space with at the end of the day.

Weeks passed into the full swing of the World Cup and England had reached the quarter finals. Taking a midday nap had become custom when the sun was the hottest but you mustn’t have locked the door properly today, realising just as Millie burst in. About to say something before stopping in her tracks and changing her statement to a question. “Rachel, don’t you sleep in your bed?” Looking at both your suitcases dumped on top of the second bed appeared as if it hadn’t been slept in since you got here. The nightmares for both of you had continued since your arrival but you found you always slept better snuggled up together. There was nothing sexual about it, purely the comforting and familiar sense of two people connected one way or another. Rolling over and rubbing her eyes to see Millie stood there with a puzzled look on her face and waiting for a response from either of her best friends. “We don’t have nightmares if we sleep in the same bed so we’re just using that one as a shelf. We need to be well slept, you understand that right Mill?” Rachel informed her best friend. “So you’re not at it again?” her eyes squinty like she was trying to read between the lines something that wasn’t there. “Don’t be ridiculous, with Sarina’s rules? I don’t think so!” Rachel laughed, Sarina had very strict rules when it came to tournaments which even extended to what happened in the bedrooms. “Good because I can’t be dealing with (y/n)‘s heartbreak again” Millie said sporadically throwing herself between the suitcases on the spare bed. You were still facing the other way, not ready to move from your comfortable position on the bed but hearing those words suddenly made your eyes bulge out of your head. Rachel had no idea of the feelings you had for her and it had been that way for 7 years. Her eyebrows furrowed as she dissected what Millie had said. “I broke you heart?” she turned to look at you confused. Millie promptly excused herself after dropping that bomb and swiftly exited the room with a guilty expression. “I thought you knew it was just sex?” her voice soft as she sat back down on the bed. Still facing the opposite direction caused Rachel to nudge you, “hey, look at me” she urged softly as you finally gathered the courage to face the eye contact being shot in your direction. “I did know it was just sex and I was okay with it” which led to being quizzed like you were under investigation, “then why did Millie say you were heartbroken?” Biting the bullet knowing there was no way you were going to wiggle out of this one; “because, I didn’t realise until it was over that for me it was more than that. Nobody else made me feel as safe as you did, that’s why nothing ever worked out for me” you admitted. Sitting cross legged opposite each other she let out a light hearted whimper, “if I’d known that then I would have given us a shot!” she shoved your shoulder gently. “If I’d known that I would have told you!” laughing lightly at your complete blindness to each other’s feelings. “Really?” turning the questioning onto her. “Yeah! They say the best relationships start from friendship and we already know we’re compatible!” now with both of you laughing fully at your admissions.

The talking continued well into the evening, asking why she never acted upon the words you’re hearing now as she explained she didn’t want to spook you. Thinking that the other one only wanted a physical thing rather than a relationship meant you both missed the obvious signs that you clearly wanted each other back then. You were the reason none of her relationships worked out either, admitting that both of you had been searching for each other in other people for 7 years instead of just acknowledging there was more to it than you cared to confess. It was the reason you always came back to each other, you worked in more ways than just one but you were both too blind to see that.

———

Walking around the pitch for your lap of honour after lifting the trophy with your friends, Rach held you back from the rest of the team. With a tug on your arm your pace slowed until you were far enough away for them not hear what was about to be said. “Do you think it’s too late for us?” Rach asked covering her mouth so the cameras couldn’t pick up what she said. “No I don’t think so” you smiled, “actually I think the timing is perfect. I heard you’re moving to Villa too?” turning to look at the confusion in her eyes and nodding when you saw they were searching for the answer in your face - Carla had signed you both meaning for the first time other than national, you’ll both be on the same team.

[fatehbaz]

In the March 1923 issue of National Geographic, a sketch of a tired-looking businessman invites the reader to the Tucson Sunshine-Climate Club. In the accompanying text, Benj. Lowe -- the archetype of the tired, busy, urban, white businessman -- attempts to coax all the other Benj. Lowes out there on the East Coast to recover from their unhealthy lifestyles by spending some time in Tucson, Arizona:

That night, for the first time in his hard-working, rushing life, Lowe came to himself. No vacations for ten years. Heavy responsibilities. Making money? Yes. Now on the verge of breakdown. What was it all worth, anyway? And then his eyes fell on a booklet his worried wife had sent for. It was “Man-Building in the Sunshine-Climate.” …Perhaps you, like Lowe, may find in “Man-Building in the Sunshine-Climate” the clue to robust health.

This form of health tourism began to appear in journal and newspaper advertisements not long after Tucson was originally incorporated as a city, in 1877. A promotional item published in the Arizona Daily Star in 1890 even went so far as to designate Tucson a place to cure serious pulmonary diseases. The rhetoric in these advertisements often framed the Sonoran Desert as “empty,” a place to be “discovered,” as if the Western lands of the continent had remained unoccupied and untouched all along. The process of “Man-Building” advertised by the Sunshine-Climate Club, therefore, carries a double meaning: building oneself and building one’s environment. [...]

With the proliferation of advertisements in magazines such as Ladies Home Journal and Journal of American Medical Association, a large number of [...] tourists [...] arrived to discover what the desert could offer. [...]

Throughout the late-nineteenth and early twentieth century, hospitals, sanatoria, health resorts, and other structures dedicated to medical treatment multiplied throughout the city of Tuscon [...]. These buildings were not in isolation, in the manner of nineteenth-century sanatoria in Europe or New England. Instead, they were open and integrated into the urban fabric [...]. In the late nineteenth century, upstate New York was among the most popular destinations for pulmonary health pilgrimages. With the opening of the Southern Pacific Railroad in 1880, however, towns with dry climates -- whose “pure and dry air … was not subject to severe seasonal changes” -- started bringing in crowds. [...]

Tucson reached its peak as the “health capital” during the 1930s, when the city’s roughly 30,000 residents were joined by about 10,000 health tourists visiting its twenty-one sanatoria, four hospitals, and four luxury hotels during the peak season. [...]

By 1928, Tucson’s planning and zoning commission had developed a new zoning system for such developments. Spatial buffers were instituted for sanatoria to ensure proper ventilation and isolation, dramatically altering the density and porosity of the city. In a residential neighborhood, for example, sanatoria had to be “set back 200 feet from the property line” and could only occupy “20 percent of the lot.” [...]

---

Sanatoria quickly became a refuge only the rich could afford [...].

Tucson’s Desert Sanatorium was a massive complex of eleven buildings built in 1926 spread out over 160 acres. [...] Telescopic devices called radiometers were housed on the roof of the main hospital building, channeling and directing sunlight through small lenses into the treatment rooms and sunbaths below. The sanatorium’s research center, hospital, and nurse’s residences were scattered across the site [...]. Each patient’s room was annexed to a small wooden balcony visible on the façade. Wet spaces were tiled and interiors white-washed, with baseboards curving away from the walls to prevent dust from settling on their surfaces. Window openings or balconies were carved out from the massive, Pueblo-style exterior walls. The Pueblo style also appears in the interior common spaces as Navajo carpets, mural reproductions, and quilts. Patient’s rooms were named after native tribes such as Pima, Papago, and Navajo. [...] The appropriation of indigenous culture and symbols persisted in the visual language of the Desert Sanatorium. One patient handbook came with a postcard featuring an image of a highly cultivated Navajo garden, and a description of the Sanatorium’s services and facilities adorned with sketches of a “teepee,” “rain cloud,” “thunderbird tracks,” “broken arrow,” “mountain range,” and “bear track.” The symbol of eagle feathers is placed alongside the welcome note by the director to denote his status as “chief” of the complex. The last page of the handbook even contains a personal message from the illustrator, in which he wishes that “each little figure brings happiness … and a very quick recovery. May the Great Spirit Bless and Protect you.”

Despite the generous application of native iconography and mythology in the sanatorium’s literature, few measures were taken to actually care for the infected people in local indigenous communities. By the early twentieth century, indigenous communities, along with other poor minority groups in Arizona had the highest rate of tuberculosis in the region. [...] Carlisle Indian School dedicated an issue of [...] [their] magazine to provide news and guidelines to counter the disease. [...] These analyses are accompanied by photographs of the architectural conditions of the buildings. [...] The issue further suggests the American Indians whose lifestyle shifted from the “more sanitary teepee to the one and two-room box house” could not keep up with hygiene. The magazine sought to enable the “medicine man” to cure the sick [...] but not, however, without yielding to an institutional form of governmentality. The narratives [...] yielded to the top-down institutional logic of controlling bodies by prescribing protocols. [...]

---

The disease, then, is not only a medical construct, but is firstly an environmental construct shaped by the climatic imaginaries which, in turn, shapes the urban context. Secondly, it is a social construct that privileges a certain lifestyle and class through its contagion and access to treatment. Lastly, it is a political construct, as it perpetuates the asymmetrical relationship between communities in the eye of the government and institutions. Amid these racial and economic imbrications, architecture is instrumentalized to facilitate institutional agendas. [...] Architecture perpetuates violence against the figure of the other.

---

Text by: Gizem Sivri. “Desert Fever: Harvesting the Sun, Colonizing the Land.” e-flux (Sick Architecture series). December 2020. [Screenshots were edited by me and display only part of the advertisement, which is shown in its entirety in Sivri’s article. Caption is as it appears in Sivri’s article. Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[marypsue]

Hello friends, foes, and followers, time for another Sneak Peek Sunday! As usual, here's an out-of-context teaser from former heroes who quit too late:

...

The gate across the entrance to the pool is shut and locked. But the door into the little office at the entrance is standing wide open.

Dustin gulps audibly as they peer through it. The office is empty. There’s no sign of Heather or Sara or the strawberry blonde girl or any of the other lifeguards. The July issue of Seventeen is facedown on the counter, and there’s a white bottle of something with a wordy label covered in hazard symbols lying open on its side on the carpet. The chlorine stink is strong enough to make Max want to sneeze.

Nothing moves.

“I don’t feel good about this,” Dustin says, as Max ventures into the office a step. No new and astonishing information presents itself.  

“When do you ever feel good about anything?” Lucas shoots back. “And why did you have to drag my sister into this?”

Erica Sinclair sticks out her tongue at him even as Max, privately, agrees. “Worried I’m gonna make your superpowered ass look like a scared, little baby?”

“Will said it was urgent, when he radioed,” Dustin says. “And I wasn’t just going to leave her at my house. Alone. With Russian spies after her.”

Lucas groans, and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else to argue.

“Coast looks clear in here,” Max says, before the boys can find something else to bicker about. “Any sign of Will and El, yet?”

“Here they come,” Mike says, and then starts waving his arms at the road, like he’s guiding a plane in to land instead of waving at two people who definitely know how to get to the pool and can see them all standing outside. It’s Max’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Great. It looks like we can get through here to the actual pool. Come on, they’ll catch up.”

The actual pool, it turns out, is just as dead as the office is. There’s something deeply eerie about being out here, in the middle of a hot summer day, in the baking sunshine, with no one else around. And no sound but the rustle of trees outside the fence, and birdsong, and the odd car passing by, and the quiet slap of the gently-rippling water against the pool’s tiled sides. It’s almost like the whole pool is holding its breath. Waiting for something.

“Anybody else kinda tempted to do a cannonball?” Erica asks. Mike shushes her.

Max isn’t sure what makes her hang back, as the others head inside to the changerooms and the exercise room, talking about how they’re going to trick Heather into the sauna, whether they’re going to bake the Mind Flayer out of her or just find out what it wants, or maybe just find out if it’s really her it’s using at all. At this point, Max is pretty sure it is her, but she doesn’t really need to argue the scientific method with Dustin about it.

She’s not sure why she’s hanging back, staying in the sunlight, in the open air, to be able to hear the sound from the storage shed. But she is. And she does.

“Guys?” Max says.

She doesn’t think any of the others hear her. Lucas and Dustin are busily bickering about how the temperature controls on a sauna work, both of them talking over each other. They’ll be outright yelling in a second, despite Will’s attempts to referee – or maybe just egg them on. Max is never entirely sure with Will. El’s already disappeared around the corner into the building, with Mike close behind her.

“Guys!” Max tries, one more time, a little louder, before heading for the shed.

The sun must have passed behind a cloud or something, because the brilliance of the light fades a little as Max approaches the shed. The sky doesn’t get any less blue and blinding overhead, but all the colours around Max darken, ever so faintly, the shadows getting softer and less sharp in contrast. A little of the heat seems to leak out of the sunlight beating down on her back, making her shiver in the barest breath of breeze. Somewhere in the woods around the pool, a single cricket or grasshopper chirps almost frantically, before suddenly falling silent.

As she gets closer, Max can see that the storage shed door is ever so slightly ajar. The stink of chlorine is burning the inside of her nostrils again.

The sound that had made Max come investigate comes again. A sort of wet, rattling gasp, half-choked. This time, Max is sure it’s coming from inside the shed. It’s awful to listen to.

It sounds like somebody’s dying in there.

Max’s feet drift to a stop, just before they would have carried her around the door to where she could see through the inch or so it’s cracked open. To where who or whatever’s in there could see her.

She considers calling out for the others again. And quickly decides against it. They might not hear her. But whatever’s in there definitely will.

Slowly, cautiously, tensed and ready to spring back at a moment’s notice, Max starts to lean around the storage shed door –

And nearly jumps out of her skin when a voice behind her says, “Max?”

“Jesus!” Max claps a hand over her pounding heart as she whirls to face Lucas. “Holy shit, stalker, way to give a girl a heart attack -”

And then the door swings abruptly back, a rough grip grabs her upper arm, and she’s yanked off her feet and sideways into the storage shed.

[candm-brittany-2023]

Friday 8th April

We woke up to lovely sunshine. We had to get the boat out of the marina by 10.30hrs due to the falling tide and to prevent us getting stuck in for the day. We took the opportunity to fuel up in the outer harbour. There is now only a single small pontoon to tie up on by the fuel station. Very uncomfortable, it being slammed against the wall with the swell. Carol fell over, but thankfully unscathed. We are allowed to moor up on the outside walk-ashore pontoons for as long as we want, so as we didn’t want to leave until 13.45hrs (tides and currents) we tied up and went ashore for some lunch.

This is what the sill looks like from the other side.

We set off as planned. Goodbye St. Peter Port, see you in 11ish weeks. We had a lovely crossing, the currents giving us at times a 2 knot helping hand.

After an hour we were at Corbière lighthouse where last time (5 years ago, on our way home) we were in very big seas. So much easier this time 😃

We followed the south coast of Jersey to St. Helier, so familiar to us now.

This was our trip.

And there we were again, on the holding pontoon waiting for the tide to come in so we could get over the sill.

There was a French boat on the pontoon beginning to leave, and we realised he was probably off to St. Malo. It dawned on us that we could have gone straight there. There is no hurry, but the weather gets worse and worse here on in, and it’s likely that we will be in Jersey for potentially 10 days. Too long. What if we managed to go tomorrow, before the bad weather? Strong winds aren’t a problem on the canals. Hm🤔.

Okay. If we go tomorrow it’ll be in the afternoon and we won’t arrive until 17.30hrs our time, 18.30hrs French time. We have to submit our ‘Port of Entry’ customs form on line 24 hours before. We had time. We had done the prep for this in the library in St. Peter Port, but we still needed to send the forms now that we had a date. When we sent them, they bounced back. We took the email addresses from a reliable website, but one of the addresses had a - instead of a . it took 90 stressful minutes before we discovered the error. At last the forms were submitted.

It was a lovely evening. We walked in to St.Helier and went to a cracking pub pub. The Lamplighter. No food, they just specialised in 8 hand pull beers and ciders and literally 100s of whiskies, brandies and armagnacs. They even had the rugby on!

We walked back to the boat and ate on board. We had a game of Mexican Train, which was a bit of a challenge with the size of our table. The tiles did all fit on, just!

[cbtroofingau]

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[concretis]

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[aussiecarpetcleaning]

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[colorbond-roofing-online]

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[celebsaggers]

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