It’s Crying in our Car Kate Bush Hours! No seriously have you ever experience the sweet relief of a car-cry? I would highly recommend.
Oddly enough, I would cry every day, driving home from high school. I wasn’t bullied, I was just melodramatic, as I am now.
I’ve been going to the gym lately (who am I??) and what can I say, but endorphins are actually good for the soul, as They say.
I also in good basic bitch fashion watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s on a Saturday night :O I also forgot how abhorrent the racial caricature produced by Mickey Rooney, which as a child viewing felt like an absurd ‘quirky’ character, that didn’t appear to me to be as it blatantly does now as a gross stereotype of an man of East Asian whose loud protests and ranting against the nuisance can be appeased with the allure of a wink and blow of a kiss, assuring the man that maybe he’ll be able to get *that* photoshoot. If it’s any consolation, I DID pirate the movie.
I think that the film adaptation really strives to make Golightly as this glamorous well to do socialite, but as we know from the novella, she is just a social-climbing phony, attempting to hide her country bumpkin roots in an attempt to gain riches. Very influencer-like I guess. Capote makes her seem so much more sad and lowly in his writing of her… That the glamorous life is just a facade and deep down there is sadness. I think this is illuminated in the film, with the powder room talk, and when her manipulative husband appears to lure her back, but I think we the modern audience are distracted by shiny things as we often are.
Her psychology is typical, and I cringe to think of how I may relate. My past year of severe reading of psychology blogs has lead me to diagnose her with an avoidant attachment disorder with unresolved childhood trauma. I almost feel like there is room for a capitalist critique here. She hopes that the security of wealth will absolve the discomfort and feeling of the earlier half of her life, both the poverty she endured and relational trauma. As the story of America in the mid twentieth century goes, all the cool kids left farms to make a life in the city. Which escaping poverty is a real thing… And sometimes it’s easy to paint the impact as an individual, rather than collective level. (I mean hi, we are all dealing with several epidemics which are coalescing all at once related to health care, racism, wealth inequality, etc. and it’s still taken at face value as a case by case basis.)
You had the dustbowl, etc. When I think of my own family narrative, I think of my great-grandmother whose family hailed from Oklahoma and probably had that Dust Bowl thing going on–were alcoholics and I think very stoic/Protestant. As a result my great -grandmother developed a latent fascination in porcelain dolls bought from QVC.
But then how do you mend psychological wounds in a society which poses companionship as fleeting or based on ownership. (I don’t even know if Paul or her even truly see each other, or if they see just enough of each other to pair off.) A society which also prioritizes romantic love over any other platonic, familial love. How do we unpack the notion that wealth=security=happiness=goodness. And that those who have attained wealth are in some way more skilled and talented by virtue of playing the game well of attaining capital.
❤ ❤ <3<3 ❤ ❤ ❤ <3<3 ❤ <3<3 ❤ <3<3 ❤ ❤ ❤ <3<3 ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ <3<3 ❤ <3<3 ❤ ❤
By now I feel like my blogs have become redundant, with me saying the same thing every time. I don’t know if repetition means that I am hammering in points, or that I am dry with ideas. In any case, here are some random things written in my notes as of late:
Is it possible to have intimate relationships with landmark spaces when everybody has already claimed it as their own?
I feel that I am at a crux of not caring enough and perhaps caring too much, and about the wrong things.
They say that if you are still on the path of setting goals, and means to accomplish those goals, then you are doing okay.
But what is it that I actually want to achieve?
I want to write and be a writer, and instead I find myself floundering in temporary distractions.