Wow, 2016. Can we start again? (Amy K. Nichols)
|2016, stop making me cry!|
You grow up with these artists creating a kind of soundtrack or backdrop for your life, and in a weird way they become part of who you are, part of your story. You sort of take their presence in your life for granted. You expect them to just be there as they have been forever. There are markers in your life related to their art. For example, when I got into my first car accident, David Bowie's "Fame 90" was playing on the tape deck in my car. Yes, tape deck, shut up. The point is, that's a fixed point in my history that for as long as I'm alive will be associated with David Bowie. And Alan Rickman, man. Where do I start? I was captivated the moment Hans Gruber swaggered onto the screen. "No one dies like Alan Rickman," I'd say, because his villains always met such amazing ends. But Alan Rickman the man, well, he wasn't supposed to actually die.
Today I was tempted to forgo all the things I was supposed to do (all the things written down in my bullet journal) and binge watch Alan Rickman movies, but somewhere between the tears I had this thought: neither he nor Bowie had today. What would they think of me neglecting a day of making my art to mourn them? They devoted themselves to their art. I mean heck, Bowie even turned his passing into a moment of artistry. ("Ain't that just like [him]?")
So instead of trading my time for tears, I worked through my tears with the time I had to write. I finished a chapter I've been wrestling, and that felt good. That felt right. I used today to create my art, to add my voice to the ongoing larger conversation. That's not exactly a do over, but it's a kind of redemption nonetheless.
Thank you, Alan Rickman. Thank you, David Bowie.
As for you, 2016, how about you back off and take it easy on us from here on out. Deal?