Welcome to Twin Peaks

Dearest readers, in addition to being fabulous and gentle, one trusts you are loyal, patient, semi-literate, duly attentive and discerning... on occasion.

It will not have escaped your notice that that several ‘blanks’ upon by bloguette remain to be filled, certain promises one has made remain to be fulfilled, that certain off-hand remarks and links await further explanation… such as this link, one of the first upon my humble bloguette, and for a good reason… although one didn’t appreciate quite how good the reason was oneself until a few nights ago.

Before exploring Inland Empire, let us first make a little trip down memory lane, as they say… let us make a visit together, to a peaceful little town populated with sweet, kind, simple, gentle folk (nothing like any of us, obviously)

Where exactly is this mysterious place located, you may ask?

Well, one has told you quite enough about oneself; for this exercise, use a little of your own imagination.

Suffice to say, this town is located in a place… considered by some to be beautiful and serene, the middle of nowhere by others. It is not actually nowhere itself – that would be something, indeed- oh no, it is merely somewhere, and that is what makes it so excruciatingly dull, because there are plenty of other places that are also somewhere; as it happens, one suspects many of you were born somewhere yourselves.

Some would say that nothing whatsoever ever happens in somewhere, but that is not altogether true: after all, how can nothing at all happen? Certainly, there is not a lot of interest happening… or so it appears.

Gentle reader, let me explain how it all began.

One happened to overhear a conversation; ordinarily, in a place like somewhere, there was not much worth overhearing, and it was quite commonplace to hear other residents express disapproval of something or other, or their inability to understand something or other.

On this particular occasion, they were talking about someone, a male individual… who was ‘just trying to be different, ‘just doing it to shock’

Well, for obvious reasons, one was quite thrilled… for it appeared their attention was directed at me! But that was not so; these people were discussing a scene in a television series… in the third episode, to be precise.

Despite my initial disappointment, further particulars of this strange discussion interested me… and one resolved to investigate further.

As it happened, since the town in question was (and still is, presumably) located in close proximity to the border (between the Republic of Ireland and another similarly exotic country referred to by some as part of Ireland and by others as part of the United Kingdom, but for the purposes of the townspeople it was ominously referred to as ‘the North’) which meant that one was blessed with two one-sided streams that connected with the outside world- not only national television network RTE, but also the BBC… relevant insofar as this meant the series in question, ‘Twin Peaks’ was about to commence screening on the other channel.

On the night in question, one sat in front of the television (with the rest of the family gathered around, agog at the sight, poised to enjoy my critique of what foolish nonsense people who had nothing better to do with their time watched) And so it began again, gentle reader… a television series that told the story of a peaceful little town populated with sweet, kind, simple, gentle folk; why, the similarities were uncanny; there was not even a lot of interest happening… or so it appeared.

In Twin Peaks, one of the inhabitants had just washed up dead on the shore of a nearby lake, wrapped in plastic, but apart from that it was all quite ordinary... and one was not remotely infatuated. Yet recalling that overheard conversation, which sprang from the third episode, one persevered… and was duly rewarded.

For in that third episode, the central protagonist of the series retired for the evening… and discovered himself in a fabulous red-draped room with strange saxophone music in the air, along with a little man… and the dead girl, of course. What’s more, they were all sdrawkcab gnikaeps.

So, the dead girl… what did she have to say for herself?

Asked to confirm her identity, she replied:

“I feel like I know her”

One quite liked that line. While still scribbling it down on a scrap of paper for future use, she said something that made me stop in my tracks.

“But sometimes... my arms bend back.”

Did they indeed? Strangely enough, one understood exactly what she was trying to convey.

If this was not quite fabulous enough, the Little Man leaned forward to add:

“She’s filled with secrets. Where we’re from, the birds sing a pretty song and there’s always music in the air.”

Oh yes… filled with secrets... one was quite intrigued. One was also quite filled with secrets. And what was that about birds and a pretty song? Did you mean bluebirds singing? Was there a whiskey spring nearby? Always music in the air, you say… one had heard of this place... one so wanted to visit!

Gentle reader, before one knew what was happening, one engaged in a dialogue with these surreally credible but entirely fictional creatures… yes, indeed! In fact, when the Little Man proceeded to dance in a strange fashion around the table, one got up at once and started to dance just like him… as did my brother, my mother, and even the family dog. In fact, for days afterwards, we all walked backwards around that house, exchanging cryptic messages… which we had been doing for years, while walking forward.

And the rest, as they say, was history.