I just read a very poignant essay remembering Spalding Gray. How very sad. Sadder still is the fact that his friends are acknowledging the likelihood that he will not be found.
(It strikes me that there's the gloom of TS Eliot in the air.)
I'd like to think he just walked away, still trying to find himself, and will live out long years hermit-like somewhere in New England. He will be some small fishing village's crazy man with wise warnings.
I reread Monster in a Box the other night and revelled in the frenzy of it.