I really enjoyed this, mostly fictional, account of Heath Ledger’s last days.
After I died, people dissected me. They put words in my mouth: This is how he felt when he wrote this, this is what he thought of me, this is why he did it. Fuck them. But also bless them. They made me famous. Immortal. Suddenly, my songs, which once were strange and ill-conceived, now were fat with meaning. When you die, you become a Virgin Mary, an untouchable exalted thing with a golden breast and a mink brow. You lose yourself, and they win you. You have no voice, and so a million people breathe and talk for you. Your art is their art. Your casket is their temple, your last words are their next ten commandments.
September 7, 2008 at 12:09 am
When I read about Heath Ledger I think of the irony – his last movie was his best role. And he is more likely to be remembered for being the joker than one of the gay cowboys in Brokeback Mountain.
July 5, 2009 at 12:38 am
Damnit. About a year too late. Maybe I will track you down somewhere else on the internet. I like your blog. Well, I suppose LIKED would be more descriptive. You’re well written, and I’d like to chat with you sometime. Please contact me if you have any interest. I am an email junkie.
July 5, 2009 at 12:39 am
my email is northcountrybrat yahoo. Trying to avoid a spider snatching up my addy
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