Quote By Vivian Greene

—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.

As strange as it may sound, transferring poems from one place to another is like moving a nearly complete home to an overly cluttered lot. Then again, my poetry is overly cluttered, and clunky, hackneyed and stilted have been called.

5/5;

Persistent on the insignificant considerations of some time recently. Some time recently what? Some time recently me, some time recently it, some time recently whom? Caught in it. Caught in what? You're not making any sense. Sense. Does that qualify for rational soundness? Or is that a classic problem. Prepare for the leading, halt maturing on the glasses of it being the more awful. Of course life is worse— each day we breathe we pass on a small more. That, ought to illuminate you to be free and live. Hold nothing back, be louder, go father.

When is sufficient... considered as well much? How much do we know about being sufficient? Go farther...be courageous. Cry, be irate, and...take jumps. Life is disintegrating. Broken. And however, it's never been way better. Battered and bruised; but sweetened and lively.

Angelina Jolie by Michel Bourquard; 1994

Never again. And yet? It'll happen again. Fucked up but true— that's what happens when you let life, get the best of you. Cold hearted, bitter and tear stained, so in the end it happened like I imagined and I hurt myself again. Better off just keeping memories and moving on. Conflicted soul, torn thoughts and often alone. That's what happens when life leads us. Be prepared. Be aware. And...never...

𝐷𝑒𝑛𝑛 𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑖𝑏𝑡 𝑆𝑐𝒉𝑜̈𝑛𝒉𝑒𝑖𝑡... 𝑢̈𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙.

Unkempt. morning relaxation I wake up in the sunrise with a new lease on life. That was borrowed language. Life is only temporary.

Life isn't just about big things; it's also about small things. “Life is fleeting...” Gestohlenes Zitat.

There is beauty within and around us, yet—what does the human mind focus on? the haze. the night. the gloom. However, grey has been painted as a distasteful color. It's extremely lovely. It's almost perfect; it's refreshing enough.

And when I write, I encounter little comprehension. No maps of my route exist, I am aware of this. My brain is spinning. Where have I come from? What should I do? Where should I start? Oh yes. Beautiful art exists. Art is beauty. I'll write this down in my journal. I'll take a picture of it and draw it. I'll stamp a postcard to seal it after that.

An astonishing combination of delectable sweetness and mystifying cacophony. Ear-warming. What is? Why the spring days ahead—that is.

The longer nights, shortened days, sunrises, and sunsets are upon us; they love us. Connotations of sweetness. Looking ahead, anticipating the joys of spring...

We wish to keep, possess, and not wonder any more of what lies ahead. We wish to be enchanted, overcome by delirium when it comes. We wish to have our arms outstretched to catch the peaking days. We wish to close our eyes on the settling nights.

Spring...

Spring...

Spring.

|| ill and considering. There are only a few days left until the start of a new year. Unable to sleep, yet thinking and yawning nonetheless. What are you mulling over? I'm trying to think when my head is pounding and my bones hurt. No regrets or grievances. because everything operates through a process of lessons and learning. With each dozy cough, I'll look forward to the New Year as these pains gradually go away and I continue to believe the impossibility.

Space is like a shelter in many forms. The way that space feels both accessible and far beyond. How elaborate the voyage details are. When Earth has reached its nadir, how hazy the soul remains.

Within many ways, I am a drawback. Just to re-trail, I trail. I forget so I can recall. I think back to position myself in time. When was? Where am I supposed to be? What should I do still?

Space. Stars, dreams, and imaginative creations are the foundation of my life. These are real yet far away. I am the galaxy, yet the burned out stars are the only ones that call me home.

I'm constantly looking for my position on this planet. I'm broken, blind, and ecstatic that I still have a path ahead of me...