I grew up in the woods. I understand many things because of the woods. Trees standing together, growing alongside one another, providing so much. I chew pitch gum. On the outside, let's say of the ponderosa pine, sometimes pitch oozes out. Runny pitch is no good to chew. Hard, brittle pitch is no good. But in between there exists a firm, slightly crusted pitch with such a flavor. This is the pitch I chew.Pie. Whoever invented the pie? Here was a great person. In Twin Peaks, we specialize in cherry pie and huckleberry pie. We do have many other types of pie, and at the Double R Diner, Norma knows how to make them all better than anyone I have ever known. I hope Norma likes me. I know I like her and respect her. I have spit my pitch gum out of my mouth onto her walls and floors and sometimes onto her booths. Sometimes I get angry and do things I'm not proud of. I do love Norma's pies. I love pie with coffee.My log sees things.A log is a portion of a tree.At the end of a crosscut log--many of you know this--there are rings. Each ring represents one year in the life of the tree. How long it takes to a grow a tree! I don't mind telling you some things. Many things I, I musn't say. Just notice that my fireplace is boarded up. There will never be a fire there. On the mantelpiece, in that jar, are some of the ashes of my husband.My log hears things I cannot hear. But my log tells me about the sounds, about the new words. Even though it has stopped growing larger, my log is aware.
As above, so below. The human being finds himself, or herself, in the middle. There is as much space outside the human, proportionately, as inside. Stars, moons, and planets remind us of protons, neutrons, and electrons. Is there a bigger being walking with all the stars within? Does our thinking affect what goes on outside us, and what goes on inside us? I think it does. Where does creamed corn figure into the workings of the universe? What really is creamed corn? Is it a symbol for something else? Major Briggs, I've missed you. Only you can prevent forest fires.
Life, like music, has a rhythm. This particular song will end with three sharp notes, like deathly drumbeats.
There are clues everywhere--all around us. But the puzzle maker is clever. The clues, although surrounding us, are somehow mistaken for something else. And the something else--the wrong interpretation of the clues--we call our world. Our world is a magical smoke screen. How should we interpret the happy song of the meadowlark, or the robust flavor of a wild strawberry?
A poem as lovely as a tree: As the night wind blows, the boughs move to and fro. The rustling, the magic rustling that brings on the dark dream. The dream of suffering and pain. Pain for the victim, pain for the inflicter of pain. A circle of pain, a circle of suffering. Woe to the ones who behold the pale horse.
Sometime ideas, like men, jump up and say 'hello'. They introduce themselves, these ideas, with words. Are they words? These ideas speak so strangely. All that we see in this world is based on someone's ideas. Some ideas are destructive, some are constructive. Some ideas can arrive in the form of a dream. I can say it again: some ideas arrive in the form of a dream.