One More Day of Nothing Much

As my period draws to its end, I can say very specifically that I've done no writing whatsoever (beyond scattered notes, blog-posts and the occasional bout of research) for almost a week. The incredible fervor of cramping I went through this time 'round certainly hasn't helped--I've been sleepless, paralyzed, crotch-kicked and angry at myself on some very basic level. So I do chores all day, stumble from thing to thing, do my "duty" as a daughter, wife, mother. It's rankling, but I probably only have myself to blame.

Still: Cleaned the bathtub (finally), washed my hair, and managed to watch roughly half of Jane Campion's Bright Star, which is...really neat, one of those intimate human stories which rings true in any era, and peels back the fallacy of historical difference like a flap to showcase characters we're already familiar with, people we've met, loved, interact with on a daily basis. There's a great joy to realizing the utter centrality of Fanny Brawne (Abbie Cornish), who seems to have escaped straight from a Kate Beaton comic--peony-bright in her huge ruffled collars and self-constructed hats, constantly taking crap from Keats' jealous "bros before hos!" friend Brown about liking flirting and cross-stitch ("My cross-stitch is far more admired than either of your verses," she replies, "and I can make money with it"), educating herself haphazardly about poetry on the vague off-chance it'll help her better understand Keats' love for it, then eventually reaching a point where she likes him enough to simply agree to disagree. Ben Whishaw plays Keats as less a dreamer than a man whose mind is continually in two places, but he seems as though he's very happy to let solid, practical Fanny root him back in the real, not least because her doing so then gives him a far more direct, less precious access to the numinous. Everything improves with two, for both of them: His poetry, her fashion. And though neither of them completely understand each other's art, they don't denigrate it, either; Brown could learn a fair deal from the arrangement, if he wasn't so busy being "clever".

Inevitably, however, consumption rears its ugly blood-spitting head--but I'm not quite there yet, so I can still enjoy the ride, even if I know where we're going. Then again, like most, I'm not particularly familiar with Fanny's story, so maybe there'll be a surprise or two yet in that direction.

All right: Gather stuff, take drugs, off to pick up Cal, back to Mom's. At least the place doesn't look like a crap-heap anymore--that's something.