Song: “Needle In The Hay” Elliott Smith
Mood: Weltsmertz :(
Down some dark defile of the mind, terra incognito to the blithe and bourgeois notions of normalcy, lies a swath of consciousness shrouded in a substance as dark as Kevin Curtis is light. Shawn Andrews has seen this place. So, too, have I. Indeed, I’ve felt its wintry contours and been contained within its clammy manacles.
There is no 4th and 26 in this place. There is no (some other accomplishment in Eagles history).
It is very essence of inner tumult. It is the disease of depression.
When I first read that Shawn Andrews had not just looked, but plunged, into this abyss, I reacted much as William Styron did when he first read Camus: I received the stab of recognition that only proceeds from a writer who weds moral passion and a quiet strength.
“Football is important” he said. “A means to an end, but my mental health, I feel like, is a lot more important. That’s a helluva lot of money … Money’s good, money’s a necessity, but it’s not everything. I can’t put a price tag on my mental state.”
Unstinting in its power.
Only a bit gay.
Even more than the ineffable and unrelatable darkness of melancholia, he has weathered the slings and arrows of five years in Philly. They say Ricky Watters blacks out anytime he sees a green shirt. And he was only here three years.
I can only hope that Andrews will find actual help and not some doctor who will try to narcotize him to a stupor. I had sworn off my pills, well, until I saw that’s what Zack Braff’s character did in Garden State. Even I’m not ready to emulate that guy. I took a month’s worth of Lexapro as soon as I turned it off. I’m almost regretting that. Since sales of my latest collection of sestinas, “Oleaginous Hypocrisy” are less than brisk, I might try to conserve some of that Lexapro to barter for Eagles preseason tickets. You’d be surprised how far those go with Iggles faithful.