Jolieflows - 𝐴.

—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.

Do you sense that? She nervously questioned. Feeling what? Does the Earth sway? The stars assemble? Are there winds? I can sense it. Enjoy it? My favorite.

All the great authors, poets, and grim wordsmiths put their words on paper, to inquire, "Can I feel it?" Is the new galaxy putting me in difficult circumstances? Feel the conflicts between my left and right brain caused by who I am and who I will become.

Witness the manifestations in action. Is my optimistic side trying to kick my pessimistic side in the hopes? Sensed that.

Yes, I did feel that. Felt what? That. I could feel it! I experienced my two parts merging together to form my entire self.

Despite everything I am, I am not. I am capable of being anything. I won't for all that I do. I'll continue to do what I've done. It is both senseless and sensible. Knowing there is more to "me" than "me" is both magnificent and difficult. It is now and every day moving forward. It appears and then vanishes. It's changing—up it's and down. Change that is heartbreaking, breathtaking, infuriating, and hilarious. I blossom like a flower. similar to my philosophy. I rotate like the world.

I am tired. Every part of me is tired. I am so thankful daily for the brightest blessings. But I have had enough thinking.

It is a space that I have created so that I can express myself and feel the way I want to. How to quiet my thoughts.. how to turn off this waterfall? All I want to do is not think anymore.

It is not that I am sad. I am not in the cloud of overindulged over-exasperated mixed emotions. It is simply that I am tired. I simply want peace and quiet. I want to smile and not over think it.

Lisa Rowe: Highs and lows increasingly severe. Controlling relationships with patients. No appreciable response to meds. No remisson observed. Lisa thinks she’s hot shit because she’s a sociopath.

𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐. 𝑰'𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐, 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌.

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑳𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒔𝒔.

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚. 𝑵𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔; 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔; 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔.

𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉'𝒔 𝒊𝒄𝒚, 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒘𝒔 𝒊𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓. 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒋𝒐𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍.

—𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅. 𝑬𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. 𝑩𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚. 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆.

Cinema is an other universe. It's in a class of its own. Every film watched, every moment shared... A lovely, peaceful recollection.

“𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.” My moonlight you are, my sensations you awaken...the thoughts I love.

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎? 𝙸𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎? 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕.

Unbearbeitete Liebe, unbearbeitete Gedanken ... und doch nicht genug. Forever, and ever, is a very long time...but forever isn't long when you share it. Whether Spring morning, Fall afternoon, or Winter Nights— it's forever and always a pleasure, an adoration, a love song, a sonnet, a stanza; a word. Flutter birds, fluttering hearts...

To the imagination, the soul, and the mind that never seems at rest. Oh...wide eyed girl...so pretty.

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

in & above instagram

I feel proud of my damages. Odd? You betcha. How can one speak with a positive tone about one's own destruction? But it's possible. I'm proud of my climb, my metamorphosis, and my halting ways.

It feels like I'm tone-deaf to all the unsupportive hindrances that I've encountered in this amorphous transition. My mouth hangs open when I find myself speechless regarding the notions of speaking argumentatively. Have I...learned? Oh certainly. And what arguments have I had? The ones with myself.

Every active stimulus that finds it's way into my realm is causing my senses to awaken, bloom, and burst with activity. I love it. Lackluster. No enthusiasm. Why? As a way to become more aware of my damages and feel proud.

You need to come in and conquer me. Take me down a notch from my overlapping thoughts. Knock me down with your kindness and wisdom. Just help me, and I will help you.