To Give, Receive, And Accept Love; All Of It. Only I Wish To Embrace All Parts Of Love. That Love That

𝐎𝐜𝐭’ 3𝐫𝐝, 89’

𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠. 𝐽𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡𝒉𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠...𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡𝒉𝑓𝑢𝑙. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑦. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝐼 𝒉𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑠..𝐼 𝒉𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑧𝑜𝑜.

|| Saw it coming. Erwarte niemals etwas. Hoffnungen zerschlagen.

@yung_pueblo

—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.

—;

So there's this whine and soft pitch of a dissociative type. The persistent incapabilities to secure, the nature of the soul, are everywhere.

Cosmic encounters between various realms. Destruction of what isn't and what will be inexplicably. The happy results of traveling blindly, without knowing anything, yet possessing something.

This poetry is rambling, disorganized, and vibrant.

Writing repeatedly to stir the soul. This is poetry, gloomy reflections, monotonous writing, and a lasting smile.

—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.

The daily check in|

My doubts serve as an additional sense. Maybe? Whatever. This is how I am currently doing at the moment and just like everything it will surely change. I feel seen. Open. Yet cloudy at the same time.

I feel that I'm being forced to walk a line of conformance with my arms tied above my head. Should I falter... I will be doomed. Arms tied. My balance must be perfect.

However, that is the beauty of life, the essence. While I will fight every inch of my being to never walk the line of conformity, I applaud the part of me that feels it can drag me to it.

What risks does having dreams pose, if any? free to let one's thoughts stray and get lost. But that's all there is. Lost. Maybe lost means you don't want to be found. Imagine that the joy is in being above the clouds, gazing down as the body is motionless. Still adrift. to fly into the air, temporarily erasing all concerns and doubts. Expressionless, immobile, and hyper-focused on everything at once. trapped in the labyrinth of my own consciousness. Is this the cost of freedom, though? This never-ending web of anxiety... the agonizing impression that dreams are unreal. yet actual to me. My objectivity is unique. within this body...

Nothing is meant by this body, these words. a moron with a body, I am a poet who speaks foolishly. Usually unheard, rambling, and losing charm; merely musing and muttering. A never-ending mass of nonsense masquerading as... Collective words. I'm hoping someone somewhere will understand. This mind's soul is imprisoned in a machine-like anger, much like a demon. Typical. Although essentially silly, intellect is marked... And what conflict does my body have? I'll continue to float, staying in my dreams, and perhaps...

Perhaps...

Sea or ocean. Painter: Lionel Walden.