I just heard the news about Anthony Bourdain, who was as ferocious about devouring life as a person could be. What a goddamn tragedy this is. What a week of flashing, blinding alarm lights. There is a crisis in this country, and even the strongest and most successful and seemingly charmed among us can't fight it on their own. And there's an enormous gulf, obviously, between a clinical depression and, I don't know, feeling the pain of certain things, which is a natural human reaction to living. Platitudes about happiness are a minor and meaningless consolation against the weight that some people feel can't be lifted. Attending to your mental health is as critical as eating your fucking vegetables, man. But don't ever think it's as easy.
p.s. I went to the opera last night to see my old bananas friend Draculette play "Tosca" in (surprise!) Tosca. And I loved it! I loved it so much. At the end (11:05) I was exhausted but so happy, strolling with SarahB across the plaza on a dark November's eve, and I could actually feel something old and dear and nearly forgotten step back inside my body.