A week ago today I got up, sat down at the computer, and learned that the drummer from one of my favorite bands had died unexpectedly. I was stunned, initial numbness blooming slowly, inexorably into a sadness that surprised me in its depth. While I was never a Foo Fighters superfan, they'd been a constant of my life for nearly half of it, a beloved part of my personal soundscape, bringing their own unique blend of catharsis, comfort, and joy. As the week went on, and I saw the outpouring of love and remembrance from scores of friends, fans, and colleagues, my sorrow revealed its own nuances: nostalgia for the years of great music driven by that mesmerizing backbeat, grief for a future in which that heartbeat was stilled and the joy it brought to the world was gone along with it. An aching empathy for Dave Grohl, who'd lost his bandmate/brother (and having recently read his autobiography, that feeling was magnified horribly) and quite likely his band as well. The whole situation was, and is, heartbreaking, devastating. It's clinically fascinating to see how this sort of parasocial relationship can impact fans, but it's equally fascinating to discover how bereft you can feel over the loss of someone you'd never met but who had nonetheless made an impact on your life. The grief felt by the man's real-life friends and family must be fathomless.
In the wake of such a tragedy, the loss of someone who was apparently almost universally loved and respected, someone who was apparently kind, funny, generous, and humble, the mind invariably slides into the old just world fallacy and starts to balk. How, we ask, could this lovely soul be gone, while the vilest of human monsters continue to roam the earth, flourishing while befouling everything they touch? How the fuck is that possible? Can't we trade some hamberder-muching monomaniac for the sweet drummer who used to hang out at Guitar Center and buy gear for strangers? Maybe the forces would be appeased by taking, say, some shitgibbon who invades a peaceful sovereign nation instead of a cheery musician dude who liked hanging with his BFF and making goofy videos with the band? How, we ask, is this fair? How, we ask, do we proceed with living when the balance is so obviously askew? We feel askew, off balance, in the contemplation of the magnitude of the injustice of it all. Our footing slips, we feel unmoored, vertiginous.
People turn to their religion when they feel like this, turn to their clergypeople to seek answers to impossible questions; but what about those clergypersons themselves? We have the same questions, the same anger, the same frustration; and just like everyone else, we lack concrete answers (well, we do if we're honest). We anguish, we rage, we sorrow, we cry, and we carry on. I've done all of those things this past week, and I've done all of those things this morning as I wrote this post. The only damned thing I can think of to do in the wake of evidence to the monstrous indifference and unfairness of the universe is to keep going, to try to shine just that little bit brighter to compensate for the light that just went out, all the while knowing that that extinguished light will still radiate for years to come, just as the starlight we see comes from celestial bodies extinguished eons ago. The light remains. It always does.
Rest easy, Taylor. If the sky is a neighborhood, you're among good company.
