I’m getting worried now about the movie they’re making; you know,
The movie of that version of my life in which everything happens
In reverse, leading in the end to nothing. I don’t mind
The idea of even living in reverse, even ending up nowhere & as nothing,
Just a speck beyond the zygote’s zero-sum imaginings. But let’s face it, as art,
I mean, it’s an idea that really sucks. So, like, predictable, no? All that empty
Existential fog before the fact of me, just as after the fact of me, all that lovely
Existential fog. Get over it, I think; this movie’s never getting made—
Though the casting was a huge success, Infanta tells me, in her breathless
Valley voice, with the woman (well, young girl really: only 19) cast to play me
So hot now a dozen other producers kept sending flowers to her hotel room.
Thank God, Infanta said, that this girl, Cybèle (really good name),
Had felt such a deep commitment, such a fierce kinship with the character…
Of…me—even more, Infanta said, than I often seemed to feel for
The “character” of…“me”…& she has,
This girl, I know, a certain angel-butch Joan-of-Arcish kind of thing
That makes me happy & captures (Infanta keeps telling me ) “that special
Androgyny of your imagination, my dear…” So how could I complain? That
Seems perfect, doesn’t it? Dying for faith at last. Going up, or down, in flames!—
Get over it, I think. This limp-dick movie’s never getting made.