(no subject)
A lot of brilliant people battled depression. Dorothy Parker (who coined the phrase “what the hell”) attempted suicide twice. Several of the brilliant and particularly the funny have left us, and of course there are those unlike David Foster Wallace or John Kennedy Toole who killed themselves by attempting to mask their sorrows in drugs and alcohol (which is a lot like saying Cars and Sedans) but the question that comes to my mind, is did they just forget?
When Virginia Woolfe wrote The Waves and put together such beautiful sentences in such a musical style, when Parker quipped and quipped again and sang her song with such vibrance and grace that some of her phrases make me stop and catch my breath at the wonder of my existence. Did they not appreciate their own (divinity misses the boat, particularly for my agnostic or atheist friends) perfection though… for certainly in moments she, Poe, Thompson, Hemmingway, Belushi, so many others were so very wonderful in who they were. I have compassion for them that they could so beautifully express themselves such that they enriched our lives and yet not rejoice in at least their own splendor if not ours. Though I have to open my heart to their decision not to. Some perhaps, chemically inclined toward destruction, others just eaten up by their own stories, cannibalizing their own soul.
Jim Croce on the other hand died because of a pecan tree. His pilot didn’t see it because there was fog. You don’t tug on superman’s cape, you don’t spit in the wind… and you don’t take off with a pilot who can’t see what’s in front of him. Why oh why wasn’t that on the list?
Anyway I guess my point is, as it ever is, savor it all, drink it in, celebrate it, every minute. It’s none of it really tragic. It’s all of it really worth it. Don’t take my word for it. Get real still. Go into the silence. What do you think?