Today I wanted to wear red.

Last night K and I finally watched Bright Star. I've been wanting to see it since the very first previews for the theatrical release, but we never got around to seeing it in theaters. The film itself really was quite lovely... I think Abby Cornish is the new Kate Winslet.

The scene with the butterflies in the bedroom reminded me very much of Dior's spring 2009 collection, and the poor sickly poet and his lover leading lives of quiet desperation reminded me very much of my life. Just kidding. I like to imagine that I would enjoy a life spent "musing" and writing lyric poetry in the garden, but in all honesty I think I would die of boredom (if not tuberculosis, which seemed to kill most brilliant-in-mind-but-weak-in-body poets of the time).

I loved this quote from the movie:

"A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving into a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out, it is a experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept the mystery." - John Keats

This has always sort of been my approach to art. For me, the most enjoyable part of creating anything (be it poetry, music, painting) is the immersive experience... the end result almost doesn't matter (which may explain why I never finish anything). I love nothing more than to sit in a dark room with a glass of red wine and just let my thoughts dip and soak and swell... and if something spills out onto the page, that's great. But if not? That's okay, too. Sometimes I just need a moment to immerse myself in the mystery.

Speaking of immersing myself in the mystery, Lauren of papergownfashion asked (in the comments) how I like Infinite Jest. I briefly wrote about it here, but it really is time for an update because it's been weeks and I am only very slowly making any sort of progress on it anymore. So here's the basic scoop: for the first 500 pages I really enjoyed it. I thought it was fresh and funny and because it was so brilliantly written and easily digestible I could overlook (and even appreciate) the surrealistic, perverted imagery. But now? I'm kind of exhausted by it. It reminds me of Naked Lunch, which I also tired of at the halfway mark (even though it's significantly shorter)... I think at a certain point the grotesquery of the prose becomes too much--my stomach lining has been irritated for too long--and I cease to enjoy it. That said, I am determined to finish it. I think that discomfort is perhaps meant to be part of the experience, and it really is an incredible work of art that should not be overlooked. I just hope I can power through it soon so I can start reading something more whimsical and romantic.

(dress: Marshall's; tights: HUE; boots: ALDO; scarf: thiscouldbeyou on etsy; belt: thrifted)