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Sanfte Klänge, Traurigkeit, Lächeln—

Something may only be granted, taken away, and permanently situated in the breeze.

Thoughts never come to an end outside of the mind.

We just keep track of what is still happening, what is on the way, and what hasn't happened yet at the beginning.

A smile only feels like an embrace when there is a breeze. When life is beautiful, painful, or uncertain, only then is it genuinely good. genuinely significant.

Auroras glow above Jupiter and moon, 1981

Ron Miller

—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.

Where I wanna be. Where I oughta be. Where I will be. ♥️

in & above instagram

“She lived in her imagination and dreams. She liked only what was most elegant, and if she couldn’t have the best she would do without the second best, because second best meant nothing to her.”

— Theodor Fontane, Effi Briest (1895)

—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 real world is no stranger to us, nor is yesterday's hurt any deeper. Unlike yesterday, we can look forward to a better tomorrow. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, is a classic repeat?

We were prepared for failure. We hoped for destruction. We were on the cusp of disassembly. These hopes now will not plague us tomorrow. Tomorrow is the only one we have.The future is what's right.

There is often too much to say and not enough time. Cliché. a complete fiasco. Truthfully... Why say anything at all?

My mental imagination is where I'd prefer spend each day. I would much rather be at ease with the knowledge that I can somewhat influence the depths of my thoughts.

Time therefore expires. This will happen. There it is. It will tick more quickly. Let it be.

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.

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.