One of the most difficult things about being really busy is adjusting to the lull of when you’re not so busy afterwards. For me, this is especially challenging when the lull comes in the middle of the week, while everyone else is working, and I’m just sitting in my apartment in my three-day old workout clothes, catching up on “Game of Thrones” and eating Half Baked ice cream at 1pm in the afternoon. That’s like what people normally do on Saturdays. If they’re fat. And lazy.
Yesterday, in an attempt to ward off the inevitable depression that usually accompanies guilt, I decided to do some challenging reading in my free afternoon. So I picked up Roland Barthes’ “A Lover’s Discourse,” and tried to begin it. “A Lover’s Discourse” is the book that Madeleine, the main female character in Jeffrey Eugenides’ novel “The Marriage Plot,” reads to get over her brilliant bipolar lover, Leonard. She met Leonard in a semiotics class at Brown University, the school I attended in real life.
I’m adoring everything about Nicole Kidman’s outfits so far at Cannes. She looks as gorgeous as Grace Kelly.
From her faux-hawk…
I feel profoundly sad after watching The Great Gatsby; both because the story itself is so sad, and because the movie is such an epic failure. It’s not a bad movie, per se — it’s just not nearly good enough. I continue to be shocked by how high the film industry reaches, and how weak its grasp is — films see where they can go, but they’re just too lazy to get there.
I’m not going to write anything about the book in comparison to the movie because I don’t remember it that well. I remember reading it when I was in middle school, and not understanding it, and then reading it again during the epic, unnecessary, two-week long reading period between the end of classes and finals during my sophomore year of college. I also read “Tender Is the Night,” because I liked the title so much. I read them, and I cried that my boyfriend at the time would ever love me enough to either build me a mansion in Long Island, or stay by my side during a sojourn in a sanatorium in Europe.
Walking to the F train, Saturday night.