Eels and Smoke

Over twenty years ago, I signed up for a Yahoo! account because there was no site for Houyhnhnms. To this day, I remain married to it due to various other things I signed up for with the e-mail and friends and family members who can't remember my g-mail address. That doesn't stop me from forgetting to check it for weeks or months at a stretch which has produced no shortage of ire and inconveniently missed notifications. Now there's a new wrinkle--Yahoo has been chucking genuine e-mails into the spam folder while dumping piles of spam into my regular inbox. A couple days ago, I discovered an e-mail from my friend Tim from a year ago and the new Sirenia Digest from last month.

So to-day I read the story contained therein, "UNTITLED 47". It's a nice vignette, deliberately blurring the distinctions between dream, art, and memory. I particularly liked a moment where the narrator views an eel-like creature in the depths of a remarkably clear body of water. That's a story by Caitlin R. Kiernan.

In her blog to-day, or from a couple days ago actually, Caitlin mentioned David Lynch's recent announcement that he has emphysema. That really fucking sucks. There goes the last, slim hope for another season of Twin Peaks, or a proper one, at any rate. Lynch says he won't retire though his condition keeps him from going very far from his home.

I've been watching the third season of Twin Peaks again this summer, the 18 episode "Return" that came out over the summer of 2017. I still remember how marvellous it was to get another piece of a David Lynch movie every week. Seeing episode 11 premiere at Comic Con remains one of my best Comic Con memories. It's become inextricably bound up with my idea of what a great summer should be. Watching Twin Peaks season three is a more reliable boost for my spiritual and mental mood than any chemical I've ever encountered.

Last night I watched episode seven in which Gordon Cole, the character played by Lynch, meets with Diane in her home. He mentions in this scene that he gave up smoking. If only that had mirrored real life. But I really don't want to take Lynch to task. He does describe smoking rather beautifully:

I have to say that I enjoyed smoking very much, and I do love tobacco -- the smell of it, lighting cigarettes on fire, smoking them -- but there is a price to pay for this enjoyment, and the price for me is emphysema.

Of course that's why he liked smoking. The man's art really is his life. It fits with his aesthetic. Think of the shot of Darya's head with the smoke coming from it. Of Pete after the mill fire, describing how he felt like his lips were glued to a tailpipe of a bus. Or the sooty woodsmen.

Oh, well. Maybe he'll film some cool vignettes from his home over the next few years.

X Sonnet #1869

Rebuttal time rebuffed the bouncy brain.
Tremendous force returned the god to space.
Intrinsic life imbues the daily grain.
But something more creates the human face.
Persona swaps attend the table change.
Impressive clouds contain the nightly heat.
Tortilla talk distorts the flour range.
Awareness rouged the Queen's albino beet.
Decaying orbit brings the ball in view.
Diverting questions keep the metal safe.
Convulsing human figures filled the pew.
Above the altar sits a wingéd wraith.
Suspicious sludge is seeping out the grill.
Computer blue was spiked with sour will.