Yup, bloody coffee.
We're watching Twin Peaks again, now that season two has finally come out on DVD, and I'm loving it. Twin Peaks was our date series, Diana used to drive down to my place, (which after we moved out became a brothel, though it wasn't called One-eyed Jack's) and we'd snuggle up and watch it on my vcr. This was back in the days before dvds, dark and awful days they were, my friends, and it was an intense way to start a relationship, but it must have worked.
David Lynch is a master of the horror of the ordinary, no one can make traffic lights and trees and suburban backyards look so terrifying. The thing I utterly dig about Lynch is his understanding of magic (for want of a better word*) well, the understanding I glean of it from his work: it's those weird cracks in reality**, the peculiar shadow in the corner of the room, a sudden over saturation of colour, or when a dream leaks out into life for a moment. This sort of magic quite often doesn't make sense, and it can be ridiculous, but it's also potent, and there is always a sort of logic operating there, even if it is too hard to grasp. It's not overt, it rarely says, "I am magic." It permeates.
I don't know if I've articulated this particularly clearly, but it's 1 am, and the Owls are not what they seem, dude.
*you could also substitute magic with the word "weird".
*Or maybe reality is nothing more than weird cracks in the magic