I still think about David Lynch an awful lot.

Which makes sense, since his form still reaches well beyond the grave through the medium of the internet. Often is the time I will be doomscrolling Instagram and encountering the good man saying this, that or the other wildly out of pocket thing. But these are glimpses of a person, as if seen as a reflection in a window. 

Truth be told, my appreciation of his work is partial at best. Despite years of trying, Mulholland Drive still befuddles me, though Twin Peaks I will take as a wave crashing over me, drowning in and simultaneously savouring the mysteries of this odd creation. 

But this is not about his works, it’s about the man. In every behind-the-scenes and interview I’ve ever seen of the man, he seems unbothered by expectations others put upon him. A question asked can remain unanswered, advice given can be as direct as an arrow. There is very little sugarcoating, very little beating around the bush – the work stands on its own merits and explaining it would merely reduce it to parts.

Note that I of course never even so much as met David Lynch, so of course I’m making some assumptions and drawing conclusions from third hand sources – forgive, I’m human. 

And yet, even after all this time after his passing, listening to the ones closest to him regale us with stories of working with him, no scary stories have reared their ugly heads, so I will leap of my faith my way into believing that David Lynch simply was That Guy. 

Not that it matters if he wasn’t, he’s an abstraction to me. A concept of a type of creative person that I strive to be. Much like we can’t truly know God yet still pray to Them, perhaps it’s not so bad to hold up the spectral figure of a person one admires, a point in the distance to strive to, the dot on the horizon.

That dot is authenticity. 

Lately, I’ve become obsessed with authenticity. Truth be told, investigating my own mind reveals that I’m not even that sure of why I’m that obsessed with it. Partially it’s the rise of AI and with it the amount of content online and in the world that was not conceptualised or created by a human being. But also, in all honesty, as my age is slowly ticking up and the spectre of mortality is creeping up on the conscious parts of my mind, I find I have less and less patience for niceties. 

Time on this planet is a premium, I do not wish to waste it with those who only seek my company to get something out of it. Not that that happens in my personal life very much, but professionally certainly I see it. 

My coworkers will often find me to be blunt, rude even. And that’s fine by me. I’m not a Machiavellian mastermind playing games, keeping friends and enemies close so as to further my agenda. Who cares. I want to live. 

Those who accompany my journey on this mortal coil should do so because they want to, as should they expect from me. And it’s in those circles that a true bond of understanding and love is created. 

The same is true for art. My mind carries little to no room for fuck-around art. I don’t think it shouldn’t exist, as I’m sure it connects with someone on the right level, I just refuse to waste my time on it. Art is based on creating connections with the audience – creating something that cannot be spoken aloud and drawing in those who can sense what is being expressed. It brings people together and lets us know we’re not the only ones carrying this burden.

David Lynch created many such things. I can’t explain much of his work, but I can feel it. And I can feel it in those who also admired his work and his ethics surrounding that. 

I think about that an awful lot.