One of my favorite songs is A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall. I heard the origins behind it was that Bob Dylan wrote a bunch of beginnings for songs and never got around to finishing them. He combined all these great first lines into the lyrics of one song which became A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall. In that spirit I will empty my notebook of some of the thoughts I began but never did anything with.
Looking through his old boxes he found a film canister. It took him all day before he found someone in town with a projector and another before he found someone who knew how to use it. What he saw he didn’t recognize. It was good, really good. Beautiful, touching music, funny actors and it was all dedicated in the memory of William Flannigan’s mother, father, tiger, and beloved daughter. Not only did he not remember the movie, but who the hell was William Flannigan?
There was a serial killer murdering psychics. The detectives were looking for a motive. Maybe the killer was protesting the idea that our futures are preordained. The killing was an act to prove that we all had free will.
A man once told me it was better to live in the country rather than the city. In the country there was always a new swimming hole to dive into or a tree to climb.
He found if he asked a question that should have an obvious answer he would instead get the answer to a different question. When he asked his wife, “Are we honest with each other?” She responded, “You’re an asshole.”
He came to Hollywood with one thing and one thing only, a story. It was a hell of a story. Full of sex and guns and lust and jokes and lots and lots of pie. He’d tell the story to anyone who was listening, but no one was buying.