Ich habe Pläne, grosse Pläne…

Lost Highway Number 6

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I never quite understood, where exactly David Lynch gets his ideas. You know, the discontinued fragments of stories layered on top of each other and then pressed into one entity, to look like an actual film. I wasn’t a fan of Twin Peaks when it originally aired, to me the story just kept on going for way too long and I could not get excited of yet another weird turn. But Lost Highway and Mulholland Drive in particular were landmarks for me. I saw that you can actually make a great film while leaving your audience guessing. (Now I’m sure he wasn’t the first one to make films of this kind, but he’s my best reference.) Still, I never figured out his initial inspirations. Until I was myself, on the Lost Highway.

* * *


* * *

I can see the road disappear into darkness behind us. There are very few sounds except that ouf our vehicle with its noises. For a moment I believe I’m inside an armored tank, because I feel pleasantly safe. But it is in fact an ambulance. I have to lift my head a bit to see out of the back windows. Not something I’ll do all the time, since I’ve got a safety collar around my neck and further I’m tied down to the bed, so lifting my head is a task in itself. But there I see it, that collection of white lines in the middle of the road, discontinued by significant dark gaps. The median.

I’m ok, the angel told me so. Now she’s sitting in front, next to the bearded driver. I’ve been at the MRI, I have no memory of that. Apparently I fell. I have no memory of that either, but I can conclude. I’m an ice climber by definition and this time of the year we always pick it up. I fell all the way to the ground and I don’t find that hard to believe. Golden rule of ice climbing: the leader must never fall. The rule implies: if you should fall, you will get hurt, probably seriously.

I feel happy. More and more of the dark road is sucked into the darkness of the night and I’m getting closer to something on Lost Highway Number 6. The paramedics in front are in the middle of their very long shift. I’m completely dependent on their driving, I don’t think I could take another hit. But everyone’s been so nice to me today. I object nothing. I begin to wonder, would it be so bad, to always be this care-free? In a little daze?

I keep calling people. And keep forgetting what we talked about. Live in the moment baby! Images flash on my screen: faces of my friends, my climbing buddies of today. I was gonna talk to them about a few things on the way back. On this same highway. But our paths have diverged.

Ideas begin to take shape. A character in my manuscript will begin to lose her grip on reality, but how? Encountering otherworldly masters who defy any laws of physics? Or just a simple blow to the head? What was the point of lobotomy again? In essence, to make seriously ill mental patients happy again. Could this… could this blow to my head have severed a few unwanted connections permanently?

Back to my character, did I just solve a major problem? She was a little boring, to be honest. And I couldn’t create that necessary fire. But there are so many ways I can tinker with her brain, on paper. Did I need this experience to become a more innovative person? And how much more could there be, in the brains of each of us? Could we all be the David Lynches of our own life? Or just simply happier?

To my great surprise, it is now legal to consume marijuana in the state of Colorado. Smoking pot has known effects: you are able to explore unknown areas of your brain, at least for a moment. When I crashed a truck a few years ago, there was a second’s moment within the events when I was able to recognize eight separate and successive thoughts. I can’t help but wonder, what else is there, and how to extract it?

* * * 

A few days later and I’m recovering. But inside me there is a little voice asking, if I really want to, fully. I feel like I’ve just cracked the door at the back of my closet and seen the beginning of My Personal Lost Highway, the one I’ve been looking for since I can remember. Beckoning, I can almost see the child on the border between light and darkness. “Get off the ambulance!”, it says.

Taken care of by my friends. Photo: Mikko Selin.

Taken care of by my friends. Photo: Mikko Selin.


Written by Ossi Eskola

23.01.2014 klo 13:33

Kategoria(t): Uncategorized

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