Do not go gentle into that good night.
Dec. 31st, 2003 12:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas
So I should start by saying I didn’t know John. I don’t know Evi. I maybe know Jim, and I have no idea who Steve is. So this isn’t so much about the individuals involved as much as it is about…I don’t know.
Maybe it’s about rage, because when I dig deep down, that’s what I seem to be tapping.
In 1991, I lost someone dear to me to what I can only presume was a drunk driver. I should clarify: when Patrick Keim died, he was dear to me; I have no idea if it was mutual. But I’d spent the day, the day I found out he was dead, looking for him. We’d broken up after a terribly brief, dramatic courtship, in a fairly messy, teenager way, and hadn’t truly spoken since. That hot day in Tampa, I’d decided to see if we could bury the hatchet, and not in each other’s heads. Trouble was, he was already buried. Well, ashed, really.
I remember three reactions that I had when a mutual friend painfully interrupted me as I was telling her I’d tried to find him. First, I broke down crying, right there in the sun, under a palmetto bush. She broke down, too. She hadn’t known anyone who’d known him, and she told me she didn’t feel she had the right to cry, as they hadn’t been close. She’d been suppressing her reactions. Once I lost it, however, she followed suit. He had, it turns out, died almost exactly two weeks earlier, in an early-morning accident, probably on his way home from a club.
My most bizarre reaction, which manifested over the next few weeks, in a mild, insidious way, was the feeling that if Patrick were dead, I should, somehow, be dead, too. Not in a morbid way, but a very unemotional, clinical way, as if that were just the way these things were done. A psychologist told me later that that was pretty normal, really. Eventually, it passed.
But the reaction I’m remembering now was much more immediate: rage. Towering, smashing, flame-roaring rage. My friend took me up to her dorm room, and I kicked at the glass in her windows, beat my fists against the wall in her bathroom. Part of me was frightened—I’ve put my fist through glass before, and it isn’t fun. But I was so blinded by my mental screaming that I couldn’t completely control myself. Patrick was young, handsome, and beyond my reach. We’d never be able to get any closure, we’d never be able to talk, make up, bid each other a human farewell. And he’d never play bass again, never buy another Duran album, never experiment further with those ultra-cool electronics in his dorm room—a DX7 and a four-track recorder! Wow!-- never take another spin in his beloved ’85 CRX. He died in that car, in a crash that turned it into so much red tin foil. He was his parents’ only child. He was 21.
I’m older now, and I feel some of the same emotions, though without the more personal slant. As I said, I didn’t know John. The last time I saw him, I was walking down the street with my then-boyfriend, who did know him. Richard stopped to chat a brief moment with John. I think I waved and nodded hello. I’m sure John may have recognised my face—I’d been to his club night, and I’m good friends with the DJ, Eric— but I doubt he knew my name.
So I don’t know. Perhaps what I’m feeling is "municipal rage." John wasn’t just a great human, as every LiveJournal entry I’ve read in the last two days will tell you, he was someone who was important in our small community. He was someone who helped run things, gave a face to our scene, gave aid to those trying to make it. I may make some people pretty, but if there’s nowhere to wear my creations, I might as well hang up my busks now. John’s loss is a loss for all of us: for the scene as well as for those who loved him.
It’s a lesser concern, of course—all the little Goths. I’m not saying "Oh, poor kids. What will they do now?" I’m saying I don’t feel I have the right to claim any closer kinship with him. I don’t feel like I have the right—odd as it may sound—to grieve as a friend. Maybe it’s a stupid excuse. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s the usual fucked up way I react to death.
I do still feel that rage, though. That feeling that I don’t give a damn about "Whoever said life is fair?" And yeah, everyone dies some time. But as Lars said to me just yesterday, "Just because something’s inevitable, it doesn’t make it any less sad." I don’t give a fuck about the circle of life, or the peaceful hereafter, or any of the usual philosophical platitudes. The bottom line is, this guy was well-loved, engaged to be married, and thirty-two years of age. I don’t understand why these things happen, and I understand even less why they happen to cool people. All the people I know who knew him, and people I don’t know, are staggering around in shock and grief, and they don’t get it, either. I can’t do anything about it. I can’t explain it. I can’t fix it.
I’ll rage if I want to.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas
So I should start by saying I didn’t know John. I don’t know Evi. I maybe know Jim, and I have no idea who Steve is. So this isn’t so much about the individuals involved as much as it is about…I don’t know.
Maybe it’s about rage, because when I dig deep down, that’s what I seem to be tapping.
In 1991, I lost someone dear to me to what I can only presume was a drunk driver. I should clarify: when Patrick Keim died, he was dear to me; I have no idea if it was mutual. But I’d spent the day, the day I found out he was dead, looking for him. We’d broken up after a terribly brief, dramatic courtship, in a fairly messy, teenager way, and hadn’t truly spoken since. That hot day in Tampa, I’d decided to see if we could bury the hatchet, and not in each other’s heads. Trouble was, he was already buried. Well, ashed, really.
I remember three reactions that I had when a mutual friend painfully interrupted me as I was telling her I’d tried to find him. First, I broke down crying, right there in the sun, under a palmetto bush. She broke down, too. She hadn’t known anyone who’d known him, and she told me she didn’t feel she had the right to cry, as they hadn’t been close. She’d been suppressing her reactions. Once I lost it, however, she followed suit. He had, it turns out, died almost exactly two weeks earlier, in an early-morning accident, probably on his way home from a club.
My most bizarre reaction, which manifested over the next few weeks, in a mild, insidious way, was the feeling that if Patrick were dead, I should, somehow, be dead, too. Not in a morbid way, but a very unemotional, clinical way, as if that were just the way these things were done. A psychologist told me later that that was pretty normal, really. Eventually, it passed.
But the reaction I’m remembering now was much more immediate: rage. Towering, smashing, flame-roaring rage. My friend took me up to her dorm room, and I kicked at the glass in her windows, beat my fists against the wall in her bathroom. Part of me was frightened—I’ve put my fist through glass before, and it isn’t fun. But I was so blinded by my mental screaming that I couldn’t completely control myself. Patrick was young, handsome, and beyond my reach. We’d never be able to get any closure, we’d never be able to talk, make up, bid each other a human farewell. And he’d never play bass again, never buy another Duran album, never experiment further with those ultra-cool electronics in his dorm room—a DX7 and a four-track recorder! Wow!-- never take another spin in his beloved ’85 CRX. He died in that car, in a crash that turned it into so much red tin foil. He was his parents’ only child. He was 21.
I’m older now, and I feel some of the same emotions, though without the more personal slant. As I said, I didn’t know John. The last time I saw him, I was walking down the street with my then-boyfriend, who did know him. Richard stopped to chat a brief moment with John. I think I waved and nodded hello. I’m sure John may have recognised my face—I’d been to his club night, and I’m good friends with the DJ, Eric— but I doubt he knew my name.
So I don’t know. Perhaps what I’m feeling is "municipal rage." John wasn’t just a great human, as every LiveJournal entry I’ve read in the last two days will tell you, he was someone who was important in our small community. He was someone who helped run things, gave a face to our scene, gave aid to those trying to make it. I may make some people pretty, but if there’s nowhere to wear my creations, I might as well hang up my busks now. John’s loss is a loss for all of us: for the scene as well as for those who loved him.
It’s a lesser concern, of course—all the little Goths. I’m not saying "Oh, poor kids. What will they do now?" I’m saying I don’t feel I have the right to claim any closer kinship with him. I don’t feel like I have the right—odd as it may sound—to grieve as a friend. Maybe it’s a stupid excuse. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s the usual fucked up way I react to death.
I do still feel that rage, though. That feeling that I don’t give a damn about "Whoever said life is fair?" And yeah, everyone dies some time. But as Lars said to me just yesterday, "Just because something’s inevitable, it doesn’t make it any less sad." I don’t give a fuck about the circle of life, or the peaceful hereafter, or any of the usual philosophical platitudes. The bottom line is, this guy was well-loved, engaged to be married, and thirty-two years of age. I don’t understand why these things happen, and I understand even less why they happen to cool people. All the people I know who knew him, and people I don’t know, are staggering around in shock and grief, and they don’t get it, either. I can’t do anything about it. I can’t explain it. I can’t fix it.
I’ll rage if I want to.