By Patrick La Roque
I’m reading David Lynch’s Room to Dream these days, a co-written biography/auto-biography—a very peculiar, yet fascinating literary object that alternates between two voices. I was probably eighteen when I saw Eraserhead, as part of a late-night show at the old Théâtre Outremont in Montreal. Part of me was shaken but mostly I just sat there, completely riveted and transfixed. Lynch’s work made entire universes possible: the darkest and most surreal visions could be unleashed unapologetically. We could weave tales beyond our earth-bound senses. The movie was a license to reveal ourselves.
I’ve been on a steady trajectory for over a year now, reuniting with the obscure and the abstract. There’s certainly nothing in it for me in terms of work opportunities, but for some reason I feel less and less interested in precision, both in words and imagery. I keep reaching for dreamscapes, compelled to break up what I see...as though I now need layers to understand reality.
This weekend—tentatively—it was water.
Black sun piercing the veil.
Shapes like explosions.
