Photo Credit: toomanynotes.org
I didn’t even get to know you. That’s because you died while I was in high school. I didn’t even know you existed then. You died a year after a boy I crushed on died. I never had a chance to tell him though; his time ran out first. He was only 17. He drove me to school for a year, but he had a problem. And then life got way ahead of him at too young of an age. More responsibilities than his young mind was ready for. And depression, the black hole of the soul drives a person to do what they didn’t think they could do. Perhaps you generate self-destruction, but perhaps for some, in their wake, you leave crumbs from your table for the rest of us–shiny diamonds of pure unadulterated genius. And collectively we all grieve for you, even longer than had you lived.
Maybe that’s where it started. This incredible empathy for genius, especially the quiet souls who tread the earth with a pervasive sadness. For me, they stand out like neon in a black and white photo. You know– the invisible ones you see feeding the ducks at the park on a winter’s day or having an argument with no one in particular at the bus stop. Or maybe it’s the one frantically journaling (what?) behind a smoky haze in a cacophony of chatty coffee bugs at an outdoor café, or the painter who couldn’t straighten up his back because he was too busy painting the world’s most beautiful ceiling, and would’ve finished the sky, had there only been enough time.
The artists—you know the ones who cut off their ears for love, whose fear of germs or fear of being real, or honest, or perhaps fear of madness itself keep them from the love they were designed for. But of course, how could they be anything but genius? The heart must exert its life force into something, after all.
Yes, I found this picture of you in 2007 in the back of a Time Magazine (or maybe it was Newsweek). I tucked it in a safe place all these years. THOSE EYES! I thought. When I first saw you, you had me at look. The elbow, haphazardly aloof resting on what you know only your round-curled fingers have the right to touch, or in your case tap and roll. Sometimes when I get blue, I’ll pull out this picture of you and think, why am I drawn to you? I don’t know you. You’re a ghost.
I’m almost the age now you were when you passed. I lived invincible, unaware then while you lay dying that someday I would be drawn to you decades forth. I don’t have the demons you did, nor do I want them if that’s what’s necessary to deepen my experience as an artist.
But a funny thing happened. A tragic thing actually. This thing called life with all its mystery, and majesty, and sadness, and joy. Hard things and beautiful things, things we think we can’t endure, and they keep happening, wave upon wave.
And then I think I get it; or maybe I just perceive I do. Maybe we leave messages for those in the future with our musical notes and sounds, our voices, our pictures, our words, our paintings, our constructions, perhaps as a harbinger, or maybe a love note that testifies and reminds us: live, live, live. Breathe life. In. Out. Live full; live well.
Yes, I probably would’ve loved you had I known you. And if these words for some reason extend beyond cyberspace and into eternal space, maybe you’ll finally know not just me, but many like me, and especially those who actually knew you, loved you too.
All that you can’t leave behind. Except that we do.
And as we someday walk into the light, I feel certain we’ll hear your music too.
And love is not the easy thing…
The only baggage you can bring
Is all that you can’t leave behind….”Walk On” – U2
A fascinating look at Glenn Gould — Genius Within
u2areloved 