if i look back, i am lost
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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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@theartofmadeline
occasionally subtle
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@zinaidas
She was striking. A combination of intensity and grace, long legs and long arms, and smoke, smoke, smoke, smoke – always smoking. Intense blue eyes, blue-black hair. She would sit with her limbs crossed in every direction, leaning forward, with her hand on her chin. She dressed well, carried herself like a model.
Peter Davison, on Anne Sexton, quoted in Anne Sexton: A Biography (via violentwavesofemotion)
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Ballet Shoes 2007
Julie Kent and Guillaume Graffin in Swan Lake (ABT)
— Maria Goltsmann, “Symbols of the Soviet Empire: Dying Swan” in: KOHT ja PAIK / PLACE and LOCATION: Studies in Environmental Aesthetics and Semiotics VI (2008)
deuxnpc:
“Then shall we continue our conversation outside?”
Anna stands up to leave before Zinaida can do so, and grabs her fur coat that hangs off the back of her chair. She waves off her bodyguard to stand behind her, and raises her hand in a dismissive motion. The man nods his head and gives her ample room, still following from behind.
“I can spot a Vagnova student anywhere,” there is an unnerving levelness to her disposition, and slowly she pulls out a cigarette from her coat pocket. “And a recruit from Raskolnikov with a mere glance.”
At the steps of the terrace Anna looks Zinaida over once more, “Poor man.”
zinaida stands with anna, her own fur draped about her shoulders in turn. there could be no fear of the cold for those born in this winter-land, and as a sentimental creature she craved the look of grounds and gardens covered in white — still, the edges of her coat are tugged tighter as they exit onto the terrace. “un—” just as she stops at the edge of the steps, so too does the word uncle halt on the very precipice of zinaida’s tongue, one verbal toe left hanging off the edge before she tucks it back into place. “vanya?”
moving to take the stairs slowly, she looks forward and replaces her expression back where it belongs: impassive and clean, like a sheet of ice. how did she know about that not-uncle from so long ago, in a past buried by snow-drifts and political machinations, and what made his status pitiable? “— and why is it you say that?”
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Touch Starved Prompts
Send one of the following symbols for a starter from my muse where your muse:
👫 - holds my muse’s hand
🤗 - draws my muse in for a hug
😴 - climbs into bed with my muse
🤣 - tickles my muse
🔷️ - tracing shapes on my muse’s skin
💜 - tucks my muse against their chest
☺ - cuddles with my muse
🤲 - cups my muse’s cheek(s)
💆♀️ - plays with my muse’s hair
💆♂️ - brushes hair from my muse’s face
😶 - nudges my muse
🖐 - rests their hand on my muse’s knee or hip
😿 - rubs my muse’s shoulders or back
😘 - peppers my muse with kisses
👄 - kisses my muse gently
💋 - kisses my muse roughly
😵 - pulls my muse down in a heap
😏 - bites or kisses my muse’s neck
😳 - caresses my muse’s body
👂 - nips or kisses my muse’s ear
Send multiple symbols for a starter with a combination of gestures!
* . ✧ CIRCE ✧ . *
- STARTERS -
❝ He showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none. ❞ ❝ Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. ❞ ❝ I cannot bear this world a moment longer. ❞ ❝ You cannot know how frightened gods are of pain. ❞ ❝ I would say, some people are like constellations that only touch the earth for a season. ❞ ❝ You have always been the worst of my children. ❞ ❝ I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out. ❞ ❝ When I was born, the word for what I was did not exist. ❞ ❝ When we are young, we think ourselves the first to have each feeling in the world. ❞ ❝ I will not be like a bird bred in a cage. ❞ ❝ This is what it means to be alive. ❞ ❝ But perhaps no parent can truly see their child. ❞ ❝ Yet because I knew nothing, nothing was beneath me. ❞ ❝ Some things are worth spilling blood for. ❞ ❝ You can teach a viper to eat from your hands, but you cannot take away how much it likes to bite. ❞ ❝ You threw me to the crows, but it turns out I prefer them to you. ❞ ❝ The grudges of gods are as deathless as their flesh. ❞ ❝ Those who fight against prophecy only draw it more tightly around their throats. ❞ ❝ Who knows what is in me? Will you find out? ❞ ❝ Bold action and bold manner are not the same. ❞ ❝ How many of us would be granted pardon if our true hearts were known? ❞ ❝ If you want it, I will do it. ❞ ❝ All my life I have been moving forward, and now I am here. ❞ ❝ Fear of failure was the worst thing for any spell. ❞ ❝ Imagine such a happiness. Like drinking wine your whole life, instead of water. ❞ ❝ Most men do not know me for what I am. ❞ ❝ You are right, this world is a wild and terrible place, and worth shouting at. ❞ ❝ He was no husband, scarcely even a friend. ❞ ❝ We bear it as best we can. ❞ ❝ Timidity creates nothing. ❞ ❝ It is youth’s gift not to feel its debts. ❞ ❝ What was I truly? In the end, I could not bear to know. ❞ ❝ They do not care if you are good. They barely care if you are wicked. ❞ ❝ Oh, sweetheart, it cannot be done. ❞ ❝ Lady, you and I are in accord. ❞ ❝ Why should I care what is in their hearts? ❞ ❝ You must keep your tricks close or you will lose everything. ❞ ❝ I never claimed to be good. ❞ ❝ My whole life, I had waited for tragedy to find me. ❞ ❝ You must understand people if you would rule them. ❞ ❝ Be sure not to dishonor me. ❞ ❝ Do not try to take my regret from me. ❞ ❝ Even those who had loved me a little did not care to stay. ❞ ❝ I can please you, I swear it. You will find none more loyal than me. ❞ ❝ I do think he loved me a little. ❞ ❝ Well? What do you have to say to me? ❞
send a ❂ to get a moodboard for our muses.
Make my muse blush in ten words or less
deuxnpc:
“A volga for me.”
Anna is not surprised when Zinaida makes herself known.
“Congratulations, Sabitova.” She taps her hand against the drink slowly. “I would not expect anything less from a potential prima. It gives me great comfort knowing that someone such as yourself, a model Soviet citizen, will be the star of our tour.” There is a weight in words, unspoken.
The clock ticks and Anna looks to the window outside before resting her gaze on Zinaida. “The snow in Moscow is beautiful.”
“thank you, ms. lebedev.” her response pauses to accommodate a sip of the newly arrived drink, a thing clear in both its colour and the way it burns down her throat. her gaze skitters briefly across the bar-top at the representative’s measured words, her lips curved gently in a kind of amusement. "i can only hope to be a fair representative to those such as yourself.”
her eyes turn to the politburo member briefly at her next statement, nodding after a beat. “indeed.” she twirls the stem of her martini glass absently, watching it turn in clean, slow circles. “even diamonds in yakutia could not compare.”
zinaida straightens up once more, leaning one elbow onto the bar as she draws again from her drink and eyeing the beautiful woman over the rim. “sometimes i think it a waste to spend an entire evening indoors when the grounds look as they do tonight.”
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date: december 16th, 1961 — 8:50pm location: dining room with: @yelenakuznetsova
a pearl and a jewel sat next to one another, a man on the other side of the table remarks, raising his kvass to the bolshoi’s principals, who sit shoulder-to-shoulder. how lucky i am to have such a view. zinaida smiles, closed-lipped, glancing at yelena before she returns her gaze to the commenter. indeed — perhaps we are not sat at a table as we believe, but being set into a necklace. there is laughter, then a return to conversation. such is the way dinner passes: with a great deal of glances stolen to two shining things, kept so close together that comparison cannot be avoided — if only internally. it is only when zinaida’s glance casts abstractly from her plate, falling to yelena’s lap and witnessing the wet, glossy stain there, that she deviates from the motion. “if you will excuse me a moment,” zinaida sets her cutlery down, establishing her intention to leave. “yelena, would you like to accompany me?” a pointed, potentially unexpected question to the woman on her left, but zinaida demonstrates her greater purpose by smuggling it in her napkin: she lifts and removes the cloth from her lap in yelena’s direction, using the movement to cover the subtle tap she gives to the her thigh, right above the smear.
time: 9:50pm location: Ballroom with: @zinaidas
Viktor watched the dance floor fill silently from against the far wall, hands shoved deep in his pockets. They’d misbehaved at dinner and Viktor nearly dropped his fork with a sharp clatter – an embarrassment that even now still colored high on his cheeks. Nursing his pride, he was content to watch from afar, until of course his eyes landed on Zin. Alone; a rare and precious thing.
He crossed to her in less than a dozen paces, swiping two glasses of something clear and thick – vodka, presumably, and thank fuck for it. Without so much as a word of introduction, he extended one in her direction, his own tilted towards some Americans gathered in the corner.
“I don’t suppose we ought to show them how to have fun the right way.” Viktor lifted the glass to his mouth with a smirk and took a long pull.
at viktor’s approach a sensation flits down her body, finding its ineloquent end by the time he has rounded her side and she has accepted the extended cup, bright blue eyes intent on his own. readjusting her shawl, the cup rests momentarily against zinaida’s bottom lip before she draws it back, the side of her mouth tugging in a slow-mirror to viktor’s, "surely we have instructed them in enough by now, have we not? but if we must give them a little more —” cheating her profile to the gathering of americans, she lifts her cup along with a brow in a satirical toast, high-heeled feet shuffling purposefully to accommodate her purpose. “cheers,” she mutters, mimicking her companion once more in the lengthy draw she takes from the glass. one hand extends next to rest warmly on his arm, wrapping to the place above his elbow. “what other lessons must we teach them tonight?”
date: december 16th, 1961 — 10:31pm location: restroom b with: @matushkanympha
if it were to be analyzed, it would stand to reason that even the pendants and academics of the world would relent to the conclusion that the strange, modest ritual that pervaded womanhood across all continents was a rite provided to them logically. from birth, girls were taught to find quiet places to reveal their truths — so restrooms, silent and smoke-filled and lined with lipstick shells, could only be a natural place for the moments between moments to be had between women. and that is likely why two women, at once intricately and simply connected, found themselves pulled into the same quiet room. “alina,” zinaida spots her figure against the far wall immediately upon entry, dark-haired and reclined as gracefully as the curls of smoke that waft from her cigarette towards the open window. “have i found you hiding from a suitor?”
Deep in her secret heart, in the pure place she protects, she is afraid she will always be alone - that she will go through life without being known. And she will not survive that.
Rene Denfeld (via quotemadness)
date: december 16th, 1961 — 08:13pm
location: lounge room
status: closed - for @zinaidas
The flurry of festivities had swelled and then dissipated into individually laid place settings and reams of white linen. It was a truly free choice, absent from any directive and really any expectation. Almost all were true strangers, decked out in deceptive finery, presenting themselves to one another artificially under artificial lighting. Fred had walked passed the line of chairs, quickly finding themselves claimed by elegant, hesitant bodies, until he found one not yet possessed.
Almost as soon as their complicated game of musical chairs was over, the first dishes had hit the table. Out of the corner of his eye, set beneath bushed brows, he noticed one of his seat mates. It would be a presumptuous claim to suggest he knew her, more so that he knew a few things about her - sharing such close quarters and all. “ This must be a welcome change, ” he spoke, as their serving appeared magically in front of them. Not one to be misunderstood, he tapped his own plate gently, its content not burned, or undercooked, nor inedible. Or a combination of all three.
of all the americans bound into that little apartment complex on a side street in moscow, fred had proved the most disparate from the detached, cool pigments that washed over life in the soviet union: in his stories of home life, choice of music, and countenance, he seemed to project a colour not dissimilar to the yellow light that filters through a kitchen in the early morning. all this to say — zinaida was not displeased to have a bit of warmth seating himself next to her at dinner. “what is the american saying?” her gaze stays on her plate as she responds, her english well enough despite the accent that laid heavy as snow drift on telephone wires, bending syllables where they should have been straight. “do not judge book by cover.” read: you haven’t tried the soup yet.
zinaida’s brows rolls over to him briefly as she picks up her spoon, amusement in her eyes. in a deft movement, she turns the utensil in her fingers to tap the base of her spoon against his cufflink, notating the extra formality of his dress with a clink clink.
“a welcome change?”
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date: december 16th, 1961 — 9:39pm location: the foreigner with: anna, @deuxnpc
the french might have named their drinks apéritif and digestif, splitting them appropriately, but the russians had another system of division altogether: namely, start and don’t stop. the veikiy’s bar is appropriately lined with patrons finished with their meals, a preference for liquor establishing itself domineeringly over the newly opened dance floor. zinaida, tall and dark as she is in her black dress, moves through the crowd on the benevolence of their extended arms. please, please, go ahead. she nods her thanks in return. “dry martini.” the sweeter kvaysa would wait till later. her gaze rolling to the side, she spots another woman among the barrage of grey suits. an acquaintance. “and whatever tovarisch anna will have.”
