Sasha Aldin Blauvelt

Darling, darling. I have brought another into my troupe of dancers. He has beautiful eyes, named Melik. He also likes to write. He has many talents, this one, and popular with my girls. I do still miss my little Russian painter, perhaps I shall go searching for another while the others settle. Abby, sweet flower, does your new conquest still care to showcase some of her work? You had made mention, but I have hardly heard anything from you in some time.

I shall see you soon dearest, that is if you plan on staying over.

Life is but a gift.

I think Sasha is jealous? I'm not really sure. I know he plays and caters to me a little more than the other girls, he means well. The burlesque is his business, but I feel like some kind of toy that he uses for his own inspirations. If one of us is sick, hurt, or wants some free time it's almost as if he gets depressed. He says we are his 'children' and he has to protect. Though I kind of feel like he's trying to keep me in this much darker, illusioned world that he lives in. All I asked was to have the afternoon free so I could go have lunch with Frederick. A girl needs some sun, I can't always stay inside the theater as beautiful as it is.

When most people think Bohemian these days it's all towards the glitzy glamor and fashion, and I give it praise where it is---don't get me wrong. It is part in what has changed my appearance overtime to an even further avant-garde. It embraces me, it takes me and seduces me. It is not where I started. And the gypsy that I am is far more than just the flowing dresses, the music, the glam, the androgyny. I miss the simplicity. I miss when I was the seduction, the intrigue and not the other way around. It makes my heat sore.

The beautiful and the dangerous seems so watered down now. I need excitement, and little Syra has been spending time in the open air without me now that her ankle is finally healed. I want her back here, with me, to lament, to hold, to dance with, my inspiration. Abby, my green flower, I think she has been spending time with Frederick.

Zaftra. Tomorrow.

Sasha is being particularly happy today.  He's poetic in his own way, but not so often this giddy, at least not for a while. He has a nature about him that can often times make him seem like a guilt-ridden, starving and down and out artist. He hangs on to people. It's that soft charm that drew me in, and his affections of me often cast me out from the other girls, like I'm his favorite or something.

Today though, I really don't know what to make of him. Like he's in love. He hasn't even come to check on me. My ankle is healing well, but I still won't be able to dance again for a while.

[ooc: Syra Devereux is one Sasha's/Bohemianism's dancers for the Burlesque. She is his new NPC, and his favorite of all the girls.]

My littlest Syra has twisted her ankle. I fear it may be broken, which puts a damper on my little extravaganza. I had hoped to open the Krasivyi for the burlesque show that the girls have been working so hard on. They practice every day, I am so proud. Reminds me of the times spent in Paris. The dancers, the drinks, the poets, the artists, it was a beautiful time.

The doctor can not come to check on her until tomorrow afternoon. I wouldn't like to send her on the bus by herself. I hope the little dearest is back on her feet soon.

Syra, little Syra you are my favorite. Out of all the girls, she is so tiny. So sweet. After months of wandering this grand country, it was back in my lovely New York that I picked her up. Alone, and walking the streets. Such a pretty little face, how could I resist throwing out my hand. My theater has been lonely for far too long. It was missing the vibrance and inspiration, I am delighted to have company again. So many beautiful faces full of hopes and dreams, heartbreak and experience. I love that kind of voice. Oppression mixed with hope. Love mixed with desire. Working with nothing to have everything.

Darling, darling New York, my burlesque will astound. I am ecstatic that this dying art has become more vibrant in the last few years. Much like myself. They say bohemianism is dead. In my sadness to learn those kind of thoughts, I still do not believe it. I can't. Even in my beloved Paris I managed to survive. If fashion and pop culture is one of the many ways to keep my heart beating so bright, then it is welcomed.

Bonne nuit.

My little Russian artist is gone. With the theater full of new dancers, I thought he would find fancy with some inspiration. His heart travels like mine, I will not fault him for leaving. I will only miss him when I felt he had just returned to me. It has saddened me, when I had taken him under my wing, but perhaps it was time for him to visit other marvelous places just as beautiful as New York. So sad, Abby you never had the chance to meet him. I do hope you are well with Frederick. He's quiet, but quite the talent.

The girls are catching on sweetly enough to the can-can. Maybe they will be ready in time for an extravaganza. The theater is looking a tad seul, she needs a little life again. I fear I have neglected her by being away. Forgive me, my belle.

Bonjour! I have returned again to my beautiful New York, my inspiration. The city is so lit up now with the marvelous new year. I left without any goodbyes, I am sorry my darlings. The Krasivyi is my belle, but she was in need of some dancers for the burlesque. I went off for the search and picked up Tanya, Anita, Theresa, little Georgina, Lily, Crystal, Suzy Sweet, Sonya, and my darling Syra. Such beautiful chéris.

I had forgotten what it was to travel, to see things outside the theater lights and with the eyes of one who needs the power of those lost and alone. To hold it close and beat against those that wish to cage us and use that dangerous landscape for our home and inspiration. It is the only way to truly share the experience. It is my heart.

My amour! Abby, my little flower I missed you on my travels, I have not returned empty-handed. I had found a little French poem, but felt it did no justice without it's suitor---so I have brought the poet to you. Enjoy, my sweet. Come visit the theater, we have much to talk about.

C'est la vie.

The Krasivyi Dyen, it means beautiful afternoon in Russian. The homeland. She is a beauty isn't she? My amour, she was a grand hotel sweet Sasha renovated. The theater was small, however my nightclub can not be so timid. It must remind me of my belle, my Paris.

( Le Bohemian Rhapsody )