Amy Winehouse died yesterday. Found in her London apartment, aged 27.
I am somehow strangely affected by this news. Perhaps it can be chalked up to the whole she was 27, I'm 27 thing, but still. I liked her music and can even remember fond evenings listening to Back to Black in my NYC room on my crummy only-plays-NPR (and thank God) boombox (the one right next to my human-sized blue stuffed bear that I won in a carnie game at Coney Island), realizing I was late to the party in discovering her, not wanting to like her as much because everybody liked her and had liked her for awhile already, but still.
I remember reading all those famous people biographies and picking up on that dead-at-27 pattern that the alcoholic/junkie ones always seemed to fall victim to. I remember thinking, aged 10 or so, that 27 sounded so old, wondering where I might be when I'm that old. Settled: certainly. Boring: probably. Blogging into nothingness and regularly murdering afternoons with directionless internet browsing somewhere in Dublin: no. Oh yeah, and engaged and missing front teeth and not knowing what happens next: certainly not.
It's probably that not knowing what happens next part that ties back into being affected by the Winehouse news. There's a possibility that if I don't start working on What Happens Next, I could end up dead in some north London apartment after having overdosed on heroin or pills or whichever substance it is that ususally claims 27-year-olds without solid direction. And oh, 92 people and counting were killed yesterday in Norway (Norway) by some aryan-looking creep who keeps popping up on Sky news in ridiculous headshot-like pictures.
It's these stories that now feel more real to me after last year's accident. Because fast-scrolling words on a news marquee about some freshly dead people somewhere in the world never elicits as much real response in me as I think it should. But after having tried to cross a street, one second perfectly happy and on my way to ending an evening, the next second on the pavement, crumpled and intensely observing the hot South Korean tar that made up the street I'd been run down on, wondering where all the blood was coming from - I now automatically wonder what last images those murdered Norwegian people were left with right before they died on that island off Oslo - the absolute shock and fast-pace horror in realizing, for some of them, that it would be the image of their arms digging through water as they tried to swim away from a lunatic in a police uniform, whose face would be broadcast around the world, using his twitter portrait, not a mug shot...I wonder how that must have been and I feel truly saddened. And I feel bad for their friends and families, who will now be plagued with truer, sadder thoughts than these for some time.
I'll be writing a 1 year anniversary of my accident post in a few days. It's occurred to me that I've not actually written about what happened that day - when I think about how easy it would have been for that drunken South Korean man to kill me on that road in Busan...it makes everything feel a little less real. A little more trivial. And strangely, a little more magical.
But back to Amy. This was my favorite song of hers.
Rest in peace Ms. Winehouse.
I am somehow strangely affected by this news. Perhaps it can be chalked up to the whole she was 27, I'm 27 thing, but still. I liked her music and can even remember fond evenings listening to Back to Black in my NYC room on my crummy only-plays-NPR (and thank God) boombox (the one right next to my human-sized blue stuffed bear that I won in a carnie game at Coney Island), realizing I was late to the party in discovering her, not wanting to like her as much because everybody liked her and had liked her for awhile already, but still.
I remember reading all those famous people biographies and picking up on that dead-at-27 pattern that the alcoholic/junkie ones always seemed to fall victim to. I remember thinking, aged 10 or so, that 27 sounded so old, wondering where I might be when I'm that old. Settled: certainly. Boring: probably. Blogging into nothingness and regularly murdering afternoons with directionless internet browsing somewhere in Dublin: no. Oh yeah, and engaged and missing front teeth and not knowing what happens next: certainly not.
It's probably that not knowing what happens next part that ties back into being affected by the Winehouse news. There's a possibility that if I don't start working on What Happens Next, I could end up dead in some north London apartment after having overdosed on heroin or pills or whichever substance it is that ususally claims 27-year-olds without solid direction. And oh, 92 people and counting were killed yesterday in Norway (Norway) by some aryan-looking creep who keeps popping up on Sky news in ridiculous headshot-like pictures.
It's these stories that now feel more real to me after last year's accident. Because fast-scrolling words on a news marquee about some freshly dead people somewhere in the world never elicits as much real response in me as I think it should. But after having tried to cross a street, one second perfectly happy and on my way to ending an evening, the next second on the pavement, crumpled and intensely observing the hot South Korean tar that made up the street I'd been run down on, wondering where all the blood was coming from - I now automatically wonder what last images those murdered Norwegian people were left with right before they died on that island off Oslo - the absolute shock and fast-pace horror in realizing, for some of them, that it would be the image of their arms digging through water as they tried to swim away from a lunatic in a police uniform, whose face would be broadcast around the world, using his twitter portrait, not a mug shot...I wonder how that must have been and I feel truly saddened. And I feel bad for their friends and families, who will now be plagued with truer, sadder thoughts than these for some time.
I'll be writing a 1 year anniversary of my accident post in a few days. It's occurred to me that I've not actually written about what happened that day - when I think about how easy it would have been for that drunken South Korean man to kill me on that road in Busan...it makes everything feel a little less real. A little more trivial. And strangely, a little more magical.
But back to Amy. This was my favorite song of hers.
Rest in peace Ms. Winehouse.
Very insightful entry, Renee. I turn 27 next week and your writing on this subject caught my attention immediately. When I was a child, I never thought I would be in my current situation at this age either. Stuck with a college degree I should not have pursued, that leads to nowhere. Still living at home with my parents. I feel like I have cement blocks tied to my feet and the effort to move forward leaves me exhausted. I am always tired nowadays. I also feel that I am always angry. I get angry at events such as the bombing and the shooting in Norway. Things that still bring meaning: film, music, and literature...and new friendships. That's not to say that you and I are no longer friends; although, it feels like we haven't spoken in ages. I hope you find happiness where you are...and thank goodness for the Internet so you and I can stay in touch.
ReplyDeleteHey Josh-- thanks for the kind words. Film, music, literature and friends and the odd nice meal and drink are really the only things that have brought meaning/enjoyment for the last while for me as well. I'm really sorry to hear that you're feeling a bit stuck right now. Are you still doing short films? I remember the last one you posted and being fairly blown away by the editing and pacing. Anyhow, do email me when you can. I'd like to know more about how you're doing.
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