Reason is an aid to stories. It's the ghost out of the cell. --Lyn Hejinian
Holly's monolith de l'histoire [James Dean] what Holly wld kiss like death rocks below
--what occurs while no one is watching--
a camera that pans
[locked tight on the shoe of] [the face of] Holly's Lacan-grid simulacra [offal-fjord- simulacra-of-etc] hell-bent on Main St.
& strangely & w/ palm trees south of: how do I explain this shot to you? If you don't already know what I'm saying?
Whole as Holly's laude oef myte & wrytinge bi Chryste even Holly's heavenly script's a gaff, her life / her death epitomized cinematically / linguistically-- a deadpan perpendicular as self.
A film, wherein, Holly dies-- God's little repentant warrior-saint: "Hope bends us to serve it," she cries, all positings blossoming away. Her ghost on film gets info straight But isn't what Holly wld write herself. "I have become historical," kids Holly "When did I become historical?"
Her vexers' hoot! hoot! bewailing, beseeching off camera: Our snails are tropes! Our snails are tropes! Such rich, rich tiny worlds & of none to live in // upon.
Waft'd. Parabolic. Odd.
Holly's little lit-postmodern asks each actor-ghost:
"In this scene does little-road-kill-child die?"
Her doppleganger's ghastly final lines (rehearsed extempore):