I can’t stop thinking about this film, the traces of horror it holds: the fire of an unsolved crime erupting, dirt, a ditch. Goodbye, Laura Palmer. What happens in the black lodge. And I’ve been there. A series of red curtains and missing diaries. A tape recorder. I was only a teenager, blinded by how the static on a small television set creates a puzzle. Smashed with a hammer. A mallet. What happens in a train car. They used rope, but you have astral techniques and pristine suits. You will meet her in that room. Listen to her whisper. It sounds like a broken necklace.
Or a father unable to realize his own destruction. He’s Fred Astaire. He’ll leap on stages and smile and sing. Hear his words drop snow from his mouth. Snow sounds like tears if you listen. Or rage from his mouth. What he does at the dinner table. How nails need to be cleaned. Clean your nails. We cannot eat until these fingernails are clean. It’s the haunting of what has been done and how it is filmed, scored, cut, sliced, bludgeoned. We are all walking with fire. These are words we do not want to hear on tiny television screens: northern woods, dreams of how words turn black like coffee or Douglas firs at night. So, I’ve come to admire the worlds of normalcy and the horror they bring. A discomfort. A mystery on the wind.
When I first started writing scripts, I gravitated toward horror. I wanted characters to plumb basement depths and walk away changed. I set characters in places like Twin Peaks. I even had a script mirrored off of Twin Peaks. Now, I am more distant, but simultaneously, Twin Peaks has entered me and I cannot shake the ghosts it radiates off my fingers. I want to give praise to the cigarette and the coffee cup, to the tiled floor and the ceiling fan. This is the ocean of cosmic consciousness, a becoming saxophone. An invitation to love. A pulling apart of hands. Of hands draped over faces. This is the sublime entrance we’ve dreamed of. This is how to write a horror movie: under the skin, to the blood and through how the mind makes meaning, makes patterns shatter with hammers swung by fathers. I will cover, keep covering my head.
And this is how it happened. And this is how a father turns monster, turns investigator. A cryptic homecoming. The darkness blooming, burning. Goodbye, Special Agent Cooper. And if we meet again, I’ll bring a blue rose to the party, a French roast to the party, for you and your creator have entered into a state of pure creative transmissions. A moonbeam. A trailer park. The sky. The woods. I’ll go there on foot.
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me is one of my horror inspirations. It inspired the writing of this script.
And I’ll leave you with love: