Some of these Twin Peaks episodes are like John Berryman poems.

Godawful until the last line.

But I owe so much to Berryman.

His play with language.

The Dream Songs.

Fumbling attempts to contact God.

Here, aliens.

Ostensibly.

And so a seamless interweaving with The X-Files.

It’s true.

I searched and searched for a film.

But I write mini-dissertations every day.

And by night my eyes are too tired for subtitles.

I can’t really understand unless I get every word.

A completist like that.

It’s quite clear to me now that there is a shitstorm of conspiracy theories.

Many of which are pure manure.

But you must filter through the shit like in Kanał.

Phosgene gas.

Polonium-210.

Have no fear.

Every second we are beset by terror.

Our nervous systems.

Unduly nervous.

That we run to Yeats.

And I prefer Rimbaud.

But above all just searching for hope in every broken locket.

Not a cheap charm.

So long forgotten.

But a genuine heart which opens.

Maybe it no longer closes.

Fastens.

It is a farewell to those we begged.

No doubt that they too will become beggars.

 

-PD