A brief and unpretentious dive into the Castañeda/Lynch connection through the show Twin Peaks and the book The Eagle’s Gift (the last one before Carlitos’ descent/capture). The key non-thesis of the speculation thus: David Lynch, finding himself in a similar condition as Carlos Castañeda, fighting assimilation of his vision by Hollywood, produced, more specifically with The Return, a critique of the descent in-itself, sketching a diagram of his own escape (which Carlos himself failed to perform). If Lynch ever read Castañeda is beyond the point. Here are fragments of conversations held at the CEO.

I wonder if we could think of Judy (Jowday), that is represented by the beloved “Owl Peaks” symbol as the dark side/counterpart of the Eagle (or really just the nightly aspect of the Eagle, for what is an owl if not an eagle one sees at night). If we assume Jowday is a manifestation tied to the Black Lodge, it seems to be the case. Even more because, in this book particularly, and its transition to the next, Carlitos fails (like our beloved agent Cooper) and is captured (as is expressed in the mythos of his own cult always torn and in constant war from within).

“We are luminous beings, we are better than that”, the motto La Gorda keeps repeating to Carlitos each time he starts worrying or wimping too much, the one thing she supposedly kept on repeating as she tried to “save” Carlitos from the jaws of the jaguar, fits very well with the White Lodge’s ‘residents’ true face:

Or at least Laura’s (since she is luminescence and good herself)

Laura truly is the Twin Peaks equivalent of the infamous Nagual woman: a prodigious, luminous being that got snatched too early in her life and exhausted her potential by the suffering her captors imposed on her, into and onto, for the very teleological motif that is the production of garmonbozia. And they did it all, the Black Lodge’s rogues, to feed on this secreted creamed corn. It sounds too much like the story of the beautiful forgotten Nagual woman. By the end of Twin Peaks (The Return), everything in one timeline is corrected and Laura’s corpse even disappears as if either she never existed there or was saved (I think she was erased from that timeline and jumped, only unwillingly via Coop — who thought he was doing good by that, when in fact he was only reviving her death and so prolonging her suffering, pain and sorrow, much like Carlitos and Carol Tiggs joining the cult). If more pain and sorrow, that is, garmonbozia, is the result of Coop’s failure to fix his heart, and said creamed corn comes from a continually doubled Laura, doesn’t this mean he is worse than BOB? Upgraded BOB, in fact, that feed us the garmonbozia while reciprocally being fed by our need to hear that lovely scream.

The Nagual/TonalRight/Left side quadratic polarity is also very reminiscent, to me, of Coop’s multi-self:

BOB-Coop (or Doppelganger, The Lovers Reverse and The Magician Reverse),

Homo hermaphroditus masculinus, failed

Dougie Jones (or Tulpa, The Lovers Upright and The Fool sideways),

The golden ball, the core of the tulpa, expands until finally disappearing from the screen. The true shape of humans according to Don Juan. This one is artificial, however, a golem, and upon expansion to determine the totality of oneself, it vanishes and the tulpa ceases.

‘Original’ Coop (or The Fool Upright and The Magician Upright),

The Fool’s Magic Trick

the guy Coop snatches the body by the end (or The Fool Reverse and The Hanged Man Reverse).

Relationship with Carlos Castañeda (or Carlitos, for the “fictional” character), following the diagram of the Seer:

Courtesy of Ken Eagle Feather

Tulpa/Dougie: fake double, Carlitos’ right side that forgot his Naguality.

Trapped in the Sphere of Direct Knowledge, devoid of access to the Sphere of Self-reflective Worlds.

BOB-Coop/Doppelganger: fake nagual, Coop’s and Carlitos’ snatched left side that does not remember but that still subsists due to power-momentum (Bad-Coop managed to contain BOB, still inside him, for 25 years). Its destruction is the rejoining of the left and right sides and Coop/Carlitos put back together.

Trapped in the Sphere of Self-reflective Worlds (like BOB), devoid of access to the Sphere of Direct Knowledge.

Original Coop: the Tonal, Carlitos before the split performed by Don Juan and Don Genaro.

Composed by and composing of the gra-tree-like structure, the hero’s journey proper is the dissolution of this harmony via the scission/split between spheres, resulting in the Doppelganger effect where communication is made difficult and an antagonist projected/manifested.

‘Spirit’ Coop/Coop of the end/Coop snatching the body of the guy at the end: Coop failed to remember and rejoin what was split properly, just as Carlitos, and his Naguality then, instead of entering the third world like his masters, jumped back into the island of the Tonal to snatch the body of another person (by invading another’s dream, other TV show). He indulged to the very end and became like BOB, a vampiric specter, only by the end we got to finally see the world from BOB’s perspective, or an upgraded version of a rogue of the Grey Lodge, the in-between that is the failure of proper conjunction. We are invading the automaton carcass that is “Cooper” in the same way he is invading people from another dream, supposedly our dream. It is, instead of a mutualistic symbiosis, a reciprocal parasitism (where the audience may find some enjoyment in the confusion, and Coop find some purpose in continuity as we feed him energy to continue his task of failing to do the good he wants).

Lost in the Third Field of the Unknowable (3), and in fact the avatar for such. He finally did it, but failed in doing it properly.

If Lynch would comment on the later activities of CC, I think he would say something along these lines, that he “didn’t fix his heart — but he did not die either”.

The house of the spirit (Cooper), now as pure electricity, the synthetic fire that walks as you. Cooper achieved immortality in the perpetual act of drifting at the speed of light without control. A proper cosmic neuron, which is sadly not a person anymore. Not even a character now, he is the stuff of dreams, a symbol. He opened Pandora’s box from the inside and became hope. Our hope.

But there are things worse than dying, as the Naguals would say.

25 years on and Laura is still (back?) inside her mother, in the worst way

Carlitos Cooper continues to refuse to die, like the fabled Hope of the myth, their leftover residue just symbols now. The dreamer vs. dream debate is over, nobody is the dreamer, there is only nightmare.

Meanwhile…

Final shot of the series, before the lights go out.

Verbal Medicine is a product of the collective ‘Writing Game‘ (CEO project).

Verbal Medicine 2

In the back of the police cruiser, Stephen felt like a caged animal. Handcuffed. Volvo abandoned. This was no longer his kingdom. Nor his phylum. Fight or flight kicked in. Stephen tried to pretend there was a Third Way. Transcendental Meditation as taught by David Lynch in his MasterClass. But Stephen’s mind-body was too far gone. Panic. Blinking eyes. He squirmed. He murmured. The police officers no longer understood his language.

Stephen’s machine-brain. Orb of light. I am an insect thinker. Praying mantis. Ready to decapitate the copper’s head. The police officer in the passenger seat grinned at Stephen. “You like football?” he said. “You like bloody Brighton, don’t you? They’ll be relegated soon enough.” Stephen did not understand a word of it. Sounded like television.

“A cactus is what I am,” Stephen thought. Thirst. Drought. The sea is a desert. Seagulls are coyotes. Prickly pricks. Geological time.

Stephen is dragged out of the police cruiser. Kicking and screaming. The walls of the cell at the station are made of limestone karst. He is alone. Tribe of One. Neanderthal urges. To draw. To speak.

A police officer rolls an orange into Stephen’s cell. The bright color nearly blinds Stephen.

Citrus.

Th’ Poeta of Hi’ ‘nvisible Smoke: Part 3.

—because several outsized squads of assorted experts in the art of the articulation possibilities of the typical human limb—testified, at the request of Big Law itselves, that she could not have chopped up her nose root herself, with anything approaching the force required to induce death. This was proven by the creation of charts, graphs, pictures, animations, puppet shows, recreations, simulations of all conceivable measures and means, with the topper being a three-day holographic re-creation of all events, involving all people, on all dates, from the initial unwrapping of the jazz horn, to the upthrust nasal cartelization deaths of himself and herself, and her huck, huck, huck—so, over a bed of hot lava flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for clinkering-coo exactly bundles of white sticks so so s’, Hans, simply because reading this story and also, then, listening over and over to Nanzee Gray’s hip-roaring and hooray scream the crime down hoedown show, holy Moses; drop the damned thing. Pawn it, or something, to somehow get something for it, to ease the letdown of your thousands of wasted hours, Hans. Now Hans, let’s get real. Hans, did you really think you had musical talent? Did you really think you could excel in guitar music when your tin ear would never let you tune it correctly? Did you really think that when your parents, aunts, uncles, and otherwise elses selves, ‘round all so-so, would say, Yo, so; great Hans. You so great, Hans. You see that, Madgie-my matter and everybody’s else? Look at his hands; they move like spiders; spiders and snakes and all these resemblancing, writhing what-have-yous of the familiatational kind, and, atop of it all, of the blood yes, the blood yes. The blood. Of course, they’ve all lied all of them lied because they were ignorant bluop bloup bloop bloop bluip bloope bluop bloup flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for bloopi bloopee bluipoir bup lou loop Clinkering-coo exactly bundles of white sticks blo bui loo unimportant Thinking themselves kind, they encouraged your folly. Thinking themselves helpful, they caused you to waste hundreds of hours. And so, Hans, yes, I think these automatic rifles you’ve spread out ‘cross your truck bed for my inspection, well, yes, you were right to buy them. And, the plan you’ve outlined for tomorrow’s family picnic is a fine one, Hans. But, that aside. What’s much more intense and thus much more important was, that then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at the city of the dead. A tentlike structure of green canvas stood erected by the grave. But then. bup blu loo bop over a bed of hot lava blip blop lup lop lp bluo blou bundles of white sticks luop loup oop op p pe boo blu blo blo flaming bundles of superheated sticks rak for bloop bluip bluop loup oop op Clinkering-coo Exactly! bluip loope uop up bluop blou blo unimportant And then they put their arm up again A pile of deep brown soil lay neatly piled by the gravesides. But then Oh my then. Folding chairs. But then oh my then there came. Three of four wide squat burial workers. But then oh my then there came a burial pending. Half the workers were empty handed in coveralls. But then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at. But then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at the city. Hic. But then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at the city of. Hic hic. The giant yellow backhoe set to the side is not simply a coincidence. This rendered the rest of the ride up that direction disturbing. Hic hic hic. bluop blo bl b bp ope Exactly p up oop loop bluip blpe blu bp pop uip loope brake for p up oop loop bluip bloope Bluop blp bp Hot lava oo lui loop bluop loup op p ip loope over a bed of The city of the dead. Knowing Poeta would never be seen the same way again rendered the remainder of the up-ride disturbing and the same went for the later down-ride to the end. A burial’s pending in Poeta at the city of the dead. At the city of the dead. At the city of the dead. B we said we said bluop blp bp b ip b bl blo bloo bluip Bundles of white sticks bloope bluo blo b bluop blou blo bl flaming bundles of superheated sticks passed the burial pending in Poeta at the city of the dead. Hic. bl bloo bluop bluop blou blo bl b bl blu unimportant But again it is b bl blo blu bloo bluop at the city b bl blo bloo blui bloope of the dead hic hic Clinkering-coo bluop blou bloo bl b 156 times 2 ways exit 148 78 times north of the city of the dead. 

Hic hic hic! 

Unimportant. Hic hic. And then they put their arm up again. Hic. Over a bed of. Hot lava. Flaming bundles of superheated sticks. Brake for. Clinkering-coo. Exactly! Bundles of white sticks. bluop bloup bloop bloop bluip bloope unimportant bloup bloop bloop bluip unimportant bloup bloop bloop unimportant bloup bloop absolutely unimportant bloup totally unimportant undeniably unimportant really unimportant inviolately unimportant—but, anyway. What the hell kind of a meat loaf is this? 

Part 2

But what the hell kind of a meat loaf is this? I have been more than patient!

Jules threw What? at his opponent’s feet, and glared in a way most would find frightening, but—only to find that during his instant of passing through one through five above, and what was going to come out being simply What? Unimportant and then they put their arm up again his creator took pity and plucked him on high to its eternal bosom and, Jules, after the final ? of the tiny bark of his What? echoed to nothing, he found himself dead on the floor, with no time left to exclaim, What did I do to deserve this, over a bed of hot lava flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for clinkering-coo and, so, he wasn’t there; there’d never been his side of the conversation, and, since his other ‘s conversation still remained having been, exactly bundles of white sticks bluop bloup bloop bloop bluip bloope the gathering crowd, who’d been listening to this for over five days (which however was only five minutes because they needed to be able to say to the policemen they’d called about the disturbance this madman speaking back into himself that it had been going on for five days) bluop bloup flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for bloopi bloopee bluipoir bup lou loop Clinkering-coo exactly bundles called a policeman walking past with sandwich off its lunch break of white sticks blo bui loo unimportant and then they put their arm up again over a bed of hot lava bluop bup blu loo bop over a bed of and a sequence of police/policed interactions took place hot lava blip blop lup lop lp bluo blou bundles of white sticks luop loup oop op p pe boo blu blo blo flaming bundles of superheated sticks rak for bloop bluip leading to the offender being straightjacketed bluop loup oop op Clinkering-coo Exactly! bluip loope uop up bluop blou blo unimportant and then they put their arm up again bloop blui op oup loop bloop And then they put their arm up again and taken out of sight forever and, since our lord on high is merciful and loving, bluip loope blu bluop blo bl b bp ope exactly p up oop loop bluip blpe blu bp pop uip loope brake for p up oop loop bluip bloope bluop blp bp

Hot lava oo lui loop, he did what he had to do to prevent regret and depression leading to suicide or worse in the thirteen of his chosen elect, bluop loup op p ip loope over a bed of bluop blp bp b ip b bl blo bloo bluip bundles of white sticks bloope bluo blo b bluop blou blo bl flaming bundles of superheated sticks bl bloo bluop bluop blou blo bl b bl blu unimportant He issued them all goblets of the calming quaff of forgetfulness a la Hercules herself, the movie, and he led them into his next chapter where he became man and all and all, b bl blo blu bloo bluop b bl blo bloo blui bloope clinkering-coo almighty bluop blou bloo bl b But what the hell kind of a meatloaf is this Christ which story most of you have known since birth and so, I will not go farther. Like what happens when yo’ drive round-trip a hundred-fifty-seven times. Oh, ah, oops. Six, that is.

Hey listen. Hey. Listen. But what the hell kind of a meat loaf is this?

I have been more than much more than patient much more than patient!

Of any kind let alone their very own. Why?

See! For this purpose, it is wrong to refer to anything typically assigned a zip code shared or otherwise as he or she. Or to use such phrases as they’ve got their own zip code. You would say it’s got its own zip code. Or they’ve got their own zip codes. That one—the word they’ve plus the word their that they’ve both used in the phrase—is a tightrope walk. Because they’ve, or their, could apply to objects or locations, as well as to more than one human. But it’s, or its, typically leaves out humans. Sentient non-human creatures, however, may be referred to in this way regarding the assignment of zip codes to them. (note the use of them however. Son, remember, that when pressed against the wall of the hard stop the rules go out the window—or, more precisely, evaporate into invisible smoke; which in itself is a term perhaps quite meaningless ‘cause, well, my hawsers ‘n hippos, is there such a thing as invisible smoke—hey, there; Hans Zeigler back there! Back there, Hans, I gotcha! As was suspected, you do spend far too much time pretending to play rock and roll on that no-name scroll-horned cutaway Christmas

present of an electric guitar you pretend to use daily, so that Aunt Minnie, your family’s seriously unbalanced serial gifter, got you five Christmases ago, and after the unwrapping, she brandished before you a probably fake newspaper clipping, reporting on a previously fine auntie, who after spending significant money on a jazz horn of some kind for one of the hundred nephews she imagined she had, but that were all wrapped ‘round the core of her derangement into one boy; one! One boy, who—when she visited seven months down on the boys birthday, and found that without asking her or informing her ess, not anything-ing her at all about the sale of the jazz horn, due to th’ lads lack of interest, smashed upward the root of his nose, driving a dagger of cartilage into his brain, and then doing the same exact thing to herself. unimportant and then they put their arm up again Which, after local law enforcement arrived, and the whole criminal justice whirlwind up and petered out, as usual, the boys Father got life at hard labor—for it was one of those countries you know, one of those—

An Excerpt from Memory Alchemycal

By: Sean Duffield

Their twinned hands entered the dark part of the cave. Thick with stone weathered under water jets over years of un-washed clay. They walked with backs straight, never fumbling over the crag there or the slippery chunk of wood in their paths. They walked with confidence through the darkest parts of a known beast, with smiles that would grow as the gloom stretched on into sunlight.

After an immeasurable amount of walking distance into the dolorous cladding of their personal fort and cave, a light began to peak. Its playful eyes wrapped upside down from above them, as if playing hide and seek.

The further the two entered, the friendlier the light became. Smoothing through the ceiling grooves and shuffling along the seams with joyful tailed wags. It puddled and stretched amongst the caveats of the cavern walls and soon the floor too, had it washing along. As the clandestine crawl continued, the luminescence began to grow alongside its disposition and approval of its owners coming home.

Soon the source was exposed. Olafur and Anabeila entered a surreptitious glade in the confines of their cave. Several feet wide it splayed its open source and turned the belly of the fort to bask in the light of cloud backed stars.

Flickers of lights at already adjusted lacidum were now expedited rays that drew iris’ to act responsively and pull their muscles radially to contract and close the open night sores from the gleaming light of day.

While its volume decreased, its density doubled and soon Olafur’s and Anabeila’s minds were alight with the splendour of a hidden gem amongst the Bodhi tree forest. A pool of aquamarine liquid sat inside a carved out section of cave. It came of level to their feet. Perfectly fed and dissolved by the opening above their heads. Glistening with specks of sunlight that hit mineral deposits of zinc and copper, reflecting back amongst each other the shimmer of the translucent conductivity of the surface water.

Insects and small fish zoomed about the laid back tension of the pond’s perfect veneer. Exposing languages of signatures that formed under nescient eyes. Olafur danced around the shallow bank at the side of the written encounter, it was daring to distract his eyes. Then he sat upon his rock, facing back towards Anabeila, still adjusting from the change inspired by her shocked radial eyes.

“So… ” Olafur leaned over the blue lucidity of the pool towards Anabeila. “Want to talk about today?”

Anabeila breathed in a volume of air followed by insects and invertebrate hair. She held it for a moment and looked over at her friend. Then exhaled into her mouth, puffing her cheeks out with the last bits of memories chagrin. Her eyes bulged before she rolled them over to the other side of the pond where her feet followed her, plodding along at indiscriminate pace and position. She sat down on another rock, looming under Olafur from a water body’s length away. Then she exhaled. Breathing out the confined emotions of another tumultuous day as a child in a society that preys on nothing, and demands everything, of their DNA.

“I was distracted,” she replied.

“By what?” asked Olafur.

“The insects in the conservatory. As usual.”

“You know you can make them in your forest.”

Anabeila shot rhetorical beams across the aquatic sheen.

“I’m just saying. You can bring the outside world in and love it all the same,” said Olafur

Anabeila had a knack for work in the dojo and a natural fighting figure to go along with her instinctual martial prowess. Morning classes usually comprised her throwing the other children upside down and twisting them inside out, with or without weapons on hand. But when they entered meditation and carved a trail into the confines of their quiet selves, she stumbled.

Notum referred to her as marble. Thick, strong. With providence at its center just waiting for strong hands to chisel it out. The other children called her a late bloomer. In other words. Dumb. Even with Anabeila’s lineage stretching into some of the original founders of the church of the Onus Consilium and her parents being great prospects themselves, she felt as though she was always behind. And the episodes in class were stark reminders of the truth that radiated her failures as a member of the church.

“I know Olafur. They’ve all tried to teach me several times to expose the roots or whatever. Clean the bark. I get it. I’m just not good at it.” Said Anabeila.

“You made an entire island so far.” You’re doing okay.”

“I have an entire ego to slay.”

“We all do. We sleep forever under its blankets. We just have to thin it out enough that the light falls in.

“Can we speak of something else?” asked Anabeila.

“What do you think will happen on choosing day?”

“It’s weeks away now, Olafur. Something else.”

“Well, do you think it’s true?” Said Olafur.

“What’s that?”

“The jaws of the behemoths?”

She sucked her teeth and rolled her head away. “I said something else!”

“Honestly though? Do you think the jaws will take us? Naturally. That it’s something we are supposed to just accept?”

“The proof is supposed to be the story of Muk’Til Dep. The planet that let their Bodhi trees grow like these for so long that the wasp came. And the jaws followed.”

“Yea. That’s the story. Do you believe it?”

“I don’t know.”

“I believe it. That the jaws will come one day. That our cycle will complete. It’s pretty. It makes me anxious, but it’s pretty.” Said Olafur.

“I don’t read that part much. I kept getting drawn back to The Body of the Worm.” Said Anabeila. Her eyes all stars and constellations.

Olafur turned his bewilderment to her again. “Which one is that?”

Afternoons like this would go forever. Each friend asking the same question. Each response falling under the sunsets of a lacquered sky. Whether she admitted it or not. Talking to Olafur was how Anabeila decompressed before they would start their trek back home. Through the woods. Away from the Bodhi trees that harboured their own destructions. A moment that Olafur called beautiful.

Was the Onus Consilium a church of death? Anabeila would always question that.