I've watched it a lot in the past few days. Given the power to watch something over and over again, I do, until I've beaten the newness out of it and entered it more fully in my head. Or something--I don't know why I do it, but I do. Freddie remains utterly charming. The attention to detail makes me wish I lived then in a way that period dramas don't. It is somehow written as a love story to that era, somehow, even if it simultaneously abuses it for its prejudices. The prejudices don't quite balance out the appeal of the lipstick and dressing up and men in suits (how I adore men in suits) and the telephones, even if they are anachronistic. I wish someone would recite e. e. cummings (and my favorite poem at that--one I was thinking about earlier that day, completely unrelatedly) and tell me I was exquisite, and snatch newspaper from my hands and take my face in his hands and kiss me. (Ugh, what a sentimentalist I sound.)
Went for a bike ride today. Have yet to work on my novel. Ate delicious pizza. I remain slovenly.
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