lumieredetoiles: (Laughing)
I thought you might appreciate this:

lumieredetoiles: (Party girl)

You Communicate Honestly

You don't mince words. You are to the point and all about the facts.
However, you are charming enough to tell people the truth yet still not offend them.

It's likely that you have a hilarious, no holds barred sense of humor. And you sure tell an entertaining story!
You're also quite open. People can ask you anything, and you don't shy away from controversial conversation topics.

lumieredetoiles: (Happy smile)

You Are Peanut Butter Patties / Tagalongs

You are creative and artistic. When you think, you tend to think big.
You go for the drama. You love excitement and passion... even if it gets you in trouble.

You are intense and a little self centered. You can be quite full of yourself (but not without reason).
You tend to be very indulgent. If you feel like having something, you go ahead and treat yourself.

lumieredetoiles: (Party girl)
Ok, shopping accomplished. Baileigh, you were a live saver, seriously.

Packing done.

Off to Miami for a couple of days.

Kee, I left out an extra couple of bowls of food for Calypso, but would you swing by on Tuesday to check on her and change her water? Thanks, bb. *smooch*

See y'all when I get back.
lumieredetoiles: (Classic for the cameras)

Aw, hon... you were just too pretty to live. As the masked murderer chased you through the woods, he told you he ranked his victims based on cuteness, and you were at the top of the list. You couldn't help feeling flattered, even if the compliment was coming from a total psycho. When you turned around for one second to look at this insane (but clearly intelligent) person, you ran straight into a tree. He caught up and stabbed you through your favorite shirt. At that point, you kind of just gave up. I mean, without that shirt, was there any point in living?
lumieredetoiles: (...What?)


I need at least one new bikini. Maybe two.

A couple of things for dancing.

And it's not like I can't take things I already have because he hasn't seen them or anything? But, hi. I want new.

And lingerie. Clearly. Which obviously has to be all new. So.

And I need it by Monday.

This was not my most brilliant timing of a plan, ever.

No time tonight, as the show won't be done before 11, and I won't be out of here before midnight, so. Tomorrow it is.
lumieredetoiles: (It's not always sunshine)
Don't write a letter when you want to leave.
Don't call me at 3 A.M. from a friend's apartment.
I'd like to choose how I hear the news.
Take me to a park that's covered with trees.
Tell me on a Sunday please.

That was Mark. I was nineteen. He was thirty-five, my acting teacher at the university and married, but of course "leaving his wife" any day now. She didn't understand him the way I did. Yes, I bought it. I was nineteen for God's sake, and he was brilliant. He'd done several films and performed on Broadway and was taking a hiatus to be a guest instructor and just to get into his class we had to audition, and I was the only sophomore to make it in, so. There were nights spent talking about theatre and scripts and interpretations and art and life and what it all meant, to be an actor, to take on these roles, to fill the shoes of someone else, to take on another persona and live it and reach out and touch the hearts of the audience, to give them that gift. There was wine. There were tickets to shows that I'd never seen--not the bit ones, but small, intimate ones that were real art, he said, breathtaking and shocking. We'd make love after, and it was how I'd always thought it should be. But then his wife found out and actually threatened to leave him, and, well, he'd never intended to leave her, of course, no matter what he told me, and God forbid she leave him. I got the phone call, with him drunk, sobbing about how she'd kicked him out, and when I suggested this was a good thing, he started yelling at me and hung up. Over Christmas I got a letter, telling me how sweet and talented I was "but"...and when I got back from break, well, he was nowhere to be found, his classes canceled. And I grew up a bit, I guess.

Let me down easy, no big song and dance.
No long faces, no long looks, no deep conversation.
I know the way we should spend the day.
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees.
Tell me on a Sunday please.

That was Scott. He was a poet, and very good at certain things that a girl looks for in a casual sort of relationship. I was in the middle of opening The Importance of Being Earnest, and it was big, really big. Off-Broadway, but I was playing Cecily and it was a major theatre, and Scott was just, well, stress relief. I mean, he was nice. And he was handsome. And he was, as I said...talented. Not with poetry. But he thought he was in love with me or something, at least for a while, and that I was his muse. And then he met Erica, who was eighteen and thought his poetry was as brilliant as his other skills and he thought she made a better muse, which, really, I was okay with. But he had to draw it out. There were tears. And lots of wine. And hours of conversation. And poems. And letters. And then when we'd run in to each other in the street for months later, he'd sigh and reach for my hand and call himself a cad and ask how I was and what I was doing was, well, the actor playing Algernon who was even more talented both on and off stage, so. That was awkward.

Don't want to know who's to blame,
it won't help knowing.
Don't want to fight day and night
bad enough you're going.
Don't leave in silence with no words at all.
Don't get drunk and slam the door,
that's no way to end this,
I know how I want you to say goodbye.
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze.
Tell me on a Sunday please.

That was Eric. Which was clearly a mistake from the start. For one, I mean, after what he did in Ireland to Keelia, I shouldn't have gone near him. For another, he had been Keelia's fiance. For another, Mama's been tossing me at his head since I was ten, so the sheer pressure on both of us was going to be phenomenal. But...once Keelia explained everything and I knew what happened wasn't really all his fault...I just had to see him, at least. To see if he was okay. And he wasn't. He was wrecked with horror, with guilt, with disbelief. Everything that witch did to him, he knew. There wasn't any denial left for any of us, you know? And what do you do when the stories leap to life off the pages, and not just the princes on their white horses but the evil queens and their wicked spells, and leave your life destroyed? How do you pick up the pieces after? I mean, yeah, that's the whole premise of Act II of Into the Woods, but even that's just a story. This is real life. And he was my friend. And one thing led to another, and Keelia said it was fine, but it was stupid. I was a constant reminder of what happened, not a balm, and things got...bad, but I stayed because after what he'd been through, what I'd been through, who else would understand, you know? We should have ended it long before we did. And in a far better way. It didn't have to be that way. I still worry about him, still wonder. There are some things that don't ever heal right, and no one to talk to except those of us who were there, and now he doesn't have anyone. But the way it ended...we can't go back, and I wish it had been different. That we'd ended it as friends, like we'd always been, all our lives. Then I could have still been there, he'd still have someone.

And so would I.
lumieredetoiles: (Classic for the cameras)

You Are Strawberry Cake

Fresh, sassy, and romantic.
You're a total flirt, who never would turn down a sugary treat.
Occasionally you're a bit moody - but you usually stay sweet!

lumieredetoiles: (Sensual amusement)
Because I just picked these up today to go with this, and I really want to wear them.

WTF, why is it still February?

lumieredetoiles: (Just teasing)
The cavemen win, obviously. I mean, the astronauts are probably far hotter, but it's not like they teach them to fight or anything, do they? Maybe they do, but I'm thinking combat skills aren't really high on NASA's training program, because no one REALLY thinks that there's hostile aliens out there or that it'll come to hand to hand combat. But the cavemen are like wrestling and clubbing sabretooth tigers over their heads and shit.

So despite a regrettable lack of hygiene, they clearly have the advantage in a battle and would prevail over the immaculately groomed astronauts, which is sad when you think how far the whole state of manliness has fallen. Except not really, because despite Katy Perry's anti metrosexual thing with "Ur So Gay" I've got to say there's nothing wrong with a man who takes care of himself. I mean, I don't want to share my jeans or anything, but there's something to be said for a man with well-groomed hands, and knows what to do with them. But they'd probably be useless in a fight against a caveman with a club, I'll admit. So, cavemen.

Hopefully it never comes to that. The world would be in a sorry state if cavemen came back, though I'd argue there's some parts of the world where they haven't quite left. But they probably aren't fighting with astronauts.

Except maybe in bars in Texas when they're on shore leave or whatever they might call it in the astronaut world.

Huh--possibly this isn't as preposterous of a question as it seems on its face...
lumieredetoiles: (Happy smile)

You Go For Brains and Body!

You like a guy who can make your heart melt with his smile...
But he's got to have something in his head to really draw you in.
You're not superficial - just honest!

Power Color )

What kind of kid? )
lumieredetoiles: (Party girl)

Your Energy Level is Very High

You are constantly on the go. You rarely stop to rest or recuperate.
You try to squeeze in as much as possible. You're always up for one more activity or project.

You're probably sick of hearing people tell you to slow down. They're too slow.
You don't burn the candle at both ends. It just so happens that you have a lot of energy to burn.

You Are Potato Chips

When you're stressed out, you seek food that is quick and easy.
Life is pretty overwhelming at times, so you prefer comfort food that you can just grab and eat.

You're the type of person who takes on too much, and you don't have a lot of free time.
So even when you have junk food as a meal, you're just thankful that you had any time to eat at all.

What? I like to stay busy. That's what quad shots are for, people.
lumieredetoiles: (up close)
You Are The Star

You represent the ultimate in truth and purity.
Insightful and illuminating, you provide guidance for others.
You also demonstrate unselfish, unconditional love.
You posses many spiritual gifts, including the ability to heal.

Your fortune:

Your future is looking brighter by the day.
The near future will be a time of both hope and healing.
Luck is about to come your way, perhaps the best luck you have ever seen.
Life is about to get a lot easier and much better!
lumieredetoiles: (Keelia and Alisha unlimited)
It's really, uh, sharp, don't you think?
You know - black is this year's pink
You deserve each other
This hat and you
You're both so smart
You deserve each other
So here, out of the goodness of my heart*

If people hadn't figured it out yet, Alisha's primary goal for the last two years at least had been to play Glinda in Wicked. She'd loved Wizard of Oz as a child, and though she'd never admit to it, she'd bought Wicked the novel as soon as it came out. Yes, she immersed herself in political satire. If anyone tried to make something of it, she'd likely just ignore it. She liked the book, but the first time she heard the soundtrack, she just knew. She was destined to play this role. Her agent really should have sent her in for the part the moment it opened up, except, of course, that she hadn't had an agent yet, and really, they weren't going to put a novice up against Idina Menzel after the success of Rent and Kristin Chenoweth was perfect for the role, which she'd give her. But still. It was a role that at some point, somewhere along the way needed to be Alisha's. Meg was a good start, or well, it would be if the primary would ever let Alisha get more than two performances in a week. The people would see. And if Meg didn't exactly sparkle, she still had some really challenging musical sequences. And Alisha was sure that she had sparkled quite enough on her recent commercial to convince any producer ever that she could shine.

She just needed someone to put all the pieces together, and then the role would be hers. She'd already told her agent to keep her ear open for anything in the cast, either touring or stationary. She'd leave New York to be Glinda. There might've been a twinge about that, but when a girl just had to do something, a girl had to do it.

So until then, she practiced, she sang, she worked on the characterization in the songs. She memorized the script. She made Keelia spend hours playing Elphaba to her Glinda, which really worked way better than you'd have thought looking at her. The bookish redhead had potential. She just needed prodding. It wasn't like she hadn't done stage before, and her dancing was so much better than Alisha's, but. Keelia just waved her away. She'd practice with her, but no. They were not launching their own performance of Wicked in the Realm just so Alisha could have an entire cast to play with.

Alisha really didn't think that was fair at all. But if Keelia hadn't learned by now that Alisha wasn't one to give up, then she would soon figure that out the hard way.

*lyrics from "Dancing Through Life" from Wicked
lumieredetoiles: (wherefore art thou)
Alisha had received a lot of flowers through the years. Prom corsages. Pink roses everywhere for her sweet sixteen party. Red ones from the first boy who told her he loved her, presented on Valentine's day with a gleam in his eyes that she never got around to quite returning. After a new show opened, they'd litter her dressing room. Orchids. Roses. Tulips. Daisies, usually from Keelia who always remembered how much she loved them.

She loved them all. Appreciated them. Sent thank you notes promptly as dictated by Miss Manners and her mother. But she never kept them. A lot of her friends back home would dry their bouquets and hang them on their pastel painted walls. They littered their rooms, tied up with bows, memories of glories of the past that some of them wouldn't have again, settled down with their high school boyfriends and three kids by age 25.

There were two though, two that hadn't gone the way of the rest.

One was a red rose, still red, just a few months old, with a white lace ribbon tied around the stem, slipped between wax paper and pressed into her Complete Works of William Shakespeare in the middle of Romeo and Juliet.

The second was older, more fragile. A rose as well, white with pink edged petals. There was a dried drop of blood on the wax paper it was wrapped in, where the thorn had pricked her finger. The note that accompanied it was saved as well, though the ink was smudged with a couple of tears. Not many, just one or two. He'd taught her to be economical in emotion and she wouldn't dishonor him by wasting tears he'd call foolish on his gift. But it was wrapped with care. She hadn't been sure what to press it in, and had settled on the first Nancy Drew book he bought her. After his funeral, they wandered in the procession back to the old house that smelled of camphor and cedar. Her mother had clung to her father the whole time, sobbing for hers in an excessive display considering she hadn't bothered to visit him except on holidays for the last five years. Only Alisha had made the trip on her bike weekend after weekend, as often as she could. That's how she justified it when she slipped out with his family Bible with all of their names, births, deaths, marriages carefully inscribed in it by a firm hand in black ink. Next to his name she just as carefully wrote in the date with a hand that still shook a little despite all her care, smudging the purple ink. Just as carefully, she took the rose from between the covers of the Nancy Drew book and put it carefully into the Bible next to one of the illustrations of Jesus in heaven. She took it with her every time she moved, but she only opened it one day a year, reading the note, fingers tracing that firm handwriting. If she worked hard enough, she could smell the scent of the rose. Then just as carefully, she put it back and closed the Bible.

She thought he'd forgive her that one little sentimentality.
lumieredetoiles: (up close)
She was twelve the first time she heard the term "triple threat." It was tossed out randomly by the director at the community theatre, talking about some flash-in-the-pan starlet who'd performed at the Kennedy Center in the touring company of Les Miserables. The comment was more derogatory, lauding her voice, but demolishing her acting. There seemed to be some debate about her dancing skills as no one'd seen her do it yet.

"She's pretty enough, and her voice is solid, but she's no triple threat."

Alisha scooted down the stage, wincing a touch as a splinter tried to work through her jeans. She'd been swinging her feet, waiting for them to get rehearsals going so she could actually stand on the stage, for all that her part was fairly paltry. She was only 12 after all, and this was community theatre.

She thought they needed to do Annie until someone pointed out that she was a blonde and would never get cast in the role.

Her mother had taken the bottle of hair dye away firmly.

But now she was intrigued. "A triple threat?"

The director glanced up and gave her an affectionate smile. "It means someone who can act, dance and sing well."

Alisha chewed on her lower lip.

She could act. Everyone knew that. And she'd sung well enough to get a part in Babes in Arms last summer. There'd been some dancing involved, but.

When she got home that evening, she found her mother.

"I need singing lessons. And dancing."

Her mother was reading some fashion magazine or another and glanced up inquiringly. "You hated ballet. You begged me to quit."

Oh. Right. But this was different. This was her career they were talking about.

"I was just a kid then." It had been three months before. "Now I want to take them again." She still had the shoes and all her leotards fit. "And a voice teacher."

"You're in the choir." Her mother went back to her magazine.

Alisha gave a frustrated sigh.

Then she went to find her father.

Two weeks later she had private voice lessons twice a week, and dance classes four days a week, and rehearsals most nights. Her mother shook her head, and pointed out to her father that this was no way for her to go about finding a husband. She'd have no time to date. He shrugged and went back to reading the Wall Street Journal. "It's what she wants," he muttered before he disappeared into stock market reports and the secreted page he'd slipped in from the local paper that held the latest spreads on the upcoming Kentucky Derby.

They expected her to lose interest. She usually got bored quickly.

But the words hung in her dreams and her eyes danced at the thought of the reviews to come. The New York Times art section, lauding the debut of the newest rising star on the Broadway scene. "Alisha St. James: Triple Threat"

Fourteen years later, she was still clinging to that dream, and just knew it was about to happen. Then they'd all see.
lumieredetoiles: (pink)
GLINDA has joined Keelia and Midir's little journalling community!!!! GLINDA!!!!!

Right. So, I've totally seen everything now.

OMG. So excited. So, so excited!!!!!!!!!!
lumieredetoiles: (Default)

In the year I resolve to:

Have an affair with my English teacher.

Get your resolution here


Oh, Keelia? *eg*
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