R.I.P.

Normally in these pages I would not comment on goings-on within the world of celebrity, that glittering mirage ... but as I'm sure everyone by now knows, Heath Ledger, 28 and a fellow Brooklynite, was found dead of a sleeping pill overdose yesterday afternoon in a SoHo apartment.

My friend called and told me this around 5:30pm—and it really affected me. Perhaps because of his great talent, perhaps because he's my same age, perhaps because of this friend's recent dealings with him, he had become more real to me—though more likely the reason that it affected me so was because he died by his own hand (though unintentionally) as a result of drug use.

If, as Auden wrote, "poetry makes nothing happen," then a blog post must surely do less—but I feel I must say, no matter if it does any good, that if you think you have a problem, or know someone who does, try to get you or them some help. Trying to help someone else probably won't work, but you can try. If it's your own self, though, I know with total confidence that it can work. Just be careful out there—there's no coming back from where Heath Ledger, god rest his soul, has gone.