#david lynch empty places

[moonlittowl]

[denssonfilm]

[fortunatelygloriousruins]

Whispers in a Liminal Font

In the quiet pause between moments, where the familiar fades and the unknown looms, lies the essence of liminal spaces—a definition filled with promise, yet laden with unease. A hallway, an airport terminal, a bridge—these spaces whisper of movement, of change, of a destination waiting just beyond sight. They embody the hope that one day, the discomfort will give way to a new rhythm. Yet for me, life has been a relentless carousel of transitions. Each time I step into what feels like a new beginning, it quickly morphs into yet another waiting room, another corridor extending into the dark. A move to a new city brought excitement, but ultimately, it became just another threshold, another place where I felt both lost and oddly familiar. I realized that while liminal spaces are often viewed as temporary, my existence has been marked by a ceaseless series of them—a relentless cycle that doesn’t allow me the comfort of belonging. The unease festers like a shadow, whispering doubts that echo louder than the sounds of possibility. In the quest for an anchor, I grasp at fleeting connections and evolving passions, only to watch them slip through my fingers like sand. I crave a return to firm ground, but the landscape of my life remains fluid, constantly shifting beneath my feet.

As celebrated in countless artistic representations, these spaces evoke a haunting tranquility, but often lack the warmth of genuine human connection, leaving an ache in their absence. In popular culture, liminal spaces evoke not just the idea of a transition, but an unsettling beauty—a strange stillness that speaks volumes without uttering a word. Films imbued with surrealism, such as those crafted by David Lynch, plunge viewers into these uncanny realms, where the absence of human presence heightens a disturbing sense of paranoia, leaving one captivated yet yearning for connection or even just safety of a warm presence, of familiarity. In the realm of the internet, ‘liminal space’ aesthetics flood social media feeds, portraying desolate hallways and empty playgrounds—spaces that exist in a vacuum, devoid of life yet brimming with emotion. While these imagined spaces entice with their aesthetic charm, they also amplify a solitude that reverberates somewhere deep in the bones. I find myself wandering through my own empty hallways, much like the desolate landscapes captured in art, where the allure of solitude clashes painfully with the yearning for human connection. In contrast to the glossy allure of these spaces in film and photography, my reality often feels like a silent scream—an echo without a voice to answer.

There is a strange magnetism to liminal spaces—those unsettling places that exist on the threshold, like deserted parking lots in the dead of night. They’re meant to be temporary, to be passed through quickly without thought or hesitation, yet they pull us in, inviting contemplation of the indefinable discomfort they evoke. The allure of liminal spaces has seeped into pop culture, into the eerie photographs and grainy videos shared on Reddit and TikTok, the empty rooms bathed in fluorescent light, abandoned swimming pools, and back alleys captured by dim, flickering street lamps. They draw us in with the haunting promise that, however unnerving, these spaces are transitory. A temporary pause in the steady march of existence. They specially piqued the interest of the generation-z around late 2019 when the pandemic led to everything shutting down around them. This happened for the first time in a while when everyone was forced to stay inside. The usually busy places were suddenly devoid of human activity. And calling those places "liminal" provided them a much needed comfort—that it's just a transient phase, that would eventually make way for a new normal, no matter how deeply disorienting it may feel in the moment.

For me, however, they are not a pause but a pattern. My time here has been a series of liminal spaces, one after another, an endless succession of thresholds that I can never quite cross. The feeling is visceral—like I’m standing on the edge of something unknown, waiting for a change that never arrives. I am caught in the perpetual dusk between who I was and who I could be, but never who I am. The unease, the disquiet that comes with transitions, has become a permanent resident in my bones. While others move through life as if through rooms—each with a door that closes behind and another that opens before them—I remain stranded in the hallway, never quite belonging anywhere.

The pop culture obsession with these places hints at a shared understanding: the strange comfort of knowing that the eeriness will end. People pause to admire the beauty in the emptiness, to find poetry in the in-between, but then they move on, not before shaking off the chill that runs down their spines. I can’t move on. My tragedy is that I have never been afforded the luxury of belonging. Each moment of my life feels like another entrywa a building with no exits.

It is no wonder that liminal spaces are almost always portrayed devoid of people. The absence is stark, a universal truth in every image—an abandoned gas station under a buzzing neon sign, a swimming pool drained and dry. In these spaces, human presence is always missing, and I’ve come to understand why: true belonging happens only when you have become a part of a story, not when you are standing at its threshold, unsure whether to step in or retreat. In life, you find comfort and purpose when you are woven into the fabric of something meaningful, something that feels whole. But I remain forever on the periphery, trapped in the space between stories.

I think about those images often, how the emptiness of these spaces mimics the solitude of my own experience. Those photos and videos, scrolling endlessly on social media feeds, depict places where people were once present but have since moved on. They have left their mark, their fleeting footprints, and then disappeared, perhaps to find themselves fully within the next moment, the next chapter. They were participants in a story, however brief, and then they exited. But I am the one left behind, the one who does not belong either inside or outside. For them, it is a journey; for me, it is a destination I never intended to arrive at, a destination where nobody ever arrives nor stays.

Maybe that’s why I feel most at home in those photographs of empty spaces—because they are the only places that mirror my own reality. A reality where I have never fully crossed the threshold into a narrative that feels like my own. To be present in a story, to be part of something greater than oneself, is to know where you stand, to know that you are not simply a shadow lingering at the doorway. But I do not stand; I hover. I am not an actor on the stage, but a ghost in the wings, forever waiting for my cue, which never comes.

To truly belong is to be written into the story, to feel the weight and the warmth of other people’s lives pressing up against your own, merging, creating something that feels substantial, that feels real. Instead, I exist in the gaps between those moments, the spaces where no one else lingers long enough to even see me. I find myself most drawn to these places because they reflect my own existence back to me, in all its stark, aching solitude.

And so, I remain here, wandering these empty spaces that stretch endlessly before me. I am the emptiness that haunts them. If these spaces are metaphors for transitions, then perhaps I am the exception that disproves the rule: the one who stays when all others move. A ghost in a world that doesn’t know how to see me.

There is no comfort in knowing that one day, this will end because even endings are a luxury not afforded to everyone. I remain as transient in the spaces between, where the walls breathe, and the lights flicker, endlessly.

The liminal- they exist in the uncanny hours, the moments of transition between what was and what will be. We are drawn to them, to the way they disorient, to the way they feel like the pause before something unspeakable. We linger in their eeriness, the empty hotel corridors that seem to breathe on their own, the swimming pools drained of water, standing like gaping mouths. But there’s comfort, we tell ourselves, because these spaces are not meant to last.

For others, perhaps, that comfort is true. But I know what it is to be trapped in these places. I feel the walls close in, the floors stretch beneath me like old, creaking wood. I am forever waiting, caught in the grip of some invisible force, a heavy hand pressed against my chest, keeping me from moving forward. Each step I take echoes against the hollow emptiness around me, but never reaches a destination. I am the figure in the photograph you can barely see, half-hidden, blurred at the edges like a ghost who can’t decide if it wants to be seen or remain in the dark.

I am haunted by the absence of people in these spaces, not because they never were, but because they left. They crossed the threshold, into rooms with warmth and noise, into stories that welcomed them and wrapped around their existence like familiar sheets. They found themselves inside; they became something more than just the sum of their loneliness. But I am the one who stays behind, the one who cannot cross. The perpetual guest, never the inhabitant. I drift from one room to the next, never lingering long enough to leave a mark, never staying long enough to be remembered. I am the visitor who never finds a seat, the traveller whose bags remain packed by the door. I see the way others sink into the spaces they claim, their bodies folding into the comfort of familiarity, their voices rising like music that fills the air. I watch from the sidelines, my presence like a breeze that stirs the curtains but never enters fully.

Every room I enter feels borrowed, as if I have stepped into someone else’s life and can only tiptoe through it, careful not to touch anything, not to disturb the fragile peace that belongs to others. I leave no footprints on the carpet, no fingerprints on the glass. I have learned to navigate quietly, to slip in and out without being noticed, like a shadow cast by something unseen. I feel the walls around me pulse with the life they contain, a heartbeat that is not my own, a rhythm I can never match.

It’s as if I am always knocking on the door but never crossing the threshold. I stand there, on the cold step outside, feeling the warmth of the inside brush against my face, but I never feel it fully on my skin. I am always outside looking in, peering through windows into rooms aglow with light that never reaches me. I am the outsider, forever on the fringe, watching life unfold from the other side of the glass, never invited in.

To be an inhabitant is to know the smell of the walls, the creak of the floorboards, the way light falls through the windows at different times of day. It is to feel the texture of the air change with the seasons, to hear the hum of the refrigerator at 3 a.m., to know which step on the staircase will always groan underfoot. It is to be known by a place and to know it in return, intimately, deeply, as if it has become a part of you and you, a part of it.

But I am not known by any place. I do not belong to any corner or crevice. I am the one who slips in under the cover of darkness, whose name is written in dust rather than ink. I am the one who drifts between spaces, feeling the way they reject me, spit me back out into the cold air of not belonging. I am forever the guest, moving through rooms that are not mine, beds I will not sleep in, and doors I will never close behind me.

I pass through, my presence barely a whisper, a breath against the skin of a life I can never truly touch. I am left hovering in the doorway, where the air is always colder, where the shadows grow long and the light is always just out of reach. I stand there, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of the spaces I can never claim pressing down on me, a weight that grows heavier with each passing moment, each step I never take.

I am the perpetual guest, and the world is a house that will never be mine. I remain outside, my fingers grazing the doorframe, my feet never crossing the line between here and there. There is no place I can call my own, no room that knows my name, no door that opens for me willingly. I am forever in transit, forever searching for a space that will let me in, but always finding myself back at the beginning—a stranger to every threshold I meet.

And perhaps that is the cruellest truth of all: that I am destined to wander, never quite belonging, never quite seen, forever the guest in a world that moves on without me. A phantom at the edge of every story, a nameless figure passing through the pages, never finding a place to rest.

The images on social media show this over and over—the empty malls, the deserted offices with chairs left spinning, the playgrounds in twilight where no children ever played. These places resonate with me because they are my own; they speak of an existence where the story never begins. Where I hover like a breath just before it is exhaled, hanging in the air, suspended. They are empty because they do not know how to hold me, because I am not made to be held.

I’ve tried to step inside, to enter the frame fully, to feel the world with its weight, to feel alive in a way that doesn’t echo with hollowness. But every time, I find myself slipping back, back into the doorway, back into the corridor that stretches endlessly into the dark. I’ve never been part of the story, only its interruption. A whisper between chapters, an ink smudge on the page.

In these places, I see myself reflected back, a figure without form, a shadow that never becomes flesh. I am drawn to them because they are the only places that tell the truth. Here, in the endless twilight of empty hallways and cold rooms, is where I belong. Where I am what I have always been—a liminal being, caught forever in the act of becoming but never being—it is a curse I carry like a stone in my chest. I feel the weight of all the almosts and could-have-beens, their presence a reminder of every step I failed to take, every door I left unopened, every room I never dared to enter. There is a deep shame in this, a gnawing regret that chews at my insides, whispering of all the ways I’ve failed to step fully into my own skin. I have been caught in the web of my own making, tangled in threads of hesitation, paralyzed by the fear of what might be on the other side.

I think of all the times I have stood at the threshold, my hand hovering over the doorknob, feeling the heat of life radiating from the other side, yet unable to push through- I have waited for a sign, for some force to pull me forward, but it never came. I was too afraid to make the first move, to take that step and claim my place in the world. And so, I lingered, trapped in the twilight between where I was and where I could have been, suspended in a state of perpetual almost.

I feel the weight of the selves I could have been, versions of myself left behind, quietly slipping away. There's an unease in the comfort I’ve found in the unknown, in the shadows where I’ve lingered, waiting for things to change. I’ve spent so much time waiting, hoping for a shift, for a sign that would guide me toward a different path. Yet, there’s a deep awareness that these moments of hesitation have cost me something—a slow drift through time, a distance from the potential I once carried.

It’s like living on the edge of things, forever in the act of becoming, but never quite arriving. I’ve stretched myself in so many directions, tried on so many faces, yet none have felt like they truly belonged. Sometimes I feel like a ghost in my own life, passing through spaces that don’t quite fit, haunted by roles I’ve tried to inhabit but never truly embraced. I’ve held so many possibilities in my hands, yet none have fully taken root.

The passing years have carved out this space where a more certain self should have stood, leaving behind a quiet ache. The moments I didn’t seize, the chances I let slip away—they linger like whispers, reminding me of the lives I could have lived. There’s a sense that I’ve spent so much time in the doorway, waiting, never fully stepping inside, caught between worlds that never quite merge.

Yet, even in this state of suspension, there’s a quiet recognition that my hesitation wasn’t solely my own. There were forces, subtle yet powerful, shaping me long before I knew myself—expectations I never quite agreed to, destinies that felt like they belonged to someone else. The world taught me caution before it ever taught me courage, planting seeds of doubt that took root deep within. Perhaps I’ve spent more time in the pauses, the quiet spaces between breaths, because it was all I knew.

Still, I’m here, caught in the act of becoming. Not lost, but not yet found. There’s a soft reckoning in knowing that the paths I’ve walked may not have been chosen out of fear alone but also out of circumstance, out of the quiet shaping of a world that held me before I knew how to hold myself.

I wish I could say I was strong enough to break free, to pull myself from the web spun tight around me, but I am not sure I ever had that choice. I have moved through life like a leaf caught in a windstorm, tossed and turned by forces far greater than myself, unable to find a moment of stillness, a place where I could plant my feet and stand firm. I have felt myself pulled in a hundred directions at once, and in the chaos, I could not help but freeze, paralyzed by the impossibility of it all.

How could I have acted differently when the script was written long before I even set foot on the stage? When the path was laid out like a trap, a snare hidden beneath the fallen leaves? I was cast as the wanderer in the spaces between, and in that role, I felt myself shrinking, shrinking until I became almost nothing at all.

And yet, even as I drift, I feel the shame like a brand on my skin, knowing I could not have been any other way, that the world had left me with so few choices, and none of them my own. I wonder if fate is cruel, or if it is simply indifferent—if it laughs as it watches me stumble, or if it doesn’t care enough to even notice. I am left standing here, on the edge of what could have been, holding the fragments of a life that never fully came into being, the broken pieces of a self that never had a chance to be whole.

And so I am left with this aching contradiction: the guilt of my own inaction, and the knowledge that I was helpless to act. Caught in a web not of my making, a prisoner to a fate I never chose. A leaf in the wind, a ghost in the doorway, waiting for a storm to pass that may never end.

And so, I remain here, wandering these hollowed-out spaces that stretch on and on. I am the emptiness that fills them. I am the ghost that can never leave. They say these places are only temporary, that they will end, but I know better. I know that some of us never leave.

The door is always open, the light always flickering. I hear footsteps in the distance that never come closer. I feel the walls closing in like a shroud. And still, I wait, knowing that even an ending is too much to ask for.

Because even in endings, there is some kind of peace, and I have been denied even that. I am the silence that fills the gaps, the breath caught in a throat, forever suspended, forever waiting.

[cipheramnesia]

Greener Grass (2019) doesn't beg comparison to other films and filmmakers as much as demand it, and it does so in the way of many unique works of art - not so much because of being derivative, but more because it inspires the same sense of disquiet and upset, hits on the same dark touchstones, as others have. We want something to articulate what exactly this experience is like, and there are few enough artists working in the same sandbox that the first response is something like "it's John Waters meets David Lynch."

As comparisons go, it's no detrimental. The less you know going in, the better, but those two names together I think evoke the mixture of highly stylized, deep running dread that characterizes Greener Grass. It's also a movie which invites an inventory of all the surreal directions it goes, but that kind of list feels shallow. Lots of media is filled with strange events, but not very many works sell it quite the same. Still, the opening of the movie, much like the basic comparison, immediately tells you what to expect in tone. Suburban mom Jill, baby on her lap, perfect pink barbie clothes, watches her son fall on the soccer field. Her face twitches and struggles behind a wide, blank smile that will remain in place for the majority of the film as she watches him laying in the grass, moving his limbs sluggishly, as if she is staring at a dying fish. She turns to Lisa, next to her, in perfect blue barbie clothes, and asks if Lisa wants her baby. Neither woman deviates from the blank smile, they both speak almost like actors struggling to keep in character, their faces twitch, everything about them undercuts their dialog their expressions, the mood of the bright sunny scene and cheerful sitcom score, and Lisa decides she will take the baby.

Everything about the scene screams about something terrible being wrong, both in obvious and subtle ways, and that's much of the movie itself. Greener Grass on its surface is about the comfortable lie of the suburbs and the upper middle class of the USA, but deeper down, it's about the surface in general, not just about how hard and sad life is for rich white women. While the movie is utilizing that imagery and those tropes specifically, it's to a larger purpose speaking to isolation and privilege, masking and social roles we use, toxic masculinity and microaggressions. The plot, such as it is, may be one woman slowly falling apart, but the meaning of the movie is much broader and more intriguing - and most importantly speaks to the world beyond only what's pretty and expensive and empty. All the characters are in a barbie dreamland, in barbie dream houses, but no matter where they go the reality of people who aren't neurotypical or white or able bodied or wealthy or straight is inescapable. The strangeness and dread that lurks under blank smiles never lets the viewer relax into comfortable satire or simplistic center left reassurance of one Bad Oppressor and one Good Oppressed. It's a movie constantly screaming, through clenched teeth, how all of us are being forced into this performance, the pretty lie, that claims everything about the USA is perfect and happy. It's an amazing work of art, highly recommend checking it out while it's still free on Tubi, or anywhere good movies can be pirated.

[shouldiwearmyhairspray]

Finished watching Twin Peaks: The Return today, and I wanna talk about it.

Overall, as a project, I found it very entertaining and very thought-provoking to watch; there were lots and lots of moments I loved; old and new characters were a delight to see, and the special effects were amazing to witness. I don't love it nearly as much as the original series (yet), but the return an entire entity on its own, so I don't mind being so different. I think it was a good ending to Twin Peaks as a whole.

Now to the stuff I didn't like:::

Audrey Horne. I didn't mind her not interacting with any old characters, I thought It was a very interesting approach and made her moments stand out. I also didn't mind her having a short screen time, nor did I mind her acting unlike how she was in the first two seasons. But I was immensely disappointed with how... bland the scenes felt. Sure, I know some theories go to deep, dark, and meta places, but it was still so empty for such an important character. Tbh, it felt like she was underused for the sake of those scenes, and maybe that was the point, to show how some people change forever and are never the same again and that complaining about it like I am won't do anything. But still... it was weird, but not the usual twin peaks weird. Audrey felt more like a one-scene character, like the screaming car lady. Sure, not all old characters had a lot of relevancy (Jerry, Nadine, Ben, etc). Maybe it's just my Audrey fan bias showing off, but why did we need another fuckass normal storyline and not more Audrey screen time??? It's like S2 all over again. It would be cool to see Audrey have her own separate journey, trying to solve a mystery like her young detective wannabe was. To see her come face to face with some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy and some other weird David Lynch Photoshop animation.

Anyway, keep in mind these are just my thoughts after finishing the season for the first time; I didn't have a lot of research time, so maybe I'm misinterpreting everything. Maybe in the future I'll change my mind and see S3 Audrey in a different light, maybe I'll adore the concept behind her, who knows.

[bitch-butter]

pretty on the inside is driving me crazy. i have to crawl in here and let you know that i love it i need moreeee!!!

babe she's coming! finally I'm getting a break between stuff, so hopefully sooner rather than later, but here's a treat from...Something Adjacent 👀

The booze made him loose and soft as a scarecrow, and he jerked out of his fathers hold. 

“Fuck you,” he slurred, to which his father grabbed him again, this time this with his whole body, hefting his scrawny body through the open door of his truck and slamming the door before Joe even regained gravity. “You’re a fucking fascist, fuck you,” he muttered to himself, unclear on if the words were even being given their own bodies of enunciation. For all he knew it was just a long line of gibberish drooling out of his mouth.

His father climbed into the driver's seat, shutting his own door with more moderation, but pulling out of the parking lot with no less haste, a cloud of dirt cloaking their exit into the twilight. Joe slumped against the passenger door, head rolling on the stem of his neck like a deer hit by a car, eyes desperately trying to lock onto the landscape as it passed outside his window.

“Bet you feel like a big fucking man, huh?” he taunted, still unaware if his father could even understand a word he was saying, but no less attempting to grab him out of his stoic silence, the tightness of his hand on the wheel and the cool steel of his eyes focused on the road as it flew beneath them. “You know what you are?”

No response from his father as he slowed to an isolated light on this long, unending stretch of road, the emptiness of the intersection making him feel burning rage in his chest. His father would stop for a light on an empty road, like a David Lynch set they forget to cart away, because that’s who he was now. A guy who stops on a red in the desert isn’t the kind of guy that leaves a woman and two kids, now is he?

The light turned, the green faded and ancient, and he hated his father more than life itself.

Almost without thought, he reached for the handle of the door as his father made to continue on their steady sprint back towards hick-jail. The air as it rushed in through the opening was warm, summery, and he threw his body sideways into it with a feeling close to victory, sure enough that he was about to deal out a swift, hard punishment to his father for ever daring to try and be a different man. Some people weren’t meant to be better, some people were meant to rot while they remained living and then one day die in disgrace. This would show him.

The feeling of victory lasted right up until the black of the asphalt was swiftly rising up to meet him.

He came to properly later, aware only of the fact that his face now throbbed like a motherfucker. At first he grimaced, but the simplicity of the expression made it feel like his face was about to split in half, and he released a long, plaintive whine from between his teeth. 

“What the fuck…” he whimpered, childish and still drunk enough that he could barely understand anything beyond pain, being dizzy, of surely having pissed himself somewhere along the way. His face was completely numb, the rest of his body burning and heated, something propped up on two legs

“Quiet,” he heard, the noise like metal screeching in his ears, and he winced away from it before realizing he was barely capable of even that. Tipping his unfeeling face upward, more and more sensations returned to him: the ringing in his ears rounded out into the sound of water, the heavy and inexplicable sag of his body sharpened down to the strong feeling of an arm beneath his sternum. 

He blinked his eyes as open as they would go, finding them drowned with water and surely swollen, pulling in a hard, laborious breath at the sight of himself. The gnarliest road rash he’d ever seen slashed across his chest like a crimson sash, like he had been declared mayor of morons, and his legs were appropriately bruised. His underwear was still in place, soaked enough now that you probably couldn’t tell he pissed them unless you opened your nostrils up very wide. The very fact that he was standing was a relief, as it told his still whacked out mind that at least he hadn’t broken any bones. 

Then again, he hadn’t seen his face yet. 

Blowing a slobbery, anxious breath out, he wobbled his head around and took in the scene: the shower at his father’s house, the glass door open beside him and letting water splatter out from the stall and onto the tile of the floor, onto the bathmat that had been knocked askew. Under his armpits he came to recognize the shape and mass of the arm that held him up, the soft red of his father’s shirt darkened by the stream of the water, and he sagged even further into his own self-pity. 

“Dad…” he choked out, the word becoming a long line of sadness from the center of his chest and out into the hard steam of reality. 

His father didn’t answer, happy to keep his peace and simply hold his disappointing mess of a son under the hot water of the shower, the two of them locked together to this pain like the first two men to watch the sun go down. They stood, Joe braced back against him, and with every passing moment he felt more and more awake, more and more despairing, until he had no choice but to tip his head back onto the angle of his father’s shoulder and begin to weep into the steady stream of the water.

How could he have gotten here? He missed his mother.

Against the mountain of his despair his father remained unmoved, keeping still and strong in his sodden clothes with Joe balanced easily in his grasp. 

Why should he have been moved? After all, they had been here before, what felt like eons ago: a tired father with his baby son wailing desperately in his arms, the water breaking the fever that nothing else could.

[cassowary-rapture]

Holy shit this just reminded me of something

When I was a teenager, I was really into online journal sites, and through one of my Diaryland accounts, I started talking to this guy who said his name was Bryan. Nothing too in-depth; he'd just comment on my posts sometimes

I was really into movies at the time, mostly indie, foreign, or kind of fucked up ones. Ones that were hard to find in my area. The video rental places didn't really carry that sort of thing. With our dial-up internet and rickety old desktop, it took 12+ hours to download an album's worth of mp3s, so it didn't even occur to me to try to download a movie. We got Netflix eventually, but it was very new and while the selection was much better than what I could find in person, it was still pretty limited

At some point I wrote an entry complaining about how badly I wanted to see Battle Royale and how I couldn't find it anywhere. It was driving me crazy. Bryan commented saying that he owned a video store and would be happy to send me a VHS copy of it, so I gave him my address. When the package arrived and I opened it, I burst into tears. It had just hit me that it was pretty fucking stupid to give my mailing address to some random internet person and that I was half-expecting the package to contain a severed head or porn or something creepy like that

BUT IT DIDN'T. I went from crying from anxiety to crying because I was relieved and he'd been much more generous than expected. Not only had he sent me Battle Royale, he'd also thrown in two other movies -- Visitor Q and Oldboy -- and two books -- The End of Alice and Geek Love. Granted it was kind of a weird move to send a bunch of stuff about murder and incest and pedophilia to a teenage girl, but I was a very edgy, morbid 18-year-old, so it was kind of perfect

And it was very touching. I barely knew the guy. He just commented on whatever angsty bullshit I was posting and chatted about John Waters and David Lynch with me, since those were some of the few "weird" directors whose work I had access to. And yet he spent time and money assembling and mailing this little care package to me. He was just a really kind person who was very passionate about movies and excited to share that with someone who was just getting into them and starting to go beyond the sort of thing you'd see on TV or in chain video stores

I tried to look him up years later, since I still remembered his name and the name and location of the video store -- Black Lodge Video in Memphis, TN -- and came up empty-handed. But I just tried again, and THIS IS HIM. Or was, unfortunately

Bryan Hogue, co-founder of Black Lodge Video, has died

And apparently he was a million times cooler than I realized at the time, and even more obsessed with movies. What a guy. I'm sorry I'll never have the opportunity to thank him in person. But very pleased to see that Black Lodge Video is still around!! So maybe I'll get to visit someday and ramble at some random employee about what a nice thing their co-founder did for teenaged-me

icant even explain why i feel this way about it but this meme, this specific version, just makes me so emotional i love it so so much. its very heartwarming. peace n love on planet earth

[thectower]

Film Review #38: Longing

“Although the things I perceive and imagine are perhaps nothing at all…. They certainly reside, and are met, within me.” – Rene Descartes.

The closing line to cinematic mastermind John Limbasko’s new film Longing captures the essence of his latest film; an emotional portrayal of the self and the complexities within.

The film follows Drake Portel (portrayed by character actor Greg Daniels), a penniless writer, lost in a hostel in Japan.

The film opens with a start as Portel suddenly awakens in the empty boarding room of a Japanese hostel. He has no memory of the place or how he got there. But, as he struggles to get his bearings, he finds himself quickly falling in love with the young woman Yana, portrayed by Holly Yamagata. The pair are portrayed as ships in the light, passing by, a connection in an otherwise strange place.

Although it is clear Yana shares feeling for Portel, those messages become mixed when they meet. Yamagata's portrayal of love and longing without words juxtapose the cold distance she maintains whenever the pair are on screen together.

It is here where the soundtrack makes its mark. The unique talents of legendary composer Angelo Badalamenti evokes his time working with David Lynch on Twin Peaks and Mulholland Drive. He fills each scene with a strange melancholy that feels as once full and empty.

Furthermore, it lays the foundation for the film’s third main character, the hostel itself. A feeling of momentum and instability is created as each scene of the film is shot on a unique set. We are often left disoriented as we cannot get a proper sense of stability in an ever changing environment. Even scenes which take place in the enigmatic ‘courtyard’ maintain a lack of continuity that reinforces the film’s dream-like nature.

It is here where the setting and story collide. Through Yana’s heartbreak performance, she reveals that this was not the first time the two had met. He had been with her in the hostel before and the two had fallen in love. But when he left, her heart was broken. And when he returned with no memory of her, she couldn't stand to see him.And as the narrative goes on the two are able to begin to mend their relationship and fall for each other again.

But before true resolution could be reached, we hard-cut to Portel in his bed. The noise of the world outside his New York apartment overwhelms us as he realises it had all been a dream. Despite his efforts to fall back to sleep, the film continues on as Portel returns to a normal life. While this new, grounded world, one of continuity and consistency leaves us feeling both discomforted and at ease for the first time.

It is often said that the ‘it was all a dream’ trope is a cheap cliché, undermining the stakes and intentions of a narrative, but here it cements the film’s emotional goal; longing for closure that will never come. The choice to continue the film for 20 minutes following this realisation helps that feeling sink in. We are robbed of what could have been, and in experiencing that, we are reminded of an indescribable yet familiar feeling.

“Our dreams don’t bring closure. I wanted to remind you of that.” said Limbasko in an interview for Cinéma du Monde. “He’s having a great night’s sleep, and dreaming of love. But that’s not real. We want it, but we can't have it.”

Limbasko has identified the 1997 Austrian psychological thriller Funny Games, as an inspiration. Drawing from the film’s insistence on leaving its audience uncomfortable, disoriented and unsatisfied. “They don’t stop. Even when the family gets away, they come back. You feel like shit but that’s the point.”

This motif of striking deep and unusual emotional states isn’t new to Limbasko’s work, with many of his films playing with its audience’s feelings.

His previous film Etterath Success followed a domestic terrorist who spends his life planning and waiting for the right moment to plant and detonate a bomb. The film’s climax, however, is delivered half way through the film, with the second half following the emotional journey of getting away with it such a crime and what it means to lead a life after your purpose has been fulfilled.

“You know when you go out. Its loud at the bar. People are talking. Music is loud. The cars are loud too. Then you get home and your ears are ringing. Its like that.”

His short film, We Shall (Not) Overcome, was the first of his films to explore these emotional states. Here we follow Kelly Knightingale, played by amateur actress Danielle Brochevski, who begins her first day at a new job wearing high heels two sizes too large.

Its Lambasko’s continued commitment to unusual emotional resonance which has helped Longing stand out as it toured the independent film circuit. Leaving many viewers at a loss, but nevertheless with a lasting impression.

We look forward to the coming strangeness Limbasko makes us feel.

8.5/10

[dustedmagazine]

Robert Ascroft — Echo Still Remains (Hand Drawn Dracula)

Robert Ascroft is best known as a Hollywood photographer, a capturer of celebrity essence who finds something new to look at in the most familiar faces of our age. It’s a bit of a stretch, but you could think of Echo Still Remains as a series of audible snapshots, that places much lauded singers against novel, faintly noirish backdrops. Here he works with eight distinctive artists —not so well known as the movie stars he photographs, but well-established in their niches—and surrounds them with swirling nocturnal sonics.

Ascroft has a definite affinity for chilly, frictionless soprano voices. Britta Phillips whispers and insinuates in “Where Did You Go,” her voice gliding effortlessly across a moody turbulence of drums, piano, guitar and bass. You’ll get a whiff, here and elsewhere, of Julee Cruise’s disembodied eeriness. If Echo were a movie, it might very well be a David Lynch film. Similarly, the Chromatics’ Ruth Radelet sings “Faded Photograph” with dream-state serenity as synths arpeggiate and tone-washes swell. The best of these wan, romantic crooners, however, is Ora Cogan, her tone pristine but clouded with indefinite haze. She takes the lead in “Dorian Gray,” the cut with the wildest, most shoegaze-y guitar, albeit tamped down to a distant roar.

These tracks are all good, but Ascroft is most interesting when he diverges from this cooing-amidst- turbulence aesthetic. When garage-punk icon Kid Congo Powers turns up, for “Devil at the Door,” the temperature rises significantly, as primal drum beats thump and Powers holds snarling, rock idol court. And then there’s the death-droning, goth-haunted bluesman Guy Blakeslee from the Entrance Band, plunging into the abyss in “Weightless.” Nothing airy or urbane or detached about that.

Ascroft likes a couple of his collaborators so well that he uses them twice. Christopher Owens, once of Girls, puts his emotion-roughened tenor to work on driving, haunted “On the Run,” and the more pensive “Shouldve Stayed in Bed,” imbuing these cuts with immediacy and fluid phrasing. Zumi Rosow from the Black Lips belts and growls and flutters in big dramatic torch song “No One Loves You” and swaggers against a “Walk on the Wild Side”-style bass slides in “Empty Pages.”

Not much information was provided about exactly how these collaborations worked, how much input the guest collaborators had and how much Ascroft himself directed them. The artists do manage to put their own stamp on their songs, varying the textures and tempos and moods, but remaining within Ascroft’s very cool, sophisticated, noir film-like framework.

Jennifer Kelly

[denssonfilm]

[irishbreakfst]

How does david lynch manage to make his sets so goddamn Empty and creepy its like the scenes take place in an abandoned dollhouse

[theinsatiables]

“Please Baby Please” plays like the love child of John Waters and David Lynch, with the queer campiness of the former intermingling lushly with the unsettling surrealism of the latter.

But while it’s drenched in style and features performances from an eclectic cast of actors who are deeply committed to the bit, and its expressions of erotic desire can be quite steamy, director and co-writer Amanda Kramer’s film feels limited and grows tiresome rather quickly. The heightened artifice of the setting, which is so amusing at first, soon reveals itself as a superficial concept. And while Kramer’s script with Noel David Taylor includes some delightfully deranged lines, the intentional archness becomes overbearing in its one-note nature by the end of the first act. Some scenes feature characters sitting around spewing bad beat poetry, but, in time, it all feels like bad beat poetry.

“Please Baby Please” grabs you off the top, though, as a leather-clad gang of ’50s street toughs called the Young Gents dances and snarls its way through the foggy, trash-strewn streets of lower Manhattan. They kick, leap, snap, howl—a heavily winking homage to both “West Side Story” and “The Wild One”—before brutally beating an unsuspecting couple on the sidewalk with pipes and wrenches.

Newlyweds Suze (Andrea Riseborough) and Arthur (Harry Melling) witness this attack and find that it stirs something unexpected in them. Previously adherent to traditional gender roles, the husband and wife begin exploring more fluid sexual identities with a mixture of terror and titillation. Adopting an exaggerated New York accent, Riseborough is ferocious, crawling around on the ground and approaching her co-stars with an animalistic physicality. As she spends more time bantering with the Young Gents, Suze’s signature cat eye and teased-up ‘do steadily transform into a more butch lesbian look and ultimately into the sort of fetishistic ensemble you’d see on a figure from Tom of Finland. A gleefully vampy Demi Moore, appearing briefly as the couple’s ritzy upstairs neighbor, also inspires Suze’s evolution. Shifting her trademark husky voice into a higher, breathier register, Moore teases with playful lines like: “I’m a wife, but I’m no wifey.” More of her would have been welcome.

Meanwhile, the meek and gentle Arthur enjoys an unexpectedly tender connection with the gang’s leader, Teddy (an alluring Karl Glusman). A wannabe Brando, he cuts a seductive figure with his sharp cheekbones and soulful eyes, and he’s more introspective than his tough-guy façade would suggest. While their scenes together have an exciting sexual charge, they’re also bogged down with seemingly endless and banal conversations about the nature of masculinity. (A sample: “Men get away with everything. But I’m not interested in getting away with anything.”) 

Yet within this grandiose morass, every once in a while, there’s a legitimately striking moment. A heavily made-up platinum blonde stands in a phone booth in an empty parking lot. Suddenly, everything is covered in an explosion of roses—the booth, her dress, her eyes—as she sadly, sweetly croons The Skyliners’ “Since I Don’t Have You” to an unknown lover on the other end of the line. This scene is a great example of how the film’s minimalist set design results in a powerful aesthetic. The apartment furnishings are all super stripped-down—Moore’s supposedly luxurious abode consists of a bunch of fake-looking kitchen appliances and blocks in the place of furniture, all drenched in a bold cobalt blue. And the lurid lighting offers the kind of shock you’d experience in a Giallo film—rich shades of red, blue, and purply-pink that immediately grab you and hold you in their spell.

Kramer takes some big swings here, both tonally and visually, and that kind of singularity of vision is thrilling in itself, but “Please Baby Please” far too often tells rather than shows, as its characters melodramatically and incessantly pontificate. The self-awareness of these exchanges is clearly the point, but they become repetitive and wearying.

-Christy Lemire

[xanadontit]

E and I went to the bank to deposit some checks and fill out some paperwork and the place was empty save for the three very nice woman working there. I’m not sure who controls the music in there but it has to be someone’s Spotify play list titled “junior high dance circa 1991.”

I cannot begin to explain how surreal it was to discuss finances and other “grown up” things as “I’ll drink up all the Hennessy you got on your shelf” blared in the background. E and I kept giving each other “be cool!” looks and then lost our minds in the car.

This whole week has been like being in an episode of Schitt’s Creek and a David Lynch movie.

[shxllxfx]

Flirtatious || David “Deacon” Kay

David "Deacon" Kay x Street!Reader, Jim Street x Sister!Reader

Summary: Jim's little sister visits and turns the life of a special Sergeant upside down.

Warnings: English is not my mothertounge. GIF isn’t mine, credit to owner.

A/N: I hope you all like this, let me know what you think. Love you all lots 💋

Words: 2097

Taglist: @browngirldominion

Masterlist

Add yourself to my taglist!

For Deacon it was a normal day. At least what he could call normal since Annie left him. They tried as good as possible to make everything as easy as they could for the kids and they were as understanding as children could be. He stayed at the house with the kids while Annie went to her sister, who lived just down the street. It was Annie's wish. So in the morning, Deacon got up and ready, made breakfast and got the kids up for school. Annie would pick them up after. That was their routine since almost a year now. Once he got to work everything was as usual and normal as his day at work could be. Until she arrived.

*

With your travel bag over your shoulder and your favorite hot drink in your hand you slowly left the airport and headed towards the cabs. You missed LA. The burning heat in summer, the beach, and the waves and maybe even your younger brother. But if there was one thing about LA you didn’t miss it was traffic. You sighed when the driver had to stop yet again. "The traffic, huh?" He sighed. "Gonna be the death of me one day." You gave him a soft smile and nodded. "Well I surely didn't miss it." He laughed. Whole heartedly laughed. A big grin grew on your face. He was mid-fifties, no hair on his head but a full grayish beard in his face. "Vacation was that good?" You shook your head slightly as he stopped the car in front of the big compound. "No vacation. Lived out of city for some time but I'm coming back now." You paid him and gave him a soft smile with a quick thank you before leaving the cab and heading towards the entrance.

You knew these people were thorough but having to go through a complete body and back check that was worse than the one on the airport was something you didn’t expect. Another thing you didn’t expect was being escorted to your younger brother by some big muscular looking dude. "Sorry to interrupt Lieutenant, Commander. Street you've got a visitor." The guy stepped aside and gave you a chance to investigate the big room where some people were standing around a big table. "Y/N/N? No way!" Jim sprinted towards you and you opened your arms wide for him to hug you tight. He kissed the side of your head while picking you up slightly. "God I've missed you! You didn’t tell me you were back!" You chuckled when he let you down and gave him a big grin. "Well, surprise?" You shrugged before looking at his colleagues, all staring at the pair of you. "If you are busy now, I can come back later. Just wanted to see my little brother first thing." He rolled his eyes at you but then turned his head to the lieutenant, who gave him a nod. "It's alright. You wanna meet the team?" Now your heartbeat increased a bit. Meeting new people always made you nervous. You gave him a nod and dried your hands from the little film of sweat forming on it.

"So that's Lieutenant Lynch and Commander Hicks, my bosses. Sergeant Daniel Harrelson or Hondo, as we call him. Officers Dominic Luca, Chris Alonso, and Victor Tan. And lastly Sergeant David, or Deacon, Kay." You gave every single one of them a small smile while being introduced. Jim had his hand reassuringly on your back in between your shoulder blades. "It's nice to finally get to know the lot of you. Jim talks about you nonstop. I'm Y/N." The girl in the group, Chris, gave you a comforting smile. "Street talks about you all the time, too. He said you studied medicine?" You looked at Jim and raised an eyebrow. "Street, huh?" He just scoffed. "Yeah, I finished 4 weeks ago, now I'm just waiting to start practicing." Jim removed his hand from your back and gave your shoulder a short squeeze. The other Sergeant, Deacon had his arms crossed before his chest and gave you a soft smile when you locked eyes. "I'm sure you'll get a job soon." His voice made you shiver a bit, like an electroshock. "Thank you." You smiled softly and looked down. You needed to break the eye contact, otherwise you would have melted right away.

*

It had been some time since you came back and you and Jim had been spending more time together than ever. He had allowed you to stay with him and Luca at the house till you found a place for yourself and till you got a job. Since they were close as a team, they often spend time with each other, so obviously Jim dragged you along. You stepped out of the hospital your application file clutched to your chest as a big smile grew on your face. You tried to control the outburst of happiness that grew in your chest but failed miserably as you let out a little laugh. You had to talk to Jim. You needed to tell him. Since you were a little child and Jimmy and you had been sitting up all night, in the foster care bedroom, talking about your dreams and plans. His had been the police, the swat and your dream had always been working in a hospital. You got into your car an old Toyota you bought and drove to the swat compound. By now they all knew you but that didn’t stop the body and purse check by the entrance. As always, an officer escorted you to your younger brothers’ team. "Y/N" Hondo greeted you and gave you a brief hug. Deacon looked up from the computer he was working at and gave you a big smile. "Street isn't here and I have somewhere to be but I'm sure Deacon will keep you company till Street is back." With that he left and you turned around, your body still bubbling with happiness. You sat down on one of the chairs, not wanting to disturb Deacon who seemed to be working on something but your body was filled with so much energy that you got up right away. Deacon looked at you and stopped what he was doing. "What's got you all excited?" He asked and gave you a warm smile. A smile that could literally melt anyone. "Okay I really wanted to wait until Jim is back but I really need to tell someone." You took two energetic steps towards him, hands shaking from all the happiness. "The hospital I applied with gave me the job." You blurted out, stumbling over your words. Even if Deacon didn’t know the long backstory of you wanting to help people, be there for them at their worst and be there for them to get better, he could feel the importance of your statement. "Congratulations. That's awesome, Y/N." He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you in for a hug, which you happily accepted. "Thank you. I've been working so hard for this; you don’t even know." You whispered and let go of him. You were still shaking and your cheeks started to hurt from smiling so wide. You whipped over your face and as you lowered your hands you took yours in his. They were warm and rough, sending small electroshocks through your whole body. "You are shaking." He stated, applying a little pressure on your palms, trying to calm you. "I'm just so excited and happy about it. It's... I've always dreamt of this." You heard footsteps behind you and when you turned around Jim walked in. You slowly slipped your hands out of his, the warmth leaving you. "Jimmy!" You hugged him tightly and your happiness and excitement started to bubble up again, pushing aside the weird feeling the situation with Deacon gave you. Right now, the only important thing was telling Jim about your day.

*

You were currently siting on the sofa while Jim and Luca were playing a game. Hondo was leaning against the counter sitting on his beer while talking to Chis and Tan. They were fun to be around and great to talk to. "Got you another one since yours was empty." Deacon handed you another bottle and plopped himself down on the sofa next to you. "Thank you" you grinned while pulling your legs to your chest. Since the situation a couple of days ago you and Deacon haven’t spoken to each other but even right now only hearing his voice felt like pure electricity in your veins. A weird feeling you had never felt. "You are so quiet today, everything okay?" He nudged your side with his elbow and you looked up at him. With a small nod and smile you put the bottle to your lips. "I think..." your little brother slurred, putting an arm over Lucas shoulder who just won again, "I think that we should take a picture. To remember this glorious day and Luca winning against me." A small laughter escaped your lips when you jumped up, always ready to keep memories as a picture. You reached out to Deacon, waiting for him to take your hand while the others already formed to a small bundle. Chris put up her phone with timer and when Deacon grabbed your hand and let you pull him up, Chris pushed the button, only leaving enough time for you and Deacon to stumble into the picture. It was only after the flash went off and the picture was taken that you realized the hand on your hip and the other one still in your hand. While the others fussed about seeing the picture you just stood there for a second before Deacon quickly pulled away both hands, winking at you when he left you all flustered. You didn’t know if it was the alcohol in your veins or the simple fact that the warmth you had from having him next to you was gone, but something inside you screamed for his presence.

It was getting late, Hondo and Chris already left and you were just bringing Tan outside to his cab while Luca, Jim and Deacon were having a conversation about being in the swat. "It was really nice; we have to do that again sometime." Tan laughed while getting in the cab. You gave him a small smile and wave when the cab left. The fresh night air was soft and nice against your skin. The sky was full of stars. You sat down on the bench in the garden, taking a deep breath in, eyes closed. "Here you are" Deacon walked toward you, hands in pockets. He had a small smile playing on his lips. You simply had to smile back. "It’s so pretty out here" You stated, smiling up at the sky. "Yeah it is." He said. When you looked at him, he was looking at you. You felt something warm around your heart. For a brief second you held his eye contact, before looking at your hands. "Well that was cheesy." You muttered and he chuckled quietly. "But true." He was whispering so quietly that you almost didn’t hear him. For a moment everything was quiet. He softly grabbed your hand. "You should go back inside. I just got a cab and Street and Luca are going to sleep soon." You let him pull you up, till you were standing so close you could feel his body heat and you could swear that if you would have breathed just a bit quieter you would have actually been able to hear his heart beat. “Spending time with you guys has really been awesome. I understand why Jim loves you all so much.” With a smile on his lips he hummed. He was still holding your hand in his but you didn’t bother to take it away. It felt good. Familiar. Deacon stopped right in front of the door. With a questioning look you stopped as well, your eyes on him as you waited for an explanation for his stop. With a soft smile he stared back at you. “Maybe we could spend some time together. Just the two of us?” You were confused and raised an eyebrow. “I am asking you to go on a date with me, Y/N. If you want to?” The confused look on your face changed to a soft smile which turned to a grin. The warm feeling in your stomach grew. “Yes, Deacon. Id like that very much.”

[gothmikewheeler]

i’m dying to know whether you liked eternals like i’m hearing such mixed reviews about it rn and i’m not seeing it for a few days skdjhdksks

i… was really let down. this was gonna be the one mcu movie i thought i would be able to defend but it was just. not good. this was my most hyped mcu movie since endgame and i’m immensely disappointed. it’s not the worst mcu movie. like for one of these movies, it was mediocre. but i was expecting so much more from CHLOE ZHAO. i’ll give a spoiler free review.

the cinematography was gorgeous. the fact that she fought so hard to shoot on location was felt. there were actual stakes, for spoiler-y reasons. all the characters were so complex and interesting and so distinct from each other, i loved them all. adore having a really cool speedster who wears leather jackets and steals things and likes twinkies!!! FUCKING ADORE THAT SHE WAS DEAF WITHOUT IT BEING A FUCKING PLOT DEVICE. loved that it felt different from a ’normal’ mcu movie and the third act wasn’t just LOOK AT THE BAD GUY’S MINIONS FIGHT THEM.

however. horrendously paced. wHaT. the exposition and flashbacks were so oddly placed. also there were just some weird moments where we were all looking at each like okay wtf and why tf. the acting was… empty. WHICH IS OF NO FAULT OF THE ACTORS BECAUSE MARVEL WON’T GIVE THEM THEIR FUCKING SCRIPTS. HOW DO THEY ACT IF THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY’RE REACTING TO?????? the editing was wack too. this was chloe zhao’s dune prolly. like how the studios fucked over david lynch’s plan? that’s what i suspected happened. and it all just felt… like it was missing something.

like i said. mediocre for a marvel movie, but. i was really expecting something good. the critic reviews were a tad bit dramatic, but it’s not a perfect movie either. i enjoyed it, but there’s too many flaws to not be upset.

it doesn’t help that two of my friends saw the french dispatch instead and while my group came out of the theater moping, they were SO FUCKING HYPE bc it was good (i don’t like wes anderson’s style in live action tho so rip). yeah. im so fucking mad about this movie i wanted it to be good SO BAD.

[theradioghost]

Do you have any podcast recs that are super easy for those of us with audio processing problems? For me specifically that means one voice (or maybe two if they’re very distinct) and minimal complexity in the soundscaping, though if you have recs that don’t fit those that you think might apply to other people w/ different audio processing issues you can talk about those too! :)

I can certainly try! I feel as though I should put it out there that I often have a difficult time gauging where a podcast sits re: audio processing/HOH listeners; the literal entirety of my day job is being good at telling what people are saying in audio, and my own audio processing problems mostly just result in my near-inability to keep up with actual plays, so if any of these are misjudgements on those terms I apologize in advance.

* means that I know there are also transcripts available for the podcast in question!

SAYER: scifi dark comedy/horror. In a morally questionable tech corporation’s moonbase facilities, advanced artificial intelligence SAYER directs employees about their daily routines; this then turns over time into possibly the best story about AI I’ve ever heard. Especially in the first three seasons, virtually all speaking is done by one voice. (Caveat that a few other characters come in later, and they’re actually all voiced by one guy with different filters, but the filters are pretty distinct and characters tend to identify themselves by default at the beginning of every conversation.)

*The Cryptonaturalist: comforting supernatural folksiness. The titular expert on all things strange and wonderful reads poetry, admires nature, and talks about wonderful creatures like foxes that live within library shelves, stick insects that camouflage themselves as whole trees, salamanders that swim in parking lot asphalt, and Owls.

*The Hidden Almanac: comforting supernatural weirdness. Hagiographer, avid gardener, and Mysterious Dude In Plague Doctor Getup known as Reverend Mord gives tidbits of the history of his strange and fantastical world, along with gardening advice. Sometimes his tequila-swigging accidental necromancer best friend coworker Pastor Drom shows up. Written by fantasy author Ursula Vernon and mostly voiced by her husband Kevin. Extremely relaxing to listen to; the show ended last year but they put out five-minute episodes three times a week for eight years so there’s plenty of it. The first year or so actually doesn’t appear on most podcatchers so maybe check out the website.

Everything Is Alive: poignant, heartfelt interviews with inanimate objects. While there’s a different object featured each episode, it’s mostly just them and the interviewer, plus occasional phone calls with an expert on some subject brought up during the interview. Hits so much harder than you could possibly imagine given the summary. You WILL be upset about a can of off-brand cola.

*Quid Pro Euro: bizarre comedy mockumentary. A satire of the European Union in the style of a set of instructional tapes for EU employees made in the ‘90s, predicting what the EU would look like in the 21st century. Their predictions are somewhat off. Only one voice and delightfully it is Felix Trench. I don’t know anything about the EU but I still think it’s hilarious.

*Glasgow Ghost Stories: spooky supernatural. A resident of Glasgow is unexpectedly able to see the many ghosts that reside in the city -- but the ghosts have started to notice her too, and not all of them are friendly. A beautiful and atmospheric single-voice show; plus the feed also contains the very good miniseries Tracks.

*Palimpsest: poetic and haunting. An anthology series about young women experiencing supernatural happenings, each 10-episode season tells a different story in monologue (I think there are literally two episodes with other voices in them). Poignant, gorgeous, and sometimes heartbreakingly sad in the best way. In season one Anneliese wonders about the strange neighbors at her new apartment. In season two, Ellen takes a new job as companion to a supposed fairy princess imprisoned in a strange showroom in turn of the century America. In season three, former codebreaker Josie begins to see the spirits of the dead on the streets of London during the Blitz.

*Within the Wires: alternate history scifi found footage. From a world where a calamitous global war resulted in the installation of a new Society where nations and family ties are banned, an anthology of voices telling their stories. Each season is a single voice. Season one, a set of relaxation tapes deliver unexpected instructions to a government prisoner in a strange medical facility. In sSeason two, a series of museum exhibit guides spin out the mystery of two artists and their work. In season three, a government employee dictates notes to his secretary and begins to suspect a plot. In season four, the traveling leader of a secretive cultlike commune leaves sermons for her followers, and instructions for her daughter.

*Alice Isn’t Dead: lesbian americana roadtrip weird horror. Keisha’s wife Alice was missing, presumed dead. Now Keisha is a trucker, traveling the vast American emptiness to seek her out; but she’s about to become embroiled in the same vast secret war that may have drawn away her wife, and she’s not alone on the roads. Starts with one voice, adds a new one each season for a total of three. Also is finished.

*Station Blue: psychological horror. Matthew takes a job as the lone caretaker of an Antarctic research station for several months. This goes about as well as you’d predict. Very much a slow burn, strange, brooding horror of isolation. Heavy themes of mental illness based on the creator’s experiences of bipolar disorder. 

*Mabel: dark, poetic faerietale horror. Live-in caretaker Anna attempts to contact the absent granddaughter of her elderly employer, the lone resident of a strange and ancient house in Ireland. A love story, a haunted house story, a fairy tale with teeth. This one might be hit or miss; it sometimes tends to the abstract a bit, and there’s more soundscaping and some other occasional voices besides the main two protagonists. Definitely worth trying out, though, this is absolutely an underappreciated gem.

*Janus Descending: tragic scifi horror. Two researchers, Peter and Chell, travel alone to a distant planet to survey the ruins of its extinct civilization. Unfortunately, they discover exactly how that civilization died out. Excellent if you like movies like Alien, and also being extremely sad. Only two voices. Really unique story structure: it’s told via the two protagonists’ logs of the events, but you hear Chell’s logs in order, and Peter’s logs in reverse, with their perspectives alternating. The result is a tragedy where technically you know the ending from the start, but it’s told so cleverly that just what happened and how remains a tantalizing, tense, heartbreaking mystery right until the end.

*I Am In Eskew: poetic, surreal horror. Only two voices and few sound effects. David is a man trapped in the twisting, malevolent city of Eskew, where the rain always falls, streets seem to lead the same way twice, and nothing can be trusted. Riyo is an investigator, making her way through rumors and questions in search of a man long missing and a place that seems not to exist. Maybe my favorite horror media ever? Deeply disturbing and yet even the most awful things are somehow beautiful. Like if Lynch, Escher and Mieville had a terrible, wonderful baby.

*Tides: contemplative hard scifi. When biologist Dr. Eurus is wrecked alone on a distant alien world shaped by deadly tidal forces, her struggle to survive also becomes a meditative exploration of the ecosystem around her, and a recognition that here, she is the alien. Mostly it’s Dr. Eurus; sometimes you hear from her coworkers. It’s got Julia Schifini, what’s not to love?

*Midnight Radio: ghost story/romance. A 1950s radio host who broadcasts a late-night show to her small hometown begins to receive letters from a listener and respond to them on air. I wrote this! It has a total of three voice actors and virtually no soundscaping. I promise it’s good.