I'm Sorry Mr. Lynch

Here you are lingermeandering in the thick fog blown over here from Twin Peaks this morning and I just can’t. I can’t post anything about you on Instagram, Facebook or the socials. Not only was I hacked and lost years of memories, I’m in a dark and twisted S&M scene with Fuckerberg right now. I’m being slapped around and I’m telling myself it’s necessary and secretly enjoying it.

I have a VHS tape of Blue Velvet upstairs. I remember where I was when I saw the camera panning over kitchsy images of America: a flag, a man mowing a lawn, an apple pie, and then descending underground to a roiling nest of angry ants. You spoke for me in celluloid and said things I didn’t know how to say. And it was so gloriously weird. There was something subversive, something somehow Queer and true as a bell.

“Hit me.”

What can I say that hasn’t been said? I can’t post a picture or a memorial, even though I want to grieve together with friends. But I can be strange and marvelous in your memory. Physically metaphysical.