The people are not what they seem
What kind of bizarre nightmare is this?
First, I return from my patrols to find my fortress festooned with all manner of bizarre absurdities: owls, blackbirds, red curtains, oversized playing cards, and sheets of clear plastic. The Woman lays out a freakish smorgasbord of cherry pies and symmetrically arranged stacks of donuts, and the Man morbidly places at the head of the table a gravestone bearing a single and unfamiliar name: Laura Palmer. Who?!
Then the whole place suddenly becomes bathed in an eerie, dim red light, and strains of unholy brooding music swell up out of nowhere. And finally, to my horror, they arrive: a coterie of grotesques from some insane and psychotic land called “Twimpeegs” — who they are or why they were invited into my lair is totally beyond me.
But they are a freakish lot: one-eyed cheerleaders and weirdly bewigged knaves; black-clothed mysteriosos encrusted in coffee beans; prim factotums toting portable recording instruments; bloodied forensic scientists and pie-diner nymphs who look suspiciously like “The People In The Walls” I knew so many years ago; even a folksy law officer, scentily reminiscent of Fabio's Doorman, who does nothing to subdue this menagerie. And as a final twist on this mindbending scene, the Rodent himself suddenly appears encased in a woody, leafed vessel that makes him look like some kind of... log.
This unearthly assemblage mingles and murmurs well into the night before dispersing back to this “Twimpeegs” from whence it came. Good riddance, weirdos. Don't let the one-eyed jack slap your ass on the way out.
As for me, I mainly keep my eyes on those silent, unflinching birds. A monstrous black owl to my left; a sinister raven to my right. Allies? Adversaries? Or mere corpses frozen in rigor mortis? I give myself a good chomp on the haunch to be certain this isn't some unfortunate dream. But no — come morning, the scent of cherries and coffee still lingers in the air, and the winged undead still stand their disturbing statuesque vigil.
This was all three nights ago.
Tonight, the world appears to be no closer to a resumption of the sane stability we once took for granted. Tonight, the army of little people is loose upon the land. In their impish regalia they stalk the streets and demand their nougaty tribute.
Tonight, I stay in and try to sleep off this nightmare.
First, I return from my patrols to find my fortress festooned with all manner of bizarre absurdities: owls, blackbirds, red curtains, oversized playing cards, and sheets of clear plastic. The Woman lays out a freakish smorgasbord of cherry pies and symmetrically arranged stacks of donuts, and the Man morbidly places at the head of the table a gravestone bearing a single and unfamiliar name: Laura Palmer. Who?!
Then the whole place suddenly becomes bathed in an eerie, dim red light, and strains of unholy brooding music swell up out of nowhere. And finally, to my horror, they arrive: a coterie of grotesques from some insane and psychotic land called “Twimpeegs” — who they are or why they were invited into my lair is totally beyond me.
But they are a freakish lot: one-eyed cheerleaders and weirdly bewigged knaves; black-clothed mysteriosos encrusted in coffee beans; prim factotums toting portable recording instruments; bloodied forensic scientists and pie-diner nymphs who look suspiciously like “The People In The Walls” I knew so many years ago; even a folksy law officer, scentily reminiscent of Fabio's Doorman, who does nothing to subdue this menagerie. And as a final twist on this mindbending scene, the Rodent himself suddenly appears encased in a woody, leafed vessel that makes him look like some kind of... log.
This unearthly assemblage mingles and murmurs well into the night before dispersing back to this “Twimpeegs” from whence it came. Good riddance, weirdos. Don't let the one-eyed jack slap your ass on the way out.
As for me, I mainly keep my eyes on those silent, unflinching birds. A monstrous black owl to my left; a sinister raven to my right. Allies? Adversaries? Or mere corpses frozen in rigor mortis? I give myself a good chomp on the haunch to be certain this isn't some unfortunate dream. But no — come morning, the scent of cherries and coffee still lingers in the air, and the winged undead still stand their disturbing statuesque vigil.
This was all three nights ago.
Tonight, the world appears to be no closer to a resumption of the sane stability we once took for granted. Tonight, the army of little people is loose upon the land. In their impish regalia they stalk the streets and demand their nougaty tribute.
Tonight, I stay in and try to sleep off this nightmare.
so sayeth Shmool on Tuesday, October 31, 2006
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