George Michael (Photo Credit: Guardian)
There are a good many sadnesses in the world. I write about a lot of them, fixated as I am on injustice wherever I find it. I don’t know where the sudden passing of George Michael falls on that tragic continuum, but it is certainly worthy of a singular pause, a dedicated, “Oh shit, not again” moment.
Not everybody finds balance in life. Not everyone wakes up every day, like Bowie seemed to, finding those reasons – or just one – to resume the ordeal of life with the attitude of a glass half full.
Many live lives with eyes wide open, exercising their gifts as best they may, in a constant state of existential crisis. Robin Williams was one of those guys. George Michael was another.
And when they pass from the scene in full possession of what the rest of us assume is every reason in the world to live – genius, fame, plenty of money – it is not only sad but disconcerting on a deep level where none of us really want to go. That place where we suspect great artists like him who pass from the scene altogether too young know something, saw something – clearly – about life that the rest of us choose not to look at even as we enjoy their art like the animals we are, taking what we want and leaving the remains.
The miracle, the gift and the incredibly depressing vexation of one short life is that it’s a race to read, experience, feel, absorb, interpret and express as richly, deeply and authentically as humanly…