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most "nonsense" is quite sensible

what it's not is verifiable

daddy knows the truth

you listen and obey

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i bring out the swole in this idiot

he brings out the sole in me

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man, personal responsible is a must, but if you've been around a bro long enough and are paying attention enough to notice how your behavior is effectin him, you owe it to the both of you to take accountability for what you bring out in him

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bro, if a dude'd rather shit talk you than leave his comfort zone, just fuckin leave'im there

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paraphilia means "above like".

it's truly the erotic equivalent of "metaphysics"

(beyond the physical)

every english speaker should familiarize themselves with greek and latin, starting with etymology.

words stop being so abstract when you realize they're often hyperliteral.

english is a germaniclanguage which oughtcompound.

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Oil painting by ukko5989

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damn bro

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Assombrações de Sonhos Antigos, Kerol Correia

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wild at heart, from its opening depiction of -- intense and needlessly brutish, but seemingly legally justified racial violence -- show men in the seizure of irrational forces beyond their understanding

using oz, the dreamland of american capitalism, as a lens, the film explores maternal gaslighting (spellwork) through lula's subjective entanglement of her mother with the wicked witch of the west -- rather than indulgent fanboyish excess, lynch is using the MGM film of the wizard of oz to depict how everyday people with dormant or awakening clairvoyant or telepathic abilities might liken their experiences to movies they've seen, or use existing well-known narrative frameworks to render their experiences explicable

when lula hears sailor's confession on their long lonely drive into the dark, she must understand with full subconscious recognition at once -- that her mother didn't only let her father die, but had him killed. yet, rather than having a conscious, verbal reaction one might consider typical of a logical deduction, she has a vision -- of her mother as a monitoring spirit in a witch's robe, riding a broomstick, seeming to scold her for coming to this long overdue revelation.

lula, simply -- is an oracle. free of her mother's mobster-fueled helicopter parenting, she's free to hone her latent sensory awareness with a man she feels safe and happy with, and confront trauma and sexual pleasure alike in equal measure, as she finds her body to be the nexus-point of a psycho-somatic spiritual world, where her perception feeds into her environment and conjures apparitions.

her cousin dell, likewise experiences visions of aliens in fetish attire who are but projections of his desiring mind, demonstrating a logical conduit between the personal microbial obsessions of lynch's early work with this overture to what will become the black lodge.

note how -- lula, by dousing her mother's portrait in her drink, begins to erode her telepathic connection, which forces her to exert sudden supernatural force of will to drive sailor away before her image fully dissolves and divine intercession steers sailor back to love.

rather than not being marketable, what systems of control attempt to constrain is the incalculable or unpredictable, for market forces can only entrench themselves within -- that is, colonize -- safe, well-trod paths which will be established and nonreactive gains.

the system is not your friend. it wants to know your secrets.

who cares if people wonder if they don't wanna know?

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FWWM has such a different vibe, watched as a stand-alone flick. It has this less Lovecraftian repressed than earnestly erotically preoccupied Ligottian quality of taking place in a backwater, inter-dimensional cosmic brothel where 'ancient aliens' are revealed to be truck-stop child-rapists breaching the Prime DIrective.

It reveals Lynch to be a sprawling living muralist of Baroque complexity whose vocabulary is the atomism of American cinema itself. The fullness of his frames, aural and visual, bathed in such intense light and color compose a mimetic genealogy where Lynch plays himself in a kind-of double-downed Alfred Hitchcock presents as FBI director Gordon Cole stands looming before his women secretaries sweeping impossibly close to the camera against artificial lake scenes, at once bossman and porno dealer for the 70's era sexploitation glam-rock portrait of a sinner and saint he's about to present in what is truthfully a John Merrick freakshow exhibition of repulsion and empathy not unlike the crucifixion as art, or art as crucifixion -- like dance, music, athletics, or shamanism, the endurance of all labors, breaking the body and unveiling the soul.

On the one hand, it's the recognition that be it in art, cinema, or pornography, intensity is catharsis, particularly for the well-experienced and weller-studied, experiencing a blunting of the nerves in tandem with a sharpening of the synapses, and yet -- it shows both a mind which survives remembers, as much as what survives becomes what we remember -- the intertextuality of Twin Peaks as a genre pastiche shared dream composing its very DNA, for 'nostalgia' for its own sake ignores how history is a series of evolving signs with many subtle nuances; genre and fashion often invisibly driven by ideological, manufacturing, or 'cultural' concerns.

Meaning -- remains a part of memory. Laura's daily struggle is to see what's right in front of her eyes. Homogenization is a form of genocidal practice used to dilute times and cultures into brand-loyal categories and make one complicit in self-erasure. Marketability is culpability. Selling yourself in the market, you are the product.

Laura, like Lynch himself, can take back her story by drawing on multiple traditions across arts and genres, to tell it night after night to visitors to the Black Lodge, be they of extra or terrestrial origin -- as part of the knowledge imparted by an education in craft and aesthetics precisely is the lived archetypal awareness of the actor, the writer or craftsman, who study the Gods with most scrutiny and so draw closer to them than the idle contemplations of the sage -- they, who can communicate depth as refractory recursion or complexity as singular harmony, which to the eyes of the mundane is simply enigmatic, or awesome in the truest sense of the word.

As an entity in the Black Lodge, Laura is a valuable asset.

She is protected, but she is still a kept girl .

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bobby is... the only person in laura's personal life who is playing the same character in the film as on the show.

bobby has such a singular nature, it creates a stabilizing and anchoring effect which distracts from how delirious and two-faced and insidious, unrelenting and insane everything around him is.

this is why laura loves him.

he's her rock, and she doesn't appreciate him... partly on account of her having groomed him to be a sleazy drug dealer, so now he's an addict boytoy fix who feels so neglected he just fools around with the diner waitress wife of the trucker-pimp she cucked him with.

(laura seems barely aware shelly exists, omg)

tragically, this is why good men shouldn't give bad girls what they want. no, sweetie. you don't need daddy's dick. you need daddy to hold you and tell you that you're a responsible adult now and you can do it and i'm sorry that i can't comfort you in all the ways a man can comfort a woman without stirring up all these horrible, irrational violent urges there's no stable or consistent outlet for.

(remember the two seconds where shelly's considers gettin with james before balthazar getty hits her with his man-witch flirt-gun, so it don't even occur... yes she prolly does get off on james bein disabled now, that makes him vulnerable)

bobby ages like a fine bardot and a french chick, but then the bad women he loves just leave him for other sleazy drug dealers.

women with a type make it a bitch to repent, i swear.

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They Have Slept in the Forest Too Long (1926) Max Ernst, oil on canvas

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fwwm is almost as good a jock-dom nerd-sub flick as re-animator is a nerd-dom jock-sub one. the main problem is chett and stanley -- the best comedy duo of all time -- don't get enough screentime.

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james seems... not himself in fwwm. silently, the way donna is literally another person, james is figuratively another person.

his receding hairline, a natural consequence of a few years of real time aging, in what is diegetically a prequel story, blends with the other unrealities veiling the high school scenes, ambiently resistant to the scrutiny of realism -- show to film, different location, typical of 90's studio productions, to mask the first depiction of laura's long discussed cocaine usage as risque r-rated material -- seems subtly emphasized as a material artifice like laura's sue lyon lolita wig.

shots of him endowed with subtle grandeur and prominence, emphasising his height, his build, the gaunt skeletal angularity of his features and girth of his biceps, paralleled with how laura is presented before him nude or schoolgirlish and subtly infantilized, it occurs -- james is experiencing visual paralleling with chett desmond, a true james dean, the inverted cooper, here reduced to another anonymous black lodge confessor, as he can no longer play the fantasy of heroic protector, excusing her father and silencing her mother to purchase authority in the town complicit in her rape, you can see -- chett desmond's sudden fade to black exit from existence when he reaches for the ring is an echo-to-be of james's leaving laura at sparkwood and 21 (the world in tarot -- sum of 777, jackpot, another number of completion) driving past the green light into the dark, as cooper reappears -- confirming laura cannot be saved.

it's such a mismatch with the dopey, wide-eyed small town boy we're used to in the series, and even more of a mindfuck to think laura needed a man like to this to play daddy, and it worked cause he was big, wore a leather jacket, and wanted her to get off drugs.

yet laura's formative defiling by her father has fragmented her relationship to the masculine so totally, she can only connect to herself anonymously through the fantasy lives of stunted boys she covertly despises, and yet -- needing innocence and safety, is not enough to ignore reality, which for her is the unbridled savagery of the white man, for the day she speaks the truth her daddy hunts her like an animal in the woods and bludgeons her to death in a traincar cause daddy can't deal with other men touchin his slavemeat.

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david lynch's industrial symphony no. 1 seems to -- much like the return's mauve room, where phoebe augustine reprises her role, enigmatically and pseudo-anonymously, as 'american girl' -- occur somewhere closer to the archetypal realm, where laura dern and nicholas cage reprise their roles not as sailor and lula, but what sailor and lula seem to represent -- an american outlaw power couple, a lilith and samael, two rebels bound to the system who bred them and broke them ... or another version of them, who do not hear the call of love, and seem to descend across the border in the trunk of a car.

(crucially, he is not seen wearing his snakeskin jacket -- the self-professed symbol of his individuality and belief in personal freedom... simply an anonymous black tee with black hair and blue eyes.)

julee cruise being identified as an embodiment of laura dern's dream self experiencing her heartbreak... the way her music interweaves through twin peaks and urges us to recollect scenes from peaks at select moments throughout the following scenes -- this would seem to entangle lula and laura as dual emanations of the same archetypal expression, particularly with her lover nicholas cage's higher, or soul self (anima) being visually identical to laura due to its portrayal by sheryl lee as the glenda the good witch of the north

(for there is no south in the film version.)*

this will be important, concerning laura, for she being another version of what lula and sandy (the pan-laura) represent, naturally complicates how she ought relate to her complementary opposite