Go to sleep, everything is alright.

I'm finding it increasingly harder--harder and harder--to differentiate between reality and dreams. It's troubling in a non-crazy way. I swear, completely non-crazy. It just makes memory recall, a bitch. It must be the stress of my day-to-day life. Not stress, like stress, but stress as a static fluidity to my schedule. First came the vacation and then the next term and then vacation again and then again another term and then again the vacation. It was like a train going in and out of tunnels. Term, vacation; tunnel, out; noise, stop. The constant media inputs do not help. They make all the dreams that much worse. It's like a repeat of my day. But the realization of this only comes at the dawn. Like two different versions of the same thing, a troubling rashomon of my past. There are the events as they really happened; there are the events as I remember them, and; there are the events as I dream them. The first two are to be expected. The object and the subject of everyday occurrence that all experience. But in the third--a terrifying simulacra exists. This unreal representation is standard discourse to start, the seams are visible, I can see the strings, but as I move farther away, I fall into this artifice of eternity. The line between the mirror and mirrored becomes increasingly blurred as certain details of the simulacrum attach themselves to eidetic. And frequently, as a result, I find myself asking, Did this really happen? or, Did I dream it? It's usually just the small things. I try not to fret the small things. But what if everything is small. And what if I like the dream version better? Its too bad all these things can only happen in my dreams, only in dreams, in beautiful dreams.

The Villains: Frank Booth

George Lucas asked David Lynch to direct Return of the Jedi. He didn't end up directing Return of the Jedi; instead, he made Blue Velvet. Like Star Wars, Blue Velvet has an ominous villain, a force of unbridled tension on screen who prefaces events of bad things happening. Star Wars has a Darth Vader. Blue Velvet has a Frank Booth. Frank Booth is Darth Vader in love.

He is a psychosexual force veering to be unleashed at any moment. He'll explode into violence, laughter, tears, or erotic longing. Vvhhhhhuhhh. "Mommy, baby wants to fuck."

Instead of a respirator, he's got an oxygen mask full of amyl nitrate fueling his maddening descent into self.

He's a candy-coloured clown, dressed to be a rock star, the original hipster, listening to Roy Orbison in the eighties when you were listening to hair metal. He's your hipster hero. He even drinks your hipster beer. "Heineken?! Fuck that shit! PABST BLUE RIBBON!"