Why I’m mad at you Philip Seymour
Hoffman…
When I received the text from my daughter Philip Seymour Hoffman had
passed, I couldn’t recall who you were. Once she sent a photo, I realized you
were the chameleon actor who could disappear into a role like a snowflake
landing on a puddle. A master in front of a screen, a champion on stage, a man
with a thousand faces that could make us believe you were any one of them.
The news of the needle, the drugs, the photos of you with your children
and without, kept gnawing at me until I grew mad at you. Yes you, whose closest
six degrees of separation to me was my daughter seeing you in a local Greenwich
Village deli, have evoked an emotion reserved for those closest to me. But
that’s what you were so good at, wasn’t it.
I keep asking myself, why? Is it because you were so much like all of us?
Is it because you were a Hollywood success that didn’t reach those outer limits
of being removed from every day folks? You weren’t overly handsome, like Brad
Pitt or George Clooney, but somehow even more attractive because of it. Your
everyday face bought immediate trust, your smile drew us in like a night star
twinkling above. Your honesty about yourself and your character’s roles were
brutal. You were tough, why not tough
enough?
Maybe I’m mad because I
wanted you to be stronger for your children. So many times I wanted to give up.
But I couldn’t, wouldn’t and I was mad you did. I’m mad no one made you sit down
and watch It’s a Wonderful Life a thousand times so I wouldn’t have to watch
yours unfold on the news a hundred.
I’m mad, because of you, stories of heroin have once again snuck its ugly
face in my home. I’m mad because I have to remind my teenage children that even
adults make bad choices. I’m mad because you didn’t make the right
one.
At the end of the day we all struggle with our demons. I’m mad yours won.
I’m mad knowing no matter how long I live, no matter how much I try, I’ll never
be as good as you were.
And now you’re gone, and that makes me mad.
Hoffman…
When I received the text from my daughter Philip Seymour Hoffman had
passed, I couldn’t recall who you were. Once she sent a photo, I realized you
were the chameleon actor who could disappear into a role like a snowflake
landing on a puddle. A master in front of a screen, a champion on stage, a man
with a thousand faces that could make us believe you were any one of them.
The news of the needle, the drugs, the photos of you with your children
and without, kept gnawing at me until I grew mad at you. Yes you, whose closest
six degrees of separation to me was my daughter seeing you in a local Greenwich
Village deli, have evoked an emotion reserved for those closest to me. But
that’s what you were so good at, wasn’t it.
I keep asking myself, why? Is it because you were so much like all of us?
Is it because you were a Hollywood success that didn’t reach those outer limits
of being removed from every day folks? You weren’t overly handsome, like Brad
Pitt or George Clooney, but somehow even more attractive because of it. Your
everyday face bought immediate trust, your smile drew us in like a night star
twinkling above. Your honesty about yourself and your character’s roles were
brutal. You were tough, why not tough
enough?
Maybe I’m mad because I
wanted you to be stronger for your children. So many times I wanted to give up.
But I couldn’t, wouldn’t and I was mad you did. I’m mad no one made you sit down
and watch It’s a Wonderful Life a thousand times so I wouldn’t have to watch
yours unfold on the news a hundred.
I’m mad, because of you, stories of heroin have once again snuck its ugly
face in my home. I’m mad because I have to remind my teenage children that even
adults make bad choices. I’m mad because you didn’t make the right
one.
At the end of the day we all struggle with our demons. I’m mad yours won.
I’m mad knowing no matter how long I live, no matter how much I try, I’ll never
be as good as you were.
And now you’re gone, and that makes me mad.