Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.
Inspired to drop everything and move to 1920s bohemian Paris to write radical books and kick it with Hemingway and Fitzgerald over gin martinis. If you haven't yet caught Woody Allen's latest, wow. I'm a little behind the times in finally seeing it, but it's a sweet (very yogic) love song to what it means to find santosha in the present tense.
Everything about the film — the constant unfolding of charming cameos from all the iconic intellects and artists and writers of the era (picture Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Picasso and Stein and Dalí and Eliot and Baker and on and on and on), the aesthetics (dreamy), the killer flapper-era costumes (dying), the spirit (bohemian), the screenplay (smart), the insufferable American Tea Party-loving parents (frighteningly familiar) — all reminded me again how lovely it felt to sit in a nameless cafe on Montmarte in my early 20s and lose hours, oblivious of the time, to black coffee and classic novels and dirty gin. And I wished for that moment in watching it, and some imagined moment of life in that nostalgic glossed-over Golden Era 1920s, at the very same time that Allen's sharp screenplay reminded me that we can only and ever find contentment in the present moment, and that it's a fallacy to think we'd ever be happy(ier) in any other time than in this very breath.
Sounds like yoga, no?
Love. Watch it.