These dreams are shared. Dreams of stark primary colour and furtive perversion: dreams of weakness manifested in impotent rage: dreams stolen from little boys, given to those starvelings not yet men.
"You must be curious to know. But, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you not only not to tell anybody about your find, but also not to ask more about the case. One day when it's all sewed up, I'll let you know all the details. Right now, though, I can't."
"I understand. I'm just real curious, like you said."
"I was the same way myself when I was your age. I guess, that's what got me into this business."
"Must be great."
"It's horrible, too."
David Lynch's 'Blue Velvet' surely shares in Gouldspace. Influence is manifest everywhere, in unwise love of mystery and tears for fathers stricken; in little agonies, femme fatales & mutilated victims.
The pattern is Crime, and Lawful Wrath, and the Kid inbetween.
The man in yellow teeters, a bullet to the head. One false alarm and the reflex is murder. And where is the villain of our piece? Why, he's queer as a well-dressed man with a gasmask apparatus on his belt.
The kid crouches in the closet and remembers a dream he had, of wanting to break into a stranger's room and watch them unrobe. The kid holds his breath, wondering why there is so much trouble in this world.
The prowling, growling, gray murderer huffs, ridiculous in his fake mustache. "I shoot when I see the whites of the eyes."
It is 1986. The scene is a staged multiple homicide, and the boy who sees it believes he is a man when he is able to say, to himself, with confidence: "I'm going to let them find you on their own."
The kid is not Dick Tracy Junior. The kid is not me. The kid holds his breath, wondering.
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