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Jan. 1st, 2007 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tibetanmethodCooper climbs into bed, turns out his light, and closes his eyes.
***
Flicker. Flicker. Flick. Fli--
in this haze of green and gold
It's a day when the whole world feels oversaturated. The meadow he's standing in is lined with Douglas firs that don't smell like anything at all. The world has no smell, no taste, no wind. There's just green and gold, suffusing and saturating the world until he begins to suspect he's made of color, in his stark suit and tie, in his regulation camel-colored trench.
Cooper turns, and he's got his hands in his pockets, and he fishes out his tape recorder and turns, round and round, clockwise nine times, spotting his head, speaking as he does:
"So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery."
With the last syllable he stops moving; two armchairs sit in the middle of the meadow, and in the armchairs are an old woman, and a little boy wearing a suit very much like Cooper's own. The boy has a bow tie.
Click.
"I have to record this," Cooper tells them. "So I can remember it."
The little boy shakes his head slowly. Cooper turns off the tape recorder and slides it back in his pocket.
The Douglas firs gather closer, shrinking the meadow.
"I only made it through the first rite," he tells them. "I didn't get any further."
"We need something from you," the old lady says. "You're our courier."
FLICKER comes the black and yellow
Cooper throws his hand in front of his eyes
and it's all green and gold again, and the old lady has a painting of an open door, done in red, facing him. She holds it in her lap. "Return it to him."
Cooper feels fear. "I closed that door," he tells her, slowly, enunciating carefully.
"You can't close what you never completed in the first place," the old lady says.
The little boy climbs down from the chair. In his place is a mask, a white plaster mask, frozen into a smooth rictus grin with a long, pointed nose.
"Return it to him," the old lady says. "We have a deal."
"I don't understand."
"You don't understand because you never left," she says, and turns in her chair, peering around the side.
Approaching out of the trees is Hank Jennings. Cooper stares at him, and looks down at the little boy, who's got the mask on.
The mask grins.
"Next appointment," says the little boy
and then the Douglas firs close in
and there's a smell, and it's -- it's not --
the black and yellow and black and yellow
(police line do not cross)
the smell --
***
"Burnt engine oil," says Dale Cooper, sitting bolt upright in bed, and when he reaches to turn on the lamp and he sees the painting hanging on his wall, he doesn't scream.
Flicker. Flicker. Flick. Fli--
here we go round the prickly pear
prickly pear prickly pear
here we go round the prickly pear
at five o'clock in the morning
in this haze of green and gold
(Flicker; it's black and yellow and black, hello, streetlight, how have you been, and don't mind that the circle is shrinking and the black will swallow you whole)
It's a day when the whole world feels oversaturated. The meadow he's standing in is lined with Douglas firs that don't smell like anything at all. The world has no smell, no taste, no wind. There's just green and gold, suffusing and saturating the world until he begins to suspect he's made of color, in his stark suit and tie, in his regulation camel-colored trench.
Cooper turns, and he's got his hands in his pockets, and he fishes out his tape recorder and turns, round and round, clockwise nine times, spotting his head, speaking as he does:
"So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery."
With the last syllable he stops moving; two armchairs sit in the middle of the meadow, and in the armchairs are an old woman, and a little boy wearing a suit very much like Cooper's own. The boy has a bow tie.
Click.
"I have to record this," Cooper tells them. "So I can remember it."
The little boy shakes his head slowly. Cooper turns off the tape recorder and slides it back in his pocket.
The Douglas firs gather closer, shrinking the meadow.
"I only made it through the first rite," he tells them. "I didn't get any further."
"We need something from you," the old lady says. "You're our courier."
FLICKER comes the black and yellow
Cooper throws his hand in front of his eyes
and it's all green and gold again, and the old lady has a painting of an open door, done in red, facing him. She holds it in her lap. "Return it to him."
Cooper feels fear. "I closed that door," he tells her, slowly, enunciating carefully.
"You can't close what you never completed in the first place," the old lady says.
The little boy climbs down from the chair. In his place is a mask, a white plaster mask, frozen into a smooth rictus grin with a long, pointed nose.
"Return it to him," the old lady says. "We have a deal."
"I don't understand."
"You don't understand because you never left," she says, and turns in her chair, peering around the side.
Approaching out of the trees is Hank Jennings. Cooper stares at him, and looks down at the little boy, who's got the mask on.
The mask grins.
"Next appointment," says the little boy
and then the Douglas firs close in
and there's a smell, and it's -- it's not --
the black and yellow and black and yellow
(police line do not cross)
the smell --
"Burnt engine oil," says Dale Cooper, sitting bolt upright in bed, and when he reaches to turn on the lamp and he sees the painting hanging on his wall, he doesn't scream.
