It's 3:30 in the morning and here I sit typing. Something about the death of Robin Williams is hitting me as though I knew him. My heart hurts, as though he were a friend. I've always respected his work, found some of his movies brilliant and some embarrassing, but I've always liked him. And now his passing feels like another thread pulled from my tapestry, leaving a gaping hole. Why is that?
I'm not surprised that he killed himself. On some level I've been waiting for it for years. How could a star that burns that brightly not burn itself out? The poor thing. It must have been exhausting to be that brilliant, that kind, that talented. He took so much out of his own hide. Is it any wonder he had trouble with alcohol and drugs? I can certainly see why he would try to quiet the raging forces of his mind.
His movie "What Dreams May Come" was not a big hit, but I saw it in the theater years ago and became completely unglued. The movie, in case you haven't seen it, involved a couple who lost their children in a car accident, then the father (Williams) died trying to help someone in an accident in a tunnel, then the mother killed herself in grief. The images of heaven that followed were so eerie. There is no way to describe it other than "it felt like a memory" even though I know that sounds ridiculous and pretentious. Heaven was tailor-made to fit the expectations of whatever one needed to see. For him it started as an impressionist painting, the pigments coming off on his hands and clothing. Things got more solid and clearer as he settled in. I'm doing this from memory and it's probably been twenty years since I've seen it. But the feeling remains vivid. You just had to sit on your toboggan and go along for the ride. I'll have the opportunity soon, since I just ordered the DVD copy I've been promising myself for years.
I'm deeply sorry for his family, and for all of us, too. We have lost someone special who was more important than we realized. I regret that the joy he gave us had to come at such a high cost for him. God has already welcomed him home, I'm sure, and I hope he likes his new digs. At last he'll find peace there, although he has left the world a lot duller for the rest of us.
I'm not surprised that he killed himself. On some level I've been waiting for it for years. How could a star that burns that brightly not burn itself out? The poor thing. It must have been exhausting to be that brilliant, that kind, that talented. He took so much out of his own hide. Is it any wonder he had trouble with alcohol and drugs? I can certainly see why he would try to quiet the raging forces of his mind.
His movie "What Dreams May Come" was not a big hit, but I saw it in the theater years ago and became completely unglued. The movie, in case you haven't seen it, involved a couple who lost their children in a car accident, then the father (Williams) died trying to help someone in an accident in a tunnel, then the mother killed herself in grief. The images of heaven that followed were so eerie. There is no way to describe it other than "it felt like a memory" even though I know that sounds ridiculous and pretentious. Heaven was tailor-made to fit the expectations of whatever one needed to see. For him it started as an impressionist painting, the pigments coming off on his hands and clothing. Things got more solid and clearer as he settled in. I'm doing this from memory and it's probably been twenty years since I've seen it. But the feeling remains vivid. You just had to sit on your toboggan and go along for the ride. I'll have the opportunity soon, since I just ordered the DVD copy I've been promising myself for years.
I'm deeply sorry for his family, and for all of us, too. We have lost someone special who was more important than we realized. I regret that the joy he gave us had to come at such a high cost for him. God has already welcomed him home, I'm sure, and I hope he likes his new digs. At last he'll find peace there, although he has left the world a lot duller for the rest of us.
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