On This Day

It’s struck me several times lately—more than several—that I’ve had an unusual reaction to the passing of Sam Shepard. Celebrities die, some of them tragically, some of them too young. We note this, and these days we note it publically, but some of them seem, somehow, more intimate. I’ve actually been a little devastated, and it’s a strange thing. I’m thinking it must have something to do with admiring his particular vision, even if he almost never crossed my mind, and grieving a little that the world has one less of his unique kind. It’s surely an overreaction of a sort, and I assume there are emotional issues involved that have nothing to do with him, but the feeling is real. I’m still sad.

And I think that in a way that feels awfully real, I’ve never recovered from Robin. Same thing, too; the world feels emptier, less fun, less hopeful. It’s hard to argue with that from a lot of angles having nothing to do with Robin Williams, but I still feel the loss. The planet is not as happy as it was, maybe. Me neither.