On Music…
September 7, 2020, marks two years since the passing of Mac Miller. I remember getting the first notification of Mac’s death, followed by falling to the floor and crying my eyes out. I tweeted “No.” and thought, perhaps, this was all some sick joke. But it wasn’t. It was very real and very painful. Within the hour, I wrote “Thank You, Mac Miller.” Within a few days, I started planting seeds for Year Of Mac. Within a few months, I made a host of new friends, from E. Dan and Big Jerm, to Q, and Malcolm’s mother, Karen. Two years gone, and I’ll never forget you, Mac. You have my whole heart. You are the artist of my life. To commemorate your life, I’ve penned yet another letter. I hope it reaches you, wherever you are.
Dear Mac,
So much has changed since the last time I wrote to you. I moved to Philadelphia, I got engaged, I got better. I’m currently in a virtual waiting room to see my psychiatrist. Crazy how the world has changed without you. This year has been rife with pain, but your music has kept me going. I wanted to thank you for Circles, an incredible farewell. I listen to that album multiple times a day. I think of you often, and why wouldn’t I? I have six paintings of you in my house—somehow my fiancée has allowed this to happen.
When I’m not listening to Circles, I’m jamming to Swimming. “2009,” in particular, still moves me like the first time I got the masters. I refused to clean up the file names in my iTunes—yes, I still use iTunes—because I wanted to preserve the purity of getting masters for your incredible work. I think so often about the day you passed, and how people reached out to me, and how your team told me you’ve been a reader for years. Thank you, Mac, for seeing me seeing you. I feel our relationship is wonderfully cosmic, and your readership only serves to confirm that.
I’m trying hard not to tear up while writing this. Sometimes, it still hits me in fresh waves, your death. I’ll be sitting idly and remember, without a shadow of a doubt, you’re not longer with us, and I’ll cry like it was the first day. Like the news just broke, like there’s a chance it could be a prolonged nightmare. I’ve experienced a lot of loss this year, and your music has gotten me through it. And for your loss, too, the music has been a salve. In my new office, the painting I got of you when my grandpa passed all those years ago proudly hangs on the wall over my shoulder. I look at it a few times a day. You push me to be better.
I think the most important thing for you to know, is that I am much better than I was when I first stared writing about you. In large part, that’s your doing. I’ve learned so many lessons from you music, especially on how to have a fulfilling and fruitful life. I’ve learned about fighting through anything. I’ve learned about pushing and willpower, and I’ve learned how to process my pain productively. Every day, I grow more and more grateful for you. I am so happy to know you left every last bit of yourself on wax. Each MacHead feels the same way, I’m sure.
I’ll never forget you, Mac. I want to honor you every day with my words. I hope I’m doing a good job, doing right by you. It’s still so hard for me to wrap my mind around your absence. But I know wherever you are, you’re having a wonderful time. I had a call with Thundercat some months ago, and he pranked me when he picked up the phone. We talked about Faces. It was amazing. I can see why you two are the best of friends. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t miss you dearly. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t wish you were still here. You were so many people’s hero, but more than that, you were just Malcolm and that was enough for all of us.
So, thank you, again, Mac, for everything. Every bar, every verse, every melody. They’re in my heart, they enthuse my spirit. You’re a once-in-a-lifetime act. I hope you feel that love and reverence every day. We love and miss you, Mac. Be well.