Simple, simple, simple.
This will be an easy entry; lacking in interest, lacking in effort. I don’t care to make an image to accompany it; I will just cut out this picture from an instruction manual for hanging curtain rods. It reminds me of a magician pulling back the drape of impossibility.
You may think, dear diary, that because I claim to find the truth mundane, and because I made fun of the truth in the introductory sections of my masterpiece La Man, that I dislike the truth, and that truth is never welcome in my mind; but, I assure you, the case is the opposite: I love the truth; that’s why I tease it so much – I’m just mad I can’t OWN it – I really want to kiss it.
Well today I awoke to the truth: I found that the truth was with me, like an insouciant cat that had fallen asleep on my head. And the truth is this: At last, Twin Peaks is over. The final two episodes aired last night.
This is good. The truth is good news: it an evangel to me, that Twin Peaks is finally over. For now I don’t have to conjecture and fathom and speculate about the potential of getting to view a passable episode. No more wasting my time crafting sermons for this weblog about the show’s performance, denouncing its filler, recoiling from its decorum, praising its iniquities.
Yet, even though it’s good, the truth is sad. And what’s so sad about the truth? That the Twin Peaks grand finale suckt. Which is to say, its pan lacked flash. There was found no gold. The sublime was denied us.
After hour 17 of 18 finished, my sweetheart and viewing companion turned to me and said, “I’m gonna guess that you liked that one.” And I said: NO that was awful—if you go back and watch hours three and four, and then start episode eight after the expletive deleted musical number at the club near the beginning, you will see that these scenes of moviemaking are magic; but this seventeenth hour is uninspired obscurantism. Poetry may be the crown of the language, but I’d rather read well-written prose than a poorly written poem. And then the ultimate hour appeared on the air, 18 of 18, and tho I admire the abrupt, stubborn act of bending to its breaking point the ambiguous ending, the end that is no end; and of misusing, abusing the device of the cliffhanger; still this is excellent as an idea and could maintain its power as WRITTEN WORDS: there’s nothing it gains by being realized audiovisually; a motion picture should do what no mere text or static painting or playact or music performance could do on its own; just as the best books are essentially unfilmable.
My own literary compositions (Vol. 1 and Vol. 2) are movie-proof. This means that if you attempt to convert any title of mine into a filmed production, the result will be feebler, less exuberant, sorely limited, when compared to my original—unless the film’s director dares to deviate. So that’s why I’m wholly in favor of any artist who adapts my books to film: “He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher” (—“Song of Myself” §48); I guarantee that you will surpass Twin Peaks: The Return.
But I don’t mean to be too hard on David Lynch. I’m glad that he did what he did. I promise I’ll go back and watch the whole series again; perhaps my judgment will change. (I doubt it.) But since such a surprisingly small amount of the material managed to GLOW (as I keep repeating, hours 3-4 and 8 out of 18 total = only 16% daemonic energy), I wonder: What went wrong? I suppose the answer is: Nothing; because its impoverished fans love The Return. I have zero against co-creator Mark Frost, but I keep wishing that he hadn’t been a part of this last project; I think the thing would’ve been better if Lynch had just gone rogue all by himself; for I assume that Frost’s strength is in plotting and characterization, in getting the story to flow pleasantly over the course of a TV season; but with Twin Peaks, at this point, after the wild finale (I mean the show’s second season) and Lynch’s 1992 film, we already know the characters, and we’ve blissfully abandoned concern for narrative itself, let alone the flow thereof, in favor of these singular epiphanies that Lynch is master of; so I respectfully posit that Frost’s presence marred the enterprise, I half-blame him for all the insufferable filler and expository blah that pervades this born-shattered Ozymandias.
And now I do an Internet search (it’s easier to click with my fingers, which are already typing on my keyboard, than to heft my colossal torso across the room to find the physical volume on my bookshelf) to swap out the latter half of my above compound “born-crumbled” with a word that Shelley actually used in his famous poem; and my online browser program affronts me with the news that my favorite living poet John Ashbery died of natural causes yesterday; he was 90 years old. (I wonder if he got a chance to catch the Peaks finale; I know he liked Lynch—he admitted to having revisited the theater multiple times to screen Lynch’s 2001 film Mulholland Drive.) So now my favorite living poet is Anne Carson.
Should I end this blog by telling you about the huge section of drywall that we ripped out of our apartment at 3 p.m. yesternoon? And about the wet rotting wooden frame that the wall was affixed to? And the strange silver lining (sic: there’s no other way to describe it) that was hung between the wall and the cement foundation? No, I don’t want to talk about anything else. I will go to the bank by the wood and stare at the truth.
9 comments:
I love the Lynch of old, but haven't seen anything of his since the 90s. I almost never watch films anymore, unless it's on my German TV set, in German. I know there's a lot I'm missing, but my backlog of books it through the roof, and books are always first priority, after writing. Anyway, I will give this latest TP series a miss. I know what you mean about very successful artists sitting back on their laurels in their twilight years, and from what you say Lynch is no exception. Give me the mad desperation of the undiscovered artist anyday over the sated and self-comfortable established! p.s. I have never read John Ashbery, can you believe it? He's my next poet up, after I get though my mountainous backlog.
I woke up angry for all the normal reasons, but then I saw your comment here and it soothed my mood—seriously I thank you for this!
You say “I love the Lynch of old, but haven't seen anything of his since the 90s.” That sounds healthy to me. Obviously I love Lynch and am obsessed with his work, but something in me wishes I could say the same as you: I feel more joy in creating my own work than in appraising someone else’s, especially a professional who is already relatively famous; I’d rather be a straightforward artist than a straightforward critic (tho I’m attracted to the no-man’s-land of the blend of the two). I consider my Lynch-obsession to be a curse; I try to make the best of it, but rather than prescribe his artworks to others, I simply envy anyone who’s avoided this addiction.
You say “I almost never watch films anymore, unless it's on my German TV set, in German.” Again I declare that you’re healthier than I am: it’s my goal to be able someday to say the same. And you say “I know there's a lot I'm missing, but my backlog of books is through the roof, and books are always first priority, after writing.” You’re absolutely right. Back in the pre-Internet days, I disposed of my TV and only read books for a number of years—this was the best decision I ever made: if there’s anything interesting about me, it’s due to this anti-television diet. Things changed with the advent of online streaming, independent news, social networking, etc. I long to return to an existence focused exclusively on TEXT. So you inspired me with this admission.
Then you say “Anyway, I will give this latest TP series a miss.” If that phrase “give it a miss” means that you’ll avoid watching it, I second your motion: Last night I tried to start the series again from the beginning, in hopes of finding that I had judged it too harshly on my initial viewing, but I couldn’t even make it thru the first episode. Too much is just plain tedious. My sole interest comes from the fact that it was made by the same mind that made Eraserhead and Blue Velvet and the Twin Peaks pilot (plus the “red room” scene of its first season’s second episode) and Mulholland Drive. I’m fascinated with the successes as well as the failures of great artists: that is my excuse for not only enduring the entirety of this recent production but also going to the trouble of recording my reactions to it.
But if I could set up a screening of ONLY the episodes that I believe in (from the 2017 Twin Peaks), I could convince anyone (that is, anyone who has eyes to see and ears to hear) that the show is a masterpiece. My point is that it’s even more uneven than Lynch is typically. Three hours out of eighteen are topnotch and could win head-to-head against all but the best. So I guess I’m also lamenting my self-imposed curatorship: Why do I pay such close attention? Our culture as it is doesn’t possess the strength to care, and it’s only getting worse. ...But now I have descended to the state of mere whining.
Lastly, you say “I have never read John Ashbery”—I want to emphasize that my reason for mentioning him is only to reveal something about my own bent: I would never stressfully recommend Ashbery’s work to others, because I don’t even understand why I myself find him so alluring. I guess I’m most thrilled by those who manage to keep the human heart as the foundation of their efforts while shooting out the farthest into the unknown. I like the circumference as well as the center, so I focus on both the avant-garde and the ancient tried-and-true. ...Ashbery, by the way, is one of those artists whose work I loathed at first. I introduced my sweetheart to his poems by saying “Look at this stuff that the new-age critics are praising: let me give you a few examples of postmodern trash!” Yet while reading, I began to fall in love with the world that was there.
Glad I could sooth your mood this a.m. I don't see anything unhealthy about your Lynch-obsession. At least it's not a Facebook obsession. Now THAT is unhealthy and a real curse. So you've spared yourself more than most, and a writer has to do something besides reading and writing all the time. My unhealthy thing, besides hanging out in social media too much, is drinking. I have had many a hungover morning when I woke up wishing I had watched a film the night before. I will keep in mind what you've said re: the 3 masterpiece episodes of TP 2017 if I ever get in a position the crack the series open. Will of course let you know.
As for Ashbery, I'll take your word for it. We agree on pretty much every other author so I'm sure I will be able to appreciate him. It's bonus points for him too that he likes Lynch.
I've never read Ashbery - or thought of reading him; I've thought of reading Anne Carson, Nox in particular, but have yet to get around to thinking when I'll actually read her. All this, however, is a prelude to the question I was really thinking of, which is whether you've read Charles Simic?
Dear Mr. Powers oh believe me you’re not alone in the wonderful world of alcohol. I love alcohol. And I’ll say it again: I LO-O-O-O-OVE alcohol. Yet I’m sort of half lucky because my parents both were raised by scary alcoholics, so they were themselves very cautious about drinking; my dad would only nurse a couple beers per night, and my mom is an all-out teetotaler; so I grew up with a fear of the effects of evil alcohol, and thus, to this day, I’ve never dared drink to drunkenness – I’m therefore very boringly responsible and moderate in my consumption, BUT, as I said, I love it and would gladly trade my soul for a lifetime supply.
And one more small disclaimer about Ashbery: his stance is the polar opposite of our beloved Turgenev, but if you approach him knowing and expecting that, you’ll have a better chance of liking him; also since I know you appreciate Rimbaud, it might interest you to know that Ashbery published what I think is the very best translation of R’s Illuminations. And since he’s so prolific, maybe it’s worth mentioning my personal reaction, to give a nudge to any future selection, in case you decide to zero in on him: for what it’s worth, I tend to love most the stuff from the latter half of his career; everything from the 1991 Flow Chart onward. And if pressed to name a favorite, I’d probably choose the book-length poem Girls on the Run, a thin volume, charming and childlike, less than 60 pages long. (Yet take all this J.A. talk with a grain of salt—I have such an aversion to authoritarianism that I’m wary of making recommendations; but I love his poetry so much that I fool out and let my typing hands run wild: it’s fun to list the names of things you’re fond of.)
Dear Speaking Mute, I love NOX; and my favorite by Carson, if I were only allowed to list one title, would probably be Autobiography of Red. But I also love its sequel Red Doc> and the collection Decreation. And also Glass, Irony, and God. But you know how it is when you really love an artist’s work, you love it ALL because you love the artist’s soul; and it’s like she has the Midas touch.
And tho I’ve heard of Charles Simic, I have never read him—no reason for my ignorance: I’m just on my own out here in the Midwest, I never went to a college and I don’t know many people (offline, in “real life,” that is) who love poetry; so my knowledge is all malformed and lopsided. If you know a good place to start with Simic, let me know: I’m all ears!
For Simic:
The World Doesn't End
Selected Early Poems
Dear Speaking Mute, thanks for answering! I was able to order both volumes from the Duluth library – looking forward to enjoying Simic's creations...!
P.S. to Speaking Mute, I am LOVING Simic: thank you! In case you happen to see this new-late comment, I gave a couple of my fave quotes in today's entry (21 Nov 2017).
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