I couldn’t shake Carrie Fisher out of my mind all yesterday, nor this morning. I read an excerpt from her latest book, “The Princess Diarist” that told about her affair with Harrison Ford when they were filming the first, “Star Wars.” She was nineteen, he was in his mid-thirties and married. It was one of the most painful things to read; she was in love with him and she was just a dalliance. The lack of self esteem that girl had was heart wrenching–she always seemed so on top of everything, funny and wisecracking, wry, dry humor. But truth to tell, overall she lived a tormented life, struggles with drugs, alcohol, cocaine, anything she said, to make her better than the way she constantly felt–depressed and unworthy. And truth to tell, as handsome and exciting as I found Harrison Ford as Han Solo, I don’t think much of him for this at all. She recognized back then that he was going to be a huge movie star, and the sad thing is that she really was truly gifted and super intelligent. What happens to the children of famous parents–is it neglect, lack of attention, the parents being the center of the universe and they’re pushed to the side, spoiled? but as I read about her and didn’t approve of a lot of things she did, there was this overall feeling that this girl deserved far better than she got, and it’s all made me very sad, especially reading about how much she loved Ford. And there’s a part of me that made me wonder if she didn’t internalize the whole Star Wars story because she also said she loved Mark Hamill but as a sibling. It’s been a sad story, I don’t like Ford for what he did, and I guess I just had to get it off my chest. Carrie Fisher, the strong Princess Leia and fine author, really broke my heart.
It looks more like a day in late April than late December. Just hot. The Christmas dinner is all gone, even the sides, so went to Joe W’s to get the fixings for chicken and sausage gumbo–might even throw in a turkey drumstick to add zip to the file. Haven’t read any books since my Ruth Galloway orgy; but today stopped by the library and hit pay dirt: They had the new Estleman Valentino book called, “Shoot;” a new Preston and CHild’s although not a Pendergast, but a Gideon and I like him; and a new Laura Childs, you know, the Carmela Bertrand and Ava Grieux madcap team of the French Quarter. No heavy reading this week at all.