Elliott Smith is dead.

Grieving does nothing for the dead. We grieve for ourselves, for what we can no longer have. Elliott Smith got exactly what he wanted, and we can give and take nothing else from the man. Because it provided a sense of approval and connection, Smith's old concerts can now be remembered as sacred events. But what a failure of the imagination: all moments are equally rare, whether someone is playing a guitar or not, whether Smith is alive or dead. Those on the message boards who are grateful they saw him perform live are fully vested in the lie that somehow the story, the man, and the experience of the music are all bound together, that the aggregate pleasure of thousands can be summed up into one living soul, one ex-addict with a beating heart, and now his entirely solitary act—seppuku without the second—can be seen as some kind of communion, a concluding act to his oeuvre of bitter depression. A pair of round cracked eyeglasses on an album cover, and a ticket stub from 1998. A bit of cloth dipped in his blood, a fragment of the true cross. It's all about
taking
the easy way out
for you,
I suppose.

(yes the 14 year old is back)

Everyone says they’re happy pills. They’re not. If I’m having a shit day I still have a shit day. But it’s not like a shit day/week/month/half-a-fucking year like I used to have. I used to wake up every morning thinking about death.

Not in a wanky self-absorbed romanticised ‘everyone will miss me when I’m gone’ kind of way. More like an animal that knows it’s gonna die soon. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, be around a dying dog.

My conscious mind was in denial about suicide, my unconscious mind was running amok. I was dreaming about how I was gonna go. I had preferred method, location, time – all ‘hypothetical’ of course. The shadows that took me at night were always present in my waking time. Turning ‘the act’ over and over. Refining. Planning. Don’t tell me that‘s a fucking normal state of mind,

People think of suicide like an act. It’s more like an unstoppable motion, a whirlpool event that becomes irreversible at a certain point down the spiral wall. You can see clearly where it all went wrong, back at the outer reaches before you went down the flume. At this point you’re at the mercy of the beast. It either spins itself out or you go down the hole. Depression is cyclical. Next time round it may not be so benevolent.

I was lucky. I got help in time and made it through the potentially dangerous first 2 weeks of treatment. My dosage is now reduced although I accept that I may have to be on medication for the rest of my life. Life still has it’s attendant miseries and humiliations – ho, ho. Still,I can deal with them better without this dark ambient noise that drowns out everything else.

ten years gone

47 minutes gone hahahahaha never change ILX

maybe i was a little misguided upthread. i don't think i would romanticize suicide as much anymore. in any case i still believe there are situations where suicide may be a relief. like when you have a tumor which eats up your brain. like this guy for example.

Would have been 50. RIP.

Man everyone was so mean 15 years ago

I knew better than to read posts, this was just the first non album Smith thread I saw.