I can’t help but wonder why I talk into this tape recorder. Theoretically it’s intended to communicate important information about my casework back to HQ, but we both know that, in reality,
1. you don’t exist, and
2. I spent at least as much time talking nonsense as expounding on my investigations.
I’m sorry I had to call us both out like that, Diane, but it’s time we faced up to some important truths. We’ve reached a particularly navel-gazing phase of our existence here in Twin Peaks, and I’m beginning to suspect the whole thing may be an exercise in egotistical solipsism. (If that’s not too redundant a concept.) I sit here and talk, and the content doesn’t matter as much as the delivery, the listen-to-me and the here-I-am and the how-clever-am-I? and all that shit. And I talk to someone because having someone out there listening is what validates my talking – in short what validates my existence, since my talking is just the way I communicate that I continue to exist. I speak, and you listen, and therefore I am.
On that front, it would sure be nice, Diane, if you posted some comments in here once in a while so I knew my tapes were coming through.
To finish my thought, the most curious part of this arrangement is how I am a solopsist who passionately requires the approval of others to continue to be. I can only conclude that I invented you specifically so I could prove to myself that I matter. Is that sick, or just life as usual for a devilishly handsome, highly evolved, be-suited monkey like myself? Is it possible it could be both?
Diane, I must remember to re-read my Descartes, my Camus, and my Russell. But not Heidegger. If I have to slog through “Being And Time” just once more, there’s going to be a few more bodies washing up on the shore downriver.