Joelle's last walk (Time and Perception)
the absolute end of her life and beauty running in a kind of stuttered old hand-held 16mm before her eyes, projected against the white screen on her side, for once, from Uncle Bud and twirling to Orin and Jim and YYY, all the way up to today’s wet walk here from the Red Line’s Downtown stop, walking the whole way from East Charles St., employing a self-conscious and kind of formal stride, but undeniably pretty, the overall walk toward her last hour was, on this last day before the great O.N.A.N.ite Interdependence revel.
Context
The life-flashing-before-your-eyes cliché literalized as film stock: her entire past runs as one stuttered 16mm strip whose final frames are the present afternoon, and the sentence itself performs the simultaneity — it starts at the party, spools through Kentucky, Orin, Jim, and YYY, and arrives at a walk it then narrates in the past tense from inside the party sitting at the walk's end. Past and present aren't sequenced here; they're double-exposed. Projected "against the white screen on her side, for once" — the veiled film-subject finally on the viewing side of a screen.