The Daily Check In|

𝐓𝐡𝐞 “𝐎𝐝𝐝” 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠—

I don't belong. I don't belong, belong. Do I not belong? Am I an alien? Do I not belong in this world?

Despite not asking the question, I gaze to the skies for answers. And yet, I wonder...what? Do I belong or am I meant to feel this? Feel what? This. This...being?

The intense chewing has bruised my lips, numbing my fingertips, causing my eyes to widen and my soul to awaken. Am I not bound to this life, to this experience, to this world that has been shoved upon me. Like compacted snowballs. Do I belong here?

I could walk the tightrope of mounting cathartics and pave a new way. I could even go down the path of death, and my mind has ever so carefully migrated to that area.

This strange feeling. These strange feelings. Odd feeling, this, be I, me, the feeling. Does anyone...anyone have answers? Do I belong here, there, anywhere? Am I needed, wanted, loved, or appreciated? Do I belong...?

💕

— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra

𝐴 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑒'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 1. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒—𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒.

𝑇𝒉𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦...𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠.

...𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜...𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑗𝑎𝑧𝑧 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒. 𝑇𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒𝑠...

—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.

In the case of anything implies more, it will be less in years to come. How life is significant but then... useless.

Genuine worth, unadulterated expectations of life; the terrible days and great. Those low and highs, of surprising good fortune.

So presently, here is the new day. The new life, the new implications, all things considered,

In the event that anytime, it will blur. Those recollections of joy and in the middle between are great forever.

gentle reminder that you did nothing wrong by putting yourself first! ♡

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.

To give, receive, and accept love; all of it. Only I wish to embrace all parts of love. That love that bleeds from awkwardness to gush. I want the love that will sometimes kick my ass and beat me into submission.

My aggressive words define how I intend to walk the shallow, narrow, sharp, and smooth trails of life. I'll plunge in headfirst and stay until I figure out whether I want the thing or not. Not wanting something...is rare for me.

You never meet someone as greedy, hardheaded, bubbly, dark and soft as me? Chill on that. To whom am I writing this? Me? Okay, yeah, that's fine. I'm still in that phase of being more ‘me’ and less ‘it.’

It's a Monday, so I am in full throttle mode of talking to myself. How often do I talk to myself that I must jot it down and read it as if...it wasn't me. Oh, dear God...ha. Anyway, yeah... I'm made for love-I can be that.

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...

@yung_pueblo