It was a dark, snowy day when I trudged to the cramped Plateau apartment where mysterious music man James Irwin was slated to perform. I had an appointment with death, in the form of a labyrinth-like encounter with the reality I had shirked from confronting—until now.
“Which utensil do you identify as?” I asked Irwin.
“A fork,” the stoic Irwin responded, face cracked and impassive as he reclined on the couch which had seen so many creators of ambiance before him.
The atmosphere was ripped off David Lynch’s Twin Peaks classic. Special Agent Dale Cooper had been replaced however with a couple of soft-spoken lumbersexuals sporting Go- Pros and surrounded by wallflowers bursting with sensitive virility.
The dog was half rhodesian ridgeback and half a lab. It was a very beautiful dog. Driven half mad by the solitude of part time work and his own mortality, the Irwin passively trudged through the recording studio, only to find himself trapped in the audio narrative he himself had created.
He was in a weird dream that took place in a nightclub.
Was it a lucid dream?, I asked him
“I think it’s pretty lucid,” he concluded.
– Noëlle Didierjean
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