I watched “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” last night - we’re going to be reading Truman Capote’s book after the break and I wanted to start thinking about it. The movie rewrites Truman Capote’s story, turning it into a romcom, completely eliminating the book's gay themes. I’d seen ‘Breakfast’ before, but now I’m a little older, and as a single woman, I can better appreciate it. I’m looking forward to studying its socio-****** themes. These are some first thoughts.

Let’s take the opening of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” The images are iconic and some of the most widely repeated in pop-culture today (Hello, ubiquitous dorm room decor), but they’re never used in a way consistent with their function in the film. Instead of seeing a horribly depressed girl who has nothing left in her life but pure escapism, people see a beautiful woman with apparent access to luxury.

When “Breakfast” came out (in 1961) there was a sense, within the press and wider public, that even a neutered version of Holly Golightly represented a cinematic moral nadir that posed a threat to society. Whether Holly was a “moral character” was up for debate in countless reviews of the film. Today, this seems absurd.

Today, Holly is seen as an aspirational figure. With her opera gloves, her intricate updo, pearls and Givenchy little black dress, she looks like someone who belongs at Tiffany’s (of course, the casting the euro-elegant Audrey Hepburn didn’t hurt). Truman Capote wanted Marilyn Monroe as Holly - that would have been a very different movie.

Watching the film, I was struck with how contemporary Holly felt. She seems so familiar - so similar to the countless imitations we’ve seen since. People watching the movie for the first time today may be underwhelmed, but Holly seems so contemporary now, because she was so ahead of the curve back then (just over 60 years ago).

If you look at the popular romantic comedies that surrounded ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, like “Pillow talk,’ ‘Gigi,’ and ‘Giget’ - their leading ladies were nothing like Holly. Being a heroine in those films meant you strived for marriage, you saved yourself for your one true love and, as a woman, you avoided certain subjects altogether. They imply happiness only comes from following a certain good girl ethos.

An example of what could happen to a girl, if she strayed from that path, was shown in Elia Kazan’s ‘Splendor in the Grass’ which also came out in ‘61. Its theme is the consequences of ****** repression, and it outlines a specific cinematic binary. There are good girls and bad girls. The bad girls were usually presented as sad and mentally unstable - and they paid for their sins in the end - usually by dying by some karmic punishment (car wrecks usually).

Holly sits somewhere in between good and bad, complicating the cinematic binary. Because Audrey’s elegance plays her as classy, warm and accessible, she doesn’t come across as a dangerous wild child - although she makes all of the bad girl choices - like partying, drinking and having ***.

For women who grew up in the repressive 1950s, Holly represented a new path forward. Holly lived on her own, she didn’t crave marriage above all else, she didn’t want to live in a cage, and she managed to have a good time without being victimized or doomed. Holly was noticeably different. The pill came out in May of 1960 (one of the watershed events in human history). Holly was Hollywood's first post-pill heroine, representing the ****** revolution before Betty Friedan’s ‘Feminine Mystique’.

Within the four walls of this library
sit three walls packed into the corner;
shelves, stuffed full of books with dog-eared pages
and slip-disc’d spines and fraying edges,
and a big white sign, which dangles from the ceiling
like a megabat hung on a cave mouth, sleeping and dreaming,
the word “NONFICTION” is inscribed on its countenance,
adjacent to signs shouting “MYSTERY” and “SCIENCE
FICTION” and “FANTASY” and “ROMANCE”
and a thousand other sorts of words
for myth and fabrication. But in this corner
live the rest, the et ceteras, the miscellaneous,
the kingdom of protists; for instance, care for some ethics?
Marx’s manifesto is stacked lazily beside a heap of essays by Rand;
you can practically see the two of them, shaking hands
uneasily, the will to never understand already forming
in their brains, and others yet remain;
Capote and the Clutters share shelf space
with the Mansons, hiding helter skelter behind
gnostic gospels and silent springs and a thousand
dreams for Freud to interpret (translated
from German for your convenience); nearby,
Orwell sings war songs in Catalan, accompanied
by the universe’s most elegant superstrings,
and the caged birds, singing of freedom,
harmonizing a melodious cacophony with the song
of the executioner. Butler criticizes his performance,
and she probably would have anyway, but Friedan thinks
he has a certain sort of mystique and Dawkins offers his own critique,
going on about genes and memes, extinction and delusion, but
not hallucinations—Sacks makes the distinction; let us continue
to praise famous men, and their children after them,
these naked apes, with minds so ***** that
they’re riddled with the emperors of all maladies; oh, Morris
Kinsey and Mukherjee could tell you all about these things,
maybe over lunch with Schlosser or dinner with Pollan,
minglings with Machiavelli over affairs of the state,
or affairs of space and a brief history of time; but,
if you're feeling too full to eat, or to pray, or to love,
ask Frankl what to do, let him change your life
with words from decades yore as he keeps on
his search for meaning just like every man before, at least
that's the case when these boys’ lives weren’t preoccupied
by artful war or bright and shining lies. And here,
by the holy bookend, lies some old and antiquated glossary
which lost most of its “glossy” many years ago,
for one flip through the pages will catalogue the changes
between what we thought we knew about the stars
and our bodies and doomsday as recently
as your last birthday, and all the things that everyone says
we now know that we know; speak,
memory, remember all you can
about this endless, sundry cosmos, and
the microcosms that it boasts; bury my heart,
if not at Wounded Knee, then maybe at this
library, where comprehension and speculation
find themselves in coexistence, packed into a single
point resembling the genesis, and fear and hope
take dueling forms, those of fact and mystery;
and now all that’s left to do is read,
until the end of history.

Feats of rocks in faking waters
eagerly I step, neither I drown, nor I fell
My hearts pounding to impel
surrounding daggers in hiding capote
True ones whom only knows
plastics, cans sailing away from a boat
Leaving you, an island unknown
and your feelings relentlessly changing
Till it’s time for a grand awakening

When the saints...go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
Oh how I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

Of all the saints, I want to know
The ones who write, I'd love to meet
Oh how I'd love to meet all the authors
When the saints go down the street

E.A. Poe...even Thoreau
Hemmingway would be ok
Mailer and Andrew Taylor
I'd learn to drink like a sailor
when these saints come strolling in

The Writers Guild...I'd be fulfilled
Meeting writers long since dead
Just think of what I'm learning
All that knowledge in their heads

I'd love to know, I'd love to know
Is Bill Shakespeare who we think?
Christie, Austen and Dickens
This is where the whole plot thickens
When the saints go marching in

Is it the best, of all the books
Is the bible just a tale
Can you think of someone better
When Melville speaks about a whale

Capote sits, while Chaucer reads
Bronte knits while Stoker bleeds
Oh how I want to be in that number
When these saints go marching in

The list goes on, oh on and on
There's just so many who've passed on
It's a list that leads by example
When these saints go marching in

Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
How I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

**** a poem, this is Lovelution,
Not just a God complex.
We look more like the Jesus, by
Whom you've been saved, 
Than the real messiah. 

The color hierarchy rushed
Away as you left. Swung, behind
Your ringing ears, and my silent phone.
Pain, sniffed up in public, and 
Off of ceramic plates. They couldn't tell
My mouth from magenta.

In richer movies, your room is
Never on the second story. 
Refuge, out of which you sneak, to
Ride towards the runaways. 
Round stone alarms, earnestly aimed. 
"Alert me if 
'Being easy to talk to,' ever
Becomes more than a reason to
Break my heart."

Suddenly everything 
Rushes back as royal and right, as it's
Ever-all been. 
Coffee and jerky
And whiskey and cigarettes, 
Train-tracks, chewed like licorice, and
Volcanoes of molten-virtue. 

What erupted, instead, were
Early-morning talks of
Celestial bodies, and police lights. 
Free-style rap, and the
Frantically Poetic. 

What you should do is 
Get in your car,
Drive to my house,
(Park in the street) and
Blow-up the ****** gas tank.
Call your ex-boyfriend, too, and
Ask if he's awake...

"This time I'll be Capote, and 
You'll be Harper Lee, and, though it's
Sixty-three years later, we still see
Strange Fruit hung on trees."
Sing it again, your majesty. 

Left to resent my capacity for self-poison, my
Penchant for the hip evades me. So I'm
Packed, headed south,
For New Orleans, or the
First solemn smile, on which worthy 
Summers are staked. She sings:

"We wanted more
From behind our sighs,
Maybe ***** hands, 
Maybe tired thighs...
But believed that there
Was relief in closing eyes..."

So suddenly everything rushes back,
As red and as blue as it's
Ever-all been. 
And I dreamt it went different,
And I dreamt I ****** up,
And I dreamt I bought a dog, 
And I dreamt about your stomach.

Los frescos pintados en la pared
transforman el "Salón Reservado"
en una "Plaza de Toros", donde el suelo
tiene la consistencia y el color de la "arena":
gracias a que todas las noches
se riega la tierra con jerez.

Jinetes en sillas esqueletosas,
tufos planchados con saliva,
una estrella clavada en la corbata,
otra en el dedo meñique,
los tertulianos exigen que el "cantaor"
lamente el retardo de las mujeres
con ¡aves! que lo retuercen
en calambres de indigestión.

De pronto,
en un sobresalto de pavor,
la cortina deja pasar seis senos
que aportan tres "mamás".

Los párpados como dos castañuelas,
las pupilas como dos cajas de betún,
***** el pelo,
negras las pestañas
y las extremidades de las uñas,
las siguen cuatro "niñas", que al entrar,
provocan una descarga de ¡oles!
que desmaya a las ratas que transitan el corredor.

La servilleta a guisa de "capote",
el camarero lidia el humo de los cigarros
y la voracidad de la clientela,
con "pases" y chuletas "al natural",
o "entra" a "colocar" el sacacorchos
como "pone" su vara un picador.

Abroqueladas en armaduras medioevales,
en el casco flamea la bandera de España,
las botellas de manzanilla
se agotan al combatir a los chorizos
que mugen en los estómagos,
o sangran en los platos
como toros lidiados.

Previa autorización de las "mamás",
las "niñas" van a sentarse
sobre las rodillas de los hombres,
para cambiar un beso por un duro,
mientras el "cantaor",
muslos de rana
embutidos en fundas de paraguas,
tartamudea una copla
que lo desinfla nueve kilos.

Los brazos en alto,
desnudas las axilas,
así dan un pregusto de sus intimidades,
las "niñas" menean, luego, las caderas
como si alguien se las hiciera dar vueltas por adentro,
y en húmedas sonrisas de extenuación,
describen con sus pupilas
las parabólicas trayectorias de un espasmo,
que hace gruñir de deseo
hasta a los espectadores pintados en la pared.

Después de semejante simulacro
ya nadie tiene fuerza ni para hacer rodar
las bolitas de pan, ensombrecidas,
entre las yemas de los dedos.

Poco a poco, la luz aséptica de la mañana
agrava los ayes del "cantaor"
hasta identificar
la palidez trasnochada de los rostros
con la angustiosa resignación
de una clientela de dentista.

Se oye el "klaxon" que el sueño hace sonar
en las jetas de las "mamás",
los suspiros del "cantaor"
que abraza en la guitarra
una nostalgia de mujer,
los cachetazos con que las "niñas"
persuaden a los machos
que no hay nada que hacer
sino dejarlas en su casa,
y sepultarse en la abstinencia
de las camas heladas.

I keep,battling, myself, but, am, slowing, drifting, away, was, clean, and sober, of drugs, for, twenty- six years, but, the, needle, in, my left, arm, while, lying, on, the bathroom,floor, drove, lasting, life, away, won, an Oscar, for, portraying, famed, author, TRUMAN CAPOTE, who, wrote, IN COLD BLOOD,sadly, I won't, be, picking, up, my ,young, children, today, felt, really, comfortable,on , the, movie set, or Broadway stage,had, so many, roles,left, for, the audience, to see, years ago, when, drugs, ruled, and called, out, my name, day or night,I  ingested, whatever, was,near,but, now, as my eyes, flicker, on life, for, the very, last time, dying here, wish, there, was, more, control, and resolve, I had, seems, the final, bow, always, says, goodbye

Vengada la hermosa Filis
de los agravios de Fabio
a verle viene al aldea
enfermo de desengaños.

A ruego de los pastores
baja de su monte al prado,
que como se ve querida
da a entender que la forzaron.

Eso mismo que desea,
quiere que la estén rogando,
que sube al gusto los precios
amor conforme a los años.

Huyóse Fabio celoso,
pensó Fabio hallar sagrado,
pero hay estados de amor
que está en el remedio el daño.

¡Desdichado del que llega
a tiempo tan desdichado
que le matan los remedios
con que muchos quedan sanos!

En fin, a Fabio rendido
viene a ver su dueño ingrato,
alegre porque es amor
en las venganzas villano.

No va sin galas a verle,
aunque pudiera escusarlo,
que la mayor hermosura
no deja en casa el cuidado.

Lleva de palmilla verde
saya y sayuelo bizarro,
con pasamanos de plata
si en ellos pone las manos.

No lleva cosa en el cuello
que Fabio le hubiese dado,
porque no entienda que viven
memorias de sus regalos.

Joyas lleva que él no ha visto,
no porque le ha hecho agravio,
mas porque sepan ausencias
que no está seguro el campo.

Con una cinta de cifras
lleva el cabello apretado,
que quien gusta de dar celos
se vale de mil engaños.

De rebociño le sirve
para mayor desenfado
el capote de los ojos
bordado de negros rayos.

En argentadas chinelas
listones lleva, admirados
de que quepan tantos bríos
en tan pequeños espacios.

Llegó Filis al aldea,
entró en su casa de Fabio,
los pastores la reciben
como al sol los montes altos.

Dando perlas con la risa
extiende a todos los brazos,
que gana mares de amor
y da perlas de barato.

Apenas Fabio la mira
cuando a un tiempo se bañaron
el alma en pura alegría,
los ojos en tierno llanto.

No hablaron los dos tan presto,
aunque los ojos hablaron,
Filis porque no quería,
Fabio porque quiere tanto.

Cuando en esta suspensión
los dos se encuentran mirando
a un tiempo bajan los ojos
como que envidian de falso.

Habló Filis y tuvieron
alma de coral sus labios,
que ver humilde al rendido
hace piadoso al vengado.

A Fabio culpa le pone
que es error hacer, amando,
con la lengua valentías,
si el alma no tiene manos.

Él responde y se disculpa,
que viendo cerca los brazos,
pide perdón ofendido
quien ama desengañado.

The story is told in Eleganza: Italian Fashion from 1945 to Today, an installation at Montreal’s McCord Museum, which was created by London’s Victoria and Albert Museum two years ago. In addition to the display of some truly fabulous duds, the exhibition shows how Italian fashion benefitted from one man’s realization that it could become a national brand with global reach.

That man was Giovanni Battista Giorgini, a Florentine buyer’s agent who, in the early 1950s, organized fashion shows at lavish locations such as thePalazzo Pitti. Giorgini flew in influential U.S. buyers, correctly predicting that the splendour of the clothes and locale were just what the newly flush American public wanted after its release from wartime austerity.

The cause was helped by films such as Roman Holiday, in which Audrey Hepburn – wardrobed by Edith Head – personified the American fantasy of carefree-yet-elegant Italian style. It also didn’t hurt that Simonetta and several other young designers were genuine Italian aristocrats.

Eleganza features several knockout creations from this period, including a lavish feather-adorned gown by Simonetta that might well have influenced Jean Paul Gaultier; and a wildly elegant silk evening dress commissioned by a wealthy American from the sartoria of Maria Grimaldi. There’s also a red dress by Germana Marucelli that shows an almost sculptural approach to garment structure.

The exhibition includes some playful designs from the 1960s, including the shimmering Mila Schon evening dress and coat worn by Lee Radziwill to Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball in 1966. There’s also a pair of the silk “palazzo pyjamas” that became a jet-set sensation for Irene Galitzine.

Even after the development of designer ready-to-wear, the Italians emphasized high quality in manufacturing and materials, sourcing mainly from long-established Italian mills. This became even more essential as the bulk of low-end production shifted to China, which in turn has become a huge market for Italian fashion ($22-billion in sales in 2015).

The last and best room in the show is filled with a stunning array of more recent designs laid out along a T-shaped catwalk, including pieces by RobertoCapucci, Valentino, Gucci and Prada, as well as an ornate and playful sequined dress from Prada’s Miu Miu line. Almost all of these pieces were donated by the houses themselves, and at least one came in since the show’s London opening. Successful as they are, these designers know what cachet can come from being included in a museum exhibition.

The related book of illustrated essays, The Glamour of Italian Fashion Since 1945, is low on photos of the outfits on display, but rich in information collected by curator Sonnet Stanfill and nearly two dozen other contributors. They take a panoramic view of their subject, analyzing the materials, makers and presentation of Italian fashion through marketing and media. The book makes an outstanding companion to a beautiful show.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com

We chose Ixtapa for our honeymoon
because it was not yet commercialized,
as so many other places in Mexico
had become. We spent a lot of time
in Zihuatanejo; We burned bay leaves
in static pots of delicacy, ignoring the fruit flies
as we drank mezcal.
You swallowed the maguey worm,
and hallucinated its life as a moth
before it's capture from the agave.
It hit you like the Gulf that
May of 1986; beautifully
and cold.
You looked like a watercolor
entangled in the rope hammock.
Wide-mouthed and muscular,
in the reflection
of my sterling cuff bracelet.
While I examined my jewelry,
our feet were buried in the sand
by the dust we swallowed during our upbringing.
Bred and raised for fighting, we made love
like a bull kissing capote;
Taunting one another in
a masculine ring, performing
in foreign terrain.
You were so delicate
with your hands around my throat.
You helped me forget
by pulling apart the wings of my droning youth
that week.

If it's only to blossom and then to die
I have to tell you
that this life is a lie.

There are no rewards
no pearly gate
just you
six feet under in
a decomposing state.

But this feeds the earth and gives birth to legends
like Moses and Jesus and Truman Capote.

Put your faith in the pawnbrokers
your suits in the shed
send your wife to the doctor
and stay in your bed,
it's a lie
life's not for living it's
only to die.

This balloon can protect you from heat and rain
Hold tight to its string
and it can take you away..
don't fly too close to the sun,
it'll burn
that way.
This balloon is like life's problems, we can put energy
and substance in it
until it grows as big as a house.
Or, we can shrink it down,..
let the air out.
Place it in our pocket and carry it
easily around.
A story comes to mind of a young girl from a wealthy home who was asked what she wanted for Christmas.."a balloon!". Was what she answered.
Like Truman Capote wrote
" its a penny thing, but its pretty"
We can choose the color of our balloon,  make it see through and yet huge, where we fool ourselves everyday, that,
what we can't see, can still be in our way.  
Color your world vibrantly and take up space.
Color your ballon with passion and grace.
Let it float above,,
just like God's love.
A penny thing thats pretty.

I am jealous of my fellow poets
They get comments, favorites and votes
Yes it's true...I am no Truman Capote

I have written about loss, love and depression
Writing has lead to my mental decompression
I have poured out my soul in rhyme
Tried to avoid poetic crime

But no matter how hard I try
Writing poems that would make the Devil Cry
The response I get would make a Happy Clown Sigh

I work hard at rhyming words
Trying hard not to create poetic turds
The votes I get wouldn't even feed a bird

Maybe I should change my name to Josephine
Upload a photo of a Hot **** Beauty Queen
The boys and girls would read my poems and cream
Maybe I should cut off an ear
Come out as Queer

My hope is someday my readers will see me as a poetic seer
When I am finally lying on my Funeral Bier