But in any case, I haven't even defined what the "this" in the second sentence even was, which grammatically should be "love" or maybe "show" but is actually "the fact that 25 years ago they knew a kid named Travis and they honestly thought his sister would take the time to track them down just to ask them to come to his funeral." Because sure, they bonded over monster hunting back in the day, but you know both of them met plenty people and saw plenty strange things and if she'd have wanted them out of all the hundreds of drifters they met while themselves drifting, she would have called them long ago, for anything that came before. You think you're the main character in someone else's life even when you know that you aren't.
What this has to do with what I was thinking about the other day is really just the peripateticness of it all, the way people slide in and out of each other's places until one day a memory executes (to carry out, to put into effect--execution of the 1s and 0s variety, not the other kind--the skin against shard of a whiskey bottle against fat against gristle against bone kind) and you are seven hours through the night to a beautifully outdated motel, outdated even 25 years ago, adorned in the 70s like it's been waiting for you, just like that, since the day you were born (or maybe it's 50s--what do you know about
Intelligent DesignMaybe it's been waiting for you since your father, since your mother). It's been waiting for you.
And I love this show because of the wallpaper, the doors that open into spaces they're not supposed to because of course they do; that's how the game works--or doors that don't open at all and never matter because you know where they lead. You know where the not-supposed-to doors lead, too, but it's easier to pretend you don't. The doors prefer it; sometimes you do, too. You'd rather walk through than not, in any case, and at this point it's all kind of the same thing. I love that shot from the diner, where you can see everything behind the counter, crammed with things on things no one who walks through the doors is every supposed to see.
All week I've kept getting that quickening feeling, that something is there that I love--and it's rarely the thing I'm actually doing, or watching. It's just that feeling, apropos of not much, explicitly related to even less. Formless and unreferential and it's always you, isn't it. This show--there whether it's there or not. I cherish you. ♥
P.S. It's baba yagá, with the unstressed syllable diminishing to more of a 'ye.' :)
P.P.S. Okay, I had to go back and screenshot the diner scene because I love it so much. Like, "the light pollution shot of the 8x01 motel" levels of much.
I just love that you can see all the stuff stuffed into the cubbies of the counter, the things that make the world of this diner work, that replenish when they need to be and get tucked into carryout bags and come to this address in boxes by the gross. I love the contrast between these cubbies and the prim white tables and white vinyl and every unused white cup sitting on its white napkin. And all the tabasco bottles and BBQ sauces huddled together on the shelf where all these leading lines lead, like the opposite of stars aligning. And what even IS the stuff on the middle shelf. What a great little diner! With iceberg lettuce and ranch.