Though four episodes of the newly revived Twin Peaks were available last night, I only got through three. It would maybe have been none if I'd been watching alone, but luckily I have a solid Sunday night crew of fellow ladies who love Lynch to shriek along with.

I'm glad for this, especially after the terror of the first few episodes. There's no way that's a spoiler, because shit's usually fucked with David Lynch, and all the more so when he gets to do whatever he wants, with none of the regular teevee constraints that kept the horrors of the original series primarily folded into subtext, with just a few genuine scares.

One of the challenging things about loving David Lynch is that much of his work is hard to watch alone. I have only ever watched Mulholland Drive in the company of other people, and I've only made it through a few episodes of Twin Peaks by myself, though I've watched it multiple times, usually with friends who will entertain my interjections during the show's more baffling moments—and there are many. I yell at Twin Peaks the way most people yell at sports. (Don't go into the bedroom with the door ajar! Don't run into the woods!)

I know I like the new series because it makes me feel uncomfortable and confused, but also completely sucked in; thanks to the creepy machinations of David Lynch, I had weird dreams afterward and slept extremely badly. This morning, a friend reported the same thing. Though I normally get a strict eight hours, it felt oddly comforting to lose sleep over fiction. It made me realize how long it's been since I've done that, how even my sleep has been rudely hijacked by the too-real horrors of following the daily stupidity of our current political leaders.

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Last night, I slept poorly, paying no them no mind, thinking only of bizarre creatures like the monster behind Winkie's in Mulholland Drive, newly grateful for Lynch's interest in looping into the subconscious, his commitment to letting narrative unfold (however slowly and frustratingly), and of his baffling, soothing juxtaposition of abject violence and pain with an almost innocent view of good and evil.

In other words: For three strange hours, I escaped into fiction. It's nice to be reminded that that can still happen, and that next Sunday, it's happening again.