Solo Writing - Blog Posts

𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐞~

Her script had previously been altered by The New York Times, which called it a "Folly-wood production." Typical. The War in Bosnia was, of course, a sensitive matter. Any aspect of warfare is extremely illogical and challenging to comprehend. Angelina was aware of that. She also understood that she couldn't anticipate an easy transition into the directing world. The actress was prepared to make her script a reality, though, now that the red tape had been removed.

There were a lot of files, pens, cameras, and storyboards in her home office. She had battled like an animal in a cage for this film to be made. She was certain that her mind had become scrambled from all the writing—and rewriting she'd done.

A good war movie gave Angelina a feeling of reliance, and she adored them. She could only hope that this film, for which she had done beneficial research, would draw a sizeable audience. It would be different to direct it. The devoted actress has collaborated with some of the best filmmakers throughout her career. As time passed, Angelina saw that she was taking notes. However, her brother was the first person she turned to.

Having chosen two separate routes, Angelina obviously appreciated her brothers' advice. They spoke on the phone for many hours, the majority of which were him assuring her that she could accomplish this.

Angelina had agreed to star in two major films between her major debut as a director. It was insane how she ended up committed to multiple projects at once.

The brunette sighed shakily as she glanced over the final script draft that Universal Studios had authorized. This would undoubtedly be different from still photos of flowers, sneaky photos of Brad, and all the other ridiculous things she performed with her camera. Angelina had to begin arranging auditions for the top actors and actresses with the help of her dependable team.

Angelina wanted— no, she needed this film to capture what couldn't be told by anyone else. In her veins, Angelina knew she could do this. She found herself up at night, penning and configuring almost every finer detail. That's just how it had to be.

Angelina pulled her hair back in a loose bun and gathered her screenplay, camera, and passport. Location, location, location. She had been looking for the ideal location to film the movie in order to hone her ability to make it. The US Embassy, of course, had its own restrictions on where she could and could not film.

She would have a full day with 5 to 18-hour flights, photocalls, writing, and solo photography. But she enjoyed it that way. Angelina discovered herself in a time when she needed to keep moving in order for the fire inside of her to be useful. The stunning actress closed the door behind her and turned to her script.

‘𝑰𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚.’

“Jhst thinking...how nothing last.”

Sad and true. Yet, there's a small call of realism...and the ache of memories to always be saved. Until then...💋

—Ostern'; Hasentag—

“Large conflicts make the world feel unmanageable and intangible to us. Nonetheless, there is a brilliant or dim light at the end of the tunnel. The mental tenacity that defines luminosity. If burned too brightly, it will burn out.”

Stepping onto her balcony was Angelina. Unaware that it had been some time since she last visited this specific plain. Also unfamiliar to her but ingrained in her consciousness. She let her delicate hands smooth away any potential rust by rubbing them against the shiny metal of the balcony railing. Standing, existing, and breathing in the air that around her felt almost strange. How brief life is, how it might be, yet how hospitable all the changes have been and will be.

Her blue eyes soaked up the sun's radiance, allowing the light to wash her. The brunette took off her silk top and leaned over the railing to get closer to the sun. Today was Easter, or rather, what Angelina jokingly mistook for "Bunny Day." As the gentle wind chilled her bones, the sun's heat seemed like dancing love coals on her face. What is there to do on a "Easter Sunday" that hasn't previously been done? It's safe to say that the stunning actress had penned a large number of poems, saved her work for her travels, and...had grown more aware of what she had missed. Missed in the absence sense. Her lips twisted into a half-smile as she thought back on the previous days.

“Ich bin verliebt in diese Saison … in das, was ich bin.” The German words, flowed freely from her mouth as she spoke to no one; just herself.

It was true. Angelina had developed a sense of who she was. Including all the complexities of existing, breathing, and loving. She was no longer just an actress. Much more, and it frequently made her afraid. She was now a writer for publications like TIMES, the Wall Street Journal, Global Traveler Inc., etc. But, she was now even closer to the love of her life, which made her giddy with happiness. Yet, Angelina had a strong urge to change with the season today.

Angelina found herself in the flower-filled garden before she knew what had happened. She had taken off her floral skirt and was now barefoot, only wearing her matching silk bra and underwear. Her skin blended with that earthy sensation and the alluring aroma of flowers, soil, and honeysuckle. The actress danced on the uncut, untrimmed grass and weeds, letting her hair blow in the wind. The exquisite flowers, with their open petals appearing to welcome her, gave her skin a slight tingle. The woman tipped her head back and giggled lowly, possibly in delirium, but with genuine ecstasy. It meant so much to her to stop, drop, and roll in this magnificent garden.

Throughout the house, Angelina had left her countless cameras, both used and unused. She looked up at the tempting sun with her legs crossed and her back close to the grass. Its rays are making her more endearing, complimenting her, and in Angelina's thinking, warming and praising her. Because there was no longer the mental pain of a conflict. Naturally, the pouty lip actress was aware that there would still be times when she would barely hang on and the need to lie in the garden would seem like an insurmountable obstacle. Not right now, though. Just her—no camera, no writing instruments. She, the flowers, the Planet, her thoughts, and this Easter Sunday's springtime.

Angelina would remain there, safe in the company of dandelion, rose, tulip, and other wild flowers—a garden of euphoric delight. Her hair was strewn across the grass, her eyes were innocently staring into the sun, and she was thinking only beautiful things. She would lie there on Easter Sunday and perhaps the following "Bunny Day" as well.

“...And if it burns out, it can always be re-lit. Be reignited, reconstructed by all and anything. No stipulation on time, no chain on creativity—and no stain on progress. Life is, in all ways, conflict and strife...but just enough love to make it a life.”

— Solo—

She felt most like herself between the break of dawn and the start of a new day. While passing her eyes quickly over the script in front of her, Angelina stuck the final sticky note in her journal. A strand of her platinum blonde hair was doodled and knotted by her free hand. Her schedule was as disorganized as her mind. Unorganized and unsure, but extremely feasible.

Angelina had never been happier as she planned the next few stages in her career. Her third person perspective story, was published in LIFE magazine last week. She had gained confidence in her acting abilities and was firmly established. But, the sheer satisfaction of being a writer, however, produced more dopamine than any Golden Globe, Oscar, or honor from an acting guild. Every action stunt the stunning actress ever performed was eclipsed by that sensation. She pushed her personal journal closer to herself while tugging at her bottom lip between her teeth.

She would have appeared insane to anyone who had been looking if they had. She may have been schizophrenic based on the way she gnawed on her lower lip when concentrating. As she recorded the racing ideas and epiphanies, her big eyes grew larger and more intense. Angelina's writing was inspired by the conviction that nothing in the outside world could ever equal to the apocalyptic feeling she experienced. She felt deeply theatrical in everything, and her writing technique reflected that.

What came next? The phrase "writers block" was never one Angelina like using. She really preferred to imagine her ideas as lightning strikes. Inconspicuous sparks and soft lightning. The third-person narrative of her article depicted the disasters that befell unfortunate people on the planet. Naturally, the general population believed Angelina was unaware of the world's calamities.

“𝑊𝒉𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒'𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝒉𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐𝒉 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛... 𝐼𝑛 𝑤𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑐𝑦𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑡?”

Based on her humanitarian travels, Angelina had written it from a distance. Additionally, she had written that from a faint sense of self-awareness. She nevertheless encountered criticism from the public.

With the pen in her hand, writing, crossing out, scribbling, she penned her bold perspectives. Her mind was struggling mightily to keep up as her black ink doused across the lined paper. Would she make this public? There was no answer. Maybe she would be the only one to see this project. Maybe she would publish a book every six years. Or maybe, just maybe, in the future she'd make the move from actress to author slowly but surely.

Stuck at her kitchen table in the upright posture. Her mind, reeling from the furious ideas, eyes fixed on the paper, and mouth slightly parted. The blue-eyed beauty interrupted her limited amount of focus to look around the untidy table for a cigarette and lighter. She lit the cigarette, taking a dainty puff of nicotine, and exhaled deeply.

Just the sprinkling of morning sunlight; no music, lights, or TV. Beautiful sunshine was pouring through her blinds, illuminating various rooms in her opulent house. Serenely lovely; unquestionably a source of inspiration and incentive for Angelina to keep writing.

The bottom of her page was coated with ashes as she scrawled the final words. The majority of this piece of work was incoherent. But it had the qualities of an excellent phenomenon. The actress murmured softly as she ran her hand through her hair.

Angelina wasn't motivated to write because she wanted to become a well-known novelist. Knowing that perhaps her writing might reach someone was an art. Someone who required the words: ‘𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧— 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥-𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.’

Of course, Angelina might have tried her hand at writing romantic, adventure, or film noir-style stories. But how tightly can the soul grasp that?

She believed that romance could begin from anything, in her warped and wicked mind. The intense desire to triumph over such catastrophes could be perceived as romantic and exciting. Standing up from the chair, she looked at the morning sun. Her scripts, notes, and camera were all scattered across the table. Each and every one of Angelina's exploding personalities.

10/2—

I am beyond myself in these moments of what is and what isn't.

No longer mindful of how I come across to others.

I need to avoid repeating my sorrows. As a result, carry the haunted pain with you forever.

My eyes hurt, and my ribs hurt. Heart filled with sorrow, but I'm still left alone by my own thoughts.

How is that even doable? Have I turned into a was? Is my new identity just a reimagining and a pale version of who I once was?

Cannot reproduce these feelings.

—Blondie—

(Life Or Something Like It Solo)

She was frightened by the comedy genre. She wasn't particularly amusing—clumsy? She was, indeed. Angelina had no experience with romantic comedies. It didn't appear that "Playing By Heart" counted. In fact, whenever her filmography was brought up, the movie never seemed to come up. So perhaps Angelina wasn't the best at comedy. However, this chance presented itself. The project "Life or Something Like It" seems to be enjoyable. It was a character that embodied everything the actress detested about people. Her co-stars made the set beautiful, and the screenplay was excellent. It nearly felt like she was on vacation with her favorite folks. One of the best benefits, too? Now, for just a little a while she could be a blonde hair chick again.

On the far side of the set, her trailer was located. As she read her script, Angelina was reclined against her desk. Despite how much she enjoyed reading, she was never able to focus on scripts on her own. When the trailer door opened, she stretched out her arm and got hold of her tea cup, ready to sip. The director, Stephen, leaned his body partially against the doorway as he stood there. His thin lips were playing out that cunning little smile. Angelina was no longer a childish actress. She earned her spot in Hollywood, which has always made her nervous. Realizing that she was now regarded as one of the best actors in Hollywood. It looked like Stephen was going to capitalize on it.

“Angie...?” Stephens voice raised in pitch—Angelina stop to stare at him. “I need you to sing.”

Sing? He needed Angelina to sing? First it was the outpouring of support, getting the woman to star in this comedy. Even though, Angelina was still convinced she possessed not one funny bone in her body. Now, there was singing involved?

Angelina was ultimately ready to deliver the script to someone else if she had been acting in her right mind. And perhaps change her mind about playing the lead in the movie. She was not a singer. Stephen hadn't seen any of her recent movies, had he? She was able to swim, swing from ropes, fire weapons, and throw punches. However singing? Was he attempting to transform her into the Hollywood clown, or what? Angelina had to restrain herself from letting a barrage of expletives escape her mouth. She started to speak and gave a slight head shake.

“No... No, I can't sing.” She finally spoke, trying to gather her composure.

Stephen let out a squeal of laughter, “I’m not asking for Opera or a Madison Square Garden performance.” He paused with a slight tilt of his head. “Just some old school rock singing.”

Angelina still wasn't understanding where he was going with this. Now, standing from her chest she rested one hand on her hip. “Rock singing? What're we talking...?”

It was widely known that Angelina cherished music. She couldn't carry a simple tune, yet every time she went on vacation, she ended up in a record shop. When she was alone, Angelina would use music to lighten her home, possibly upsetting the peace outside due to her excitement when listening to specific songs. And that was okay; it was groovy and enjoyable. To do it on camera, though? Have it filmed, edited, and made a significant contribution to the movie? That idea made Angelina's heart shiver. She and Stephen exchanged a brief look. His weight changed from his left foot to his right. Angelina shook her head "no," biting the corner of her mouth.

“Trust me on this. This will be fun, you'll look amazing and it'll be amazing.” Stephen nodded on and off, as to add reassurance to his statement. As he made his way out the door of her trailer, he called out another “trust me” before closing the door.

𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎? 𝑮𝒐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇? 𝑺𝒖𝒓𝒆.

[][][][][][][][][][][][]

Sylvia touched Angelina's nose with the cosmetic brush. A week had passed since Stephen had asked Angelina to sing. And her response? She wasn't sure yet, but she was leaning strongly against saying yes. By choosing to film the other events instead of the singing scene, she was able to avoid it. The set was entertaining. Angelina found that the more she disliked her character, the more she liked the movie. However, Stephen was determined to shoot the singing sequence today after spotting her diversion strategy.

“It’s part of the film. Have fun with it.” Sylvia spoke, teasing Angelina's platinum blonde hair.

A glance at her reflection in the mirror was cast by the blue-eyed actress. Each day, two to four hours were needed for hair and makeup. Angelina occasionally had trouble identifying herself. Her dark hair was completely gone, the tattoos were covered up; she had changed significantly. However, she enjoyed something about the acting industry. Playing dress up and temporarily assuming another identity could be thrilling a way of escapism at times. Sylvia shifted to the side while talking, attempting to tame a few flyaways.

“Aren’t you always going on about taking risk?” Sylvia took a beat, grabbing the curling iron. “This is a risk. A fun risk.” Her heavy Russian accent made Angelina giggle a bit, whenever she said ‘risk.’

Taking risk? Yeah. Angelina was the number one German-American risk taker. Jumping into pools at award shows, kissing fans, bungee jumping while on LSD. So what the hell was so scary about shooting a 5-10 minute singing scene?

If Angelina's father were present, he would undoubtedly rant about how she shouldn't constantly be terrified. Additionally, he would probably provide a long-winded narrative about his time spent on sets and filming projects that he didn't particularly enjoy. If Angelina's mother had visited the set this week, she would have given her a big hug, sing her a tender song, and tell her to stretch her wings and fly. And that would all be beneficial. But there was just one problem: Angelina was getting in her own way.

“Warum bin ich so ein kleiner Angsthase?” Angelina mumbled as Sylvia finished up her hair.

Sylvia narrowed her squinty brown eyes at the pretty actress, “You forget I know German too.”

Amusingly, Angelina stood from the chair. “Ja? What did I just say then?”

The two women were to begin in a heated battle of Russian and German talk, before the five minute warning knock erupted on the trailer door. That was Angelina's cue to get out there.

Her attire of choice was appropriate for the setting. Her idea to add a hat to the costume was to make it appear more relaxed. Angelina followed the security onto the set while keeping one hand in her pocket. Along the walkway, extras, regular people, and paid fans lined up in an attempt to get a glimpse of the action. Stephen appeared to be deeply engaged in a discussion with his assistant director. Angelina pursed her pouty lips, mentally going over each word of the scene while she tried to control her heart rate so she wouldn't pass out before the filming even began.

Breaking from the conversation, Stephen approached her. “How ya feeling Blondie?”

“I feel like Marilyn Monroe!”

“Really?” Stephen asked excitedly.

“No. No. I—I was being sarcastic.” Angelina playfully rolled her eyes.

Stephen pulled Angelina aside, off to a mildly secluded area. Stephen Herek, was a fairly unknown director who wasn't the largest in Hollywood. But he worked hard at his craft. He respected the input and effort of his actors. With seriousness and sympathy in his gaze, he gently touched Angelina's shoulder.

“This entire movie is about living in the moment. It's about doing things, you'd probably never do. Your character is realizing that.” He stopped, his lips twitching with a smile as he continued. “You’re the raddest chick in Hollywood right now. Be that way, for this scene.”

This was the pep talk? Angelina could be considered the boldest woman in Hollywood. Of course she was— who else would get a tapped in tattoo tiger on her lower back and flaunt it, for all to see? No one. No one but her. A gleaming smile spread across her lips, and Angelina gave a thorough nod in agreement.

“Alright! Alright... Let's film this fucking thing!”

Maybe it was the character, the writing, Stephen's motivational speech, or maybe just the fact that Angelina was working on a movie that allowed her to have a little fun. Whatever it was, the scene was filmed in a single take. She enjoyed herself and rocked out in front of a large crowd. Angelina even succeeded in living out a rock star fantasy by being able to crowd surf! Production would take close to six months, delaying the release of the film. Still, she enjoyed herself. Angelina had truly begun to enjoy her career as an actor.

—Solo—

VII

It was peculiar. More sophisticated but still possessing an odd charm. Only a one-hour special with Barbara Walters was all that Angelina had consented to. What happened to make it a three-episode event? Because of the ping-pong-style questions about her father and their rocky relationship. Her romantic life, her tattoos, and finally, what mattered most— Angelina's new life course. Her life had undergone a very significant transformation. In some ways, she appeared to have found her niche. There would be no more ricocheting between high and low emotions, no more craving for a spark-igniting sensation. Angelina felt at ease being who she was. She genuinely enjoyed being alive.

Barbara moved about in her chair, her eyes seeping right into Angelina's. “Before we start, I have to ask— have you done something different?”

“...Different? You mean like dieting?” Angelina's eyebrow lifted softly; she was confused about the question.

“The last time I interviewed you, you seemed...”

“Unhinged?” Angelina laughed softly but boastfully. She didn't have an issue with calling herself unhinged. Because it was true. There were heavy moments in her life, that didn't add up. If they so happened to— it was due to other outside influences. Which never seemed genuine.

While the cameras were rolling, the ladies' hair and cosmetic artists patted their cheekbones and nostrils with subtle glitter. To check her watch, Angelina slightly craned her neck and narrowed her eyes. This was consistently the part of Hollywood that appeared to drag on. Interviews never appeared to have a single subject. Angelina never felt especially skilled at them, though. In an effort to divert the conversation and draw attention to crucial concerns, she would do so. However, trivial issues like hair, makeup, attire, and dating rumors kept coming up. That was always Angelina's favorite. She seemed to be dating every prominent person. It was amusing to her when they pinned her to Ethan Hawke the previous week.

“Okay, last time we spoke, we talked of your enormous success. Your ground breaking roles. Your amazing achievement— and the films that helped you do it.” Barbara took a pause, her thin lips pursing softly, then she continued. “Now, you've signed on to do Tomb Raider 2, A movie with Ethan Hawke, and you've become a member of the UN Special Envoy Council for Refugees. A writer for TIME magazine. You've certainly changed course, yes?”

Angelina crossed her legs at her ankles. A nervous flutter hit her stomach, “Yeah—yeah, things have really changed.”

“Is there a reason you've changed? Is there someone who's pushed you into this change?”

“I wanted to change. I wanted to...well, I needed to see life from a different perspective.”

Barba had leaned forward now, her eyes fixing right on the actress across from her. “Was it your interest in foreign affairs that made you want to join the UN?”

Joining the UN wasn't just a result of Angelina's interest in one particular area of international affairs. She was aided by her inner and exterior curiosity. The difficulty of taking on significant responsibilities, which required some background knowledge, was another obstacle. And like many other things in Angelina's life, when she felt drawn to a particular topic and truly felt a sense of delight from learning about life, she had to be all in. She began to describe how she got involved in setting up for the UN Special Envoy group with a nod of her head. Babra continued to lift her eyebrows slightly, as if she were too shocked to believe it.

“I had received the script three years earlier and I wasn't sure I could do that particular role...” With a pause, the dark-haired actress gave a small laugh. “You get older, and things look different, you start to challenge yourself and I know for myself, I want to do more. Be more, help others through different ways.”

Barba smiled softly, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve certainly made an impact on others. Just last week you put out several TIME magazine articles. Is that a goal for you too? To become a writer?”

The middle and index fingers of Angelina were placed under her chin. She hadn't planned on that happening and hadn't given it much thought either. It was a release to write. She found that writing poems helped her maintain a healthy perspective on reality. She had strong opinions regarding the articles she had written for TIME magazine. Angelina understood that in order to be a writer, she would need to hold a lot of very strong opinions. Maybe. She might reveal her secrets at some point in the future, and she might even compose a couple scripts or more.

There were three sets of five minute breaks. In between those, hair and makeup bustled in and out of the room. They were rolling again, and Barbara was back to the personal questions again.

“You’ve expressed your life in many ways. You've also been candid about your relationships with woman.”

“Yeah,”

Barba chose her words carefully, “Is that something you're still interested in?”

Angelina absent-mindedly licked her bottom lip before answering. “I don't see it becoming something that I'll turn into a hobby. It isn't a hobby— I just found that I had a great time expressing myself in a relationship and that person happen to be a woman.” A few seconds of a pause came, and the actress nodded to continue. “I don't think it's a big deal or something that needs any further explanation.”

“Though, right now— are you in a relationship with a woman?”

“No.”

How long had Barbara been wanting to ask that? It was like she was nearly ready to explode if she couldn't ask Angelina, that question.

Barba continued by inquiring about secret marriages, which Angelina denied. She had two marriages in her life. Eight months were spent in each marriage. Eight months of total enjoyment spent together. Barbara gestured at Angelina's left arm as she was seated with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her lap. Angelina had a tattoo in lovely cryptic writing. Barbara and the camera could see that as well as the tiny roman numeral tattoo on her wrist.

“Is it true that you had a shoulder tattoo added and a tattoo on your back removed?”

“Mmhm. I uh, had to get that removed and then, I wanted something else.” Her laugh was sweet— Angelina's eyes widening from excitement.

“Something else? You've reported that you already have about thirty tattoos so far.”

With a goofy laugh, Angelina shrugged. “Yeah! What's the harm?”

Barba laughed too and like sly person she was, and slipped in a question. “Are you in love?”

Angelina slowly tensed up as her gaze focused on Barbara. She moved a hand to her head, tucking some hair behind her ear, and her facial gestures might have suggested a confused expression. “I am.”

“Have you changed because you're in love?”

“Doesn’t love or isn't love... suppose to bring change? Obviously in ways that are good?”

“You’ve been married twice, divorced...” Barbara, let out a trite chuckle maneuvering in her chair. “Do you think being in relationships changes you?”

Angelina let out a dejected sigh; Barbara choose this subject to talk about out of all that was possible. In the unlikely event that Angelina ever wanted to discuss her personal life in this way, she didn't want it to stem from the past. “I don't know, I can only be myself. But I know that I've changed, I've grown up. I've stopped being so inwardly intense with myself. I've been through darker times, and I'm finally happy being myself.”

Behind Barbara, one of the onsite directors help his hand— signaling that they had five minutes. Tomorrow, part three would be filmed and that'd be it. Angelina was sure, it'd be awhile before she agree to do anything like this, again.

“You wear leather,”

“Right.”

“You ride motorcycles,”

“Mhmm.”

“You write poetry, you love photography, you travel for charities— are you still a bad girl? A wild girl?” Barbara finally asked.

There were brief bursts of eagerness among the unnaturally quiet sounds in the room. Angelina nervously grinned while fidgeting with the bracelet on her left wrist. That was a substantial and slightly challenging question. Her gaze swept over Barbara's stern countenance, taking note of the interesting way with which she asked the question.

“I am. I'm still a bad girl, I still have a wild side.”

“Do you? ...Where has it been? You've done a good job at hiding it.”

“I don't hide it, it just has it's place now.” Angelina answered honestly. “It’s saved for my relationship, my experiences, my adventures— for my passions. Friendships. I just know where it is.”

The segment's final wrap-ups got underway. Regarding the next projects, scripts, and premieres that Angelina would be undertaking, Barbara made some remarks. Surprisingly, Barbara requested Angelina autograph a TIME magazine for her. Given that Angelina was convinced Barbara had not read it, it seemed surreal.

Angelina was worn out after three hours of carefree emotional self-exposure in front of the camera. Speaking of oneself might always feel like an out-of-body experience. Or perhaps she didn't feel the need to defend herself in front of others. She was appreciative of anyone who supported her and liked her. She had no use for anything or anyone that was negative.

—𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐞.

Day 1: I'm amazed at the beauty of it. Culture seems to be a living thing. To exist here, right now. Am I... on the line?

Day 2: He is the muse I find in perfect harmony. How can a man be as captivating as himself? He will never grow tired of photography.

Day 3: For my part, I intend to see what has never been seen before. I hope my life continues on this path. So I write this. A hymn? Perhaps.

𝑇𝐵𝐶~

—Solo—

VI

Angelina's body was pummeled by a tremendous surge of in and out surroundings. It wasn't always like this, and she didn't expect it to stay that way. Angelina had returned to work mode after celebrating her birthday with an outpouring of love from people she held dear to her heart. Not only was she working, but she also had that itch, that niche—almost a need for something more. Perhaps it was the return of her Mother that spurred her on to more self-discovery. Angelina may have been pushed further than she ever dreamed she could go by her new lease on love and life.

Angie's first film, Original Sin, was the first of many. Despite the fact that filming had not yet begun, she was ecstatic. The writing spoke to her, almost in ways that represented everything she disliked about a character as well as everything she might adore. She was out today. A walk through nature by herself, to cleanse her head of the congestion. In no sense of sickness— but to cleanse any self-inflicted doubts.

No doubt, everything, life, and times had changed. Angelina was satisfied at the moment. She walked on the trail, pressing her feet into the crooked gravel. That she was in love seemed surreal. She had no idea that love would suddenly descend upon her like a sack of bricks. As she did with many other things, she received it with faith and understanding. The trail led to the area of the woods that was the deepest and darkest. The actress knelt down and searched her bag for her camera. Maybe, just maybe, she'd really grow interested in photography and perhaps start directing films.

Angelina had several opportunities as a result of her acting career. That's something, she never took for granted. She thought that travel, amnesty, and philanthropic events were all extraordinarily wonderful. But, she had every desire to be more, though. Do more. The smallest part of her life was and is Hollywood. Glamorous dresses, makeup, and parties barely scratched the surface of who Angelina was in reality. Her brother James, made the proposal that she write an op-ed piece to TIME magazine. Angelina initially believed he was yanking her chain. He wasn't, though. When Antonio Banderas and the cast of Original Sin first met, they spent the most of their conversation discussing global issues.

As Angelina silently approached a bird's nest, the camera's shutter flickered repeatedly. Angelina had opinions on everything, including societal issues, literary works, and historical events. Why not? Why not have courage and contribute to TIME magazine? However, Angelina knew she would get harsh criticism. As she had always been subjected to. She smiled as she recalled the gasping outrage caused by her numerous tattoos. She would ruminate on the idea of writing something, much as she had done with her own collection of poetry. She found it strange that something she had always done in her free time or with her mother could now be bought by others. Angelina hiked the remaining distance in silence after one more shutter click.

In time with the foggy breeze, her chest rose and sank. The raw scents of nature entered her lungs. The path grew narrower as it led to her final goal; hanging plants and flowers adorned the route. A prosperous and magnificent river was created from the still water. Nature was hushed. However, it matched the constant cacophony of sounds that thrilled Angelina's head and emotions. Her eyes were squinted into the distant as she clenched the camera in her palm. It was amazing. Her arms had scratches and scuffs from prickly bushes, her hair was clinging to the back of her neck, and her boots were covered in dirt and gravel. Never before had she felt more lovely, alive, and open to new experiences than she did now.

With her camera, Angelina captured the water, the flowers, and the little insects. She located a spot a downed tree limb. She had placed her journal on her lap while sitting with her legs outstretched and her back resting against the wood. Naturally, there were scribbles and indents on every page from previous works. Many of them were sappy odes to her love. High-pitched, almost sickeningly girlie declarations of love were also something Angelina enjoyed. To have complete freedom. She wouldn't limit her feelings, not even in her own mind. Her attention was now on the present situation. She wrote while slightly leaned over and focused on putting all she was feeling into words.

Frequently on shoots, there would be after-party festivities, and just like now, Angelina discovered herself mumbling ideas, to herself. As she continued to write, she would exhale, bite the corner of her lip, and nod to herself. Her inspirations came and went, ebbing and flowing with each penstroke. The woman breathed a ragged laugh when she reached the final line on the page. Above her, in the clouds, she could hear the approaching thunder. She looked up at the somewhat cloudy sky with its touches of blue and sunshine. She grinned because it appeared as though the sky represented two halves of something. Could it be that Angelina was also inspired by that? Yeah, maybe she was.

To check the time, she flipped her wrist and glanced at her watch. She would have to return. Even while Angelina was positive she would return to this route, she also knew she wouldn't. That was the allure of hiking—observing nature and locating trails. Each one stood for a specific moment and emotion. The freedom came from finding it. There were other freedoms and paths to explore that might be found. She took a few more photos, being careful to catch the most charming and tranquil effect of the sun shining on the peak of the river.

—Solo—

V.

“What qualities do you look for in a film?”

Angelina's mind was circling around that question. The interview with The Rolling Stones Magazine had been going on for approximately an hour. She was, however, unsure whether her response was sufficiently clear. What was it that she was looking for? Her choice of characters and films was clearly made with the help of her agent and herself. What, on the other hand, lured her to Lisa Rowe? Was it the same as Amelia? Gia?

Her elbow leaned against the wooden seat; it made a tranquil squeak as her lips pressed together a delicate sigh. The inquiries proceeded — before Angelina knew it, she had finished the interview.

Where to next? Her trailer sat between two incredible celebrities. ‘A dropped in on party’ is the way Angelina felt. She was vigorously moving into the major leagues with her movies. It resembled a bleary eyed dream nearly. However, the main thing that she was amped up for was the arrival of her mom.

Her mom, had gotten back to the States. Subsequent to spending, God knows how long on her profound excursion in Cambodia. Missing her mom was an extraordinary misrepresentation of reality. Angelina felt nearly lost without her mother close by. Yet, she understood the reason why she had taken the risk to move away and explore.

The way to Angelina's trailer opened. Her brother James showed up; a grin from one ear to another crept along his face. Was now the time? Had her mom, Marcheline arrived? Jumping up from her seat, the actress clamored around the room snatching just the essentials.

“Plane landed two hous ago,” James talked as he got two of Angelina's duffle bags.

Her blonde hair covered a portion of her face as she hung over, getting the scattered magazines she left on the floor. On each set, Angelina dealt with — she ensured each trailer felt like home. Peruser's summary magazines, in style magazines, and scrapbooks loaded with blossom fields and nature. “Two hours? Has Mom just been sitting in the terminal?”

She and James conversed as they walked to the car. For himself and for her, he outlined the future events. Angelina was entirely oblivious to what was going on around her. To see her mother, she was ecstatic! It was imperative that she see her mother and be near her. James tipped his head at the driver as he climbed into the SUV before turning to his younger sister.

She appeared to be drained. Angelina was also restless. As the car drew away, her eyes faded from the low light. She suppressed a yawn, mentally preparing to hug her mother. Their interactions on the phone had always been hasty.

Marcheline— was too preoccupied with expanding her spirit, getting one with nature, and letting go of whatever had been bothering her.

Angelina wouldn't hide her swells of jealousy. She, too, needed to flee her home and travel to Cambodia. Moreover, she would — though it was most likely a future arrangement, it was still an arrangement.

James raised his eyes from the magazine he was reading. “Is Dad on his way?”

That, among the many things to say, may have brought the silence to an end; James had brought up their father. Respected, Mr. Voight. Angelina and her father were not in the best condition. Consistent tension, quarrels, and the overtly passive hostile ways he handled her. It was terrifying. Angelina had spent the majority of her childhood seeking to form a caring relationship with her father. In some ways, they were the closest partners in the beginning, and then came the distance.

“Has he returned from...?”

“Texas. He was in Texas at the time. Don't act as if you don't know—” James mockingly chastised her.

Angelina shrugged callousedly. Was she faking it? Or had she simply had enough of her father's emotional whirlwind? Angelina sighed huffily, her arms folded across her chest. It would be yet another showboating move if her father came to welcome their mother.

;

Angelina and James were able to locate their mother after a few hours of back and forth, deception, and worry. How did she wind up on the other side of the city? It remained a perplexing riddle. Marcheline's belongings were being unpacked upstairs in the rental property by the mother and daughter duo. Angelina, not one for unpacking, rummaged through her mother's pictures and personal essentials tote bag while she played along the bed.

Her mother wore little to no makeup, but she wore a lot of buttons, bracelets, charms, and perfume.

“Is this following the rebirth ceremony?” Angelina inquired, her face lit up with wonder.

The photo appeared to have been taken in the midst of a frenzy of action. The photo's boarders were crinkled, and there were a few pieces of charred residue on the upper corner that had been dog-eared. That just contributed to Angelina's admiration for her mother's photograph. She was joyful and carefree, with the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. Her finely manicured fingernails stroked the photo as her gaze glanced upward to her Marcheline, who returned her nod.

“It was satisfying and refreshing.”

They swapped stories, laughed, and debated about the placement of specific vases and mirrors. Angelina, had never been a fan of interior design. She'd given it her all at home. Angelina's thinking was too jumbled to pay attention to such details. She'd open the windows and doors and let nature take its course if she had her way. Her mother took one hand and stroked Angelina's hair.

“I want to hear everything now that I'm back.”

Angelina snuggled next to her mother. Nothing in the world compared to how complete Angelina felt— it was ecstasy.

“I'm not sure what to say."

“In the last postcard you mentioned, you were getting into photography. Did you bring any pictures?”

Angelina put down whatever she was focusing on and gave it some serious thought. Did she bring any of her pictures with her? If she had, they were in her purse, which had been flung downstairs. Angelina sat up from the bed with a lighthearted shrug, still clutching a few of her mother's bracelets.

The mother and daughter sat silently. They always linked and bonded in this way. Sometimes through laughing or the soothing sounds of quiet. Angelina didn't believe they needed to converse; she was content just being with her mother.

When Marcheline cleared her throat, the quiet reached its pinnacle. Angelina's caresses had faded.

“Have you and Jon spoken it?”

“No.” Angelina's response was succinct. "Do you plan on going to the set tomorrow? If you're as excited as I am, we'll have—”

Marcheline could see why it was necessary to change the subject. In any of the postcards she had sent to her mother, Angelina had not held back. With each postcard, Angelina dug deeper and scribbled her feelings more forcefully about why she thought she and her father couldn't get along right now. Marcheline was well aware that she and Jon would never be the same, but she continually urged Angelina to give her father a second chance.

Angelina hesitated before facing her mother. She did so after mentally preparing herself, laying her elbows in the mattress and offering her mother a blank expression.

Marcheline tried to grin after biting her lower lip. “He's a lot of things, Angie. however, cares about you and Jamie."

Angelina was certain of it. She was, however, fed up with her and her father's combative arguments. It always led to a selection of her choices. In terms of both personal and professional development. Angelina shook her head, her eyes downcast.

“I'm not him.” Angelina licked her lips as she paused. “If he'd understand that, we might, stop trying to kill each other.”

“He would say that.” Marcheline burst out laughing, an attempt to lighten the mood.

Angelina Jolie, too, busted out laughing. She and her mother laughed for the next five minutes, wiping their tears as if it were the funniest thing they'd thought possible. Angelina let out a ragged breath once their laughing faded down. She might, just might, let it go. And she might ask her father to the dinner she and James were throwing to celebrate their moms' return.

Marcheline sifted through the strewn pictures on the bed. Several of Angelina's numerous postcards were among the pile.

“I've seen you through several stages now. You seem a little happier at this point.” Based on the writing, Marcheline made a comment.

Angelina sat up straight and blushed shyly. Her mother had a knack for seeing right through her.

“...In a different mindset.”

Her mother eyed her, in a proud way before reaching out, and bringing Angelina into hug. The hug had more implications. And the tone was deeper and more meaningful. It was a proud hug, not just a "I've missed you" hug. Angelina had always known that her mother was proud of her. Her mother was the most reliable source of support during every stage of her life. They both sniffled and giggled shyly as they rubbed each other's backs at the same moment.

After breaking up their embrace, the two went downstairs to try to unpack and arrange her belongings. Marcheline spoke again as she gently nudged her daughter.

“Did James bring you a dog? He informed me.”

“Mhm! A chocolate Labrador. Almost like our old Tonto.”

“Now you'll think twice about feeding tacos to a dog, right?”

Angelina quickly elbowed her mother back in a fun manner, as if she were 14 all over again. This turned into a game of chase and tag, which she and her mother enjoy doing together.

“You could always higher professionals, to hang up your things. Komm hierher zurück!” Angelina chuckled as she chased her mother.

—Today.

I am as my mind perceives me to be. I am as incomprehensible to the rest of the world. I am, as one would expect.

Uncharted territory, judging myself based on previous decisions—leaving little to no margin for error. However, I am not worried by such things today.

I'll discover or have discovered what it means to be at peace. I'll learn about peace's inorganic methods. You'll have no trouble beginning over.

Have no reason to cry, but may all tears be joyful. My palms, eyes, tongue, and mind will all ring loud and clear.

—H.

I'm choosing to do it with the sound. I'm going to give up my life's baggage and physical torments.

On all fours, I'll reach the surface of the Earth. I'm going to drain the blood of all illicit drugs.

I'll take hallucinogens. I'm going to cry as I'm mortified.

I'll revert to my old habits.

I'll look for new recreational activities. As I see new ways of unleashing self-inflicted pain.

The World's strong downpour will reveal me to be immaculate. My own horrible thoughts will make me messed up.

I'll... Continue to be a flawed individual.

And where am I? Where do I commence...do I culminate here? Hurt and broken? Believing that it was something when it wasn't. I'm to blame. I put myself in a position to be facilely hurt...suppose I go back? I'd like to think I'd make different culls. But that'd be too facile. Nothing left to do but cry and move on.

Believe it or not the stinging sensational pain will fade and I'll be okay. Maybe not...now or next week; but I'll be okay. Insanely broken but better pieces I suppose.

Insane. I'm insane for the things I believe in.

—3/30-’

The tension battle within oneself is hard to comprehend. How does one separate themselves from metaphorical clips of things that haven't occurred yet? Is this all anxiety-ridden? Has the subconscious taken over?

I believe it is consciously acceptable to be happy and understand unknown emotions. Naiveté is damaging. Being happy implies accepting naiveté. It is not comforting at all. I rather believe that being naive is damaging.

So right now, I have no idea what to do, but I'm still happy. I don't know where to go, but I'm still happy. I am in the abyss of ‘it hasn't happened...but it might’—but I'm happy. I'm happy that I can acknowledge where I am.

Xoxo— Angel.

The hug became a cure. Not only a hug, but medicine. Not just medical treatment, but healing. More than healing, but needed. They never let go. Even when they are apart.

“When— Where can I find that?” She asked.

“Find what?”

“That.” She extended her arm pointing to the two people embracing.

“It’ll find you.” It answered.

Her arm sank back to her side. Her eyes were clouded with envious tears; maybe not so much envious tears as sadness. 'When will it find me?'

She hadn't asked out loud, but it heard her. “Be patient.” It answered.

—Solo—

IV

The flickering sound of the candle echoing in the quiet room illuminated the small space. Casting shadows over all the hair and makeup products stacked upon the dressers. In a criss-crossed position, Angelina tilted her head back while the loose leaf paper in her lap slipped to the tile floor, like a water fall. The tile floor was cold against her bare legs. She had been in the position for quite a while now by her assumption.

It wasn't for any particular reason. There were no underlined secrets as to why she was hunkered down in her room. Dressed in the short cut red robe she had worn after her shower, her legs were becoming numb from the cold porcelain tiles- she figured it was time to get up.

This was Angelina's moment of complete dissociation. As she stood dragging more of the papers to the floor. Her thumb poised between her lips, the electric devices she owned were turned off. She desired seclusion and was in a deep trance. The past few work days—were duplications of days prior. Interviews, same questions, and the impending thoughts of what was next.

“What is next?” She said, as her teeth grazed the skin on her thumb.

She pondered the question out loud. And of course no one else but herself could hear it. But maybe the universe. Her darkened blue eyes followed the paper trail, her free hand tugging at the collar of her robe. “What else can I offer...?” she asked herself. The question was rightfully so to be asked. As Gia was becoming a distant, rather large, memory— Angelina found herself in the trance of where to next.

Upon the mountain of interviews and appearances is on late night talk shows, she was set to sit down with Bobbie Wygant. The woman was more than a reporter—more or so a staunch supporter of Angelina's father. Following his career. That thought alone created butterflies in the woman's stomach. Bending at the waist, Angelina picked up a page her eyes squinting in the dim light. ‘The Bone Collector’ was scribbled throughout the top of the page.

Lisa Rowe was still in effect, production being pushed back a couple of weeks and months or so. This next film, had an amazing cast. Denzel Washington was in it. Her eyes widened at the name.

The actor's cinematic range surpassed virtually every other actor's. Angelina found it to be rather fortunate to be part of this film. However, there was a bit that scared the thin movie star. The attempt to play such an intimidating role. Amelia Donaghy— had several different parallels from Gia, Lisa, almost every character she had done prior.

Padding across the floor in her room Angelina fingered her frazzled hair that was now a dirty blonde. Blonde with light brown highlights, if you looked closely. Angelina paced back and forth, before stopping to take out her open pack of Mallboro cigarettes. While doing so, she hesitated the thought of lighting one, and asked herself if she was strong enough to appear in this film?

Her manager, assistant, and friend Julia had continuously argued with her that if she didn't commit to this film— there was a strong chance that they wouldn't work together anymore. Angelina found it to be more or less an empty threat. Julia had said that about, ‘Gia’ and well...the movie was made. At least that's what Angelina remembered.

Lighting the cigarette, Angelina took a deep drag of nicotine. The pages of the script surrounded her feet. Her open journals tossed about as she stood here absorbed in thought. Her mind suddenly flashed to her mom. Miles and miles in Cambodia - on a journey of "self-discovery." Angelina just needed to hear her mother's hippie but... accurate advice.

Angelina's mother had always wanted to be an actress. And contrary to what people believed—her mother never forced acting upon Angelina or her brother James. Her mother had come to the rather fast conclusion that she wanted to be a dedicated mother. Devoting her time, energy, and life strictly to Angelina and her brother. But she never failed in telling her children, to always express themselves and to follow whatever passion they had.

When Angelina couldn't decide what to do, when she didn't want to be a ballerina anymore— the choice of mortician was no longer an option. She chose acting. And her mother was delighted. And the advice never changed.

“Go for everything that's in your reach. Discover who you are...with every opportunity.” Is what her mother would say. She'd say it, at the most random times...but that meant something.

Once more, Angelina expelled smoke from her lips and took another puff of her cigarette. She let that smoke go— easing from her lips slowly. Regaining her position on the cold floor, cigarette in her mouth, her eyes fixed on the scattered pages of her script, Angelina made the decisive decision. She could do this. Not just this film, but all things in life that she had crazed passions for. She could do this.

—Solo—

III

It changed into Conan, Leno, Letterman, Stewart— all the late night shows wanted her. Even good Morning America, wanted Angelina on their show. And for what? GIA had emerged as an overnight success. HBO clearly had executed nicely, as did she—a Golden Globe nomination; and that was nothing to sneeze at. Matters were truly starting to pick up voltage with her career. Plenty of new projects sat on the horizon. Some scripts and films Angelina had fawned over for a couple of years, unsure if it honestly it matched her. Lisa Rowe; Girl Interrupted, actually was one that seemed to suit her quite well. But then came such movies as the Bone Collector, Pushing Tin, Gone in 60 Seconds— all of which made her uneasy. some of the “potential” cast participants were all stars she had watched on the large screen. Idolized even. Now, to be performing alongside them...become like an in depth fever hallucination of some type.

She and Julia acknowledged their way to the cramped crowd, that waited for them outside the hotel. Angelina was continually dazed to visualize fans—actual people who were there for her. It was insane to her. Her free hand fished the packet of cigarettes out her pocket, fitting to light one—then the bustle begun. Shouts for autographs, pictures, the whole nine. Angelina pleasantly submitted, satisfied and starstruck herself. With the unlit limp smoke in her mouth she marked a few autographs.

“Angelina!”

“Angelina! Are you and Johnny Miller back together?”

“Angelina! Are you going to do the movie with Denzel Washington!”

Going through as many autographs as she could, Angelina shook off the questions. “I don't really know...” She wasn't insensitive or mean--honestly, she didn't know. With the last autograph, she granted the person who wanted a kiss. That certainly revved up the crowd even more, causing both she and Julia and rest of their beefed up security team to laugh.

Waving to the rest, Angelina got into the SUV, buckled in, and lit her cigarette. Julia looked on with an unpleasant expression. She hated cigarettes. The fading brunette hair, actress raised an eyebrow as her lungs inhaled the nicotine. “Find me something better and I'll quit on the spot.”

Some of that statement was truthful. Angelina had done well for herself not to take drugs over the past two days—not that she could. With the Golden Globe nomination, the squeeze and the end of the film, she didn't have time to do her extracurricular business. And quite honestly she didn't miss it. That wasn't to say that Angelina hadn't taken up quite the chainsmoking—habits, but everything was a working progress.

Angelina always came away from meetings with certain executives emotional. Otherwise, there would have been no particular reason for her to be at a hotel. It wasn't in a negative sense she felt emotional- but a sense in which she was actually doing THIS. This—meaning: really picking scripts, having producers, directors, writers actually want her. After all, she had signed on to do the next few films. Taking the cigarette from her lips, she let the smoke escape through the crack in the window; a smirk of satisfaction rested on her lips as she did.

The car ride had only been several minutes. A quiet ride between she and Julia—no need to really exchange any words. As the SUV pulled into her driveway of her darkened house, Angelina cursed softly noting and perceiving she hadn't left a light anywhere in the house. She only hoped Yogi— hadn't caused any damaged or had been damaged himself. Yogi, was her new bestowed upon her puppy! Her brother James had randomly given him to her. Now, the four legged cutie was apart of her life. It was dark and the klutz she could be...it wasn't a good set up, as she made her up the steps of her porch. With her purse slung over her shoulder, shopping bags nibbled at her fingertips, and her journals pressed against her chest the actresses jogged, carefully up the rest of the stairs to her front door.

Most of the time Angelina wouldn't bother to leave the doors locked. Even though safety precautions warranted her too. It made things easier when meetings, filming—ect ran late. Her body made it through the door on cue as the horn of the car, signaled a goodbye. The shopping bags fell to the floor, her purse slipped down her arm, and of course the journals in her hands began faltering as well.

Before long she could hear the deep pounding padding steps, of her eager doggy Yogi. In a blink of an eye the lovable chocolate Labrador—ran upon her. Tail wagging, eyes large with anticipation, and barking as if Angelina have been gone for hundreds of years. Bending down to meet the adorable canine halfway. She scratched him, patting his fur, and permit the four legged animal to lick her face a bit. “Been a good boy? Hm? Yes? Yes!”

She was answered with more speedy barks and licks of affection. Regaining her standing position, Angelina and Yogi traveled past the dim living room, over the two little steps and into the kitchen. Out stretching one arm, Angelina flicked on the kitchen light and was met with the white affluent, peaceful ambiance of the kitchen fully. Most of the cooking contraptions, the actress had failed to use— her attention span for cooking was anything less than bearable.

Small chuckles echoed from her lips as she fished around the lower cabinets trying to find a snack. Yogi, budded his head against her leg— almost asking for one himself. After grabbing a few simple crackers for herself, dog treat for the pup, Angelina pranced her way to her bedroom.

The lanky actress had wolfed down the crackers fast. Now she became situated in a heated, candlelit, door closed and locked, bubble bathtub. Her pale skin soaking in the sweet lavender body wash, she so graciously added to the water— along with some honeysuckle bath bombs. Angelina adored bubble baths, mainly after long days which includes one like today. As the soothing, muscle relaxing home spa like treatment was needed—to was the Rose Gold, Pinot wine that sat half empty on the rim of the sleek porcelain tub. In the beginning stages of her soak she had, nursed the wine. Baby sips, little nips. Then, grabbing the glass by the base she downed the wine. Rich in taste, smooth on the route, leaving a satisfied almost drool expression upon her face.

Raising her head a bit, damp strings of her hair sticking to her neck. Her misty eyes viewed the steam from the water—it was gratifying to see. Angelina stuck one arm out from under the water, watching enticingly close, as droplets fell from her thin fingertips. A soft “Mmm.” Rang from the depths of her throat, and past her lips. This was bliss. This was truly a peace maker to her overactive mind. Overactive life in some areas.

To begin once more, almost reborn? Does that make any sense in the slightest? Or am I crossing the threshold of denial. solutions, I want solutions. Will that put out the festering and flora and fauna fire inside of me? solutions.

Riddle me this...and achieve this to the point where my eyes sink in. What am I gaining, if there's some thing to benefit? Retreating into my own mind creating conditions that haven't and won't appear. Crazy? possibly. Insane? it truly is a piece on the splitting facet. So many matters at bay—my fingertips stained in within the blood of what may be. ...it is simply that, what could be...

Where's my Jacob Marley when I want him? Am I too forging the chain link by link, yard by yard? Where are the three spirits with the intention to help me alternate my ways? I'm calling out— I'm yelling in. I am full of light and rain. Extra solar than rain, more tears than ache, and this...like many different writings is an ode for development. Angelina! you are okay. it's going to all get greater later... And remember later doesn't mean today, tomorrow, or next week— it just means later.

II. —Solo—

“You’re getting something else over it?” Julia asked, her face was contorted in concern as her voice was laced with disbelief.

Angelina nodded as she sat in the backseat of the car criss-cross with her journal prompted on her lap. The girls had been talking about various things. More particularly, the next few days of Angelina's schedule. Cristofer put off filming due to the confusion and frustration derived from traveling from New York to Philadelphia - there was trouble transporting filming equipment. Angelina enjoyed the fluidity and breaks between filming.

Again, the topic turned into the “wild” stuff Angelina had been dabbling in. Though, she couldn't exactly lable it as ‘wild’ when all she did was get two new tattoos. Slip-shot ones at that. Initially, Angelina's tattoo was to be completed in the Netherlands. She had a nitch now to travel-she was itching to be anywhere but where she was. But just like the filming, it had been cancelled. Nothing to worry about-she hired an artist.

Julia looked over her glasses peering at the almost fading in colour, brunette. “You really had that guy tat you, in the back of his car? Needles and everything?”

“Mhmm,” Angelina answered as she flipped through her journal. Some pages felt damp to the touch; signaling she had just written on them...more or less scribbled too.

Julia was stunned when Angelina told her how her dragon tattoo was done. It was not so much that Angelina got it in such an insensitive place, but rather where, the tattooist had done it. In the back seat of his car! The women had traded sentiments of bubbling fun nitpicking jabs—in which Julia had grilled Angelina in a questioning manner if she had been high at the time.

“Well yeah... How else do you think I stayed calm?” Angelina laughed giving a callus shrug.

Her need, the burning intensity to just say 'fuck it!' and get the tattoos was evident that night. It hurt, and the close body heat between her and the artist was above her comfort zone. It didn't matter though; She felt like she was trapped, too confined, too small right now. Is this what would happen every time the end of filming approaches? Angelina had been wondering that for a couple of days now. She didn't forget that under her pillow, at home, laid Lisa Rowe. Scripts itself were like a hot portal into the next character, next personality she would be exposed to. Or rather, it was like a hot piston digging into her body. Is that why she was on the edge of running? Wanting to get pricked and drawn on?

Angelina twisted her lips in a puckering motion as she let these dragged and explosive thoughts filter in and out of her mind. Her eyes were on Julia but she couldn't hear or understand what she was saying—she knew she was saying something because her lips were moving. While she delved deeper into her thoughts, Angelina felt her conscience slipping. What was truly happening to her? Not in the moment, but inside of her. Why did she store the script under the pillow, like a dirty little Playboy magazine? Why was she still insistent on getting a tattoo?

With a few slow blinks she raised a hand to her head touching the messy bun of hair. Almost like a reassurance that she was still here, still alive, she tugged at the hair on her head and let out a low chuckle. Julia had turned fully in her seat facing the correct position; done speaking, Angelina guessed. It was almost like the ride was going on forever—she'd lost track of where they were going. Next to her were the roses that the tattoo artist had given her. They were wilting now; it seems like she was wilting as well. That thought alone caused a bit of a creepy smile to curl her naturally pouty lips—yeah, maybe she was wilting...changing, adapting. It could all be into something she'd look back on and be proud of. Maybe, maybe, that's why she wanted new tattoos, maybe that's why she found herself recording everything into her journal, maybe that's why Lisa Rowe frightened her so. Maybe. Maybe was always a bright side.

—Solo—

There are few films and scripts that suit Angelina, so when the opportunity to star in GIA came along, she hesitated to take it. She wasn't attracted to the writing or story-it was her connection to it. In her small apartment, she struggled with herself as she read the script. Letting it be known to her agent, assistant, and close friends that she loved the writing—but personally...it was very close to home.

She was now acting, reciting the lines, living day by day as if she were GIA herself; an honor Angelina felt it was. And it was. Each day of filming further immersed her into the world of modeling. It allowed her to share a part of her that she kept to herself. Cristofer had called her ‘The apple to his pie’ at the end, of the 16 hour filming and that solidified Angelina's big smile that night. And also solidified any, gut-wrenching and nervous feeling in the pit of Angelina's stomach. Because there were some days where she never thought that she'd be the leading lady in a film—much less playing such an iconic person.

The actress had learned from her father and her mother, that work never stops. One project, doesn't exclude you from entertaining or dabbling in the works of other projects. The moment Angelina landed her first role, she devoted everything she had to the role. Choosing to ignore the other opportunities that came her way-much like her dating life which was definitely one for another time. But it was that hyper fixation that she found herself missing the other elements of her personality—the call to grow as an actress. Not this time, she had said to herself. Work, process, grow, dabble, be interested; was the motto for life now. GIA was wrapping up and that opened a window for Angelina to take her sniff around the block into other avenues of different roles.

“Lisa Rowe...” She whispered to herself as her hand caressed the cover of the worn and torn script.

Worn and torn from the aggravated trips the script had gone on. From suitcases, purses, hand swaps—you name it. Angelina searched around for one of the many lighters she had bought; she had a specific routine when she read scripts. That made her laugh. It made Angelina angry to read scripts. Following written instructions made her feel like a machine, almost like an automatic response. Her limp cigarette moved as a muffled chuckle echoed from her body. With another pat around for her lighter she had found it and lit up the tenth or 100th cigarette that night.

What...was it about Lisa Rowe that intrigued her so? Was it the idea of dying her hair blonde again? Maybe. The effects of being able to possibly smoke on camera? That's a thought. Or, was it the crippling fact that deep down, past the punk girlish—ravished facade Angelina was Lisa. Just as she was GIA. No method acting required to be these ‘intense’ characters. Angelina was already these people.

Ashes collected at the tip of the cigarette; she refused to let them fall. Her hands were white knuckling the script, fully engrossed in it. Tears sprang to her eyes. A sea of anxiety washed over Angelina as she read through the next pages of the script. Incoherent mumbles, murmured curses that tumbling from the corner her mouth, yet still refusing to let the ash drop. A tear rolled down her cheek. God. It had her. The script had her. More tears, more pressure to keep reading, more tears, more reading. It felt like a slow take on an old action scene—

“—Lina! Angelina! ...You didn't hear me calling you?” Her brother stood in the doorway, voice bouncing off the bare walls almost; slightly concerned.

Angelina looked up from the paper a bit in shock. She didn't realize she had been crying, spilling salty tear discharge and ash onto the script. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, flinging the mess off the paper she sniffled. “No. I didn't. What's...up?”

Her brother James was around more often. More than he had been in earlier years. They were taught when they were children that family, was always important. They understood -- but when shit happens... it happens. And so they grew. Each charting and following a similar yet unique path as they grew up. James, was a phenomenal writer; earning him much deserved and well received accolades for his talent. Angelina was a proud younger sister. Then around 96’-97’ the pair didn't speak. Maybe, it was due to Angelina's very fast, quick tempered, over in a snap marriage—that was always possible. Or, maybe it was due to the interchangeable differences they shared in regards to their father.

James and their dad had a smooth, solid relationship. They were men... Brought together by sports, scotch, and the occasional ‘busting of the chops.’ Nevertheless, James always seemed to do whatever their father told him to. Angelina couldn't and wouldn't be a lap dog like that. Which in the end caused strife and strain to the relationship with her father. They were so intense, causing she and James to be intense. Then... something happened; the pair became close. Friends almost. James taking on the big brother role—offering immense advice, guidance, leadership, but most importantly that aspect of friendship. Which in the beginning was slightly odd to Angelina—odd in the sense that her older brother could be a friend to her. She found herself now confining in him, they shared secrets, laughs; everything that they had possibly missed out on years ago.

“The takeout is here. What's...going on? Why are you cooped up in this room..? Why are you crying?” James paused his questions, and took breath. His own large blue eyes scanned the quality of Angelina's room— an unpleasant look served as his facial expression. “Did something happen between you and J—”

“No.” She cut that question off quickly as she inhaled another puff of nicotine.

“Why are you crying?”

She removed the cigarette from her lips, now arranging it between her thumb and forefinger, Angelina looked at him. How could she explain the strong emotional connection she felt to words on a page? She didn't want to sound like a total lunatic. The script revolved round the plush and prickly luxury of a Ward for women—and it didn't help that she had to sound nervous or odd, within her explanation of why she was crying.

“Just...” Angelina began while stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Reading.”

James scoffed leaning his body in the curve of the door. “So that's make you cry now? Simply reading.”

“Words can move you, Jamie.” His boyhood nickname rolled off her tongue playfully, as another sniffle came right after.

James didn't pry or budge with any more questions. Instead he kept a glowing glare on his sister—and Angelina would be lying if she didn't feel slightly uncomfortable from his stare. Lowering her head she held her breath, his stare was becoming increasingly rough. “Stop it.” She mumbled.

He did. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a stare down or completely lay all her emotional worries on him—Angelina kept her head low. James took that cue and had left the doorway disappearing somewhere else in the apartment. The actress shook off all jitters removing herself from the bed and ran a hand through her hair. Without a mirror she could tell, the black dye was fading from her roots—she didn't mind it. It would probably look cool...having jet black hair, with roots that almost looked grey, sorta.

After gathering her cigarettes and whatever else she was going to bring with her, Angelina tucked the script underneath her pillow, almost like a secret. And maybe it was a secret. Her pillow would protect this secret. She'd return later on tonight, pick that script back up, and find more ways than one, on why she was Lisa Rowe and why Lisa Rowe was her.

There are parts of me that are broken, tangled together, hurtful, and joyful. I've talked about this before, but that ravished part of me doesn't care. I am still learning. Learning how to... To put on paper how I really feel. It goes well beyond the creepy, spooky, and unsettling feelings that I will harbor within me. No fancy talk, no cover-up, just how to...

The high effects of life's ecstasy warn me off. Dull eyes, zombie dragged and drugged, I am a personality bubbled and bright, but only in the dark crooks of my mind. No mask. Uncovered and here to stay. I can be two, three, four, or six people at the same time! I don't want to be trapped in the bug house. I don't want a circus. I'm just letting loose this sticky muse.

There will be another muse like this. This personality will regain its strength and trust me, I'll be here to capture it. I am not someone who locks it up and pretends to be a housewife. Fuck it. Captured it and I'm happy. This is an anxious capture.

To: Angie.

From: Angelina.

Sunday: Sonntag.

||Journal entry—

Inhaling each time I exhale, I somehow still hold my breath. Although I'm confident in myself, I have the circus in my ear. I still am...okay. I’m on a journey unlike any other—riding a wave of past literature passions and building new relationships every day.

In a very narrow sense, I feel 'seen' more than ever. But it's not through that I have seen-there's not really much there to see. I have been taken by storm every day. Yet I do not want to be too obtuse because that would jeopardize my journey.

As well as terrified, I'm also unafraid. I'm happy, as well as sad. I'm privileged, even if I'm rebellious. Pushing the envelope, stomping on the tip of my toes... I know I'm rebellious, but I don't know what to call it.

Each conversation should be open-ended; but I do not want to overdo it. Round Robin circles... I can't escape the circus. It's up there and it's loud. No romanticization here; just the truth.

There's a good chance I won't do another Sunday entry. That's okay. Nothing is ever going to be the same and nothing will ever be different --but still the same. So let me leave this entry open ended. I'm leaving it up to My Future self to interpret.

𝑱𝒂𝒏, 5𝒕𝒉 97’

In love with someone looks like an adventure that never ends. It's as if you're walking a never-ending journey. Love sounds like a conqueror. Budding its way through life are two people who are making their lives about each other.

The word conquer keeps coming up in my writings, because there is a huge part of me that wants that to be, known as my love. Not that I want to conquer someone; rather that they conquer me. I'm always at the top of my game. I'd like to go down.

You have to be with me where the conversations are endless. That the silence is as loud as laughter. You need to wear the ringing dissonance of anger that comes only seconds after a heated argument. You must conquer me. Recite poetry with me. Cry with me. Laugh with me.

Where does it begin? Every story has its origin. Of course, of course, nothing can not possibly exist without something. Of course! Okay, okay— here we go.

Angelina padded across her kitchen barefoot, eyes sleep filled, mind cloudy and her entire morning demeanor; groggy. Her warm body awoke to a chilling tile floor. The bare peaks of the sun were breaking their way into the kitchen, past the flimsy lace curtains. She kept her head low as if the sun was irritating her. She lived sometimes as if she was a roadie for Janis Joplin, setting up for three days of Woodstock. A far reach? Maybe. Although Angelina never considered herself to be too entertaining, she fought for certain roles, scripts in the entertainment industry. Angelina lived the “rockstar” life, but she never considered herself to be a rockstar. Far from it— but she partied like one. Always had. Everything Angelina wanted in life and everything she did was to access.

If she drank, she did that to free the chaotic terror of thoughts, that plagued her mind. She wasn't a looney bin case or anything; nothing clinical or diagnostic had ever been performed on her. But Angelina knew she was different. She had been in school, in acting classes, in auditions—she was different from her own brother. Hell, they didn't even share the same last name; of course they were different.

Standing with the fridge door open, the lanky brunette eyed her choices of the morning. A cold glass of water and...her head whipped toward the counter where she spotted the fresh bananas in the wooden bowl. Ah, Carolina, her every twice of month made must have gone shopping— a blessing.

That was settled then. Breakfast had been decided, now if only she could make the quick choices like that for the rest of her day. Or life. After pouring her glass of water, snatching a banana she shuffled downstairs to her bedroom. It was her seclusion bedroom.

Where she came to write, read, relax...and occasionally, do her extracurricular excessive activities. While Angelina's writing, attempted script and dialogue— talent was a kept seclusion secret. Her use of “recreational activity” i.e. drug use, was not. Almost everyone in her camp— knew she used drugs. And ‘used’ was a limp and loose term. Angelina had gone days, weeks, months, without using sometimes. Then like an uncharted gravitational pull, mustered up enough voltage energy and would pull her back in. And then, she'd be on the wagon. Tinfoil, spoons, baggies, would appear and disappear from her bag, bedroom, all areas of the places she'd go.

Angelina took a small bite of her banana and smirked to herself. How could she...work, agree to drug test, and yet...be an “addict?” But then again she couldn't really classify herself as an addict. In those almost paralytic, drug psychosis states... she'd vow for it to be the last time. And sometimes she'd mean it! Yeah, going months without even giving smack’ a second thought.

A half finished banana was tossed into the waist bin. Her lips disconnected from her glass of water as small dribbles of water, trickled down her chin. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Angelina shook off the impending heard of bison stampeding thoughts and prepared for the day. GIA was wrapping up, final scene changes, edits, cuts; the whole shebang. A nice hot shower, maybe a little coffee, and she'd be on her way.