XOXO

Elliott Smith died yesterday and it hit me surprisingly hard. They say he stabbed himself in the heart with a steak knife. Christ, that's gotta be the weirdest way to go - so deliberate, or was it an impulse? Could a sober person do that?

I mean, it's not like I knew him, but I felt like I did, through his music, through the inspiration he gave me just by being. It wasn't just his songs but his manner, his way. He just seemed like a nice, normal guy, with some problems with drugs, etc, but with huge talent and insight, and he seemed so understated, shy and humble - a gentle soul.

I guess it's been hard for me because I look at what he has done, and how amazing it all was, and then at what I've done, and how it's not even a shadow of his work, and I don't understand why he would choose to die after accomplishing so much. Did he feel like he was done, finished, did what he came for, time to go? I have so much pain inside me, but I don't see the point in dying before your life is even half over. I guess it's a good thing that I can't relate, but it's also scary that I sort of can.

I guess I'm mad, Elliott. I'm pissed that you checked out. If art is forged in the cauldron of pain then isn't it the duty of those in pain to make art for as long as they can stand it? And in doing so heal themselves and maybe others along the way? I mean, isn't that the whole point? To turn something ugly and small and tragic into something beautiful and brave and bigger than yourself? I can't believe you were finished, that there was nothing left for you. You took the easy way out, and I guess I expected more from you.

But really I guess I'm talking about myself, not this rock icon, celebrity, pet genius, whatever, who I didn't know, whose motivations I can only guess at. It makes me scared, because I don't want to believe that continuing down this path is pointless, that making music won't heal me, that it won't release the pain, that I could make 5 albums and win an Oscar and have a career doing my favorite thing and that I would still be so unhappy that I would stab myself in the fucking chest. What I want to believe is that you were on drugs, or crazy, or just stupid. Because anything else scares the shit out of me.

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Good story from Billboard: Friends, Peers Mourn Elliott Smith

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