On The Outfit: I love really easy sundresses. I love casual sweater. I would explain all the reasons this outfit works but it's actually just comfortable. I threw this on so it's not about style. It's about easy pieces that fall together to make you look cute even on your off days.
On My Mind: Yesterday I was with a friend who asked me if I was going to write about him. I said no. The truth is that I write about people all the time. Today, I wanted to write about something that's been on my mind which is love and passion without any real strings. While I am not going to write about my friends I do want to write about two people whom we feel passionate about, Henry Miller and Anais Nin. They had the most passionate, romantic, and crazy relationship though they were both married. They knew what they had though. It was magic in some ways. They could be in love and crazy passionate towards each other without any attachment. Maybe that's how things stay crazy passionate and insanely in love.
Here are a sample of their letters:
To Anais: Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old....
....Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)