[from the New York Times, Aug. 7, 2019]

With wry songs full of black humor, his band became an underground favorite in the 1990s, and a new group, Purple Mountains, was set to tour.

David Berman, the reluctant songwriter and poet whose dry baritone and wry, wordy compositions anchored Silver Jews, a critically lauded staple of the 1990s indie-rock scene, died on Wednesday. He was 52.

 His death was announced by his record label, Drag City, which released music by Silver Jews and Berman’s latest band, Purple Mountains…A law enforcement official who spoke on condition of anonymity because he wasn’t authorized to speak on the matter said that Berman was found on Wednesday in an apartment building in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, and pronounced dead at the scene.

 A spokeswoman for the city’s medical examiner said that Berman had hanged himself, and ruled it suicide.

Another artist has left this world-David Berman [NY Times photo]

To spend hours, weeks, months, and even years with people and then have them so profoundly reject you at the hour of your greatest need is demoralizing at the very least. The act of abandonment becomes deeply personal and affecting. You internalize it and adopt methods of moving through and beyond it. It leaves you scarred, however.

The more methods we have for “connecting” with others, the more our choice not to affects those who remain out of contact range. To be rejected in the age of Zuckerberg’s bulldozer is a particularly cruel form of loneliness.

Meanwhile, another sensitive soul decided he’d had enough of this world. After years of people paying lip service to his work and genius—yet another artist living only to experience the pain and rejection seeing their art and creativity devalued—he decided that he’d had enough and died alone in a world that’s weaponized isolation.

A friend from my past—someone who somehow managed to disappear without a trace just before digital subsumed the rest of us—often said to me, “the masses are asses.” I can’t disagree.

I try to stay away from Facebook. Whenever I spend more than a few minutes there, I always see someone celebrating and spending time with other people. The other people inevitably aren’t me.

Across my life, I’ve developed work-arounds to most of my shortcomings—from ADHD, through procrastination, into anger management—to name a few of my personal peccadilloes. I’m not perfect by any means. To live as a “ghost” has been a challenge like no other.

Short of real-world relationships, I find solace in books, music, guitars, local beer, and early-morning walks across a new spot of geography. What else is there to do, save to end it all? I continue to fight that battle, daily.

When I heard that David Berman died, I wasn’t surprised. I’d read somewhere that he was depressed. Who isn’t possessing a heart and a functioning intellect? During his time on this earth, he strove to explain (in music and words) the dissonance of American life.

I wonder how I’d feel if Mary left me? Probably even more alone. Berman and his wife, Cassie, were separated, according to some of the articles I’ve read following his death. My own wife probably feels like I’ve become more “alone” over time: at least since our son was killed.

Last night, I climbed the stairs from our basement and walked into the kitchen. I’d been playing guitar in the cellar (what I refer to as “my bunker”). I was greeted by the smells from what might have been one of her best culinary creations. I told her, sometime, you should kiss my amp and guitar—they’ve managed to “keep me here.” She nodded. She understands. At least one person in my life does.

I hardly know what to write these days. I’ve poured my heart out as a blogger. I’ve written intelligently across a host of topics. I no longer feel the same urgency to delve into my personal travails like I used to.

Another friend, someone I no longer remain tethered to, once told me that her best decade was between 50 and 60. I thought, “hey, maybe that will be the case for me.” No, drawing nigh to the end of that decade, I can say that it’s been one that truly “sucked” like no other period in my life.

A song from another creative soul. His death was ruled, “accidental” overdose.