I Believe I love the ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ at the Heart of Holly Golightly — ᔕᔕƎᖇᑭ ᴱᵀᴱᴿᴺᴬᴸ 𖣘 ᴿᴱᵀᵁᴿᴺ ᑭᖇEᔕᔕ

I Believe I love the ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ at the Heart of Holly Golightly

CRIT
12-21-02022

This week, I believe many things & know a precious few. I believe, as a bleed blooded, late-capitalist American son of the 21st century, I’ve become far too proficient at edging any & all 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓮𝓼. I can expertly hold 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 on its cusp, just shy of manifestation, indefinitely. I believe this edgy proficiency is the result of another belief; that a 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 can never condense into reality as 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓭.

I often hide from that last, arresting, belief. As often as I hide from another, arresting belief; that I don’t matter enough to have my 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂. I haven’t ‘earned’ it. If I earned it, I’d have it, right? So then is a realized 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 proof that I matter? This storms with the first belief because, to matter, I must achieve the impossible. I must manifest a 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 into reality as 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓭.

And yet, my 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓮𝓼 still possess the motive power to march me toward there edge. At the edge, is a view of the ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ where the 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓭 should be. This is a bitter belief to savor, but so is good espresso. And one thing I know is that I love bitter things.

This is all preamble towards the discussion of a the romantic film. In such films, this bitter view of the ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ is peeked when a 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓭 femme drops the one of two common rebuffs to the advances of a dude 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓻 . . .

“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑒.”

. . . Or . . .

“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓂𝑒.”

. . . the first hints at the power of 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 to blind, the second at an inability to 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓲𝔃𝓮 the actual state of things. Which brings me to the ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ at the heart of Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

A close male confederate describes, in admiration & approval, Miss Golightly as . . .

“A phony yes, but a TRUE phony.’

By the end of the film, what Holly’s 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓻 is falling in love with is that TRUE phony. He is falling in love with the shifting shadows & becomings that dance in the ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ where Holly’s identity should be. His 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 goes meta. It is learning to encompass 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶 of the, ever unfolding, 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶 of her. Whether it is possible to love this way forever, to never hold one 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶 in that unfolding too tightly, is a thing wish I knew.

I say all this not to suggest that Holly is unique; that more authentic, people have a [𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙾𝙽] persona in leu of a ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ. I don’t believe that. My experience of myself is different. It’s as if a persona is delicate visual fabric, displaying a quick-load 2D rendering of the best-guess persona required for the goals of present moment. This fabric is stretched taut over my ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ. The fabric bend and flexes, warping persona, hinting at secrets. On occasion it tears. I see all kinds of strange beings through those tears; beings not fully evolved for light.

This is probably why floating on the surface of deep water is such an ominous experience for me. It’s far too direct a metaphor, underscoring the strangeness beneath me unseen. What if all those creatures decide to charge the surface at once?

And still, some how, I believe I can know myself. I witness the persona, and the shifting entities beneath; I witness the moments they collide. I try to know that to know myself. Or so I strive.

Because any [𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙾𝙽] persona I delude myself in obstructs my view of the 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬 shifting mystery that I have come to love above any [𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙾𝙽] truth, any one 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶. I believe that shifting mystery is truth.

I’m learning to love my TRUE phony.

Have you ever seen the ending of The Graduate? Dustin Hoffman rushes into the church in a last-ditch effort to claim his beautiful femme 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂.

Of course, he succeeds, because he is his 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂’𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 at just the right moment.

Of course, they escape the pursuing groom & fam, jamming shut the church doors with that stoic symbol of the pain of passion . . . the holy crucifix.

Of course, a bus pulls by right when they need it most. They board, laughing giddy as lunatics, drunk on a double shot of 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂.

And this is where 99.9% of romantic films choose to end, presenting that 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 as the [𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙾𝙽] 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒶 of love, gifting the audience a good ol’ 𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻.

But The Graduate doesn't end there. The Graduate continues wordlessly for one full minute, one that is among the most bitter cinematic minutes I’ve ever savored. The euphoria of 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 silently ebbs back from our lovers faces. She glances over at he, then, slowly forward. Together they gaze blankly, not at each other but into the space ahead of them.

I know where they’re staring, into a ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ