Latest Posts by jolieflows - Page 5

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒔, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐, 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒔. 𝑻𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆. 𝒀𝒆𝒕...𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

ANGELINA JOLIE  Gia, 1998  – dir. Michael Cristofer

my mind is full of flowers, dreams, gentlemen and ethereal ladies

Quote by Vivian Greene

sticky notes

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.

I can't rest. I can't reach that level of calmness... I'm like always on edge. Okay? And? More cheese with that wine? That's a bad pun and a line from a 90s movie. Great, I can't rest and I'm having “Guess that movie quotes!” with myself... great. GREAT.

𝑱𝒂𝒏, 5𝒕𝒉 97’

In love with someone looks like an adventure that never ends. It's as if you're walking a never-ending journey. Love sounds like a conqueror. Budding its way through life are two people who are making their lives about each other.

The word conquer keeps coming up in my writings, because there is a huge part of me that wants that to be, known as my love. Not that I want to conquer someone; rather that they conquer me. I'm always at the top of my game. I'd like to go down.

You have to be with me where the conversations are endless. That the silence is as loud as laughter. You need to wear the ringing dissonance of anger that comes only seconds after a heated argument. You must conquer me. Recite poetry with me. Cry with me. Laugh with me.

It's the likelihood of being caught that creates "danger." Unless you believe that whatever you do will enrich your life, there is no true danger.

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.

Angelina Jolie by Michel Bourquard; 1994

Der richtige Weg. Oder das Vorfahrtsrecht, um aus jedem Fehler etwas Besonderes zu machen.

𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒.

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.

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬. 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞. 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞.

Ja. Einzigartig. Das uralte Gedichtgerät. Schön.

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.

First one. Won't be the last.

It is not easy to ignore the urge to be reckless in the absence of a cause. I shall be rebellious under the pretentious circumstances. It is fun. Hmm. Why are there limitations to life? Maybe because we die?

We die for what? The fact that we live and survive? So what is life? Why the two sides of me? Dammit. Fear no death. Fear not living /living/ okay. Breathe. Yes, extra breathes.

There is a poem here. Not an ode of declaration to the philosopher's questions of death. This is a poem. Repeat it. This is a poem. Reverse it.This is...my declaration of confusion.

𝑀𝑦 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑢𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑐 𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑑. 𝐴 𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑝 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑠. 𝐿𝑒𝑡'𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟. 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑢𝑛𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑑. 𝑌𝑒𝑎𝒉, 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑. 𝑆𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑡'𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡. 𝐼 𝑎𝑚... 𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑑? 𝐷𝑖𝑑 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒? 𝑁𝑜𝑝𝑒. 𝐴𝒉, 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝒉. 𝑌𝑒𝑎𝒉, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑑. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑏𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐.

Where does it begin? Every story has its origin. Of course, of course, nothing can not possibly exist without something. Of course! Okay, okay— here we go.

Angelina padded across her kitchen barefoot, eyes sleep filled, mind cloudy and her entire morning demeanor; groggy. Her warm body awoke to a chilling tile floor. The bare peaks of the sun were breaking their way into the kitchen, past the flimsy lace curtains. She kept her head low as if the sun was irritating her. She lived sometimes as if she was a roadie for Janis Joplin, setting up for three days of Woodstock. A far reach? Maybe. Although Angelina never considered herself to be too entertaining, she fought for certain roles, scripts in the entertainment industry. Angelina lived the “rockstar” life, but she never considered herself to be a rockstar. Far from it— but she partied like one. Always had. Everything Angelina wanted in life and everything she did was to access.

If she drank, she did that to free the chaotic terror of thoughts, that plagued her mind. She wasn't a looney bin case or anything; nothing clinical or diagnostic had ever been performed on her. But Angelina knew she was different. She had been in school, in acting classes, in auditions—she was different from her own brother. Hell, they didn't even share the same last name; of course they were different.

Standing with the fridge door open, the lanky brunette eyed her choices of the morning. A cold glass of water and...her head whipped toward the counter where she spotted the fresh bananas in the wooden bowl. Ah, Carolina, her every twice of month made must have gone shopping— a blessing.

That was settled then. Breakfast had been decided, now if only she could make the quick choices like that for the rest of her day. Or life. After pouring her glass of water, snatching a banana she shuffled downstairs to her bedroom. It was her seclusion bedroom.

Where she came to write, read, relax...and occasionally, do her extracurricular excessive activities. While Angelina's writing, attempted script and dialogue— talent was a kept seclusion secret. Her use of “recreational activity” i.e. drug use, was not. Almost everyone in her camp— knew she used drugs. And ‘used’ was a limp and loose term. Angelina had gone days, weeks, months, without using sometimes. Then like an uncharted gravitational pull, mustered up enough voltage energy and would pull her back in. And then, she'd be on the wagon. Tinfoil, spoons, baggies, would appear and disappear from her bag, bedroom, all areas of the places she'd go.

Angelina took a small bite of her banana and smirked to herself. How could she...work, agree to drug test, and yet...be an “addict?” But then again she couldn't really classify herself as an addict. In those almost paralytic, drug psychosis states... she'd vow for it to be the last time. And sometimes she'd mean it! Yeah, going months without even giving smack’ a second thought.

A half finished banana was tossed into the waist bin. Her lips disconnected from her glass of water as small dribbles of water, trickled down her chin. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Angelina shook off the impending heard of bison stampeding thoughts and prepared for the day. GIA was wrapping up, final scene changes, edits, cuts; the whole shebang. A nice hot shower, maybe a little coffee, and she'd be on her way.

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.