The Drifter: A New Definition of Lynchian

(All images provided by The Drifter)

“She is gone / But she was here / And her presence is still heavy in the air. / Oh what a taste / Of human love / But now she’s gone / And it don’t matter any more.” – Willie Nelson

David Lynch passed away exactly one year ago today as the Drifter writes this (January 16, 2026).

He was a man who combined two strains of the American artistic spirit within himself.

He could create a dreamlike sense of horror within his works that reaches straight back to none other than our wonderful world-genius Edgar Allan Poe.

And he also had another side to his personality that reaches back to our other artistic founding father, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Emerson was an American Transcendentalist, and Lynch was a Transcendental Meditation teacher who spent the last twenty years of his life directly trying to bring peace to the world more than making movies. There is, except perhaps on the surface, very little difference between Transcendental Meditation and American Transcendentalism. And even on the surface, there is not that much difference.

Lynch was also a Hemingwayesque figure who could write dialogue like Ernest Hemingway. (Roger Ebert was for the most part drastically unfair to Lynch throughout Lynch’s career, but he got this part exactly right.)

And Lynch even looked a bit Hemingwayesque, especially in the film of him where he is painting – we can remember that Hemingway loved painting and always said that Van Gogh and Cezanne were two of his biggest, deepest, and longest-lasting influences, bar none.

David Lynch was born in Montana and lived in Idaho for some of his formative years. Hemingway died in Idaho and spent much time hiking and hunting in Montana.

David Lynch once said, “Big things become smaller when you talk about them – unless you’re a poet.” I could cry for gratitude when I ponder this quote. He meant that words destroy things that can’t be said or that are too big for words, and he also meant that poets have a special place in the human pantheon where they can get closer to the source than anyone else.

He did not consider himself a poet, and he was not a poet, and that’s another thing that makes me love this quote so much. All artists should love all the arts, no matter what their specific focus/es happen to be. They should also become aware (by degrees) of what they both can, and cannot, do. This is a life-long process. Roger Waters said he only discovered that he was able to write prose in his late 70s.

The Drifter had forgotten Lynch’s death date somehow when he recently became obsessed with Lynch’s film Mulholland Drive again over the holiday season.

I watched the film end to end at least three times and I watched certain parts of it, like the scene with The Cowboy and Adam Kesher or the scene where Rebekah Del Rio sings Roy Orbison’s “Crying” in Spanish while Betty and Camilla hold each other and weep, dozens of times (not quite literally). Rebekah died last year, just like Lynch, and she died two weeks after singing the song “Llorando” (“Crying”) at a Philosophical Research Society screening of the film.

Many critics have said that Mulholland Drive is the greatest film of the twenty-first century and it is also surely one of the greatest films ever made, even a candidate for THE greatest film ever made. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is the only film I can think of that competes with it in the twenty-first century, and even there Mulholland Drive clearly triumphs, as much as I love and adore Eternal Sunshine. (Mulholland Drive is a faultless work of art and Eternal Sunshine is a truly great work of art with many faults to it.)

The friendship between Betty and Camilla is much more endearing and powerful than their erotic relationship, even though their erotic relationship is the most realistic and powerful depiction of an erotic relationship I have ever seen on screen. This fact alone makes this film so great there’s almost nothing more to say about it on that level. The paradox of art here bends the mind and changes the heart forever.

The Cowboy is a supernatural character. When angels appear in this mortal sphere, they often do so in a stern, or even a terrifying, guise (see the Bible, which has countless examples of this).

The terrifying homeless man turns into Jesus at the end of the film.

Diane Selwyn exists in ALL OF US.

This movie is about Hollywood, but it is not just about Hollywood. It is about the youth of every person and how youth fades and attitudes and beliefs change as this happens. We either adjust our great expectations, or we die a spiritual death we never recover from.

The crime-of-passion murder in this story is LITERAL in this story; and it is SYMBOLIC in the larger scheme of things (in many, many ways).

When someone breaks your heart and leaves you or forces you to leave them due to their possessive, controlling, jealous, and unhinged behavior, you either kill them off in your mind (NOT literally!) or you die yourself, literally or not. But you think you’ve symbolically killed them off, when you haven’t, really… (Listen to the lyrics of Roy Orbison’s song, “Crying.”)

Renee Good reminds me of a David Lynch character like Betty Elms.

Her last known words were, “It’s OK, dude, I’m not mad at you,” spoken with a deeply friendly and smiling sincerity that anyone with half a heart can understand if they’ve seen the video taken by the very man who murdered her seconds later.

I just don’t understand how anyone could have shot this person in the face, right after looking into her face.

She had a beautiful face.

We live in a time when the whole system appears to be breaking down. The current president is merely a symptom of that, not a cause, although he is surely hurrying it along, too. (We all need to remain aware, AND stop giving him so much attention.) A healthy society would never have let such a mentally challenged person of obvious bad faith ascend to the position of its “supreme leader” – not in a million years.

No one person is able to change this, or stop it.

There will be light at the end of the tunnel (as there was in Germany).

We don’t know how long the tunnel will be.

Drifter Notation Upon the Definition of SARGUN: The word “Sargun” (Sanskrit roots) looks very much like the word “Saragun.”

It’s a literary synchronicity.

If you don’t already know what the word, and name, Sargun means, and even if you do, you should look up the definition. And think about it! (And then think about the literary-synchronicity-connection to the word, and name, Saragun.)

And a repeat of the header for downloads that fail to show it

The Drifter

Animals in Motion; or, Symbolism of the Dog Reflected Back at You

(All wonderful images provided by Dr. Dale W. Barragar)

By Dr. Dale W. Barrigar

Herman Melville had his whale obsession; Hemingway had his bulls; Faulkner his bear; Jack London his dogs; Flannery O’Connor her peacocks; Poe his raven; Leila Allison has her Daisy Kloverleaf, and I have my dogs, Boo, Bandit, and The Colonel.

(Not that I’m comparing any of us; I’m simply pointing out the similarities.)

I’m aware that many people think I’m crazy because I have three dogs. Those who think this think this for a variety of reasons. All I can say is: maybe I am crazy. My dogs don’t seem to think I am (most of the time, which is the best one can hope for) and in a world like this world (this denatured society), that’s good enough for me.

My mind (not my brain) seems to be made up of one third critical connection-making faculties, one third visionary tendencies, and one third of something I will never be able to fathom, no matter how hard I try.

It’s worth considering what you think your own mind is composed of, if you have one and haven’t already done so. And to remember that it’s as much a part of nature as nature is; it IS nature.

I find great beauty in the motion of animals. It isn’t just Siberian Huskies and pit bulls play-fighting which fascinates me. The running of deer, the flying of birds, the climbing of squirrels, the swimming of octopuses, and any other kind of animal motion you care to name also does it, insects included.

For me, “beauty” means something ephemeral (or seemingly ephemeral) that has something eternal (or seemingly eternal) about it. This is the yin and yang, what Walt Whitman meant when he said, “Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself.” (Everything that’s good has a bad version of it, and everything that’s bad has a good version.)

It remains to be seen if there really is any death. If there is, we won’t know it. In that sense, there is no death. Others die, but we do not (until we do). At least half of those who “die” never see it coming. In that sense, can they really be said to have died? One second they were here; the next second not so much. We are tormented by this; but they might be the lucky ones.

Trying to live forever will always be a fool’s game; and how could you ever think this world needs that much of you? Bow your head and move on. (But when it’s time, only when it’s time.)

Nature is the key, but what nature really is cannot be known by us (yet), least of all by what is called “modern science.” Modern science doesn’t deal with the Unseen (or the untestable), and the Unseen is obviously what animates nature.

And meanwhile, the bird still flies, the whales still ply the oceans, and “man’s best friend,” last time I checked, is still just as loyal as she, he or it has ever been. (Whether they put their pronouns in their bios is a matter of extreme indifference to me.)

NOTATION of Importance: Join “The Idiot” who calls himself “The Drifter” tomorrow for a celebration of the genius-turned-saint David Lynch two days after his one-year anniversary of passing from this mortal-coil world.

(The reference to Dostoevsky’s novel THE IDIOT is also an homage to Mr. Lynch, who called Dostoevsky and Kafka two of his favorite authors.

Many people have called The Drifter “an idiot” in the ordinary American sense of the term, for a wide variety of reasons, including (but not limited to) his utter incompetence at many practical tasks which a lot of people find quite easy to accomplish.

He here uses the term in reference to the way Dostoevsky used the term (in Russian) in his wonderful, sporadically beautiful novel, THE IDIOT.

(And there are many who would call him an idiot for doing so (without reading either him or the novel), which is fine).)

Dog Action One
Dog Action Two
Dog Action Three
Dog Action Four
Dog Action Five–Boo So Nice We Show Him Twice!

Dr. Dale W. Barrigar

A New Photo Gallery by Christopher J Ananias

Editors’ note: Christopher (or as I like to call him “CJA”) has provided us with another fine collection of pictures. We believe that the beholders will agree to the excellence in and of CJA’s eye.

(On some services the header image is not included–for those of you who are unfortunate that way, I include the train a second time because it should not be missed–Leila)

Photo Gallery by Dale Williams Barrigar

 Creativity NOW

This photographic series of five celebrates creativity in our time. “Our time” means right now, because these days, things move so fast that we will be in another era by the middle of next year, most likely. It’s no wonder the world’s head is spinning.

Retreat and rejection of the madness is part of what’s required for creativity now. And that is part of the message of the first photograph.

People used to type vast tomes on typewriters. Cormac McCarthy was one such individual. Even though he was hyper-aware of the latest developments in physics and other highly developed sciences, McCarthy continued to use a typewriter until the end (2023). The model of typewriter he used for his entire life is the exact same model shown in the picture. Someone gave this thing to me, believing it was an outdated piece of junk, but also knowing I would like it for some reason. The person had no idea about Cormac. The typewriter sits there by the window as a talisman now, even though I don’t appreciate Cormac’s work in the way I once did (but I still appreciate him).

T.S. Eliot said, “Good artists borrow. Great artists steal.” The same is true for the animal kingdom. The guy in this picture would have come over and said hi to me up close and personal if I’d hung around for much longer.

The last two pictures are visual representations of quotations which encapsulate the essence of creativity now. They should be (in order to be gotten the most out of) lived with, in the manner of Zen koans. Also, there is a reason they each appear in the visual format they appear in instead of only the words. The viewer is meant to guess and speculate what the reasons are (which is part of the fun).

The difference between propaganda and art is that one is simplistic and obvious and appeals to our baser instincts, while one is elusive and mysterious and appeals to the better angels of our nature, even when it’s brutal and disorienting at first, like much of Pollock’s work.

Jackson
Tripping
Night Raid
Typewriter
Hand

Photo Gallery: Oak Park, Illinois Hemingway’s Hometown by Dale Williams Barrigar

                                                                       

Ernest Hemingway’s spirit casts a shadow over Oak Park, Illinois, USA. Along with Frank Lloyd Wright, Hemingway is the town’s most famous citizen. Even those who’ve never read a line of Hemingway’s work, which includes the vast majority of the citizenry (I would guess), are aware of who Hemingway was, what he is famous for, how he lived his life, and how he was from Oak Park. Frank Lloyd Wright is America’s greatest architect, bar none, an architect so great that he fascinates people who don’t care about other architects, like yours truly. Hemingway is an author who can be set on the shelf beside Mark Twain and Edgar Allan Poe. Indeed, if one had to pick the top three most famous American writers of all time worldwide, Hemingway is in the running for third place along with Emily Dickinson, Henry David Thoreau, Herman Melville, and perhaps a few other candidates. And he is famous for all the right reasons (for the most part). Hemingway never returned to Oak Park after his father committed suicide there with a pistol. His spirit, and his shadow, never left it. The village, the fire escape, the train tracks, and the alleyway are all elements which feed into his fiction, which is why they are captured here in a Walker Evans-style of spontaneous photography. 

The Shadow
The Village
Fire Escape
Train Tracks

Fang and Rags Wish You Merry Christmas

It should be a hanging offense to publish childhood pet memories at Christmastime.

If put to a vote I would surely cast an aye. But that only goes for the unforgivable Marley and Me type of things that some people need to both publish and read for no other discernable purpose than to ruin Kleenex and cause an overall state of weepy depression.

Perhaps disregarding sensible behavior, today I salute Fang and Rags, a canine tag team who took peculiar joy in destruction, which they routinely avoided punishment for by batting their brown eyes and sharing the innocent facial expressions (as seen in the photograph taken on a Polaroid land camera circa 1972 or 73). Fang is the brown Dachsund-Poltergeist mix, Rags the brief white ball of fluff. They both enjoyed long, spoiled lives from 1969 to 1986.

Every year, even in dotage, Fang attacked the Christmas Tree at least once, while Rags, usually more of a loud enabler than a man of action, rooted him on. It was both a source of vexation and even amusement (the smiles, however, seldom arrived before February). Nobody knew why it happened, nor did anyone bother to ask. Fang was amazingly powerful, Mighty Mouse like, and he often felt obliged to display his physical prowess, while yippy-yappy Rags had more of a role similar to that of a “Wrestling Manager.” (I have mentioned the boys’ brand of hooliganism in previous years, in other places, but it continues to remain worth remembering.)

So, to all whose trees are being toppled, packages urinated on and who exist in a constant state of unease, please remember to hold your temper and realize that you are experiencing your The Good Old Days.

Enjoy.

Merry Christmas from Fang and Rags, ever eternal at Saragun Springs.

Leila

Oh, and here is one of the boys’ favorite Christmas songs: