PhoenixToEmber
Jedi Council Member
Just thought I'd document it here with a thread. I know this forum is full of Star Wars nerds (myself included). She certainly lived an interesting life of ups and downs. RIP, Carrie.
PhoenixToEmber said:Just thought I'd document it here with a thread. I know this forum is full of Star Wars nerds (myself included). She certainly lived an interesting life of ups and downs. RIP, Carrie.
Dear Princess Leia,
I don’t wish to be presumptuous and call you “Leia,” as it implies a familiarity I don’t wish to presume. And though some might say we resemble one another to the extent that we could be easily mistaken for one another—if we were to inexplicably agree to dress in similar, if unremarkable clothing, and you were to finally, sanely, refuse to submit to the rigors of that foolish focus-pulling hairstyle—simply (and now belatedly) put, I could pass for you with minor adjustments as you might pass for me with ever so slightly more. But would my insides match your outsides?
I’ve spent almost two-thirds of my life walking galaxies in those fucking white leather boots. I’ve even attempted to answer for your actions, to explain your possible motives for choices one of us failed to make. But while you will forever be remembered loitering in star-infested landscapes, existing endlessly in imaginations and onscreen, I putter noisily in that infamous closet of celebrity—expanding, wrinkling, stooping, and far too often, stupid with age. Here we are enacting our very own Dorian Gray configuration. You: smooth, certain, and straight-backed, forever condemned to the vast, enviable prison of intergalactic adventure. Me: struggling more and more with post-galactic stress disorder, bearing your scars, graying your eternally dark, ridiculous hair.
You always act the heroine; I snort the stuff in the feeble attempt to dim the glare of your intense, intergalactic antics. You take the glory; I give way to age. You: so physically well and well-meaning it makes me mentally ill—well, something does, anyway. While you fight the dark side with your light, white ways, I’m in the sarlacc pit, covered in Jabba’s vile body fluids. Will it ever end? It probably won’t, but I will. I’m pretty sure I will. My sequels will finally, blessedly stop, while yours will define and absorb an age.
Though you are condemed to reenact the same seven hours of adventures over a span of now almost four rowdy decades, at least you look good fighting evil. I look lived in. My amused and envious eyes peer out of a face bloated and evil with age. Wasn’t I supposed to remain happily captured in the amber of our projected image, fending off water-retention, weight, and wrinkles in the same way you fight for the glory of whatever the fuck all that was about—a universe glowing with peace and fairness, Ewoks cavorting in their force-filled fields? Wasn’t I? C’mon—wasn’t I?
Of our all-but-shared fate (if shared, it’s in an unsanitary way)—whatever Leia’s has been or will be, Carrie’s will be, at least periodically, dwarfed and disappointing, riddled with self-pity, old and over-exposed, rendered sad and irrelevant in comparison with her counterparts’ rich and uninterrupted adventures. Play it again, Han! Leia plays while I continue to pay and pay and pay. I’m Carrie Fisher from Star Wars—the south side of Star Wars, near the Vaders’ former condemned place.
I fade as you blaze. I stoop while you shoot straight and defend right. Oh, well. There are worse things, I know. Those worse things gather at my back and haunt my fun-packed future days. But worse gives way to better—Dorian Organa gives way to Carrie Gray. We all win in the end, don’t we? If not utterly, then in a number of cozy, inevitable, and limited days. She’s Leia Organa, from the center of so many humans’ best memories. Shining with the warm glow of sci-fi nostalgia. Our Alderaan, fly us, but wherever you go—over the hill or fucking Cloud City, Jabba’s palace or the emergency room, up, down, or over—do your best to do what I do: make sure you largely enjoy the ride. Skip the hairstyle, but enjoy the ride.
Love, Carrie
PhoenixToEmber said:Apparently Carrie Fisher's mother, Debbie Reynolds, just passed away as well. The day after her daughter - bizarre!
Turgon said:PhoenixToEmber said:Apparently Carrie Fisher's mother, Debbie Reynolds, just passed away as well. The day after her daughter - bizarre!
I just heard. Maybe the shock of losing her daughter was too much to bear. :(
PhoenixToEmber said:Turgon said:PhoenixToEmber said:Apparently Carrie Fisher's mother, Debbie Reynolds, just passed away as well. The day after her daughter - bizarre!
I just heard. Maybe the shock of losing her daughter was too much to bear. :(
That's what I was thinking, too.
Hollywood legend Debbie Reynolds has died aged 84, just one day after the death of her daughter, famed actor and author Carrie Fisher.
Her death was confirmed by her son, Todd Fisher.
“The last thing she said this morning was that she was very, very sad about losing Carrie and that she would like to be with her again,” Fisher said. “Fifteen minutes later she suffered a severe stroke.”
_http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/celebrity/celebrity-news/celebrities-react-to-the-death-of-debbie-reynolds-hollywood-great-and-mother-of-carrie-fisher-20161229-gtjaca.htmlBut amid the terrible sadness, perhaps Mia Farrow said it best for a mother and daughter who were also the best of friends, and who will be missed most for their warmth, energy and cracking wit: "RIP doesn't sound right... I hope they're somewhere having fun."
What do people talk about before they die?
Today, 13 years later, I am a hospice chaplain. I visit people who are dying -- in their homes, in hospitals, in nursing homes. And if you were to ask me the same question -- What do people who are sick and dying talk about with the chaplain? -- I, without hesitation or uncertainty, would give you the same answer. Mostly, they talk about their families: about their mothers and fathers, their sons and daughters.
They talk about the love they felt, and the love they gave. Often they talk about love they did not receive, or the love they did not know how to offer, the love they withheld, or maybe never felt for the ones they should have loved unconditionally.
They talk about how they learned what love is, and what it is not. And sometimes, when they are actively dying, fluid gurgling in their throats, they reach their hands out to things I cannot see and they call out to their parents: Mama, Daddy, Mother.
What I did not understand when I was a student then, and what I would explain to that professor now, is that people talk to the chaplain about their families because that is how we talk about God. That is how we talk about the meaning of our lives. That is how we talk about the big spiritual questions of human existence.
We don't live our lives in our heads, in theology and theories. We live our lives in our families: the families we are born into, the families we create, the families we make through the people we choose as friends.
This is where we create our lives, this is where we find meaning, this is where our purpose becomes clear. Family is where we first experience love and where we first give it. It's probably the first place we've been hurt by someone we love, and hopefully the place we learn that love can overcome even the most painful rejection.
This crucible of love is where we start to ask those big spiritual questions, and ultimately where they end.
Niall said:Her mother followed the day after!? Strong testimony to the power of bonds and choice.