Robin Williams died today.
I know everyone dies but this is especially tough. Because he did nothing but make me smile and feel like I could always find something funny in even the most serious of topics. But is this it? Do we now live in a world where one of the funniest men on the planet kills himself?
Where do you go from this? What do you do when the man, who made you laugh when you first heard his voice as a big blue genie, who made you seek the inner thread of life as an eccentric teacher, and who made the large empty pit of death stretching out before you seem less threatening.
He was Dante, Plato, and Aristophenes all rolled up into one super ball of a human being.
All that remains now are memories of him and his substantial body of work.
My God Robin. Why?
It is like a pillar you always thought was going to be there is suddenly rubble before you, and looking up you wonder how the ceiling manages to stay upright. What is holding it up?
His laughs and smile were like a last bastion almost. A place we could retreat to.
When the forces of the real world, the enemies of our spirit had beaten us back on all fronts, we could retreat to the Alamo of smile and assurance that Robin was, and lick our wounds while listening to him tell us that “When in doubt, always go for the dick jokes.”
And once we were finished and were ready for the world again, we could sally forth and punch our lost job, our departing girlfriend, or our ill health right in the cock.
Now there is just a foundation where there once stood protective walls. With a gift-shop next to it and a sign proclaiming it to be a national historic site. But the original safety is gone.
What we are left with is a picture. An ideal for what we once had, and what we must now attempt to recreate. We must rebuild it, with higher walls and turrets, to honor his memory, and serve to improve the lives of those who come after.
Where do you go from this? What do you do when the man, who made you laugh when you first heard his voice as a big blue genie, who made you seek the inner thread of life as an eccentric teacher, and who made the large empty pit of death stretching out before you seem less threatening.
He was Dante, Plato, and Aristophenes all rolled up into one super ball of a human being.
All that remains now are memories of him and his substantial body of work.
My God Robin. Why?
It is like a pillar you always thought was going to be there is suddenly rubble before you, and looking up you wonder how the ceiling manages to stay upright. What is holding it up?
His laughs and smile were like a last bastion almost. A place we could retreat to.
When the forces of the real world, the enemies of our spirit had beaten us back on all fronts, we could retreat to the Alamo of smile and assurance that Robin was, and lick our wounds while listening to him tell us that “When in doubt, always go for the dick jokes.”
And once we were finished and were ready for the world again, we could sally forth and punch our lost job, our departing girlfriend, or our ill health right in the cock.
Now there is just a foundation where there once stood protective walls. With a gift-shop next to it and a sign proclaiming it to be a national historic site. But the original safety is gone.
What we are left with is a picture. An ideal for what we once had, and what we must now attempt to recreate. We must rebuild it, with higher walls and turrets, to honor his memory, and serve to improve the lives of those who come after.
So as difficult as it is, we owe it to Robin. For all the times he sheltered us and for all the things he taught us, to dry our eyes and run out to fight the sad, the unjust and the hypocrites with a smile in our eyes and a laugh upon our lips.
Raising high the battle standard of our Joker, Robin.
