November 2003 | Introducing: the EIOESFD

See below for details about the icon at left, known as the Eternal Icon of Elliott Smith Fan Depression, (created by Quirkyworks) and standing as a wordless symbol for all the weighty volumes of screedage that could potentially, and have already, spewed forward concerning his loss. When you see it, know that the essence of such a lament is close at hand.

The EIOESFD: coming soon

To spare you a never ending series of laments, eulogies and tirades in this right-hand column concerning the horrid and depressing suicide of Elliott Smith, I have commissioned the creation of an icon heretofore referred to as the EIOESFD, or, the Eternal Icon of Elliott Smith Fan Depression, to post on the site, as a wordless reminder of what I might end up ranting about indefinitely were I not to be reigned in by the matter of moving forward with my own allotted lifespan, which I have currently chosen to perpetuate, out of a generalized fear of pain, a liking for naps, and a successful avoidance of depression-enhancing druggage and whiskey. Or as the Beatles put it (come on everyone, sing along with me):

One day, you'll find
That I have gone
But tomorrow may rain, so
I'll follow the sun

Rest in peace, Elliott.

Shoot out the lights

Hi people. I'm still thinking about Elliott Smith. I think as the days go on (it's been what, a month now, since he ended his peerless talents with, unthinkably, a steak knife) I become more and more aware that he is no more.

I've read my share of maudlin teen blog tributes, and "he was a heroin-addled indie rock pixie not of this earth" quotations from his fellow music scene acquaintances (thank god for the web when we need to dwell on the overwrought musings of strangers, tiny dog a great case in point), so I will spare you that kind of eulogizing from me.

I recently finished re-reading a book about writing that quoted Truman Capote: "When God hands you a gift, He also hands you a whip." Or in Elliott's case-- well, I think you know. The author (Betsy Lerner) also said something that explains precisely why, to me, Elliott Smith's music is great:

The more popular culture and the media fail to present the pathos of our human struggle, the more opportunity there is for writers who are unafraid to present stories that speak emotional truth.

I am not sure about you, but I spend basically most of my time driving around and sitting at work, while inwardly feeling guilt, uncertainty, regret, anxiety, a sense of loss, and an acute awareness of little signs that underneath the boredom and fear that there is something almost like religion (minus the fiction and hypocrisy, which is much of it, I admit), I mean what religion might be if you threw over the churches, and kicked out all the idiots-- and sometimes (none too often) you get a sign that there is indeed this kind of subtext to the world, which (besides the coffee) keeps you getting out of bed each day to face the tedium and obligations, and the ever present possibility for terrible things to occur. In short, its the emotional truth under all the merging and glad-handing and cut and pasting we spend our lives on.

I think that the music Elliott Smith made expressed exactly this. It speaks directly to the mostly unhappy experiences of daily life with a promise that there is more meaning in the effort, and something graceful in the suffering. None of us had the talent to cast regular tedium and sadness into emotional truth, but Elliott Smith sure did. That he took his life (and this ability) from us and from himself, for whatever reason, is hard to get past.

You idiot kid

Today on the way to work (well, really on the way to my morning Japanese class, an exercise in command performance terror) I was listening to kexp, Seattle’s excellent independent radio station. It was raining like hell. Or maybe it wasn’t. A song –I can’t remember which one, now—from Elliott Smith’s Either Or was on. It’s one of my favorite albums. I sang along, thinking my usual terrible morning thoughts about car accidents and work-related anxieties and whatever, yet feeling at least a little bit at home.

Then the DJ says, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but apparently Elliott Smith has killed himself.

Hey, peeps. Send mail to mail@tiny-dog.com.