I was gearing up to write Part III of my ‘Meet the Author’ series when I instead found myself faced with the sad announcement of the passing of Leonard Nimoy, whom we all knew best of all as Mr. Spock, the half-Vulcan, half-human first officer of the starship Enterprise.
Much ink (both real and digital) has already been spilled covering this story. It has crept all over the internet and through the churning, ancient machine known as The Media. We know what roles Nimoy played, when he was born, when he died, how old he was, what he was best known for. Oddly enough, the passing of the great Mr. Nimoy didn’t come down upon me as some outside news that I consumed. Rather, Nimoy’s death crept up from inside, with a hunch and a niggling feeling, and then the inevitable death that felt more like losing a friend, even though I never had the privilege to meet him in person.
This may sound a bit egotistical or overly dramatic, but let me explain it this way: the internet is weird. Hear me out on this one.
For those of you who aren’t aware, I spend a lot of time building connections and promoting my work on Twitter. On said site (Or is it an app? The lines blur), I followed Leonard Nimoy’s feed. And while many actors have Twitter feeds and Facebook pages, not many of them are actually run by the actor in question, but rather handed off to a PR team as yet another addition to be bolted on to the ever growing machination of The Media. Nimoy, however, was as genuine as he appeared to be. He sent out his own messages, always keeping his followers in the loop on his latest news and appearances, as well as preaching his personal gospel on the importance of quitting smoking, something he wished he had never been involved with in his life and something that certainly contributed to his death.
In short, Mr. Nimoy was a presence, like an uncle who lives down the street and gives you advice when you need a place to turn to. He remained optimistic and pure, a Vulcan Mr. Rogers there to brighten your day. And then the tweets started to taper off…
You know that feeling you get when your favorite older relative doesn’t call as much as they used to or doesn’t come out to family functions as often? Even though everyone is putting on a brave face, the family knows what’s coming. In a sense, the internet, or at least the Twitter slice of it, was seeing that withdrawal from public life, at least for those who were willing to notice it. It wasn’t long thereafter that I heard that Mr. Nimoy had been admitted to a hospital. Though the reports advised that it wasn’t for anything serious, I had my sincere doubts and shared them with my closest friends (two of which hold Mr. Spock as personal role models, something more people ought to consider). Even so, when I told them the news I reiterated that things “weren’t serious,” the words ringing hollow to my ears.
Leonard Nimoy, Mr. Spock, died February 27, 2015. The enormity of that information has yet to hit me, despite the fact that I had advanced warning. If anything it let me brace myself. His final tweet was sent five days before his passing. It reads as follows:
A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP.
There are no words I can find as an author that can complement such a beautiful piece of prose, and I can’t think of a better way to say farewell to the world. And while people—myself included—pour out their sentiments over the passing of a phenomenal man, astronaut Terry Virts very quietly and very simply gave the most poignant send off to a man who made us question ourselves as a species and had us think as to what direction we wished to go in the future. The American astronaut did something few could do: he shared with everyone a picture of the Vulcan salute against the backdrop of an orbiting Earth below, timing his photograph so that Nimoy’s native Boston was captured as well. The picture was, naturally, sent via Twitter. As I said earlier: the internet is weird. But it’s also a home, a place, and a future. Nimoy embraced it, saw the best in the people, not the technology, and used it to spread a message of hope and love. For that, we should be ever thankful.
Much ink (both real and digital) has already been spilled covering this story. It has crept all over the internet and through the churning, ancient machine known as The Media. We know what roles Nimoy played, when he was born, when he died, how old he was, what he was best known for. Oddly enough, the passing of the great Mr. Nimoy didn’t come down upon me as some outside news that I consumed. Rather, Nimoy’s death crept up from inside, with a hunch and a niggling feeling, and then the inevitable death that felt more like losing a friend, even though I never had the privilege to meet him in person.
This may sound a bit egotistical or overly dramatic, but let me explain it this way: the internet is weird. Hear me out on this one.
For those of you who aren’t aware, I spend a lot of time building connections and promoting my work on Twitter. On said site (Or is it an app? The lines blur), I followed Leonard Nimoy’s feed. And while many actors have Twitter feeds and Facebook pages, not many of them are actually run by the actor in question, but rather handed off to a PR team as yet another addition to be bolted on to the ever growing machination of The Media. Nimoy, however, was as genuine as he appeared to be. He sent out his own messages, always keeping his followers in the loop on his latest news and appearances, as well as preaching his personal gospel on the importance of quitting smoking, something he wished he had never been involved with in his life and something that certainly contributed to his death.
In short, Mr. Nimoy was a presence, like an uncle who lives down the street and gives you advice when you need a place to turn to. He remained optimistic and pure, a Vulcan Mr. Rogers there to brighten your day. And then the tweets started to taper off…
You know that feeling you get when your favorite older relative doesn’t call as much as they used to or doesn’t come out to family functions as often? Even though everyone is putting on a brave face, the family knows what’s coming. In a sense, the internet, or at least the Twitter slice of it, was seeing that withdrawal from public life, at least for those who were willing to notice it. It wasn’t long thereafter that I heard that Mr. Nimoy had been admitted to a hospital. Though the reports advised that it wasn’t for anything serious, I had my sincere doubts and shared them with my closest friends (two of which hold Mr. Spock as personal role models, something more people ought to consider). Even so, when I told them the news I reiterated that things “weren’t serious,” the words ringing hollow to my ears.
Leonard Nimoy, Mr. Spock, died February 27, 2015. The enormity of that information has yet to hit me, despite the fact that I had advanced warning. If anything it let me brace myself. His final tweet was sent five days before his passing. It reads as follows:
A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP.
There are no words I can find as an author that can complement such a beautiful piece of prose, and I can’t think of a better way to say farewell to the world. And while people—myself included—pour out their sentiments over the passing of a phenomenal man, astronaut Terry Virts very quietly and very simply gave the most poignant send off to a man who made us question ourselves as a species and had us think as to what direction we wished to go in the future. The American astronaut did something few could do: he shared with everyone a picture of the Vulcan salute against the backdrop of an orbiting Earth below, timing his photograph so that Nimoy’s native Boston was captured as well. The picture was, naturally, sent via Twitter. As I said earlier: the internet is weird. But it’s also a home, a place, and a future. Nimoy embraced it, saw the best in the people, not the technology, and used it to spread a message of hope and love. For that, we should be ever thankful.
Live long and prosper, my friends. Live long and prosper.
A.C. Harrison
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Like what you see here? Spread the word and support indie authors! Follow me on Facebook or Twitter. Find me on Smashwords and Kindlemojo.
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