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04/06/13 - 8:21 a.m.

I'm sad Roger Ebert died.

Actually, I counted up the years before I'll be his age. And then you think, "What if that's how many years I have left?" And then you try not to think about it, but you're weird and moody all day...

I wrote a blog post about him, and one of my friends said he'd liked it. I started thinking about the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly. I guess I feel like I've done some similar things in my life -- putting out moments of my own enthusiasm...

It's kind of a vicarious thing. You hope there's a connection - that the audience feels what you felt - and you kind of just accept that they will, and move on. And I guess I'm assuming there's some kind of immortality that goes along with that, with getting your thoughts into print. You could argue that sometimes that's a substitute for a real connection. But that just seems too cynical...

Anyways, for what are possibly some very good reasons, it feels important to speak up now about how much I liked Roger Ebert.

               *               *               *
It's evening now, but I'm still not at my best. I didn't sleep well last night. I worked too hard this morning. I cried about Ebert -- or was it Buddy Holly? Or maybe my dog?

I tried to distract myself. Then realized that was probably a bad idea. But then I came home and flopped on the couch, and watched TV for five hours. I made myself stop. I came here and wrote.

I was going to ask, What do I have to do to actually get in touch with my feelings? But the answer is probably just "Stop running from them."

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