All Stories Are Valid, Part One: Genius Resting

Spent most of yesterday feeling "So it goes" about Robin Williams. I, like every oxygen-breathing human on this earth, respected and loved him greatly. How many people can say they were given an okay doofy family comedy script about a cross-dressing old woman/dad and made it a beloved cultural artifact? The genie, the "stole my line" line. But it is what it is. Then last night I was just scrolling through Twitter and seeing how many people are deeply affected by this loss. I don't entirely feel allowed to really care about celebrity death because it's not like I have a personal connection with these people. And, yet, a sadness did lay its dark weight on my chest as I scrolled through all the tiny tweeted stories of a great man.

Bisque and I were driving into the bits of city sparkle. I mentioned how I wished it weren't physically possible to commit suicide without a letter. I am aware that a lot of the time (especially in these national headlines) there might be letters, but they are private. Bisque's response was, "I have trouble demanding something from someone who is in so much pain." That's why he's a better person than I am.

I just can't imagine why you wouldn't at least leave some questions answered, some clues for prevention in the future. Maybe some nasty, ugly viewpoints that people could digest and refute for themselves. People don't want to be remembered that way, okay. But what do they care? They will be dead. Yes, it's a different legacy than expected, but I just don't think there's anything but good from honesty.

No one would dismiss the man's greatness from his scared, sick confessions. It would give us something solid to build on. People say, "Don't glamorize suicide," but then what do we do? We gloss over the crusty parts of the human condition, cut to montages of the person at best, and how is that not glamour? Do not leave. Speak.

Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe diem.