So yesterday Robin Williams died, allegedly by his own hand. This post probably is incomprehensible…but no editing. I just wrote.
I remember the first time I listened to his album…I wasn’t supposed to, but I snuck in while my parents and their friends were listening to it during a party. He seemed on fire, his brain firing so fast and so furiously that it took over his whole being. Non sequiturs, and random voices and scenarios came to him like he was possessed. My dad (oh, and I realize how much I mention him here, trust me :)) was on the floor laughing. We always did share an appreciation of comedy – Robin Williams, Bill Cosby, David Cross, Denis Leary (before he got extreme-ranty/serious), Dennis Miller (before he went Republican), Jonathan Winters…the master of association-random-comedy.
Robin Williams made sense to me. Completely. I could see how someone could be taken by their brain (the muse?) and directed towards outer flights of (in)sanity/ideas/creativity/logic/innovation.
I can’t even fathom the crash, the comedown, the never-ever-want-this-feeling-of-being-a-channel-to-something-else end.
But I do know depression. Maybe they are the same, who knows. For every one, it’s different. For me, it’s fear-based. Lots of other people have written far more eloquently about it. Like here:
One of the silly reasons I will always have a black dog in my life – dogs are good. My Nina is the best thing I know to help me through.
The correlation between mental illness and addiction, from what I’ve learned recently, is sickening and astronomical. And definitely traceable back to our prison systems. We are doing something wrong…like taking our shoes off at the security line, and shutting the barn door when the horse is gone.
The Fisher King seems truest. Terry Gilliam could bring those flights of wonder and terror to life – I think that role, for me, represents Robin Williams.
bless, gentle man. the demons are gone.