End Of An Era

My head is spinning with a whirlwind of information about myself, the last 4 years, and what brings me to sit in front of a computer after ages of silence. Firstly, it's not good, the majority of it is heartbreaking, and what's left is the trite "growth into adulthood" narrative that some revere and others roll their eyes at. The Cliff Notes version is easily experienced at my Instagram page @PeaveySound where you can follow my final beer post into the legal battles that come with a car-totalling DUI, close to a year of sobriety, and eventually leading to a heartbreaking divorce--but that is not what brought me into blogging necromancy. It took something that not only gutted my emotions but stood my view of the world on its end--the death of Anthony Bourdain.

Since I last expressed myself through writing, we've lost a massive amount of people I admired: Ronnie James Dio, Lemmy Kilmister, David Bowie, the list continues, but they were all natural, (un)dignified, and foreseen deaths. The baseless pit of despair that is the prelude to the act of suicide has doubtless flirted into most of our darkest thoughts, and, to experience only the tip of that despair, is to glimpse the vastness of that void beyond it. To think that someone who I held in the highest esteem crossed the night-sea of depression never to return destroys the paradigm I have created for myself.

Anthony Bourdain was not a celebrity chef, he was a humanist in its purest form. Did I know him personally? No; I never met the man. I also never met Hunter S. Thompson or Earnest Hemingway, but through their writing I knew them all and relate to their minds in ways only two disembodied beings can through text--mind to mind, thought to thought. Through the art/thoughts they created, they inspire billions, as someone close to me so eloquently put it, in a way that still exists in pristine condition. We knew him because he assimilated human agency around the world, condensed it, and served it to us in a way that we were all left licking the plate wanting more. We were left looking to recreate his recipes on how to live our lives, how to educate ourselves through travel, open our eyes through conversation, and abandon our hard-bred, fear-based quivering lives at home.

I started writing because of Bourdain. I envied his itinerary, I sought out places he visited, recreated moments he authored, created new memories through his inspiration--I wanted to be like him. This morning’s news was crushing on so many levels, especially to think that a man so full of life, with mastery of conversation, and ability to explore the world and "make art every motherfucking day"--wasn't happy. If Anthony Bourdain can scour God's earth from every imaginable angle and surface empty-handed, what chance at happiness does anyone have?

I generally embrace my nihilistic sense of humor, but there is no humor to be found. “God is dead.” There is nothing there. Perhaps we will never know his final thoughts, I suppose I can hope that he was a romantic and lost himself in despair over some Italiana with a free spirit. That would be comforting in a way, I suppose. I don't really know where to go from here. Recently I have found myself wistfully longing for days that I would cook for hours for my husband and friends, the people that I was close to when I blogged about beer, the chefs that I met, the events that I hosted, the recipes I'd invent, the dinners, and the beerfests... I find myself quite happy and fairly successful in the entertainment industry. I just don't know if it's satisfying my wanderlust the way I need it to. What if I get what I want? What if I achieve my dreams and I too come up somehow inexplicably short?

In short: I'm crushed by this news. Stopped in my tracks. I loved the man and now we will have no more adventures, only the revisiting of old ones. Thank you for sharing your amazing life with all who would listen, Tony, I wouldn't be the person I am today if it wasn't for you.

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