He Ran Through The Flames: a Tribute to Harry Dean Stanton

He was like all the others:
a soul trapped into the phantasmagoria of cinema.
Once you enter, you can never escape.
You’re in the collective unconscious,
you pretend to be other people
while the people who watch you pretend to know who you are.
It’s all projection,
we mourn our icons not because of who they are,
but who we think they are.
This world of endless identities,
method acting,
madness,
romances,
sadness
and countless deaths,
belong to the actors alone.
Your face has to be on the screen,
your name alone is not enough.
He was one of the faces, people remember the faces, they wonder about their names,
they look them up.

Wasn’t he the singing convict in Cool Hand Luke?
Wasn’t he the first victim of a grown-up xenomorph?
Isn’t he from that one movie where he snorts speed with Emilio Estevez?
Isn’t he that sad old guy whose afraid of death from that Twin Peaks movie?
Wasn’t he the brother who had a stroke in that movie where Richard Farnsworth travels on a lawnmower to see him?
Wasn’t he the guy on the tractor that got blown away in Arnold Schwarzenegger movie?
Isn’t he the lead of that movie about the ninety year old atheist? It’s called Lucky I think. David Lynch is in it too.

They look at their faces,
sometimes with shock: oh man, he’s got so old!
And sometimes with comfort: oh good, he’s still alive! If he can live so long drinking and smoking, I might still have a chance!
They reflect ourselves,
but they become more human than any of us.
It’s okay if they fuck up,
they can escape in all these different kind of roles,
the face might stay the same,
but the soul can travel in all these different vessels.
And then they die.
You watched them on the screen as a child,
you hear about their deaths when they are an adult.
So you sit still,
meditate.
Then you begin to mourn.

Mr. Stanton,
I was hoping to meet you one day.
I would imagine leaving the meeting,
telling the world that you were so down-to-earth, friendly,
your wise words would never leave me.
I would tell my friends about my meeting with you; this is what he told me, isn’t that great? It gives me hope for the future.
Tell you the truth, your death isn’t a huge surprise.
You were ninety years old,
I recently told my father that you were probably on the list.
But goddammit sir I hoped you would prove old age wrong.
And you already did, your lifestyle was your own, your dignity was never taken away.
The way you inhaled that smoke,
you never quit like I promised myself I never would- but I have, because I’m not as brave as you.
the way you drank,
your crystal clear words in interviews- you were a greater poet than I am sir,
the history of your sad eyes: I can see you were beaten, your heart was broken, but you survived.
You survived the war,
derision,
heartbreak,
betrayal,
sickness,
loss
and at some point in time, you might have wondered if you could survive death.
None of us can, the rules will always stay the same, but I bet you pissed off death when you raised your glass at him.

Your wrinkled face wasn’t the convention of beauty,
but you were beautiful to me sir.
You were a real man,
and you left this world,
leaving your mark,
your performance in Paris,Texas- if that would be your last role you said, you would be satisfied-,
seeing your enjoying your cigarette and looking into the sky in Twin Peaks: The return- only for that peace to be shattered by the brutal death of a small boy-
and
I’m sure your final performance, the leading role in Lucky, will be incredible.
You’ll play a defiant atheist pondering his mortality,
in a town full of weirdo’s played by incredible character-actors (I know you hated that term, I’m sorry, but it just fits this poem).
It’s a role that seems to fit you perfectly.
In a trailer you sing,
your
you perform yoga,
you look so damn old and so cool.

You are gone now,
left this world for another.
You’ve gone to meet Sam Shepard,
who gave you your favorite part.
You’ll smoke and have drinks with him,
in the place where barflies never need to drown their sorrows.
He’ll write you a transcendent sequel of Paris, Texas; where Travis finally finds happiness, where love comes back to save us all.
Or perhaps his tragedy is where we should end.
It’s such a good story
and that story will never go away.
Just like your days as a Repo man,
sharing the prison confines with Paul Newman and George Kennedy (both there with you),
in Missouri playing an outlaw alongside Jack Nicholson and Marlon Brando (he’s there with you too),
in a dystopian New York with Ernest Borgnine (gone as well),
walking the green mile just like angelic Michael Clark Duncan (they all go, even the young).
The stories will never go away,
but we’ll miss seeing you in new ones.
But it’s like you said:
eventually you’ll accept all of it,
suffering, horror, love, loss, hate.
”It’s all a movie anyway.”

It will take some time for me to accept your departure,
but I know I will,
we have no choice in this life.
We know how this movie ends,
we move on or we let life destroy us.
We die inside and live another day.
I think I’ll take a page from your life,
and try to survive this movie as long as possible.
I don’t think my movie will end as gracefully as yours,
I don’t think I’ll be as beautiful as you were at the end of your life,
but that’s because I’m Chris van Dijk
and you were the great Harry Dean Stanton.
Znalezione obrazy dla zapytania harry dean stanton smoking

***

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Picture appreciation: Dennis Hopper by Anton Corbijn

There is a book pictures made by Anton Corbijn, that is full of staged portraits of stars, legends of either the movie or music industry. It makes me jealous, it makes me eager to grab a camera. Even if I had the most expensive one, I could not do what he can. To say he grabs the essence of these people is a cliché, but it boils down to this. These pictures are there, you can’t ignore them. Clint Eastwood points right at you, judging you, letting you that we can’t hide from our selves. There are literary legends in this book as well: William S. Burroughs, the writer of the deeply controversial Naked Lunch and accidental murder of his wife, stands next to a target practice figure full of holes. They tried to silence him, they burned many of his books. But the words are still out there. He’s still out there. Even after all the drug-abuse he’s still there. But there’s no pretension in his eyes, you can see the weariness in there, the soul has been tainted. There’s one, one of my favorites, of an old Alan Ginsburg looking out his window. We all come to this point- if we are lucky- we look back, it has been such a journey. There has been so many journeys, no matter how amazing, it will end. There will be silence. The people will forget. There’s one of Frank Sinatra, you see him at the corner of some bar. We know him as The Voice, but here’s just some guy, drinking away his sorrows.

If I had to choose a favorite however, it would have the portrait of Dennis Hopper. The setting is desolate: wearing a suit, he’s sitting in an empty mattress in a white, looking to the side. There is a mystery to this picture. The greatest pictures always have a mystery to them. The key is his facial expression. Perhaps someone was bothering him during the shoot: he looks on edge, impatient, worried. It’s as if at just this moment, someone caught him without his mask. The best portraits manages to pass by the mask. It’s not easy to get there. You have to be really good at your job.
The best pictures forces you to make up a story: this is an middle-aged man waiting for someone. This person he’s waiting can change everything. There is a guilt in his eyes. One man that knows that the past can always come after him. He’s trying to walk the path, but he knows how easy it is for him to slip away.

Now comes the part where you piece together the things you know about this performer. This is someone who basically started the seventies counterculture cinema with Easy Rider. It was my first introduction to the death of the American dream. I was a child watching have recorded it the night before on BBC. I can still remember the shock of the two bikers being blown-away, the film just ending like that. The violence was shocking, it had little point. They just came across the wrong people. They were free and now they were dead. Even if the constitution says you are free, this doesn’t mean that the people will let you.
Later on, reading his interviews, a more conservative minded Dennis Hopper was introduced. A passionate Bush supporter, no more the drug-addled dreamer of the past. He had almost destroyed himself back then, his redemption came with his thoughtful performance in Hoosiers. He would occasionally impress in cinema, but most of the times, the films would be beneath the standards of his talent. Maybe he cared less in the end, as many cinematic legends eventually do.

Most people remember him as the evil madman of Blue Velvet. The most shocking introduction of any character: the colorful expletives, the violation of a beautiful woman. Frank Booth, a man with a psychotic obsession with Heineken. In the script he would huff Helium, but Hopper suggested to David Lynch that the chemicals should be amyl nitrate.
Most telling was that he begged David Lynch for the part: ”You have to let me play Frank, Because I’m Frank!” This was the demon Hopper knew, the demon that needed to be destroyed. The death of Frank Booth, is both the defeat of evil and Hopper’s catharsis. It’s not a glamorous portrait, but it’s a beautiful one. This was a man that needed help, that was on the brink of an early death, but escaped it. I have only looked at the edge for a distance, but even then, it’s hard finding your way back. There would have nothing romantic about my death. I would have faded away but he would have burned out. But when it comes down to it, there’s nothing beautiful about burning out either. The self-destructive artist only deludes himself. The drugs, even if it gives them a momentary lapse of genius, will inevitably hold him back. I’m glad Hopper woke up when he did.
     He still died too young (74) but I’m grateful that he was around as long as he was.
Podobny obraz***

Our Disease 20

Kill the Bug

It was a beautiful dream. It was a dream full of angels. He had a sudden mission in life: to return to the world and save mankind from the bugs eating their brain. If he did this, they would come for him. He would be allowed to live among them, in the place that followed the promises of his country, promises he had heard about since he was a child at school. Promises that were broken again and again.
There was a preacher, an old friend who he could never say goodbye to, his mother, the lover that would one day find him, there was the demon that turned out to be an angel. There was no fear, we conquered it. We were ourselves, we were free to explore our eccentricities, it would be explored on paper. So many people were lost in the old world, now we found each other and made sure nobody got lost. Everyone was welcome, the tired as well as the poor. If we could only see ourselves for who we are, if we weren’t so afraid, this world could be ours.
He had asked the angels what he was supposed to do.
They told him to watch for the sign, you would understand then. Everything would be clear.
But you must go all the way, it’s the only way to escape this world. The only way to escape this prison.
Reality is the dream, all you have to do is wake up and pull the trigger.
Znalezione obrazy dla zapytania david lynch i fight with myself
Art by David Lynch

***

 

 

Our Disease 16

     The Disease

There had been a big debate between the nations most popular political commentator. The first was a right-wing pundit by the name of Sean Reilly. The second was a politically moderate- or someone who merely upholds ‘sane’ positions as she would refer to it- by the name of Anna Snyder, who also happened to be Harry mother’s.
It had been filmed the previous night, the mother and son were watching it, each eating a bucket full of buttery popcorn. Popular consensus- though this naturally depended on which media you were watching- said that she had annihilated Reilly’s every argument.
”The question is who can we trust? The businessman or the politician,” said Reilly behind the right side of the debate table, ”and all it depends individually off course. But I would argue, that a country is a business, American is a corporation and it needs a good CEO. That’s what the president should be, a good CEO. A traditional politician thinks in nations and peoples but that’s not how the world works. There was a time when we needed politicians, but that time has long ended. There’s a new vision of America. A politician will sell you dreams, a business will teach you how the world really works.”
”The world works that way because we gave them the freedom to do this. This freedom needs to end.”
”That’s left-wing extremism!” balled Reilly ”you want to go back a regulated market, where government forces pick-pocket hard working Americans or ‘job creators’, so they can continuing financing a corrupt system. It’s my money. Why should I give those people my money I worked so hard for!”
”Now let’s settle down,” said the moderator who sat in the middle of the table.
”I’m not asking for a socialist-utopia,” said Anna, sipping from her glass of water, I’m asking for a regulated market, because this supposed invisible hand, you and your disciples are all so keen about, has a tendency to fill the pockets of the rich. It’s not just you. This is not your country. This is our country. We made you and you made us.”
”I made myself.”
”Your daddy and mommy did help you didn’t they?”
Sean looked at her furiously, then sighed, ”This is the modern world. We can’t go back anymore. Reagan started something beautiful. And we have to finish it.
”Look at the world your disciples have created. Look at this century of deregulation. This Americana penned by Ayn Rand, inspiring the Trumps of this world, the winners and loser mentality. It’s a rigged system, it’s rigged because this is what you always wanted. It lapses toward authoritarianism when it’s necessary. There’s the denial about what we are doing to this planet of ours. Our place on this world, our continued dominance precipitated the sixth-extinction. So many beautiful animals had to pay the price for our wants and needs. We didn’t treat our fellow humans any better. Just look at the epidemic of unemployment caused by automation and yet still, even with little cost to themselves, they fight over universal income. The job creators who refused to give the people health-insurance. The robots of this world get better care than the poor.”
Sean sighed, he knew he’d lost, and he seemed tired, ”’It’s always the same. We are the dumb ones. The left are the smart ones. If you had been in charge the world wouldn’t look much better.
”Like the left has always been the rational party. Like you were going to make the world a better place…”
”Again, I’m not a left-winger, just because I uphold certain left-wing positions just as I uphold right-wing positions. We just have a different definition or to be frank, you are just polemicizing this debate because that’s how you’ve always won. Not by reason, but by playing on your base. I don’t do that. I win and lose so many fans of mine because sometimes I turn to the right and sometimes to the left. I don’t compromise my reason but that’s my business; the academic, scholarly, journalistic fashion. You are in the pundit business, things have to be one side. Things have to be in two. You don’t give a crap about reason…”
Sean’s face turned red as he started mumbling, trying to find the words. Harry and mother were laughing loudly. She was sitting in a big lazy chair, her son lay on a comfortable couch.
”Can you believe the Breitbart poll has him winning by over eighty percents?” said Harry, who then shoved popcorn in his mouth, ”the gullibility of these people is hilarious.”
”Yes,” said Anna, who couldn’t see the humor in this, her smile decreasing, ”it doesn’t matter what I say to them. They got to them, they got them for good. For a century they’ve been told not to trust us. To distrusts journalists, historians and human rights workers. They indoctrinate in schools and churches. We will never reach them again…”
”Fuck em” said Harry, who didn’t pick up the hint of melancholy in his mother’s voice, ”it’s tiresome debating these people. If they can’t accept certain fundamental truths what hope is there? Eventually you just gotta spread the good word, no matter who it offends.”
”Well Harry, that’s where I came from. Those are my people.”
”You’re better than them.”
Anna didn’t say anything, but after a while, she got up and left the room. When Harry realized she was gone, he called out for her.
”I’m on the balcony.”
Harry got up, went to the balcony. They were on the top floor of a high-rise apartment, in a reasonably affluent neighborhood in New York. She was staring out into the starry night. The sounds of movement below, faint voices. Harry stood next to her, gentle brushed her shoulder.
”Mom, you okay?”
”I’m okay, just the futility of what I do gets to sometimes.”
”Oh mom, you’re just making a living. You’re not supposed to change the world.”
”You tell yourself that, it’s just a business. But you get to a point where you think, that maybe you can make a difference. Things have to mean something.”
”I’m not much of a believer mom. The age of true believers have long gone.”
”I don’t want you to become like them, Harry. I want you to be better than them.”
”I believe in the good things mom, I just don’t believe this world is one of them. It’s too much history. Every moral experiment, ends with people doing what’s good for themselves. Man is a selfish animal, there’s nothing else to it.”
Anna kept looking into the starry sky, she singled out one star, imagined going down with it. We all fade into stardust.
”This world is stacked with good people but something is holding them back. There’s a sickness, a disease. It’s been spreading for so long now. The people that spread them, these mind-viruses don’t even know it. It takes so long to break the chain of history and so many new monsters are build in that momentum. There’s so many bugs in our system. The bugs are everywhere.”
”Mom, did you take your medication?”
Anna didn’t say anything for a while, she felt herself slipping into a dark place. A voice inside asked for her to snap out of it: you are with your son. He’s leaving tomorrow. Make it a nice time.
”Let’s finish watching the debate,” said Anna, turning around and hugging her son. ”You’re such a good boy you know that?”
”Oh mom. If I am, it’s your fault. I would be nothing without you.”
She held him, a bit longer than usual. It worried Harry, but when she stopped and kissed his cheek and smiled at him, she seemed like was normal again.

Twenty years later. Harry was on his computer, scrolling through pictures of his mother. There was an old one, where she stood next to the father he never knew. The one from his wedding, when she had been quite inebriated. There were many more. One in particular, probably one of the last pictures ever made for her, she looked so happy, on the beach looking into the blue sky of Hawaii. He never realized how beautiful she really was.
Her words came back to her, how ashamed he was. The decapitated boy kept appearing in his mind. Even though it was not his fault, he still blamed himself. It was his initial input that put his death into motion. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t his plan, if it wasn’t for him, the boy might still have been alive.
Stone came back from the shower, a towel was covering his middle. He entered his room, saw his ‘friend’ scrolling through the pictures.
”She was a helluva woman,” said Stone who stood next to him now as Harry kept scrolling ”she could have been a game-changer, ”she was the most fearful enemies of people like me. Most people might had the wits but they didn’t have what she had. A fearlessness, this uncompromising nature.”
Harry refused a speak a word to him, he mindlessly scrolled to another. Stone noticed it but pretended he didn’t.
”Boy she hated me. She saw right me, that beautiful woman.”
Silence. Stone sighed, ”look you don’t need to worry. None of this will come back to you. The boy wasn’t from around here. Nobody, nobody that can cause any problems anyway, will look for him. You’re safe.”
Again silence. Stone continued: ”perhaps the show should have been PG-rated. Perhaps I went a little too Jihad on the kid, but I hope you can understand that I was merely helping her. It was the only way. It would have taken too long. You’re already in a fragile state. Who knows what could happen if they keep messing your head for another two weeks. It’s in your genes pall. You’re a smart guy, but like you’re mother, your prone to some extreme neuroticism.”
Still no word. Stone felt like punching him, ”I couldn’t do this without something from you Harry. I don’t need your money, but I wanted something. I wanted your innocence and you paid your debt. In time you will thank me. Don’t get any crazy ideas about reporting this, they won’t listen to you, you know that.”
Harry kept scrolling through pictures, he came across one with him and Sheryl in Amsterdam. Stone sighed, didn’t know what to say.
”Well, I’m gonna be away for a while. They really need me. I’ve been here longer than I was supposed to anyway. I’m not sure when I see you again. I will leave a number you can if they keep bothering you. Just say that you are a friend of me. These guys are good, the best. I will leave you some stuff that will keep you from sleep or will knock you down in a good sleep, whatever you prefer tonight. The next time we will see each other, everything will be back to normal” Stone patted Harry on the shoulder, ”don’t you worry about that.”
Stone headed out the door when he finally heard Harry’s voice: ”If you ever come here again Stone. I will kill you,” Stone turned around, faced Harry who was staring back at him, ”I don’t care what happens to me. But if you ever come to my house again I will fucking kill you.”
Stone looked into his eyes, he couldn’t be sure if he could do it or not.
”You’re show is on tomorrow right? I will be listening don’t you worry. I never miss a show.” Stone blinked and left the room.

In his dreams, he was in the playground again. Crispin was sitting on a swing, wearing a red raincoat. When he saw Harry walking toward him, he quickly jumped off.
”I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
”Why not?”
”They say you won’t listen anyway,” Crispin shivered in the cold rain.
”I’m listening now.”
”Nobody listens. Everybody’s always in their own world. You were supposed to be better than that.”
”I’m trying…”
”It doesn’t matter. You can’t do it. Maybe you never will.”
”You don’t believe in me.”
”You don’t believe in yourself.”
Harry was wiping his wet face. The rain just kept pouring. There was an explosion in thesky. A lighting bolt.
”Is it my fault? Is the death of the kid my fault?”
”Why do you ask me? You won’t listen anyway. You made up my mind.”
”Just tell me.”
”You never forgive yourself, that’s your problem. You keep putting it all on you. You’re just like your mother…”
”Is she here? Can I talk to her?”
”I told you, you won’t listen anyway. I have to go before I get into trouble.”
”Please, I’m all alone out there. I don’t want to go back.”
”We are all waiting. We will always be waiting for you. But we can’t push it too far. The work is up to you…”
Crispin turned to and ran away, Harry was about to run after him, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He had a feeling who it was and he began to tremble.  When he turned around to see if it was him, he woke up.

Znalezione obrazy dla zapytania david lynch painting

***

Our Disease 11


A Friend in Weird Places

Sometimes you close your eyes and find yourself in a place that doesn’t exist anymore. There was a playground, a sandpit in the center. As a child you would fill buckets and topple them until you created castles. A swing-set nearby, as a child you would try to reach the heavens with your feet. There was a time when great adventures were made by sliding down a slide and crawling into tubes. The older you get, the smaller the world gets.
When you’re in puberty, you would return to this place at night, sharing a cigarette with your best friend.
But Harry was forty-five years old now. The street where he used to live is full of shops now. The playground has been demolished, another shop opened up on its location. Any semblance of his youth resides only in his mind now. So goes the fate of all our childhoods.
Harry found himself here, in the place that doesn’t exist anymore. He looked up into the sky, Dark clouds were circling this playground, ready to descend hail fire.
A familiar voice: ”hey butthead!”
Harry looked to the swing-set where the voice came from. There he saw someone he hadn’t seen in nearly three decades.
”Yeah I’m talking to you!”
It was Crispin, his childhood friend who looked just like the fourteen boy in the height of their friendship sitting in one of the two swings. Still slightly chubby donning the traditional crew-cut his father from the military persisted he’d get. But still wearing the Frank Zappa T-shirt, where Zappa flipped the bird to the audience- something he wasn’t allowed to wear in school. They lost in touch in the end of his adolescence.
”We were supposed to be friends forever,” said Crispin as Harry moved towards him with a stunned face.
”We promised we’d be always be there for each other.”
Harry looked him over. He was a confused and nothing made sense but there was a sense that it was pointless to ask.
”I’m talking to you butthead!”
”Things happen,” Harry said, sitting next to him on the other swing-set, ”we didn’t know real life when we promised this. You died before you ever discovered the real world.”
”But you barely thought of me in the last few years. You believed yourself to be alone. You never thought I would still be there for you.”
”But you aren’t. You’re dead.”
”That doesn’t matter. A promise is a promise.”
”What are you able to do for me?”
”Nothing in the outside world. But in here I can save your soul.”
”Is my soul in danger?”
”Not yet, but somebody has his eyes on it.”
”Who?”
Crispin pointed ahead of him and Harry followed his finger: there stood a man with a blank white face with bulging dark eyes. A bald scalp, his face seemed unnaturally smooth, not a trace of hair. Even his eye-brows were gone. He was wearing a three-piece suit, perfectly fitted, the color of dark gray, only his tie had the color of scarlet red.
”He can only have your soul if you do things that will change it to his advantage. If you fall deep enough, he will be able to reach you.”
”What is his name?”
”It doesn’t matter.”
”How about Mr. Anonymous?”
”He’s your foe.”
”He looks scary.”
”He is. He is everything you were ever frightened off and you’re playing a very dangerous game with him.”
”What if I stop playing?”
”That’s not an option. That was never an option.”
”Tell me how to play the game. Tell me how to beat him.”
”In here, it’s easy but when you are out there, you really have to listen.”
”Tell me now.”
”You don’t have much time.”
”Why?”
”You’re waking up soon.”
Mr. Anonymous groans, it’s the groan of loud annoyed cat.
”Here it comes.”
”Comes what?”
”Don’t be scared. It’s only a dream.”
Crispin pushes a hand on each ear, closes his eyes. Before Harry can comprehend why, Mr. Anonymous runs towards him, screaming as he does. The screaming is terrifying, it sends shivers down Harry’s spine. The scream affects the dark skies above, as it begins to roar as it to warn them of an upcoming storm. Harry pushes his ears closed and watches Mr. Anonymous run toward him- but something strange happens, the scene keeps repeating itself. He keeps seeing him run towards him, again and again, moving closer and moving back, as if on a loop. His bulging eyes seems to almost burst from his sockets, his mouth, inside there’s nothing but sharp pointy teeth, seems to get bigger and bigger. Harry feels himself falling. …This is when Harry wakes up.

Znalezione obrazy dla zapytania david lynch painting
Art by David Lynch
***

Our Disease 10

The Devil doesn’t care 

Harry was sitting in the waiting-room of Dr. Benway’s office. He was tired, couldn’t manage to fall asleep after reading the ominous e-mail. He was afraid of bad dreams, as if the e-mail opened the door for something terrible inside his head.
The waiting-room was a dark place, a scarlet red filled the walls, faint light kept from the room from being swallowed up by darkness. While it was sunny inside, it seemed like Dr. Benway’s office wanted to shield any light from invading within. It wasn’t like this before. A year ago, when Harry still went to regular sessions, it was just another inconspicuous waiting-room. Something changed. So many things change in such a short span of time.
Finally Benway’s patient opened the door. An attractive young woman came out, thanking the doctor. Harry got up to move to the door. The young woman passed him, looking at him with an usual tendency. Her eyes were green, her eyes were judging him. Harry stopped and looked back until the young woman disappeared into the hallway, into the darkness. He didn’t even hear her open the front door. Something is not right, Harry thought. He knew it had to be because of his fragile temperament, when your mind is more prone to apocalyptic signs.
”Come on Harry,” he heard Dr. Benway call from her office.
The room looked different too. The walls were scarlet red, with only a faint light in the center of the room. It looked more like a séance room than a therapist office. Harry sat on the chair in front of Benway. Dr. Benway was a woman in her early fifties, with strict eyes that seemed to imbued intelligence. An attractive woman who looked a decade younger than she was.
”I have to ask, what the fuck have you done with this place?”
”You don’t like it?” Dr. Benway asked.
”No I don’t. It’s fucking creepy. I’m not sure if I’m here for a reading or here for a session.”
Dr. Benway laughed, ”it’s part of an experiment. According to some study, having a more theatrical surroundings makes it easier for some patients to open up. To tell you the truth I thought it was bullshit, but I don’t make the rules here. This is not my private practice. If the boss tells me to do something, I have to do it.”
”Why don’t you start your private practice?”
”I’m planing on retiring in the next five years anyway. What’s the use?”
”What are you going to do instead?”
”I don’t know. I like to figure out what I want to do in my autumn years.”
”You could do what I do.”
”I’m not sure if that would make me happy.”
”There’s a higher calling than happiness.”
”Why do you think I’m a therapist? After I’m done, it’s all about me. So tell me Harry, what can I do for you? You haven’t been here for over a year. You want to start again?”
”Not really, I came because I’ve been receiving some e-mails. E-mails with references to something very personal and though, I’m not accusing you of anything, I just want to save that your files are not safe.”
”I’m not sure what you are getting at?”
”I’m saying someone hacked into your files. They’ve been using information against me and I will probably be not the only one. You or this practice, needs to protect its files better. I’m just here to give you a warning. Perhaps you should just write down and not on the computer.”
”What kind of information?”
”Something my mother said. Something almost nobody knows but you.”
”I’m sorry, but we haven’t had any word of a breaching.”
”Yes that’s why they are really good. They make sure of that.”
Benway wrote something in her notebook.
”I’ll make a note of this and report it.”
”Thank you.”
”May I ask Harry, what as information concerning your mother?”
”It was the time when I found her naked in her room. When her OCD got really bad again. The beginning of the end you could say.”
”I’m sorry Harry.”
”It’s not your fault. It still hurts but I can deal with it.”
”Have you been to the police?”
”I’ve made a report but it’s not going to do much. They’ve got piles of cases like this and I’m not that big of a celebrity to begin with.”
”Any idea who is targeting you?”
”Oblivion. I’ve been talking about them on my podcast. I guess someone had it in for me. In a way it’s my fault. You awake a dragon, you might get burned.”
”Then why did you awake the dragon?”
”Because nobody else does. Nobody wants to pay the price for a better world. Everybody just wants to huddle into their corner and be left alone, while they go into our heads and do what they want. It’s the way the world works now. Everything is out in the open and it’s there for the world to play with. We want to connect with each other but instead, we drove each other further apart.”
”I’m guessing you’re still single.”
”Yeah I still haven’t gotten over her. Don’t tell me that I should cos I know this already.”
”You don’t look good Harry.”
”I haven’t sleeping much. I’ve been doing a lot of drinking though. And smoking. And other stuff. Stone is back in town. You know what that means.”
”I thought you cut of that friendship?”
”Yeah but he keeps coming back.”
”Why did you stop therapy? You never gave me a clear answer.”
”Cos I’m tired of it. It’s always the same. I’m in my forties now and it’s just one loop after another. You don’t have answers. Nobody does. And I’m just sick of talking about myself. Just sick and tired of talking about myself…”
Harry took a deep breath then: ”and I don’t want to think about my mother. I will miss her. I don’t want that now. It’s too much.”
”You really think they are doing this to hurt you?”
”I don’t see any other reason. I’m not an important guy. I used to be big in the literary world but that fame is long gone now. My mother was the real big-shot, not me. I can’t even give them much money. I might know some people but the important ones, besides Stone, don’t care to talk to me anymore. I’m a has-been. I’m a fucking nobody.”
”You are not, you know that’s your depression talking. I can prescribe some…”
”I don’t want you to prescribe me anything.”
”Then at least lay of the booze and drugs Harry. Get Stone out of your life.”
”He’s my only friend. Would you believe that?”
Dr. Benway came closer, reached out to Harry’s shoulder, holding it, ”look at me Harry.”
Harry looked at her, ”you remember what your mother said?”
”I told you, I don’t want to think about my mother.”
”Well you have no choice. You remember what she said?”
Harry sighed, he remembered, he just didn’t want to say it.
”’The devil doesn’t care if you’re crying about him, but he does care if you’re laughing at him.”’
”Yeah that was good.”
”This is an absurd world. We don’t know how to handle it. There’s all this craziness because we don’t know what to do with ourselves. There are so many people who are lost. So many people lose their minds. But if we manage to laugh about it, if we can see the true absurdity of it all, we put life in its rightful place. It’s all we can do when nothing makes sense.”
Harry looks back, a tear streaming down from his eye, he didn’t know what to say except, ”I really miss her.”
Dr. Benway smiled, ”you can always come here, you know that.”
”I know,” Harry took a deep breath, ”it’s time to face the world again Doctor. Wish me luck. Thanks for the talk.”
Harry got up and Dr. Benway said her last words; ”don’t be like the rest Harry. Try to see comprehend the absurdity of it all. Give yourself a rest.”

Harry walked the stairs from the building where Dr. Benway’s office resided and walked to his car. He got in, took a deep breath, grabbed his pack of cigarettes and put one in his lips. After lighting his cigarette he was about to put the key in the ignition when he noticed an envelope in the passenger seat. Harry looked at it for a while. He didn’t really want to open it. It was probably better if he just threw it out the window, but he couldn’t help himself and he reached for it.
On the back of the envelope it simply said: OBLIVION.
Harry opened the envelope, a blank piece of paper with the words: YOU HAVE TO FALL REALLY FAR IF YOU WANT TO KNOW TO KNOW THE TRUTH. 

Znalezione obrazy dla zapytania david lynch painting dark
Art by David Lynch

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