Postscript by Brenton Booth   

POSTSCRIPT 

David Lynch had always been my favourite living 
filmmaker since I watched The Straight Story on 
new-release Blockbuster DVD back when I was 
nineteen. At that time, I was still acting and dreamed 
of a role in one of David's strange, beautiful films. It 
took me several years to understand Lost Highway 
was simply a story told from two different perspectives: 
reality, and the twisted reality of the murdering protagonist. 
Or, that Mulholland Drive was both the idyllic fantasy, 
and inevitable stark reality, of a talent starved actress 
desperate to make it in Hollywood. Blue Velvet, a bleak 
exploration of the dark violent extremes man is capable 
of resorting, to when stricken by uncontrollable love. 
Twin Peaks, a contagious evil, perpetually travelling 
throughout cultures, people, and time. Navigating a 
lengthy wake of heartache, and loss. As the decades passed, 
I no longer desired to be in David Lynch movies, just simply 
wished to meet him. Maybe share a few drinks and talk 
about those wonderfully distinct pictures, that to this day, I 
continue viewing. Mr. Lynch, the night before you died, I 
was sipping on Tennessee whiskey marvelling at you and 
Harry Dean Stanton in that brilliant scene from John Carroll 
Lynch's Lucky, where you say a final affectionate farewell 
to your recently escaped much beloved ageing tortoise 
President Roosevelt, following an endless shift at my blue-
collar job working the entire miserable shift in the unrelenting, 
saturating rain. You brought the first, and only smile to my 
face that exhausting day. A marvellous gift I owe to you 
completely. Cheers, you spectacular madman. Your atoms have 
now passed the stars. What glorious pictures they must see.