Killed by a book, she said.
My maternal great-grandfather, George Washington Lukehart — the one who lived over 106 years — used to sit for hours reading his newspaper, a few inches from his nose while his spectacles were pushed back to the top of his grizzled head. As a small child, I would watch him in his rocking chair near the wood-fired stove as he read, only occasionally muttering something to the dog.
I, too, at much earlier age than G.W., have found that reading small text in newspapers and books and magazines often requires bypassing my glasses for a closer view. And this can only go on for about half an hour before blurriness and watering eyes set in. Enter the Kindle. By cranking up the font size and taking advantage of the device’s built-in lighting, I have found that I can read for at least two or three hours at a stretch in comfort. With glasses.
Which brings us to Room to Dream, the 2018 hybrid biography/autobiography of filmmaker and multifaceted artist, David Lynch, co-written with former LA Times critic Kristine McKenna. I had started to read this nearly 600-page work a year ago, shortly after its release, but had to share time with Kim on her Kindle. As the book was an electronic library loan, I never finished before it disappeared into the ether. So when I recently acquired my own Kindle, I re-downloaded it and started again. But my allotted time was quite short, and I had to play it off against other downloads that were also about to expire. So this weekend, with it set to automatically disappear from my device yesterday, I went on a reading binge. Racing against deadline, I completed it just before midnight. A late and non-customary time for me.
Kim is a very early riser (perhaps because Charlie’s schedule becomes her schedule) and I try to get into some sort of reasonable sync with her, usually unsuccessfully. This means my own target bedtime is in the 9 – 10pm range. Midnight means that I cannot possibly function until eight or later the following morning. But this morning Kim had made plans for an early morning hike at Bennington Lake or Mill Creek, and when I heard her crashing about at 7:30, I groaned and told her that I was, for all practical purposes, dead. She laughed and remarked about the end result of my reading spree, giving rise to the title of this lament. Killed by a book, she said.
The book itself? An utter marvel. I’ve loved David Lynch ever since his classic 1967 “Eraserhead”, and count “Mulholland Drive”, “Blue Velvet”, and “Elephant Man” as some of the finest movies ever. Maybe my single most-favorite work is his comic strip “The World’s Angriest Dog”. And his music, like the “Crazy Clown Time” album and collaborations with singer Chrysta Bell, have special spots in my music collection. And don’t forget his TV series, “Twin Peaks”. David Lynch, true renaissance man, these things only scratching the surface of his range and output.
(I must admit that I only know one person who shares my enthusiasm for Lynch: my friend, artist and filmmaker Lucas. Are there others?)
[rDay Fourteen-Hundred-Seventy-Four]
