An excerpt from an essay written by Philip K Dick, the Science Fiction writer.  Really puts things in perspective.

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What could a man living in 1750 have learned about himself by observing the behavior of a donkey steam engine? Could he have watched it huffing and puffing and then extrapolated from its labor an insight into why he himself continually fell in love with one certain type of pretty young girl? This would not have been primitive thinking on his part; it would have been pathological. But now we find ourselves immersed in a world of our own making so intricate, so mysterious, that soon a man may have to be restrained from attempting to rape a sewing machine. Let us hope, if that time comes, that it is a female sewing machine he fastens his intentions on. And one over the age of seventeen-hopefully, a very old treddle-operated Singer, although possibly, regrettably, past menopause. Of course a time may come when, if a man tries to rape a sewing machine, the sewing machine will have him arrested and testify, perhaps even a little hysterically, against him in court. The leads to all sorts of spin-off ideas: false testimony by suborned sewing machines who accuse innocent men unfairly; paternity tests; and, of course, abortions for sewing machines that have become pregnant against their will. And would there be birth control pills for sewing machines? Probably, like one of my previous wives, certain sewing machines would complain that the pills made them overweight-or rather, in their case, that it made them sew irregular stitches. And their would be unreliable sewing machines that would forget to take their birth control pills. And, last but not least, there would have to be Planned Parenthood clinics at which sewing machines just off the assembly lines would be counseled as to the dangers of promiscuity, with severe warnings of venereal diseases visited on such immoral machines by an outraged God-Himself, no doubt, able to sew buttonholes and fancy needlework at a rate that would dazzle the credulous merely metal and plastic sewing machines, always ready, like ourselves, to kowtow before divine miracles.

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I am the spawn of a Buzzard, and that bastard wants retribution. Seven A.M. and my bedroom door is opened. 45 minutes of a drunken sleep, and now that’s over. The buzzard is my Mother, and the beak speaks. “Take my black skirt to the dry cleaners.” Oh my God. Yesterday it was the sand colored high heels for the fucking Cobbler.

But here I am in the spare bedroom like a Vulture.  Like Mother like son.  So who am I to complain. “OK“.  Anyways, I have some dry cleaning that needs to be done.  Let’s piggy back this Pony boy’s.

First off, the Velvet jacket I bought for Halloween from the women’s section at Value-Village. Its a tight fitting deep brown like the feathers of a Night Owl.

Then there’s the crushed blue velvet blouse Darrell and Kate bought me on Thanksgiving. They said when they saw it they just knew it was made for me. And they were right. It was a dark midnight blue with large dark blue buttons that looked like depressed flying saucers. Every director needs an outfit to feed off of.  If you don’t feed, then what the fuck is there to get out, how can you deliver?

These velvet numbers stunk of smoke and the other things that lurk in the shadows of the night. This is the dry-cleaning receipt. It describes my velvet blouse better then I ever could.

FANCY AS FUCK MOTHER FUCKER.

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I have been trying to get some music to work for my new movie.  Here are a couple of songs I’ve been playing with, Their lost, nothing is locking right now.  The explosion when things lock in place and vibrate and make the world seem bearable is not happening, I feel a rumble in my head, but it’s more like a head-ache.  But I still hear something that at least might lead to something else, sometime, when I really drink and the beer drowns the pain of the headache and the sound breaks through the wall and fills the dark.  But that is just a deception and reality is nothing but a frigid mirage.  Either way, Oh fuck it.

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Another part from the Lynch on Lynch book where he talks about a deleted scene from Blue Velvet.  It sound’s Aye yi yi yi yi yi.

Although you weren’t required to cut any scenes out of the film, I gather you removed some yourself at an earlier stage. One sounded similar to the scene in ERASERHEAD with the two women tied to the bed. Something about a woman setting her nipples on fire?

Right. That’s one of my favourite scenes, but it was too much of a good thing. I wanna get this scene back, but I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t wanna reinstate it, but I want it to be its own little piece. It could be three or four minutes long. It was completely cut out. It was a kind of a companion piece to Ben’s apartment.

What actually happens?

Well, Frank brings the guys and Jeffrey to the bar and they have the talk outside: ‘What kind of beer do you like?’ etc., etc., and then they enter Ben’s place. But there was another scene inside the bar where the bartender sees Frank and signals to someone who starts running for the back door. Frank yells, ‘Get him!’ and they grab this guy Willard. The back room can be seen from the bar but it’s sorta separated. There’s a pool table back there and another guy who has a hat with ‘I dig coal’ written on it. He’s this old, black blues guitar player and he’s got a white guy playing with him. And ‘I dig coal’ can sing these songs that’re just incredible. And then there are three or four completely nude girls back there who’ve been with Willard. They’ve been, you know, into something back there that’s broken up by Willard seeing Frank. But you don’t know what the problem is.
Meanwhile, the Brad Dourif character goes and orders one case of ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon L-o-n-g Neck’. [Laughs.] So Frank throws Willard down on the pool table, and he starts talking to him about the fact that Willard tore his pocket and he says to the girls, ‘Come here and take a look at a dead man.’ Willard is, you know, in bad trouble: Frank has him where he wants him, mentally, and Willard knows that he’s gonna get it. Some time. Then Frank goes upstairs. Everybody goes round the pool table on their way upstairs and Jack Nance says to Willard, ‘See ya, Winky,’ and they disappear. You hold there for a little while and ‘Winky’ sits up. This one girl has been sitting there and she strikes a match and lights her nipples on fire and says, ‘You’re really going up in flames this time, motherfucker!’ [Laughs.] And so that’s how it ends.

And the part of Willard was completely lost?

Completely lost. It had reference to….Jeffrey finds the ear in this field. Well, Frank had it in his pocket and he got into some altercation with Willard and his pocket was torn, so he lost the ear and his lucky piece of blue velvet. There are two cuts in Dorothy’s robe. One of them was made to replace the lucky piece – the one that he has in the bar when he, you know, works it. Anyway, all that wasn’t necessary. It actually took away from the scene upstairs in Ben’s apartment because it was, as I said, ‘too much of a good thing’.

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I took a roll of film from my camera to the developing house. The film roll had been sitting in the camera for about six months. I had no idea what was on it. Excitement flowed as I waited, what insanity was in there. And then I got the pictures back, only about ten from the roll of 24 turned out. And for the most part they were shit. The lens was filthy and the pictures were mediocre. Now their scanned and I can start cutting and marking them up with pens and other things I suppose, or maybe just burn these pointless bitches and film their deserved death. For 8 dollars in developing, these slaves will learn to work one way or the other. It’s not about the money, it’s about my failure, though the developer is a suspect in my mediocrity. Those fourteen black undeveloped squares are filled with magic, I just know it. But fuck it, I’ll tap in yet, Forward with knives and glue. It’s the only way. MEhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..

THIS IS MY FUCKING LIFE?

THE COLOR OF THE ENEMY.  THE SALMON DISGUISE.

GOD IS BLACK, HE CUM’S BRIGHT, HE CUM’S WHITE ON THE CHURCH.  GOD IS DEAD.  THE CREATION OF LIFE GOES ON IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT.

I GIVE YOU CANCER!

THE NEON ICON.

A CRASH COURSE IN BEING A PIECE OF BLUE SHIT.

WHEN THE UNIVERSE LOOKS BACK AT YOU, YOU HAVE AS MANY ANSWERS FOR IT AS IT HAS FOR YOU.

MARY RUN’S THE MILK SHIP.

THE LORD HAS AN AUDI JOKE THAT I CAN’T REMEMBER.

JOHN DEERE WAS THE BEST GARBAGE MAN IN TOWN, BUT HIS WIFE WENT BUCK WHEN HE FUCKED THE FOX AND LET IT STEAL THE DOE, DOUGH, DO-DO BIRD BRAIN MOTHER FUCKER LICK MY EGGGGGGGGGS!!!.

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An excerpt from the book Woody Allen on Woody Allen.

You said that you hadn’t felt any need of re-evaluating your life, the way Marion does in ANOTHER WOMAN.  Has it always been like that for you?

Yes. I knew this when I was in my late teens, that there were always going to be distractions as well. And I felt that anything that distracted from the work and minimized your effort on it was a self-deception that was going to be detrimental. So to avoid getting caught up with a lot of writing rituals and time-wasting, you’ve got to get there and just work. Art in general, and show-business, is full to the brim of people who talk, talk, talk, talk. And when you hear them talk, theoretically they’re brilliant and they’re right and this and that, but in the end it’s just a question of ‘Who can sit down and do it?’ That’s what counts. All the rest doesn’t mean a thing.

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An excerpt from the book Lynch on Lynch.

I don’t like to use the phrase ‘political correctness’ because I think it is an invention of the Right, but what does that phrase meant to you?

I’ll tell you what it means: it’s almost an evil, satanic plot! It’s a diabolical thing. It’s this false way of not offending anyone. To be politically correct is to be so sort of lukewarm, and in this weird little spot where there’s no offence committed. It’s like hiding.

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Click the image for an interview with Danny Trejo. An ex heroin addict bank robber shooting for the stars. I don’t know if he did heroin, he seems like he needs the fast lane, but sometimes it gets too fast, and then the quickest way out is the slow road. Feed the poison to the tattooed snakes, sink the fangs in, bite into the hand that needs.