boppin' beats, beekeeping, and big game.

John gave me an Elliot Smith CD for Christmas, which I've been listening to this morning and yesterday. He looks a little like Alan Rickman and sounds a little like Paul McCartney. John explained to me, sitting by the tree, emptied red stocking in my lap, that he'd heard about him on NPR. That the music sounded like something I'd listen to...and that the guy killed himself last year. In fact, this album didn't come out until after his death.

And John was right to get it. It does sound like something I'd listen to...though I feel barred from being a fan, per se. I've missed that boat. Like now his death is linked to his being in my brain, clouding the real view.

And there's something odd about having his music stuck in my head. Why is it different with music? I little birdie told me the new, restored version of Ariel is waiting for me to open on Wednesday (birthday). And yet, reading those poems of Sylvia Plath could there be something more personal? will not have the same feeling.

And. Of course. The question arises:

Why do I gravitate to people who killed themselves?

After all, I also got a book about Hemingway for Christmas. And we all know my weird fascination with him.

Is it their power? Their potency? Their utilization of choice?

Oh, probably not. The music is intoxicating. As are the personas of people who, for one reason or another, have become larger than life. Well, literarily speaking anyway. I'm not much interested in Kurt Cobain. Afraid I missed that boat, too.