I don’t care if elitists say writing about dreams is passé. This one deserves to be shared, at least in brief, in memoriam.

The ghost of David Lynch haunted me during slumber last night. I found myself as free-floating consciousness in a pitch black interior until his unmistakable presence appeared. He was clad in dark earth tone layers of fabric: a deep brown button down shirt under a dark forest green jacket covered with a black coat, and thick dark pants. Charred finger tips from smoking cigarettes flittered, barely visible in the bleakness of the endless yet cramped room. His much longer and greasy, stringy gray hair fell across his face in contrast with glossy bloodshot eyes. My dream version of Lynch resembled a character he would have created for one of his uncanny films.

Lynch’s demeanor was disheveled but coherent. Determined to wake me up within the dream, he placed a hand on my shoulder. He succeeded. His touch brought me to the big-small room more fully. I noticed a dim amber light upon his visage.

Lynch insisted I engage him and said, “I heard you can talk to spirits. I need you to help me contact my friend David.”

To which I said, “But you are David.”

“A different David,” he said and leaned in closer to get my undivided attention because my focus swirled from lucid to clouded.

I inhaled to the fullest capacity of my lungs and shifted my sight downward at the blush table between us. It had a soft, oil-rubbed finish. My eyes returned to this David’s eyes, which were burning with the sleeplessness and mania that a wakeful death must bring. The soul-flame that roared in his pupils mesmerized me. I struggled to concentrate and doubted the esoteric meeting at hand.

I peered down at the table again and this time a beautiful rotund mackerel lay there with wide eyes and mouth ajar. A spotlight captured its vibrant blue, green and silver iridescence. The wavy tiger stripes between the shimmering hues subdued me even more.

I never did get to helping Lynch call his friend David, presumably so they could meet in the bardo, because I awoke once I locked eyes with the dead fish on the table.

Upon awaking, and in alignment with Lynch’s creativity manifesto Catching the Big Fish, I burst with inspiration to play with a new fictional world that documents the old Portland, Oregon of my youth. I took some notes and wondered if David Lynch’s meditation practices or mine had anything to do with what had just transpired.

I hope, before I dig into this new idea, that Lynch visits again so I can learn for certain the identity of this other David.