#chorusgirls

[fontainegirl]

@chorusgirls ft. dove

location: nybc fundraiser, pre-show they often get ready together and it isn't unusual despite having personal stylists for events for dove and opal to somewhat either match, or end being the complete opposite of the other. it's the latter today, opal's champagne coloured dress adorned in individually beaded fish that swim down the skirt and around the bust area amongst leaves. it's very intricate, and heavy, which is good as opal isn't required to dance around much, they can stand stationary for the entire night should they wish and sing. of course, there's a certain level of interaction expected, flattery and flirtation from those who witness the performance. it's something opal's been doing since she was young yet, never really enjoyed. people will offer their condolences to their mother, say what a great actress brigitte was, one of the greats of the era. maybe give her a compliment on her acting, ask if there's anything else in the pipeline. they'll look at her tits before walking off, and opal will fight the urge to roll their eyes and tell them to fuck off. it's then they realize dove has said something, so caught up in false scenarios - "sorry - on a different planet. what's up?"

[devilsons]

who: dove moreno ( @chorusgirls ) where: a desolate building a few streets away from the old world casino, a carcass of a space like an abandoned supermarket, a warehouse with leftover shelves and steadily dimming florescent lights.  when: sometime after midnight, the bars have begun last call and the windows of all the nicer establishments have been shuttered. a storm swirls steadily overhead, the air thick with the promise of rain.

in hindsight he should’ve known better, but then again, he rarely does.

‘ do not fucking go to old world casino tonight. ‘ the words of someone that held high title within the hanging man had barely grazed the surface of his psyche. he had been intent on staying home tonight, but those magic words had sent his adrenaline on fire. he nodded his head as if dazed, the words hand picked to send him reeling; the promise of chaos, the promise of intrigue. he always wanted to see that which he wasn’t supposed to. thinking about it now, laid out on an endless slab of concrete bleeding from ( he sucks his teeth, the rust flavor taking his tongue and rolling down his throat, tangy and vicious, undeniable ) his gums and god knows where else, he wondered how that message had gotten relayed so fluidly, how they had found their mark. he liked to applaud himself on being unpredictable... right.

some things really were too good to be true. dove moreno. what would a girl like that want with a grimy little street rat like him anyways?

it wasn’t as extravagant as most would expect of the starlet, their meeting that is, but despite the opposition in everything about them, strangely, he had felt they hit it off. galivanting about the casino, passing through nearby bars, the sight of starstruck patrons and fluttering excitement at the presence of one of the cities most recognizable faces. it didn’t affect him, the existence or idea of ‘fame,’ he saw her the way he saw everyone. at the time he thought maybe it was why she was spending time with him, but this... this makes a lot more sense.

he assumed it was another bar hop, following mink and silk down an alleyway it had no place being, the shock of blonde hair. he remembers having the thought that that shade of blonde on a woman meant she was well put together, but on him, bleached and brassy, dark roots peppering his scalp, meant just the opposite. as he followed her into the big, empty, building whose walls were screaming of something horrible he remembered thinking that two people could not be more different. it wasn’t the warehouse that sent the warning bells off, it was instead this thought. he wandered a bit further into the building, the hum of drugs still singing in his veins, eyes wandering to the flickering fluorescents, an abandoned body of a building. when he turned back around she was gone, the footsteps he heard not the soft and practiced clicking of heels but heavy-footed. he knew he was fucked. 

out came two men, about twice his body mass. he fought hard, valiantly some may say, but he was high. and drunk. and somewhere along the night he’d lost his knife, snatched from his pocket. in his memory he sees a flash of manicured nails. yeah, it was surely just a coincidence. he got his ass beat, bad. eyes swollen and body aching, he rolls onto his side and coughs wet and red, his ribcage feels as if it’s been pried open, surely something there broken. he tries to crawl to his hands and knees but collapses again. he’s taken his fair share of beatings over the years, but this is one of the worse for wear in recent memory. cuts and bruises, he thinks someone said something about revenge, but at one point he blacked out so he couldn’t be sure. “aw fuuu — uuck.” leaves his lips and he rolls onto his back, head hitting the concrete, a long breath out of his nose. his phone seems to be gone too. his eyes flicker closed. it looked as if he might be here awhile.

[bvrnsh]

♡ˀˀ * ── for @chorusgirls

two things he's sure of in his life. there is no god, only man, only earth. we all come from filth one way or another. the other — people go to clubs like gravity ( can't be pissed to call it by its whole name, who's got time for that ? ) to chase a high, music thumping, blood pumping, get your rocks off. by that measure, gravity is a stupid name for a club like that. practically oppressive man.

tonight though, tonight's different. he'd shown up late, not for lack of trying, he'd swear — now he's been turned to religion. god must be real, he'd been led by divine providence, and here she is, to lead him to salvation. gravity is the perfect name, he's been taken to heights, but the place's kept him tethered for this moment.

eyes are bright, against the leather seat of his ride, fighting a cheeky smirk before he relaxes his brows. " i lost my teddybear. " weight lifts off to fall into step, " can i hug you instead darlin' ? "

[8blud]

a  lamb  answers  to  the  swan’s  mewls.     wet  reeds  cling  to  the  girl’s  shins,   disallowing  her  feathery  goodbye.     this  is  where  the  girl  draws  the  gaze:   away  from  the  silvered  frame  of  her  face.     rowan  concedes  a  simple  glance  before  doe-eyes  look  into  its  pair.     you’ll  see  nothing  but  mirrors;   you’ll  know  no  one  but  yourself.     what  a  gentle  dread.     the  reflection  shouldn’t  want  to  look  at  itself.     the  clear  pond  beckons  for  rowan   –   wearing  skin  like  sabine’s  now:   porcelain  and  ever  serene   –   and  she  accepts  its  ragged  plea.     a  lead-footed  entrance,   yawning  its  twilit  horizon.     billowing  into  sabine’s  stark  shore.     how  the  shadows  hug  calm  waters,   when  the  lamb  bows  to  a  swan.     i  speak  the  native  language  you  will  not.     what  can’t  be  eaten   /   what  shall  be  shared.     prey  is  as  prey  does;   ensnared  by  its  own  lavish  sheathe.     the  girl  should  know  better  than  to  display  her  frailty  like  this.     the  lamb  stalks  steadily  towards  the  swan’s  tiled  banks.     ‘   no  need  for  the   dramatics.     i  could  hear  your  mess  from  the  floor  outside.   ’     a  gentle  cadence,   unnatural  in  its  tune.     glitching  yet  oiled.     her  dark  gaze  barely  falls  to  the  hand  that  ghosts  along  sabine’s  silk-ed  leg.     observe  true  tranquility  in  a  featureless  face.     ‘   you  won’t  try  to  fight  me  now  that  you  can’t  choose  flight,   will  you?   ’

LEVEL THREE of the ship, within an otherwise empty bathroom. ╱ SABINE & ROWAN ( @8blud )

the hem of her dress catches on the hinge of an exit, and there should be an easier way to describe this dilemma. the lace aged and delicate, hand-sewn, threatens to tear with every breath of moment — like all beautiful things, it has no defense against the joints of life, the swivels at which everything turns. it should be simple to say sabine is caught, cotton and chainlink, flesh and snare, and that the choice is meant to be nothing but that between patience and temporary pain. attempt an unwinding of fate or accept it. waste the night or rip the fucking dress. it should be effortless, but then she enters in the middle of this simple narrative.

rowan, in that mass of dark silk hair, who sabine would like to the wolf. the cowbird. the scorpion that rides on the back of the frog. she'd like to point to the dry page of a folktale from her childhood and say this is you and this is me, clear as a game of this and that, but that is not this story. that is not the person who advances slowly forward, past the threshold of music that throbs and stills with the swing of the door. sabine takes back whatever space she possesses, the terracotta of her skull hitting the metal rim of the stall as she retreats by one step, then another. she can hear it resounding, ringing like so many pasts, the circlets of a great tree. rowan moves closer, and in her throat sabine can taste the sawdust from the day it was felled, dry and bitter. bass pounds. she aches.

"it's caught ⸺ i ⸺" it. i. how the words blur. "i'm caught."

[thischarmingamy]

Best of 2022 in Music

Best of 2022 in Music

Chrystabell at Joe’s Pub in NYC in 2017/Photo by Amy Lordan Chrystabell – Midnight Star The chanteuse has taken her trademark ethereal sound and mixed it with sci-fi disco. Includes a spacey interpretation of The Psychedelic Furs’ “Love My Way.” Taylor Swift – Midnights (3am Edition) I was obsessed with Swift’s Folklore and Evermore, which makes sense because it was co-produced by Aaron Dessner…

[broadwaydivastournament]

Broadway Divas Tournament: Round 1A

Aptly named, there was never a more leggy woman than Paula Leggett Chase (1961). Self-titled "Antique Showgirl," Paula is a veteran chorusgirl with shows like A Chorus Line, Crazy for You, and Kiss Me, Kate. She has gained recent notoriety for her social media presence where she gleefully shows off her everlasting flexibility and unmatched dancing. How many dancers in their sixties can you name who can still tap dance en pointe? In fact, how many dancers at any age can you name who even know tap dancing en point is possible?

Though we know her mostly from her screen work, Patricia Clarkson (1959) is a Tony-nominated actress who has appeared sporadically on Broadway, off-Broadway, and in regional theatre. She has taken on iconic roles like Blanche duBois from A Streetcar Named Desire, and had a topless scene in The Elephant Man on Broadway in 2014. And no, in case you were wondering, the grainy bootleg does not show anything. I looked. Trust me. She will be appearing in the West End this month in Long Days Journey Into Night.

PROPAGANDA AND MEDIA UNDER CUT:

"I am on my hands and knees begging you to look through this woman's instagram. You will be delighted, appalled, and flabbergasted. Here's her tap dancing en-point in her sixties for funsies. Here's her doing cartwheels and splits. Here's her posting thirst traps, like what the fuck, Paula? God, I love this woman's chaotic energy."

"Her voice is like molasses on a hot summer day. Any woman brave enough to strip on Broadway in front of 136,696 people over the course of the show's entire run (yeah, I checked the attendance) is an icon and a legend. She's also a well-known tumblr reaction gif, so there's that. Her presence here as a certified Broadway Diva is a little precarious, but it's my poll and I do what I want."

[ofcruelheart]

closed to @chorusgirls / janus & solange

Amidst the chaos of darkness, lights, and clamor, a bitter refrain.

Earlier in the evening, he had glimpsed her—promptly averting his gaze, along with any memories she might have wrought in her wake.

This is no intrusion into an apartment, no midnight altercation unfurling through gritted teeth. It's a subtler dance—he possesses escape routes, needing only to elude her for a solitary night.

How apropos that she would outmaneuver even this, weaving her threads to orchestrate a rendezvous. Midway through the evening, he plunged his hands into his pockets, discovering only empty space—the absence of his apartment keys. Naturally.

Her dress's hem trailed from the third level into the stairwell—a harbinger and a beacon. He set his jaw and follows.

"Really, what is the point of stealing my keys?" Janus says, feigning mildness, as he follows the sight of her. "Haven't you proven yourself capable of breaking in?"

[warystares]

✘ CLOSED / ft. solange lahiri ( @chorusgirls ) at the cabinet of curiosities

❝ now where did you say you came across this lovely little trinket again ? ❞

it's after hours at the cabinet of curiosities but there is always some sort of business to attend to ; the main entrance may be locked to patrons, but the shop is never closed to those with the creativity to find alternative means of entry ! and solange, of course ― well, mika thinks he could seal the whole place up air-tight ( no he couldn't ! it's a dilapidated mess ! but it's fine . . . they think often in hypotheticals ) and solange lahiri might still find her way inside. a commendable talent and one that is frequently applauded by the rather unconventional shopkeeper wheever she comes to visit. now, though, is no time for compliments ! she's brought him something !

their workshop desk is cluttered but mika clears a space amidst the detritus and various miscellanea and waves for solange to part with the item so that they might inspect it. he's already reaching for a pair of magnifying spectacles, switching on the flickering, yellowy light above the workbench. there's a roughly upholstered stool at the center of it all and mika quickly finds his place there ; beside him, another chair sits ( often in waiting ) for company. they gestures for her to join, clearly seeking her input in discovering the thing.

❝ and what is it exactly ? i don't know that i've ever seen one of these before, i wouldn't even . . . where do i begin ? ❞

[talesofpassingtime]

Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week. Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those girls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl’s romance. Letters read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy’s owny Mumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you.

— James Joyce, Ulysses  

[stoneinc]

@chorusgirls​

          claire had been forced to say goodbye to her father rather quickly, mostly because his own wishes had been triggered and she had been propelled into a position of power she had never been expected. she was upset with his passing, of course she was, that was understandable but it was the fact she was now the ceo of stoneage that she had difficulty comprehending. damon had ridiculed her at work, bullied her - he probably would comment now that he did it to make her stronger but that wasn’t true. a sensitive person, it had upset her - she was in a constant state of upset that seemed never-ending.

    damon’s pr team had quickly booked her in for magazine articles, headshots, professional portfolio photos that could easily be used as promotional material. claire stone had always been vulnerable but now her position made it more likely to be targeted. despite that fact, she had sat in the car outside, knowing full well she was late to see sabine, to cry, until one of the stoneage security personnel strongly advised she move. donning sunglasses in pitch black darkness, she swiftly entered the building and got the lift up to the penthouse, all while accompanied to make sure another stone wasn’t lost. entering, the woman sniffed and took a deep breath. “i’m sorry i’m late, i got held up.” a half truth. claire loved her daughter but there was friction between the two of them, friction that could get worse as their emotions ran high. “do you want a drink or something?”

[warforced]

the tableau has been set : anguished actors ready to take their place on stage. this is a tragedy of epic proportions. this is a melodrama. this is life. each prop has been placed with precise particularity — for if nothing else went well in her life , ms seo knows how to style a room. & now our weary director must wait in the wings for her cast of deathly avengers to arrive.

draped in finery ( and here , finery means: not her usual jeans and shirt ) , michi paces the hallway of her own home , a path so well - trodden it is perhaps a miracle the floor has not vanished beneath her heeled feet. it is not nerves that inspire her movements , rather excitement that grows ever more at the approach of the evening’s festivities.

it had been too long since this murder of crows had convened in a social situation.

some new faces had joined — clowns alike in the outside world yet here their true masks would be worn. some were old friends : a decade working side by side ensured there was some degree of trust , at least. i will protect you , if you protect me. and a lioness always protects her pride.

location: seo townhouse , manhattan. closed starter for: the executioners. @jezebelrisen @gildcdglory @chorusgirls @crestfallon @unbrokenfm

[bvrnsh]

➷ * ── for @chorusgirls

ɪᴛ·s ᴀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴅɪᴄʜᴏᴛᴏᴍʏ — how a deliberated stillness in a room can be as vast and as various as the rain drops outside that play their rhythm against the window,  and just as fleeting — vanquished by mere swish of fabric or the clink of glass against surface.  it’s cold outside  :  the kind of autumnal chill that bites the skin only to say that winter is close at hand,  that the wet will turn to slush will turn to ice will turn to demise if one is not careful.   IT’S COLD,  and the warmth they are swathed in inside, doesn't stop her mind wandering ; gaze lazily resting on the way dove's eyes seem to hold that ever-present sheen of visible moisture.

dove is undoubtedly the raw pearl that managed to crawl out of the muck and slime it gestated in, to be polished and paraded in new york's most prolific jewel box, but menaka, is reminded of the old fable for children. try on new faces for long enough, the wind will change, and you'll be stuck that way indefinitely. dove had remade her image, and she certainly is, stuck.

her tone shapes the curve of her lips, finally permitting a move to reduce distance. " and here i was thinking you'd forgotten about me. " the face you give the world tells the world how to treat you, but the world will still listen to some more readily than others. it governs their lives.

[bvrnsh]

the turn of events is an inconvenience at best. the roses on his shirt don't quite pop in the relative dark; a shame. he'd worn it for a reason — something about curtain calls and roses falling at someone's feet, he'd thought it'd be a nice metaphor.

her voice barely registers, mingling with the noise of alarmed ( or he'd wager, delighted ) shrieks in the background, and sounds of general movement, a lazy scrape of teeth against the jut of his lower lip while he tries to remember the trick to get through the simple doorknob lock. he throws a careless grin over his shoulder. " who's goin'a stop us ? you're tellin' me you're not the least bit curious ? "

she hasn't pulled her hand away yet. it's a rhetorical question. the moment would go a lot smoother if his effort yielded any success though — frustration punctuates his next movement, brute flick of a wrist, and a jam, there's a crunch and a thud. oops.

he pulls out the remains of the knob in his hand slowly, a winning wiggle of his brow despite catastrophe. " mission accomplished... sort of. what's the worst'at could happen ? bit of privacy ? " from within a room that can no longer be locked... hardly the win he'd planned on.

hour two of the fundraiser. an opera box within the theatre itself, hidden behind a velvet curtain ╱ @bvrnsh + eoin

in the gentle blackness of the dim opera, the silhouette of her dress shifts innocuously. like layers of the same dark velvet rubbing against one another, in this lighting sabine is no more or less identifiable than her hand is within his: a once-distinct form lost to something larger and all-encompassing.

"eoin ⸺" the hand that is not fixed to her own is fiddling with something on the door, and she leans closer to his shoulder to observe. candlelight casts a molten yellow overhang across the back of his neck, and in her giddiness she tastes honey, nectar in the air; something gold-coloured and put on a shelf out of reach. "i don't think we're supposed to go in there."

[the-golden-purple-box]

1958

Backstage at the Latin Quarter

photographed by Gordon Parks

[chicinsilk]

Chorus girls in dressing room backstage at La Scala opera house in Milan, photo by Slim Aarons, November 1948

[roadrcnner]

two's company, three's a crowd with @chorusgirls

the set-up had been akin to many others before it, that attempt to let the light in: it's a stale thing doused in wine and cheap conversation. he’s  dressed  like  an  expensively  suited  shark  just  like  the  rest  of  them  except   something  is  different  ⸻  alexei’s  missing  all  his  teeth;   so  long  as  he  had  them  he  would  use  them  to  do  bad  things. this exchange, marbled with a symphony of pronged utensils & some ornate eartha kitt rendition thrumming slowly overhead should have been intimate, something had only between two people sat on opposite ends of a table. and it would have been hadn't aleksandr had such a keen eye. or rather, a wondering one. not in the way of wanting what a man, perhaps a table or two over had, but in the way that you mark your exits without question and witness something ( or someone ) you shouldn't have in mistake of your scrutiny. the first calamity of the night was his date excusing herself from the table. the second was aleksandr finding himself at a different table entirely. he'd first caught sight of her an hour ago, likely far after she'd spotten him. when he had, she'd been staring & alexei had taken enough glances over his date's shoulder at her to notice. " you know, " the man starts up, chair grating across pennytile ⸻ dinner jacket undone by a button or three. foreign lilt waxes tongue, another strand to push aleksandr just shy of belonging. " if you wanted my attention you could have been decent about it. "