Blogging About Star Wars: Forgive Me, Lord

Finally, the Empire's discovered the secret Rebel Base and is preparing to destroy that particular unfortunate moon. Luke's switched off his scanner but hasn't yet released his photon torpedoes, and Leia, there on that moon, is watching the control screen anxiously. Those frames, that look of appeal and head-sandwich hair, mean to remind us of her imminent peril. But she's not quite confronting death, is she. She is tense, but doesn't consent to wince.

Before we question Carrie Fisher's acting abilities, know that her oncoming death is like ours inconceivable. Her surroundings, the other rebels and their base and those flamboyant buns, and too the earth underneath them all, is to come unglued and disband. How to prepare for such an absurdity? Should she flinch? Or sharply inhale? Not for anyone to say. Not even Lucas, a meddling megalomanic. Death must be too acutely personal an affair.

When I die and the world dissolves, my own instance will come unglued, and my mind will submit and forfeit its orchestral order. Philip K. Dick has trusted, for 35 years, that

"Reality is that which, when you stop
believing in it, doesn't go away."

Plato's chains are on us, and reality is around the corner; our hands are kept from knowing its touch. And if Lucas thinks to retrofit anything ever again, my reality will drive me for its own sustainment to kick his doddering ass.

"A whole city will be raised from the earth
and fall back in ashes."
Marguerite Duras, Hiroshima Mon Amour