A Love Letter to David Bowie
“Something happened on the day he died
Spirit rose a metre then stepped aside
Somebody else took his place, and bravely cried
I’m a blackstar, I’m a star’s star, I’m a blackstar.”
To my Alien Friend,
You left your body behind for good yesterday.
I read it in the headlines as I scrolled the morning news.
I didn't cry. I didn't even pause. I just kept scrolling.
I didn't want to know.
I went to work. People there were talking about you. They were talking as if they'd known you.
I just kept working. After all, I'd never met you.
After work, a sunny afternoon. My husband and I decided to go for a drive. He was very moved by your passing.
"They're calling Blackstar his goodbye note," my husband was telling me, about the album you released only a few days ago.
I didn't want to know.
"Is it even any good?" I asked gruffly. I noted my own cynicism, and thought it best to try a new approach.
So I hit "play" on Blackstar as my husband pressed the gas pedal and turned the wheel.
And that's when my whole heart fell apart.
A strange, complex, and lovely space-dream of a song was unravelling. And through the cacophonous beats, sweet harp and, yes, a saxophone, came a devastatingly familiar echo:
A voice I couldn't help but know.
It was your voice.
The same voice that had cried out a defense for every alienated, misunderstood adolescent across generations, including mine,
“And these children that you spit on
as they try and change their worlds
are immune to your consultations
they’re quite aware of what they’re going through.”
The same voice that had teased in the background at so many hip, drunken, rebellious twenty-somethings' house parties,
“Oh! You pretty things
don’t you know you’re driving your
Mamas and Papas insane?”
The same voice that I'd merged my own with, singing along at the top of my lungs, on countless road trips and late night driving adventures,
“Take a look at the lawman
beating up the wrong guy.
Oh man, wonder if he’ll ever know
he’s in the bestselling show.
Is there life on Mars?”
Now, a different song. But the same voice.
And I was in tears. Deep sobs.
Because the truth is I have met you.
I have known you. We've all known you.
You have bled your beautiful, alien heart and soul into every line, note, performance, alter-ego, and costume change you've ever created.
And you've offered it all, boldly and relentlessly.
And now, this. Blackstar. A magnificent farewell. But I don't want the song to end.
Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about you this morning, and, as she always does, she articulated all the thoughts I haven't been able to find the words to express,
“Can you imagine, to be making art like this (fearless art that both comforts and challenges) right up to the moment of your death? How do you do that? How do you BE that? To work with your death so imaginatively, in order to perfectly time out the last beats of your life? What a magnificent creature of creation, right to the end.
“I am sad today, but mostly I am overwhelmed by awe. This is what it means to be a great artist.
“From the beginning, this was a man who showed us how to do life differently than anyone had ever done it before, and now look how he has done death.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.”
Thank you.
Thank you for your courage and your grit. Thank you for your determination to see your vision through to the end, despite your battle with the cancerous enemy.
Thank you for sharing your magic and your understanding.
Thank you for keeping me company all along the way.
Until next time,
J