#evocations

[gracie-bird]

Princess Grace of Monaco at Chichester Theatre Festival, 1982. In the picture, Her Serene Highness is wearing a Van Cleef & Arpels Alhambra necklace.

#grace kelly #princess grace #grace de monaco #chichester theatre festival #chichester festival #1982 #evocations #poetry #van cleef an arpels

[udobo666]

Evocations

#ai artificial intelligence #aiartsociety #ai art prompts #ai art discourse #ai artwork #girl #aiartlovers #ai generated #sexy #Evocations #ritual

[aries-rising-on-an-aquarius-tide]

A/N: I know it's been a long time, and some of you decided that Evocations was over for you before we rounded the final curve ... but I am still determined to finish it, bc Cabenson deserves it. This story means something to me, even though Cabenson isn't canonically endgame. So, here's the next piece. There's not too much left to cover past this, so hopefully I can do the rest of it justice, too.

Rating: 14+

Spoilers: Scorched Earth, Lost Reputation, Above Suspicion

Trigger/content warnings: references to Domestic Abuse/Violence (M/F), alcohol, Domestic Homicide including graphic description of a crime scene, nausea and vomiting

Evocations: XXV

They say you can never start over the way it was, but for just a little while, they beat the odds. Somehow, it was 2002 again, with Alex in Olivia's bed at the end of the day, it was joints shared on the roof in each others' arms, talking about their years spent apart. There were no rough edges, no fighting. Just fucking, laughter, good food, and solid sleep.

When the world once again shifted beneath Olivia's feet, for the first time it was not Alexandra who left her.

Elliot disappears as though twelve years together evaporated into the aether. No words, no phone call, not a post-it note or a 'kiss my ass' to dream on. At the end of the day that she finds out from Cragen, she walks into her apartment to find Alex making dinner.

"Elliot quit," she tells the blonde, hands fisting her hips in an attempt to push the tremble in her voice down her arms and back into her body.

Alexandra stopped dicing just shy of severing a fingertip in surprise. Biting her lip in dismay at the emotion on Liv's face, she wiped her hands and came around to the brunette, enveloping her in a hard hug, which lasted a long time.

Alex tried what she could to dispel the dark cloud that Stabler's ghost wrapped around Liv; she pulled out every trick she knew from all their stuttered years, making time for wine nights, for trying new restaurants, for black & white film festivals. They were still happy together, but the blonde knew that something inside Olivia was broken, something that all the quality time in the world was never going to fix.

Not everyone's heart is made whole by the love of just one soulmate. Part of the identity Liv had carved out of herself was made to fit into Elliot Stabler, and his absence took up as much space as his presence ever had.

Stabler had been Liv's anchor, and now Alex knew that Olivia was adrift at sea.

.

.

Throughout 2012, ADA coverage was a three-way split for SVU between Cabot, Novak and Cutter. When one of them was handling a sex crimes case, the others were handed cases in other departments. Late that year, Alex got a call telling her to meet a client at the hospital.

A pack of bustling ER nurses parted to reveal a battered middle-aged woman who looked like she had lost a battle with the not-so-jolly Green Giant. For a moment, from a distance, she looked so much like Olivia that Alexandra's heart jumped.

"Hi," she says quietly when she gets within speaking distance. "I'm ADA Alex Cabot. What's your name?"

The scared brunette looked at Alex, but the gaze was hollow. "Betty," she answers through swollen lips, "Betty Bluestone."

When Alexandra gets home that night, she is poised to start telling Liv about Betty's DV case. But the apartment is dark and silent. A ripple of discontent passes through the blonde for the first time since she returned, and she is immediately uneasy. She doesn't call, or text - opts, instead, to open a bottle of wine and order in something to eat.

Hours later, Olivia finds her swaddled in the heavy throw blanket, asleep in front of some flickering old movie. There is unfinished wine and cold Chinese on the coffee table. The brunette shakes the ADA awake, unaware of all the words that come rushing up out of the sleepy blonde's mind about the beaten woman who looks like her.

Before Alex can form any of them, Liv tells her, "Cragen's been accused of murder."

.

.

They fight with each other, but only in their heads. Olivia dives into saving Cragen, which Alex understands, as Cragen is really the only father Liv has ever known. Alex doesn't budge from the Bluestone case, which Olivia won't forgive.

It makes the Autumn longer, and colder. They don't have much time for just each other - they are ships in the night, passing like ghosts, hulking and silent. Over the weeks, Betty becomes the surrogate for Alex's protection and concern: she checks in constantly, arranges shelter, makes sure there is no contact with Mitch, and preps Betty for court until both their voices crack.

Liv goes to war for Cragen; her years at SVU, and Elliott's abandonment both tangled up in her battle plans. She learns the hard lesson that parental figures are never faultless. She refuses to lose another part of what has made SVU her home.

In the end, both battles are lost.

.

.

"Mitch, no. Leave her alone, let's just go home."

Alex is numb with the cold on the stone steps of the courthouse. Her ears lift at the sound of Betty's plaintive voice.

"I should give that bitch a piece of my mind," Mitch Bluestone rumbles back to his wife.

"I just want to go home. I've missed you."

Alexandra's stomach knots at the words that come out of Betty's mouth. She turns just enough to watch the couple continue down the steps in perfect sync, waiting to see if Mitch will throw a snarl back over his shoulder.

Their day in court had been a disaster. Between Mitch's intimidation from the defense table, and his lawyer tearing Betty apart, it had all gone to hell. It had taken an act of divine intervention to keep Cabot from screaming when Betty had apologized meekly after telling the ADA that she and Mitch were going to "try one more time."

She stood in the cold for long minutes after the Bluestones had disappeared from sight, wishing for a joint, wishing for Liv's calm pragmatism, for anything but the emptiness that the defeat had punched into her. Even if she goes home, she knows she won't find relief, because Cragen is still in lockup. Olivia has slept and showered mostly in the cribs at the precinct for weeks, sending errant text messages when she had an extra three seconds in a minute.

So Alex goes to a bar instead, tossing back martinis that make up the largest portion of her meals for the day. By the time a woman makes eyes at her from across the bar, the blonde is four drinks deep, but allows the woman to buy her one more anyway. She stands up to leave when it's empty, and isn't sure if it's the world that's spinning her on her feet, or the Wheel of Fortune.

Perhaps both.

.

.

Alex wakes in bed in the apartment, with Olivia shaking her insistently. The dull ache of a hangover is a weight at the blonde's temples as she wonders when her lover got home, and if it means Cragen's charges are dropped.

"Lex," the brunette mumbles again, "Alex. Your phone's ringing."

She reaches to the bedside table, doesn't recognize the number, puts it haphazardly to her ear anyway. "Cabot," she muffles out.

"ADA Alexandra Cabot?" The voice on the line is far too awake for the hour, and Alexandra winces.

"Yes."

"We found your card in the effects at our crime scene. Is a Mrs. Elizabeth Bluestone your client?"

Her blue eyes snap open wide as she sits up in the bed. Olivia is already back to sleep and breathing softly. "Yes. Did she ask for me?"

There is an apologetic pause on the line, then: "Uh, no ma'am. She's dead."

.

.

Mitch is arrested and long gone from the scene by the time Alexandra arrives. The one cop car that remains outside has lights but no siren, the blue light illuminating the windows in staggered flashes. The darkened house full of shadows hulked on the lawn in the eerie quiet that follows chaos.

Unlike Olivia, who could flash a badge and push her way in to nearly anywhere, ADA credentials didn't grant Alex much entry. She waited uneasily for someone to fetch the cop in charge so she could get inside, and a younger guy, the one that had called her she presumed, came out to meet her.

"Neighbor called in a Domestic Disturbance," he explained quietly as he lead her into the house, "which escalated to Shots Fired before we even arrived. The husband went quietly enough, but the woman was DOA. We found your card in the pocket of her jeans."

At the end of the hall they turned into the bedroom, and Alex was hit immediately by the tell-tale scents of domestic violence that has reached its climax: sweat, gun powder, and the copper-metal tang of spilled blood. Her stomach lurched, already disquieted by her hangover.

Off the master bedroom there was an ensuite. The light inside it was on, the coroner and a CSI stood near the doorway, trading quiet murmurs between them.

"I don't imagine this was their first fight," the young cop said.

"No," Alex confirmed, her heart racing at the idea of looking inside the bathroom. She took another couple steps forward, then halted again. "Did he say anything?" she asked, "The husband?"

The police officer cleared his throat. The coroner, the CSI, both turned their heads to look at him. "He said . . . he said he wished he'd've had more bullets. Ma'am." He took a breath to tell the tall blonde ADA that she didn't have to go in there, but it was too late - she had closed the distance between herself and the doorway.

Alex swayed on her feet for just a second. Her nostrils flared, heart racing as her pupils dilated with the shock of fight or flight. Blood coated the bathroom tile, parts of the walls, and flecked the porcelain of the fixtures. Betty had dropped where she stood, a freeze-frame of her last moment, eyes wide open and a hole bulls-eyed into her forehead. The blood pooled around her head that had soaked into her dark hair was scattered with bits of brain and scalp and splinters of skull bone.

Mitch had said "I should give that bitch a piece of my mind," earlier that day, but instead had gone home and painted the ensuite with pieces of Betty's.

But the worst part were her eyes.

Not that they were open. Not even that they were dull with the finality of it all.

No, the worst of it was that instead of looking surprised by the turn of events the night had taken, Betty looked as meek and as cautious as she'd looked when apologizing to Alex after court. There was no righteous indignation, no pleading or regret.

Betty Bluestone looked for all the world as if she had been expecting it.

Betty Bluestone looked relieved.

Alexandra didn't see the long pale grey hallway wall, or recall ducking the crime scene tape as she rushed past the cop watching the front door. The next thing her eyes fixed on was the Bluestones' lawn as she threw up whatever was left of her drinks from earlier that evening. Normally, the ADA would be ashamed of such a rookie move, but Alex was past it that night. She was past all of it, perhaps for the first time in her whole life.

As the cold night air seeped into her skin, she thought of all her years at SVU. She thought of her years on the run - from Wisconsin to other made up lives, of all the people and love lost along the way. Then of Africa, of how anything she did there had been little more than a drip in a giant bucket of war and violence that never ended. Alex thought of Holland, of Knopf the cat, of Sky High, of the children she was probably keeping Olivia from having. There was all that loss, all those endings, all the change and activism that she had wanted to achieve.

And there was Betty, getting cold on the bloody bathroom tile.

It wouldn't do.

Not anymore.

.

.

The clean white light from above the stove is the only illumination in the apartment when Olivia gets home the night of the day of Betty Bluestone's death. Cragen is still in lock up. Cassidy had been shot. Her entire world was upside down, and all she wanted was to crawl into Alex's arms and find sleep that wasn't tainted with the impotence of all her efforts.

On the counter across from the semicircle of light was a little dark object that Liv didn't recognize. She stumbled through taking off her shoes as she got closer. Slowly, a faint smile crossed her features as she held the item up into the light, turning it.

It was a set of Nesting dolls, but instead of the traditional Russian doll style, they were painted to look like a female cop in uniform. Liv twisted the doll open to get to the next one, closing the largest and setting it aside. She repeated with the second doll.

The third doll was not a cop.

Liv frowned. The third wooden doll was a likeness of Alex: blonde, court-ready in a formal skirt and jacket combo, her reading glasses on. Then the fourth and fifth dolls went back to cops in uniform. Lastly, even stranger, the tiniest of the dolls was painted as a baby. It was just a tiny, indistinguishable face, swaddled in a white blanket. Olivia used a fingernail to part the seam in the wood and popped it open.

Inside of it was a ring.

Alex's ring.

Olivia had bought it for her for the first birthday they'd spent together after Alexandra's return. It complimented the diamond and rose gold one that the blonde had bought all those years ago.

The finality of it gripped Liv slowly, a tingling numbness that started in her toes and filled her all the way up. It felt familiar, and somehow different all at once.

The Matryoshka doll was Alex's goodbye letter.

Olivia was finally, truly, alone.

TBC

#law and order svu #svu #olivia benson #alex cabot #alexandra cabot #cabenson #evocations #hearteyes4mariska #my writing #wlw ship #f/f ship #nbc svu #captain don cragen #brian cassidy #matryoshka #nesting dolls

[circeeoflesbos]

La Mort de Psappha

POEME DRAMATIQUE EN UN ACTE de Renée Vivien Evocations, 1903

Scène 1

L’école de poésie fondée par Psappha. Une statue de l’Aphrodita enguirlandée de roses. Par la porte ouverte, on voit l’Égée, les jardins et les maisons de Mytilène. Le soleil, pendant l’acte, décline et disparaît dans la mer.

Éranna de Télôs, chante.

« Lasse du jardin où je me souviens d’elle, J’écoute mon cœur oppressé d’un parfum. Pourquoi m’obséder de ton vol importun, Divine hirondelle ?

« Tu rôdes, ainsi qu’un désir obstiné, Réveillant en moi l’éternelle amoureuse, Douloureuse amante, épouse douloureuse, Ô pâle Procné. « Tu fuis tristement vers la rive qui t’aime, Vers la mer aux pieds d’argent, vers le soleil… Je hais le printemps, qui vient, toujours pareil Et jamais le même ! « Ah ! me rendra-t-il les langueurs de jadis, Le fiévreux tourment des trahisons apprises, L’attente et l’espoir des caresses promises, Les lèvres d’Atthis ? « J’évoque le pli de ses paupières closes, La fleur de ses yeux, le sanglot de sa voix, Et je pleure Atthis que j’aimais autrefois, Sous l’ombre des roses… »

L’Étrangère entre, hésitante. Elle est blonde. Ses regards incertains errent autour d’elle.

Éranna.

Vierge, que cherches-tu parmi nous ?

L’Étrangère.

La Beauté. Je cherche la colère et la stupeur des lyres, L’âpreté du mélôs, parmi la cruauté Des regards sans éclairs et des mornes sourires.

Damophyla.

Viens cueillir avec nous les roses de Psappha : Elle enseigne les chants qui plaisent aux Déesses.

Atthis.

Viens, tu verras, parmi ses ferventes prêtresses, Celle dont le laurier grandit et triompha.

Éranna.

Ses cheveux sont pareils aux sombres violettes.

Gorgô.

Seule, elle sait tramer les musiques muettes Des gestes et des pas.

Dika.

Son baiser est amer Et mord, comme le sel violent de la mer.

Gurinnô.

Elle est triste ce soir. Son regard inquiète.

L’étrangère.

Quelle angoisse l’étreint ?

Dika.

Un songe de Poète ?

Éranna.

Non. Car elle est sauvage et triste tour à tour, Et se lamente, en, proie aux affres de l’amour.

Scène II

Psappha entre, voilée, morne et silencieuse. Pendant toute la pièce, elle ne découvre point son visage. Elle s’arrête devant la statue de la Déesse.

Psappha.

Accueille, immortelle Aphrodita, Déesse, Tisseuse de ruse à l’âme d’arc-en-ciel, Le frémissement, l’orage et la détresse De mon vain appel. Éloigne de moi ton mépris et ta haine, Verse à ma douleur tes sourires cléments, Et ne brise pas mon âme, ô Souveraine, Parmi les tourments.

Sa voix se déchire dans un sanglot. Elle rejette le paktis et demeure dans une attitude de désespoir.

Chœur.

Aphrodita changeante, implacable Immortelle, Tu jaillis de la mer, périlleuse comme elle. La vague sous tes pas se brisait en sanglots. Amère, tu surgis des profondeurs amères, Apportant dans tes mains l’angoisse et les chimères, Ondoyante, insondable et perfide. Et les flots Désirèrent tes pieds, plus pâles que l’écume. Ta lumière ravage et ta douceur consume.

Psappha, sans entendre, noyée dans son rêve.

Fille de Kuprôs, je t’ai jadis parlé À travers un songe.

Éranna.

Comme un son de paktis indécis et voilé, L’incertaine douceur de sa voix se prolonge…

Psappha.

Tu m’as répondu, toi, dont la cruauté

Pèse sur mon âme immuablement triste : « Pourquoi sangloter mon nom ? Quelle Beauté, Psappha, te résiste ? « Moi, fille de Zeus, je frapperai l’orgueil De celle qui fuit ton baiser, ô Poète ! Tu verras errer vainement sur ton seuil Son ombre inquiète. » Ton venin corrompt le sourire des jours, Déesse, et flétrit ma chair humiliée, Toi qui fus jadis mon rayonnant secours, Ma prompte Alliée.

Damophyla.

Tel on voit périr par le flambeau mouvant L’essor des phalènes.

Psappha.

L’Amour a ployé mon âme, comme un vent Des montagnes tord et brise les grands chênes…

Gorgô.

Rien ne brûle en ses yeux des poèmes vécus…

Atthis.

Son regard se dérobe et pâlit sous les voiles.

Psappha.

Je n’espère point étreindre les étoiles De mes bras vaincus.

Elle sort lentement.

L’Étrangère.

Oh ! vers quel lointain, vers quel mystère va-t-elle ?

Gurinnô.

Le soir tombe. Elle va vers l’oubli de l’amour, Vers la Mort.

Éranna.

Sans espoir, sans désir de retour, Elle atteint lentement le rocher de Leucade…

Atthis, écoutant.

Sa voix fiévreuse pleure et râle par saccade.

Damophyla.

Vierges, la volupté de la Mort est dans l’air…

Éranna.

Psappha vient de s’éteindre ainsi qu’une harmonie.

Atthis.

J’entends, comme un écho, son appel d’agonie.

Gorgô.

Et je vois son cadavre emporté par la mer…

L’Étrangère.

Ô compagnes, les pleurs sont de légères choses Et ne conviennent point au glorieux trépas… Chantez ! il faut remplir de rythmes et de roses La maison du Poète où le deuil n’entre pas !

Elles répandent des roses sur le seuil de Psappha. Leurs gémissements se mêlent à l’accord victorieux des lyres.

──────────────────

Illustration : Théodore Chassériau — Sapho, 1849, Musée d’Orsay

#Renée Vivien #renee vivien #Sappho #poésie #poésie française #poétesse #Evocations #Théodore Chassériau

[sergle]

here this is what i think gandalf big naturals’ job should be. as someone also suffering from huge boobs people gotta stop telling us what we should be doin with our bodies

#submission #HOLY SHITTTTTT #did you make this just now or did you Find This because I SCREAMED #the WEIGHTTTTT COMMUNICATED... SO EVOCATIVE... #laugh rule #I AGREE COMPLETELY #sergle.txt

[schistcity]

what’s a cover of a song you think is genuinely better than the original song? mine is archie, marry me by flyte

#the original is by alvvays #and it’s… fine #but the flyte version is sooo moody and evocative and sexy and sad… #anyway tell me ur covers

[bba2c9bkn9jjcm]

kurd sex gani kurdi erbil hawlir اربيل كورد Gay twink spanking tube Bathroom Bareback Boycompanions Rough bisexual threesome Sphincterbell ebony slim girl twerking on floor Hot couple free live sex and cum in mouth Morrita putita en video I see the way you stare at me in class JOI Your punishment will be a savage ballbusting Hot brunette starlet Keisha gets an anal fucking Indian mom fuck in doggy style

#lilies #biangulate #positivist #unlevelled #telomic #Ruckman #repentingly #flesh-eating #evocations #intaker #beefburgers #intercepter #unprovocativeness #wordpress #furrings #calotin #progamete #MODEM #remeditation #Little-good

[ukdamo]

The Poet in Samos

Richard Gwyn

Here are the things you left behind: an old bus ticket to a place with an illegible name, a stack of government files from distinct regimes, a pile of rocks, a copy of Cavafy, well-thumbed. I don’t know how many meals you ate here, by the seaward window. I don’t know whether the shutter kept you awake at night as it banged unheeded on the wall, or whether as you claimed, it was a kind of comfort. Reading Parentheses, I see once more how the world became an adjunct to your poems, your poems an adjunct to the world.

Here are the things that you invented, even as they, in turn, invented you. Nothing was inanimate. You turned each movement of the head, each falling leaf or bicycle into the fragment of a story. You told us that you hid behind simple things and if we could not find you, we’d find the things instead. Author’s note: The reference to Parentheses refers to an early book by the Greek poet Yannis Ritsos. The final two lines of the poem refer to the opening lines of a poem in that collection, called ‘The Meaning of Simplicity’: in Edmund Keeley’s translation: ‘I hide behind simple things so you’ll find me;/ if you don’t find me, you’ll find the things.’

#poetry #richard gwyn #samos #artefacts #evocations #memories #clues #writing

[huffy-the-bicycle-slayer]

Growing up, did anyone else think that the phrase "heard it through the grapevine" was refering to a litteral grape vine?

I always imaged two people picking grapes and talking shit about a third person that was blocked from view by grapevines

#the song “heard it through the grapevine” is juat very visually evocative #and i hears it many many time growing up #it may suprise none of you that autism is involved

[zchroniclesofchaos]

EVOCATIONS

Evocations is the act of calling upon or summoning a spirit, demon, deity, guardian angels, archangels, or other super natural agent. Another term for evocations is conjuring, which also refers to summoning and is often used by a magician for magical spells.

Calling forth of spirits was a common practice in Neoplatonism, a strand of Platonic Philosophy, which was the practice of other esoteric systems of antiquity.

In contemporary Esotericism the magic of the Grimoires is frequently seen as a perfect example of Evocations. Manuals such as The Greater Keys of Solomon the King, The Lesser Keys of Solomon, The Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage, and many others provide instructions that combine intense devotion to the divine with the summoning of various spiritual advisors and familiars.

Grimoires also provide a variety of methods of Evocation. The spirits are, in many cases, commanded in the name of God. Grimoires are most commonly used in Cabalistic or Hellenistic names added together to form long Litanies(Repetitive Prayers).

The Art of Evocation of spirits is said to be done entirely under the poser of the divine. One is thought to gain authority among the spirits only by purity, worship, and personal devotion and study.

Evocation can be used to call out the lesser spirits(Arch Angel Level) sometimes as arising from the Self. Evocations is different from Invocation, in which spiritual powers are called into the self from the Divine Source(Channeling). In other words, Evocation starts from inside and pushed outward and Invocation is from the outside and drawn inside of you.

EVOCATION: Summoning a deity, spirit, ancestor, for a specific task, information, or some practical application aimed and manifestations in the physical world.

INVOCATION: Summoning a deity, spirit, ancestor with the intention of communicating with, petitioning, for manifestation or offering or sacrifice.

CONJURING: A magical act of invoking sprits, or using incantations or charms to cast magical spells. It is the performance of illusion or magic tricks for a show.

SPIRITUAL EVOCATION:

Spiritual Evocation is a style of Evocation for facilitating spiritual formation, growth and development. It is a blend of the Ancient and the Modern. Ancient traditions of spiritual direction and modern spiritual traditions, evokes personal motivation for exploring growth.

Spiritual Evocation is the intended to extend the benefits of spiritual direction to those who might not otherwise seek them, whose spiritual growth has been obstructed. Spiritual Evocation involves spiritual teachers who help guide, motivate, and help one with their spiritual journey.

#Evocations

[pa-rou]

always within

#3rd life #third life #life series #traffic smp #grian #desert duo #parou sketches #mom said its my turn on the evocative 3rd life fanart #what if he was riddled with guilt i think that would be pretty cool

[metanarrates]

new shifting mound dialogue... she's so real for this one

#slay the princess #DON'T WORRY GIRL I UNDERSTOOD YOU JUST FINE #in all seriousness i think this is probably a good addition? tsm speaks a lot in imagery and metaphor which seems to be frequently confusin #for certain players #i love the way she talks because it's very rich and evocative but I understand being confused by it

[time-slink]

left eyes not the weird one.. pt two :]

#my art #slinky’s paintings #ethoslab #the swirl is meant to be kiiinda evocative of the mangekyo but distinct enough? hopefully i nailed that #btw if i ever post a completely finished piece it’s not me it’s my hels or w/e #it’s messy or nothing baby!! #scopophobia cw #<- saw someone tag this so im adding it bc yeah he really is lookin right at the camera huh

[canisalbus]

That is absolutely WILD that you mentioned pomegranates!! goodness gracious I don't know if you have already you need to watch Sergei parajanovs 1969 film The Color of Pomegranates (it's on yt). Not only is it stellar but it is really aesthetically similar to your work and guess what? You could see a little machete vasco, as one of the themes is young love being choked out through separation because the main character Sayat Nova leaves for a secluded monastery!!

I love The Color of Pomegranates! It's been one of my favorite films for years, it's so hypnotic, textured and visually rich, I always come back from it feeling nourished. If my work manages to remind you of it even in some minute way I'm beyond happy.

#I love you surrealism #I love you religious imagery #I love you donkeys and chickens and sheep #I love you poetry art history passion love violence and death #I love you evocative use of the color red #answered #phodicae #it's indeed on youtube at the moment! with subtitles (even though there's very little dialoque)

[miamaimania]

The Striking Monochrome Portraiture of Aleksandr Malin

#evocative #aleksandr malin #portrait #contemporary #blackandwhite #photography #minimalism #fashion

[thewhizzyhead]

the entirety of "Just For Once" is like really fuckin emotionally captivating alright and we can all attribute that to Lauren Lopez's incredible performance (like holy fuck those high notes), the layered lyrics, and the thin line of Ruth singing as the Barbecue Monologue character and her singing as herself but you wanna know what REALLY got me crying because of how Lauren's eyes and delivery really makes it clear that Ruth is speaking as herself?

"I used to dance. I used to dance."

#tHAT LINE #a GUT PUNCH OF A LINE #like while watchjng the proshot for the first time i was thinking that the top kicker would be lauren's JUST FOR OOOOOOONCE high notes #and that is indeed a top kicker BUT I WASN'T EXPECTING TO BE PUNCHED WITH 4 QUIET WORDS #like look at how quietly that line is delivered especially after ruth sang her lungs off #like gjcjd i cant properly explain just how evocative that line is but holy fuck #it truly solidifies ruth as a tragic character in my opinion like damn #nerdy prudes must die #npmd spoilers #starkid #lauren lopez