Saragun Springs

Snow at Twilight by Nick Young

He tried to move as little as possible, shifting only enough to wrench free his right hand which the fall had left partially pinned underneath his backside. The pain in his left leg was excruciating, sending blinding white light pulsing behind his tightly closed eyes. The leg was grotesquely twisted and broken. He knew without looking that the fracture was compound and he could feel he was losing blood.

Opening his eyes and turning his head slowly he saw the sky above, darkening, the angle of the sun slanting very near to the horizon. There was perhaps an hour of light remaining. He wondered if that much life was left to him.

It began to snow, a sifting of fat listless flakes. Through the haze of pain his memory flashed on a snow globe his mother had long prized—tiny Currier and Ives Christmas carolers gathered beneath a street lamp, silent mouths open wide amid the swirling blizzard. He winced and let out a low moan, one that carried as much despair as agony.

The unyielding granite wall of the fissure pressed hard against the left side of his face. It was a cold reminder that in a heartbeat his life had pivoted irrevocably. Such an event was no longer either an abstraction or a fiction’s plot device  It was an errant step on a mountain trail he had traversed before, a small patch of friable rock. His footing lost, down he plunged, thirty feet  until trapped by the narrowing vee of the crack. And as he struggled to raise his right hand—almost surely broken—to brush the falling snowflakes away, he silently cursed his folly.

It was to have been a late-afternoon hike, just above the tree line for twilight pictures of the rising late-October moon, then down and home. He was no back country tenderfoot: he had made the trek before, more than once; but this time he allowed his judgment to be clouded by hubris. He would forego anything he did not deem vital. For such a short trip, this time he would take only a bottle of water, a handful of trail mix and a camera. Nothing more. The cell phone that could have been his salvation he had locked in the glove compartment of his Jeep a mile down the mountainside. There would be no rescue—there could be no rescue. His wife would not grow worried until well after sunset and it would be hours more before a search party found him. By then he would be gone, bled out or frozen.

So now, with each throbbing stab from his shattered leg, he could see before him with great clarity what most men are not privy to—the imminent coda of his life. In the crepuscular light he marked the snow’s quickening descent. He thought of his parents, relieved that neither of them was alive. His mother, especially, would have had her heart broken to know her son had died so young and in such circumstances, mortally injured and alone on a mountainside.

He was her first-born and she had idolized him as the pride of the family—from his glory days as a star athlete and student in high school through law school at Yale, marriage to a beautiful, intelligent woman, two great kids embarking on their own lives in the world, partner in a fine law firm, the respect of his peers. At the age of fifty, he’d had the world knocked.

All thrown away.

As his life ebbed with the light of the day he was brought through the pain to take stock of himself. Yes, there were his many successes, what the righteous among his parents’ church-going friends would term “blessings,” but he knew there was deep within him a singular, poisonous moment that he could neither erase nor atone for, a sin that ate at his core during his darkest hours of self-doubt and loathing. And he knew that he would soon leave this world with the stain still on his soul.

It was a beautiful, mild day in early September, one that brought a respite from the summer’s oppressiveness. He always remembered that clearly—the sunshine, the gentle breeze stirring through the branches of the big willows that flanked the family farmhouse. He was eleven years old, just home from school and ready to ride his bike up the road to the next farm to play baseball with the neighbor boys. His father was in the fields, his mother at the kitchen sink preparing the evening meal when he spotted the dog slowly trotting up the long gravel lane leading to the house. He’d never seen the animal before. It appeared to him to be a border collie, with mangy dark-brown fur, its head hung down and tongue out. As it angled off the driveway and up toward the front of the house, he leaned his bicycle against the wall of the garage and quickly followed.

His mother had also seen the dog and by the time he reached the porch, she was at front door trying to shoo it away.

But it wouldn’t go. It backed up a step or two with each wave and shout, then moved closer again. He could see by the dog’s matted, dusty coat that it was not someone’s indoor pet. His mother had brought with her a broom, opening the door enough to try to push the dog back and send it on its way. But it would not leave, instead sitting back on its skinny haunches and looking at his mother with pleading eyes. It was clear it was hungry—for a bit of food and a small measure of human kindness.

He called out to his mother to give him the broom, and when she handed it to him, he began to swat at the dog in an attempt to force it off the porch. Still, it would not go, bearing up under his swings, by circling around and beginning to whimper. For a reason he never fathomed, his mother found this amusing, chiding him to stop harassing the poor animal while snickering at the same time. This caused to well up within him a delight and he renewed his blows, turning the broom and using the handle to beat the dog. The poor creature’s distress, its pitiful yelps, only fueled his mother’s mirth and his inchoate fury. At length, after landing several hard blows, the dog retreated, ran off the porch and back down the driveway.

He handed the broom to his mother, who made a small show of her displeasure with him, but her insincerity was thinly veiled and he quietly reveled in the satisfaction his act—and her response—had given him.

The dog did not return,and through his youth he gave the episode no thought. But as he grew into manhood, it returned, shadowing his dark days, rising up to haunt his dreams.

Now, as cold and pain gripped him, he saw the creature again—hungry and tired and lonely, asking so little yet receiving only brutishness.

Why had he succumbed so readily to cruelty? Why?

Clouds had drifted over the moon as it edged past the lip of the crevice, casting down a dull ivory glow. The snow was falling heavily. No longer did he bother to brush it from his face but closed his eyes and wept.

Nick Young

(Image by Leila)

Domestickery by Geraint Jonathan

I did not, of course, get round to building the table, any more than I got round to fixing the faucet on the kitchen tap. The wood was ordered, paid for, but remained in a heap in the corner of what Libby laughingly called my “workshop”. The faucet, on the other hand, proved resistant to every effort I made, and there was no lack of effort. But drip on is what the tap did, and continued to do for the duration. A dishrag or sponge sufficed to cushion the sound but this in itself proved remedy enough to acquire the trappings of parable. So Libby saw it. The table, after all, would have been just that, another table, one to replace the table we already had; or an extra table. Not so the tap. The tap was something else entirely. A leaking faucet, no matter how silenced by dishrag or sponge the drip of water, tells a story all its own, a fathomable one, muted, terrifying in its lack of promise. There was every getting away from it; two ways about everything. That Libby laughed on saying a word like “workshop” is testament to her endurance, and much else besides.

Geraint Jonathan

Is There a Hell by The Drifter

(All images provided by the Drifter)

Is there a hell?

I generally don’t believe in hell until I think of someone like J. Edgar Hoover and what he did to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Perhaps one of the most egregious things he did was send King a letter right before Martin was scheduled to leave for Norway to accept his Nobel Peace Prize.

It was an anonymous letter.

It started by stating that the letter-writer would not address King by the titles of Mr., Dr., Reverend, or any other honorary title because Dr. King didn’t deserve the respect.

J. Edgar pretended to be a black man who was writing the letter.

And in the letter he projected on Dr. King a whole host of perversions and sexual excesses that are clearly the fantasies of none other than J. Edgar Hoover himself, having absolutely nothing to do with what King himself had ever done.

The letter repeatedly calls King “a beast,” which is not a term a black man would likely have used to describe another black man, even if he hated him.

Hoover also sent the letter to King’s wife.

When Coretta opened the letter (which was of course accusing Martin of adultery of various kinds) in front of Martin then handed it to him, Martin looked at it and immediately said, “This is from Hoover.”

The letter also threatened to expose Dr. King to the world for being a sexual pervert even though King hadn’t done any of the things he was accused of doing in the letter.

Martin outsmarted Hoover at almost every turn, which was probably one of the many reasons Hoover hated King so much.

But the pressure got to Martin.

Being followed around, being wiretapped all the time, and now being sent this hideous composition from the madman could not have helped but make Martin feel paranoid, pursued, unjustly accused (of course), hated (for no reason), hounded by the devil. By the devil himself.

Hoover was a repressed, hateful and hate-filled man who also worked hard to kick Charlie Chaplin out of the USA, and finally succeeded in getting Charlie kicked out of the country.

Hoover justified all these horrors to himself by claiming that he was protecting the United States from ne’er-do-wells, radicals, revolutionaries.

He was not protecting the United States. He was helping to damage and ruin it in some ways like no one had ever done before.

He clung to power for 48 years.

Once Martin started to try to end the war and bring all poor people together in solidarity no matter the color of their skin, Hoover and all the others like him had had enough.

Last time I checked, the King family did not believe that James Earl Ray acted alone.

I do not believe it either.

(Neither did James Earl Ray himself, who repeatedly stated that he did not act alone.)

If there is a hell (and I’m not necessarily saying there is one), J. Edgar Hoover is in it.

…

John Meacham, the brilliant historian and biographer, recently told Charlie Rose in an interview that the reason Abraham Lincoln was great was because, at the critical moments, old Honest Abe always chose to do the right thing. Even when it was at great cost to himself.

Martin Luther King, Jr., did not choose greatness. He had it thrust upon him at the young age of 25. No one else could do what he did, because no one else had his talents to do it.

He had greatness thrust upon him.

But he always answered the call.

…

In his Nobel Peace Prize lecture in Oslo on December 11, 1964, Dr. King said: “Violence is impractical because it is a descending spiral ending in destruction for all. It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding. It seeks to annihilate rather than convert. Violence is immoral because it thrives on hatred rather than love. It destroys community and makes brotherhood impossible. It leaves society in monologue rather than dialogue. Violence ends up defeating itself. It creates bitterness in the survivors, and brutality in the destroyers.”

He also said, at another time, “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.”

He also said, “If a man hasn’t discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.”

…

I guess I don’t believe in hell, or definitely not the kind of hell where God officially sentences you to be burned alive forever, tortured in flames for the rest of all eternity. If I believed that kind of thing, I would probably spend even more time than I already do having various kinds of panic attacks.

But I’m not so sure there isn’t a hell where He makes you SEE, finally see, really see, just what it was you did and were doing during your tenure here on Planet Earth.

Maybe He makes you see and finally care.

(A Rather Demonic Drifter!)

The Drifter

Alice in the Undyrwold by Geraint Jonathan

(Editor’s note: Geraint is one of the truly intelligent and productively enigmatic writers at work today. Further proof of that statement comes your way now–Leila)

According to Alice there are more things in Leavenworth than are dreamt of in your winsome motley of osophies and ologies, not to mention the sundry little isms such ologies and osophies spawn. Saying which, Alice departed, leaving me to deal with what was known in the circles I was going round and round in as “everything”. The everything in this instance comprised all that remained of Alice’s recent descent into the Undyrwold – from which she had emerged not only unscathed but triumphant. Her unfurrowed brow was a wonder to behold. Indeed she radiated the rare calm of one who has seen the very dregs of h.sap up close and lived to half-smile at the memory. She had conversed with some of the world’s worst criminals – let alone worst conversationalists. She had gazed on Dead Persons’ Tree in Slabtown’s Crowbar district and spoken with those whose names were on said Tree. Persons or persons unknown were known to her personally. Indeed the roll-call of miscreants encountered might suggest that a Very Large Rock had been moved, leaving all that lived under it free to crawl out into what passed for light.

Geraint Jonathan

(Image is of Miss Izzy who divides her time being lovely and driving me out of my mind with annoyances; such being definitive of the Feline species–Leila)

Menopausal Male Bombshell by Michael Bloor

Alan had won second prize in a writers’ magazine poetry competition for his ‘Ballad of the Menopausal Male.’ The postman had just delivered the prize, a copy of The Chambers Thesaurus (5th edition).

As Alan hefted the thesaurus in his hand, he recalled that, in what used to be termed The Dark Ages, poets were feted and richly cosseted in the courts of Kings and Great Lords. When Gunnlaug the Worm-Tongue* (‘worm’ as in snake), the great Icelandic skald (= poet) was presented to the English king, Ethelred the Unready, Gunnlaug chanted four lines in praise of the king and was rewarded with a gold-thread-embroided, fur-lined cloak and was invited to spend the entire winter at the royal court.

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Life with Angie by DC Diamondopolous

My sister Angie gives me outrageous material for my standup comedy. She’s a bona fide nut case, a paranoid schizophrenic, bipolar, manic depressive—you name it—Angie fits every disorder that isn’t wired to reality.

The voices inside her head tell her to run from anyone trying to help her—except me. I take my sister’s sorry existence, find the humor in it—in the loonies of my own mind—and make people laugh. Do I feel guilty? I’m half Jewish, half Catholic. Humor is my way of coping. Hell, I’m a female stand-up comic, and there’s no higher hurdle in show business.

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My Mother’s Last Tongue by Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

My father acquired a million bullet holes,

withered like a sick flower while standing,

struck by a swift lightning in the afternoon.

I asked him why our dog licked his wounds

and spat on his white jacket.

I asked him why the parrot flying overhead

dropped bags of excreta on his forehead

and he wore his shame like a retreating wind

across his shrunken, weathered face.

He went to several wars, including the war

where our village masquerades unveiled a threat

about the looming massacre of our women;

my father was among the few brave men

who carried cassava leaves like the women

and defeated the men bearing a thousand arms.

His alignment with bravery was so deep

that there could be no cleavage for weaknesses.

My father was not breathing; he was not speaking,

though standing was quite a shrill lament.

He stared at me with eyes like stones in a river,

like the sediments of sand in a ray of light,

bloodshot, dead strawberries and dried peaches.

He grabbed a piece of white paper

and scribbled the history of his death;

your mother has a sword under her tongue,

a sharp knife, a blazing blade, a spade

white like the spiked diamonds of alluvia,

when it cuts, it’s deep and raw, that death

cuts off many deserts to arrive on time.

The fish is swimming in a murky meadow

with the fevered flourish of a flushing effect.

It’s the flint of a stone, the cinder and the salt,

scraping the outer surface of my body,

leaving me raw, wet, naked and bony,

in the cravings of the sun or the consumption of air,

in the fire, eating up the dreams of our ancestors.

In the dream, crushing the heart into blackberries,

your mother’s tongue is a caterpillar and a grasshopper

dredging every blood, emptying every intestine

into vessels meant for ghosts and spiders,

where I wear dust and sand as a survival suit.

I was a butterfly buzzing around my father,

thinking of my mother’s tongue every day.

Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

(Image is a of a curious friend who lives in the Illahee Preserve in Kitsap County, Washington, USA)

A One Act Play: Culture Clash by Gary Beck

(The image is of Mr. Beck)

(Editor’s note–Gary is the first playwright to submit to us and his high caliber work is certainly a welcome change of pace. We are open to all arts that can be transferred into this slightly less than perfect yet still appreciated forum. If any errors are made–or, actually, when such occurs, please do not hesitate to let us know. Really it is all about the work, but the little vexations, those irksome thisses and thats will always subjected to correction whenever possible–Leila)

Scene: The outdoor dining area of an East Village, New York City restaurant.

Enter three men in their late 20’s. They sit at a table.

Characters: Greg – White,

Reggie – Black

Edgardo – Hispanic

Jennifer – White

Nina – Hispanic

Greg: I don’t mind losing. I just can’t stand the way they knock me around.

Edgardo: Aw. Stop complaining, Greg. If you tried a little harder, we wouldn’t

get beat so bad.

Reggie: That’s easy for you to say. You were an athlete in college. Greg and I 

are techno-wizards. We shouldn’t even be playing basketball.

Greg: That’s for sure. I don’t know why we let you talk us into this.

Edgardo: You know why.  It gets us out of the IT department twice a week, with

a nice dinner paid for by the company, and a week’s paid

vacation at the end of the tournament.

Greg: Alright. We know that.  But why basketball? You should have 

picked a company sports league where at least we’d have a chance. We

 go home with aches and bruises every time.

Edgardo: Mira. They don’t have badminton or lawn croquet, my feeble friends.

All you gotta do is learn to get out of their way when they have the ball.

When you have the ball, just run past them and shoot as quick as you can.

Reggie: You better tell it to them. That asshole from legal kept hitting me with

his elbow whenever he was near me. Even when the play was over. I 

think I have a cracked rib.

Edgardo: Don’t be such a wuss, Reggie.

Greg: Is he a wuss because he doesn’t like being hurt?

Edgardo: They hurt me too.

Reggie: It doesn’t seem to bother you as much as it does us.

Edgardo: It hurts me. I just don’t make as much of a fuss about it.

Greg: Why can’t we have a video game league?

Reggie: Yeah. We could really kick ass.

Edgardo: That’s exactly why nobody else wants it. They know they wouldn’t

stand a chance.

Reggie: We don’t have a chance in basketball. Is that fair?

Edgardo: We entered for a reason. You seem to be forgetting that. Listen. I’m a

reasonable guy. You know what’s at stake. If you want to stop it’s okay with me. (Reggie and Greg reluctantly shake their heads no.)

Greg: We’ll finish, Edgardo. We’re just tired of all their name-calling. That fat,

hairy slob of a lawyer kept elbowing me and calling me a faggot. I keep

trying to trip him, but he always avoids it, then elbows me hard.

Reggie: He did that to me too, except he called me a black faggot. He doesn’t wear

a shirt and got his sweat all over me. We shouldn’t have to take that shit.

Edgardo: Hey, guys. There are only two games left. Let’s be cool and get through

them. If you don’t want to do it next year, we won’t.

Greg: I don’t know if I can take two more games.

Edgardo: Don’t be a girlie-man, Greg. We don’t have to play against the Neanderthal

lawyer again. The last two games are with accounting and sales. The 

accountants won’t be too physical. You guys can handle them.

Greg: Maybe. But those salesmen are animals. They must smoke crack, or take

something that makes them so aggressive.

Edgardo: Enough for tonight. Let’s relax and change the subject.

Greg: Hey.  Look at those two girls coming this way.

Reggie: They’re great looking chicks.

Edgardo: Don’t get your hopes up. They’re probably N.Y.U. dykes.

Greg: You’re crazy.  They’re beautiful.

Edgardo: That doesn’t mean anything these days. They could be lipstick lezzies.

Greg: What’s that?

Edgardo: That’s when both girls are feminine.

Reggie: What are N.Y.U. dykes?

Edgardo: The school has a reputation because so many lesbians go there lately.

Reggie: How do you know all that?

Edgardo: If you take your head out of your Blackberry once in a while you’d know

what was going on…. I’m going to talk to them. (Enter Jennifer and Nina.)

Hey, girls. What’s happening? (They ignore him and start to walk by. He

leans over and stops them.) What’s the matter? Are you too good to talk to us?

Jennifer: We’re not interested.

Edgardo: We just want to talk. Don’t you like men?

Nina: As a matter of fact, we don’t. Now fuck off.

Edgardo: No need to cop an attitude. I was just being friendly.

Nina: Save it for your asshole buddies.

Edgardo: You got some mouth on you. Didn’t your momma ever teach you any

manners?

Nina: Not as far as pigs are concerned.

Edgardo: There’s no need to be so insulting.

Jennifer: Then next time don’t stop us, asshole.

Edgardo: You’re beginning to piss me off.

Reggie: Take it easy, Edgardo. Let them go.

Nina: That’s right, Edgardo. Listen to your sissy friend.

Reggie: Why are you insulting me? I didn’t say anything to you. I just tried to 

cool things.

Nina: You’re with him, aren’t you? Pigs always hang together.

Greg: (To Nina.) Don’t you think you’re over reacting? We’re not looking for

trouble. We just wanted to talk to a couple of good looking girls.

Jennifer: Well we are a couple, but we don’t like low-life male come-ons.

Reggie: How are we supposed to know? It’s not as if you’re wearing a sign that

says women only.

Jennifer: Then you should keep your mouth where you keep your brains, right 

between your legs.

Edgardo: It’s a waste of time trying to be polite to them. Keep moving, bitches.

Nina: Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?

Edgardo: A couple of dumb dykes. The same way they talked to us.

Jennifer: Forget it, Nina. It’s not worth hassling with them. Let’s go.

Nina: And just take their shit?

Edgardo: (To Nina) Listen to your wife.

Nina: (To Jennifer) I should kick his ass. (Edgardo laughs)

Reggie: (To Nina.) Your friend is right. Let’s forget it.

Nina: The dominant black man isn’t so tough now.

Greg: He’s trying to apologize before things get out of hand.

Nina: (Pointing to Edgardo.) Let him apologize.

Edgardo: For what? Trying to talk to a girl who turned out to be a guy in drag?

Nina: One more insult and I’ll punch you in the mouth.

Edgardo: Beat it, butch, before you get hurt.

Jennifer: (She tries to lead Nina away.) Come on, Nina. We don’t need this.

Nina: The fuck we don’t. (She throws a punch at Edgardo, who ducks,

then mocks her.)

Edgardo: Is that all you got, little boy? Try again.

Jennifer: (She grabs Nina’s arm, who shrugs her off.) Don’t, Nina. Let’s go. (Nina moves closer to Edgardo and swings again. This time he blocks the punch, spins her around and boots her in the ass.)

Edgardo: Now take off. Next time I won’t be such a gentleman. (Jennifer tries to pull her away, but Nina yanks free and lunges toward Edgardo. She picks up a butter knife from the table and tries to stab him. He moves aside and she hits Reggie, who yells loudly.)

Reggie: Ow! My arm! She stabbed me. Yow. That hurts.

Jennifer: Let’s get out of here! (The girls run off. Reggie is moaning and holding

his arm.)

Edgardo: Should I chase them?

Greg: What for? To make a citizen’s arrest for assault?  Let’s help Reggie.  (Edgardo and Greg inspect the injury.)

Edgardo: It didn’t even break the skin. She was right to call you a sissy.

Reggie: Well it hurts. And I didn’t even do anything. It’s all your fault.

Edgardo: All I did was say hello How was I to know they’d be vicious, fighting

dykes?

Greg: Maybe if you didn’t call them offensive names nothing would have  

happened.

Edgardo: That nasty little bitch started it.

Reggie: And I got hurt…. I don’t think I have to go to the emergency room, but

I’ll probably miss the next game.

Edgardo: Don’t use this as an excuse. You’ll be alright by then.

Reggie: Maybe. But promise me no more confrontations when we go out. This

could have become a nightmare.

Greg: Yeah. What if she really cut Reggie?

Edgardo: I get it. Don’t worry. I’ll be cool.

Reggie: I hope so. We were lucky today. Another time things could spin out of control and someone might get killed. It’s happening all over these days.

Greg: Yeah. People are getting shot for just looking at someone. And it’s not as 

if they’re giving them the evil eye, or something. It’s just sick violence.

Edgardo: Alright. I get the message. That’s enough. Let’s call it a day. (Exit.)

Gary Beck

Christmas To-Do List, Nick Botkin Edition by Yashar Seyedbagheri

(Editor note–We like to welcome Yash to the Springs. He holds the record for most stories published in one year at what I like to think of as , if not sister, but our cousin publication of Literally Stories UK. One read will tell you why he is so successful–Leila)

The to-do list stares at me, letters running across the page, like railroad tracks of responsibility.

Pick up sisters’ favorite wines. Nan likes Sauvignon Blanc. Colette worships Merlot; Nan is not drinking any fucking Merlot (sorry, Paul Giamatti, I know I plagiarized Sideways, but original words are stuck in my throat).

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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.)

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The Drifter