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.
And so a seamless interweaving with The X-Files.
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.
Have no fear.
Every second we are beset by terror.
Our nervous systems.
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.
It is a farewell to those we begged.
No doubt that they too will become beggars.