Goodbye, David Lynch

I cannot put into words the utter sorrow I feel right now, but I’m going to try.

When I was very young, maybe 5 or 6 years old, my parents called me into the front room. It was near my bedtime and I’d already changed into my pjs so I was curious as to what this was about. They informed me that there was a movie on that they thought I should see and that they would let me stay up late to watch it. They never let me do this. Hell, my first viewing of Tim Burton’s Batman was from the floor in the kitchen peeking around the corner while they watched it on TV. So this was a monumental thing for them to offer. I sat down and they told me it was called The Elephant Man. This was the first “adult” movie that I got to watch and it was profoundly moving. I didn’t revisit the film until my 20s but it greatly impacted how I felt about people, how we treat them, and the dignity that all men deserve.

In 2016 a local second-run theatre was going through a bit of a David Lynch phase. I went and saw David Lynch: The Art Life. By this point I was a devotee, having snagged the Criterion edition of Eraserhead and having hunted down other films through my local library. The theatre was screening The Elephant Man the next week so I invited my parents. We’re not super close, but that night was so special to me in my memory and cemented my love of film that would consume my entire life. They went with me and loved it, but they didn’t remember letting me watch it as a child. I was a bit unsettled at something that is such a stark memory for me is a forgotten dream for them.

My parents accidentally introduced me to David Lynch. Decades later I returned the favor.

The director and artist passed away yesterday and it’s left a hole in my heart. I adore and respect a lot of figures and have been sad to lose figures like Carrie Fisher or Bibi Andersson (when Carrie Fisher passed my boss asked me if I needed to take the rest of the day off, which was very sweet of her and I felt so seen), but nothing has wounded me like this. David Lynch is a huge figure to me and he looms large in my life. A few years after my parents let me stay up late to watch The Elephant Man my mother informed me that a movie she really liked was going to be on TV and asked if I wanted to watch. She was a sci-fi mom and had great taste so I agreed. All these years later I still prefer the TV edit of Dune, with its gorgeous matte painting prologue and its weirdness that is still Lynch, even if he hated that movie. The man was just a part of my entire life and today I woke up in a world he’s no longer in. This is absolutely devastating.

It isn’t just that I watched some of his films growing up and loved them, it’s who he was as a figure. I’ve had a few friends come out to me as transgender and Lynch was a huge part of me growing out and away from the hatred I was surrounded by as a child, with the racist/misogynist/queerphobic jokes from other churchgoers (the only people outside of family I had in my life) and the confusing aspects of religion that felt off. David Lynch taught me that love is a complicated thing, full of so many emotions and directions that it can’t be quantified and that it is the purest force in our natures. He taught me to be loving and respectful of everyone and anyone, leaving me with guilt in my heart at things I’ve said or done but with a perspective on the world that feels brighter. His character from Twin Peaks, Gordon Cole, taught me that kindness and respect are tantamount to life itself. As he looked at Denise, a transgender woman in the FBI, and said, “When you became Denise, I told all of your colleagues, those clown comics, to fix their hearts or die,” I began crying. He was such a beautiful soul.

His music and stories will live on and always be a part of me. I’d be revisiting his work since the Blank Check with Griffin and David podcast covered him and his death hit hard after being so deeply engaged with his art for months. I put on Mulholland Drive yesterday and just cried.

This wasn’t a death I was ready for, a death I was expecting, and yet it should have been. David Lynch was diagnosed with emphysema and was housebound on oxygen. I wouldn’t be surprised if he smoked a whole pack of cigarettes before his first cup of coffee on most days. When he quit he was honest about his health and then proceeded to describe cigarettes in the most loving, sensual way possible. When they evacuated him due to the L.A. fires I held my breath, worried about what that environment would do to his lungs. I already know what the sight of his beloved city in flames would do to his heart.

When he passed I was at work. A friend had messaged me “David Lynch just fucking died” and I had to hold back my immediate grief. Over my lunch I went to my car, ate two cookies and drank a Coke Zero, and just cried while listening to Angelo Badalamenti’s beautiful Twin Peaks score. I’m grateful for my friend, a local artist and director himself, because I got to hear it from them and didn’t find out from a stupid social media post or something. That said, I did start crying again reading Kyle MacLachlan’s devastating eulogy to him. I read deep, beautiful words from Naomi Watts. So many came out to grieve and it feels like the first time everyone has been united in ages. America has finally come together, even if it’s only briefly and we lost one of the greatest American artists to achieve it. I’ve reached out to so many people to see how they’re doing. The internet has been an evil thing for us as a species but in moments like this it’s a comfort.

I loved David Lynch. His art, his work, his bizarre voice and timbre, all of him. I woke up this morning and watched several of his funny, adorable weather reports from back during lockdown. I’ll never again get to see something new from him. This world grows darker, dumber, and more hateful every day but he was this bright force for good and now he’s gone.

Goodbye, David Lynch. We all loved you.