Pie and Douglas Firs and gentlemen named “Bob”

I recently discovered (and by recently, I mean earlier today) that Netflix has both seasons of Twin Peaks available to stream. Part of me wishes that I could tell you that I was an original adopter of the show and that it changed my life, but I was 8 when it originally aired, and my reasons for wanting to be ahead of the curve are tied to things i don’t think I’ll ever consciously write about. I didn’t see it until I was in my teens and Bravo had decided to re-air all of the episodes. My dad thought it would be right up my alley.

My dad knew me better than I ever thought he did.

But that’s neither here not there.

I watched those episodes week by week, at the tail end of my David duchovney obsession, which likely led my dad to record it for me in the first place. Before then, my only introduction to the show had been through my affinity for David lynch movies as my dad rented then and a few cameos on The Simpsons.

it was strange to watch it out of time. There was no one to discuss it with week by week. My dad didn’t even bother to rewatch it with me. It was just something I would do on weekends. By myself. For months. It was very like my dad to do things like that – to plant a seed, and not bother to see if it grew into anything. He would indulge me, sure, if something seemed to have taken root, but it was without conversation. Just a silent agreement that he seemed to take pride in, like my love of music or writing or in learning how to play an instrument. His slow, subtle molding of a girl who shared his love of horror and art.

So in this vacuum, lynch’s derelict fantasies of americana festered. It wasn’t until watching for the first time since that first belated introduction that I now see why I was drawn so powerfully to his utopian dystopias.

It’s the idea of that hidden life that permeates all of lynch’s work: that idea that dreams have all the substance and reality is the stage on which that force exerts itself. The ideas that humanity can only rise as high as it’s darkest desires, and those that don’t accommodate this undertow will eventually succumb to its pull or else they’re hollowed by their denial of it.

I remember losing interest in it after it was revealed who actually did kill Laura Palmer. When the underbelly had been so thoroughly flensed that there was nothing left to be said. I’m curious if that point will come sooner now that I know the shape of the things.

As though knowing the shape of things could adequately prepare me for what I know is coming.

* * *

I spent a full working day today working on something I’m hoping to be done with by the fall. It’s something I started nearly four years ago that I’ve been making excuses to not work on until I knew better what I was doing.

After re-reading what I’d done, it makes it easier to see how far I’ve come (not to mention how much I fucking missed smoking at the time).

And while I’ve got a long road ahead (that makes me bitter i can’t have more days like today with which to work on it), I can’t wait to see how things go this time around.

And hopefully someday soon, I’ll be able to share.

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