— Solo—
— 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.
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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.
No extravagant words. No description. I just feel confused and lost. Maybe that's a good thing. I'll find my way back somehow... Some way.
|| 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.
Reflection.
I find myself somewhat amusing the grim ideas. Having trouble finding the right words while having a lot to say. How your brain may change and turn against you while you're silent.
I am everywhere and nowhere at once. once to be seen, loved, and heard. Am I being heard? Can you sense me? How much longer can I take? stuck in translation, clinging to hurtful hope. Hurting. aching and wishing. Indeed, such is life.
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐼 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑣𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒.
-𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝐽𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑒
First one. Won't be the last.
For a season, a reason, unpleasing, and ever so lesion. Rather write it down than act it out.
𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛.
The brightness of the morning sun knows no bounds. It simply increases. We'll follow the wind, which has no discernible direction.
The Viper has no knowledge of importance. These parallels are uncommon, but they are very consistent. It's unlikely that you'll be any of these elements.
The world's rationality is slim by the margins. Count the number of times the sun rises. Count the number of times the wind will strike you in the face. Count how many times the Viper has appeared in your life.
Is that searing still there or has it dissipated into your soul? Do you ever get up when the sun does? Do you know who the Viper is?
Angelina Jolie, Oscars 2000
