Jesus Christ. I’m going to type a whole bunch of nonsense in here and see what sticks. Two middle-aged men have met in this coffee shop and are talking about old times. They went to high-school together. One has been divorced 6 years with two children. I hate hearing about divorce, especially from the perspective of someone who claims to know “a lot of men who have to live in basement apartments.” I’d rather proceed through a series of increasingly narrow passages, until the wall is close and I can feel blood on my face and my own shallow breath warms my cheek. I watched the first half of Blue Velvet this morning. I didn’t realize that DR. [REDACTED] from Jurassic Park was in it. I’ve probably seen Jurassic Park at least one hundred times in my life. I’m amazed by David Lynch’s mental illness and also how that illness seems to elucidate things. I want to breath again, I don’t know anything, I’m taking a breath now and trying to imagine/understand what I’m doing. I’m falling sideways and a building is coming down after me. My goal was to watch the movie before I left the house but it was too intense, I couldn’t take it. I kept running upstairs and finding things to do. These old men are talking about Toronto, as if it’s anything just because they are outside it. I want to throw up on a beach blanket and drop the resulting mess on a model (male or female) carefully flipping through a “Toronto Life” magazine. Robert Kroetsch said that he spent a month alone and was beginning to understand madness. Jesus. Just a month? All day at work I silently repeated the words “did you know I want to commit suicide” (quoting Roast Beef) over and over to myself. David Lynch is a mess. What really did it for me was the way the main character Jeffrey slid across the booth to kiss DR. [REDACTED] right after being with Dorothy Valens. I couldn’t handle that for some reason. Why was the ear in the middle of the field? Didn’t Valens see it at some point? She threw it in a field? “Hit me!” Oh jesus. This morning I was thinking to myself that relationships are fucked and that I’d like to be like a Roberto Bolaño figure, someone who seems to have too much sympathy for women to get too heavily involved with anyone—to have the illusion that he could or it would be meaningful or he wouldn’t just hurt them or be hurt himself in the end. I’m not sure if that’s accurate. I’m going to be disappointed in Bolaño before long. It’s going to come out that he chased a married poet with a gun or something. “Man I love Heineken!” It’s like David Lynch never had a conversation. It seems actually abusive to encourage him somehow. Aren’t we just making things worse? I’d like to make a living trust to support David Lynch “however he wants to live” for the rest of his life. Then he won’t have to make movies and make things even worse for himself. You’re a joke if you think we need more of anything. One of the middle-aged guys keeps playing his cell phone on speakerphone. He’s talking to his girlfriend, I guess. Is that more polite in front of his friend or is it some weird way of taking advantage of her or presenting her? He keeps inviting her to the coffee shop and it seems really important to him that she come over and meet this friend from twenty years ago. Oh, it’s a walkie-talkie. Maybe that’s a little better. When I rented the movie the person at the counter said “Man I love Pabst Blue Ribbon!” I didn’t get it. She said it would be a “Later LOL.” I think I mumbled “ok” or something. This generation unironically pronounces “LOL” as if it were a word. On the radio they were talking about John Farrell, who recently left his position as manager of the Toronto Blue Jays to pursue his dream job with the Boston Red Sox. “Last time they found the best man for the job—the perfect candidate. But they never had his heart, and that’s what they’re looking for now, someone who will give the Blue Jays his heart.” My partner said my whole life was “pregnant” or menaced by my mother somehow, even if we never talk about her. I didn’t agree at the time but a couple days earlier I had a dream I’ve never told her about. She and I were stumbling through some debris left by a storm on the driveway, having a difficult time, and I went up to the house and looked in the window, and my mother was inside, in a robe and a house dress, fumbling with something in the kitchen. It was malevolent somehow and I expected something bad to have happened to the cats, but Ripley rubbed up against her leg and walked down the hallway. Everything was fine but I was still disturbed and remained at the window. I’m not going to talk about how that’s similar to Blue Velvet somehow and the scene where Jeffrey is looking out from the closet at Dorothy Valens who later threatens him with a knife. This is a mess. I’m a mess. I don’t know what anything is. I was going to write more about this being a mess. I don’t know what I want. I’d prefer to blame it all on something than figure out what’s wrong.