Figuring Out the Width of a Circle Whilst Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed
- Jan 13, 2018
- 3 min read
"He's dead."
"Who's dead?"
"Bowie ... David Bowie is dead."
Time stopped for a moment while I drifted into doubt, disbelief and denial.
"What?"
"David Bowie is gone, he died this morning."
The impact of those words didn't truly hit me until I was aboard a JFK flight to San Fransisco (SFO), to mourn the loss of a far away council, illuminator and alien, on my way to see Parisha Pakroo, who bespoke those words to me.
In the following days after Bowie's death, I found myself numbed and holding back tears. I had no desire to share my feelings with anyone. It was a wholly private experience. I couldn't bear to listen to songs that pseudo-fans were embracing, engulfing and spewing as the best things they'd ever heard. My ex-husband was shocked by my aborting his fledgeling attempt to play "Starman" on his guitar. I could absolutely have none of it. I was in mourning and I was, in my own mind, rightfully miffed. I could not embrace all their new found love of brilliance in my time of sorrow, however absurd that was.
The Pakroo and I had daily contact and she mentioned that she couldn't stop crying but couldn't cry with anyone else in the room (because they didn't understand!). She wanted to share the experience with someone that appreciated the magnitude of his loss.
I checked the flights and booked a passage to the west coast. "I'll be there in 10 hours." I figured that with the Pakroo was where I'd shed my tears ...
I boarded my flight without hearing "Heroes", "Let's Dance" or "Starman" (there was no chance I'd hear Somewhat Slightly Dazed) so I felt safe. Tears shall be shed in Frisco!
Aboard the flight I watched the film "The Martian". Matt Damon haphazardly portrayed a dim-witted, disco-hating astronaut, cloddishingly traipsing about the surface of Mars with what MacGyver would have called a treasure trove of goodies whilst stumbling upon horticulture and duct tape!
Truth be told, the film was quite good ... but then it happened. That fucking B chord! Fuck you Matt Damon and Fuck You Ridley Scott! Why'd you do this? How did you do this? Bowie never lent out or sold any song. I avoided these key notes/chords for a week (and that's why I'm on a flight to SFO). How did they get in your fucking movie?!?
"Starman" began. Those chords ... noooooo! ... and then it happened. The flood gates opened. There was no stopping them. I finally wept. I was alone and aloft with tears flowing.
I looked out the fuselage portal to embrace flight, space and the moment, only to look down and realize I was flying over my grandparents grave in Libertyville, Illinois. Oddly enough, I wasn't alone. I mourned with those that I last truly wept for.
This photograph was taken over their gravesite, at dusk, on my way to mourn with the P.
Parisha cried in my arms a few times on that brief San Fransisco encounter. My tears were shed over the "Land of Lincoln" with Matt Damon and my dead Baja & Deya. Absolutely unexpected.
We laughed about the fact that I was traveling for over 15 hours and nearly 6,000 mile to hang together for less than 10 hours. We decided that David would have approved.
Rock and Roll
Turtle "Toole, Parisha Pakroo and I, years ago. Turtle was unable to join in on the mourning, presumably snow-shoeing about St Moritz, as the avid snow-shoer that he is.
Brash, forthcoming and abrasive as he was, I felt a relativity that can only be described as a loving embrace. Lonely as my adolescence was, it was wholly endured by the help of the "Thin White Duke." His words, songs and actions have been a part of my life since I first heard the opening Ahhhhh's of Let's Dance.
It's been two years since his death. I miss him. That's all.
Here's a great clip of Bowie on the Dinah Shore Show of "Five Years" (the video is crap, the sound is spot on). If you can find the interview, please do. It's enlightening.
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