If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name. ~Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, 1958, spoken by the character Holly Golightly
6 days in bed with pneumonia makes a girl a little stir crazy.. or maybe even a lot. i have slept and sweated and sweated and slept. the creases and the clumps in the pillows and the bedding have become just like the pea under the princess’s bed and have made it almost impossible to get comfortable.
i’m almost as tired of sleeping as i am tired. i am hoping that wellness is on its way.
during my week long romance with bed rest has been an ongoing madness for drama- especially the cinematic kind. star trek (chris pine and zachary quinto) made me smile and smile again. secretariat continued to be a winner. dolphin tale actually made me cry 5 times. the film that continues to stand out the most for me is the help. i have been racking my brain trying to figure out exactly why.,
i am from a small town in central illinois- not the south. my grandmother, who is responsible for most (if any) moral fiber i have was from alabama. her family were farmers who emigrated to illinois. i don’t know if the writing, the stories, the drama, the conflict of the south has particular significance for me, but it certainly is easy to wear.
i have loved tennesseee williams, carson mccullers, willa cather, truman capote, thomas wolfe, and flannery oconnor, and harper lee. i have read and watched those stories with fervor and adulation for as long as i can remember. and as i languished around this week, partaking of this newer delicacy over and over, i found myself feeling as if i had been given a very large and comforting hug from a storyline rife with regional language, sarcasm, innuendo, but mostly the undaunting tenacity of the human spirit.
i/m not sure about past life wisdom. i am not an expert on reincarnation. but i believe in my mind there is a case for it here. i grew up as a small boy listening to stories told around the kitchen table. and these southern writers and stories sound very much like the same thing to me. they seem to be familiar and personal, like it’s being told over a tall glass of iced tea.
so on a week long dirge like this, when i have fever, fatigue, and spend most of my time alone, it makes sense that i would like to drench myself in something that reminds me of my childhood. laughter and drama being played out in stories at the kitchen table. and then there’s all that confection and fried food.:)
: No, ma’am but you is about to. ‘Cause you just did.