Recently I decided to color my hair in black and white stripes.
Then David Bowie died.
That tall, lithe, ballerina-bodied man full of stardust. Sometimes carrot-haired; sometimes blonde. Always exploring his inner cast of characters. Always the man hiding inside the costumes. The eternal story of a misfit unfolding.
He once said that being human was boring. He wanted to be superhuman.
And normally I might flinch at such a statement. Think it arrogant. Cast off the speaker as megalomaniac.
But Bowie had the redemption of honesty. He went on to say that he found his passion repulsive. That ego-drive repelled him as much as it drove him.
And I loved that.
He had balance. He had the fearlessness to self-probe with a scalpel. He had the generosity of spirit to share his shadows with us all.
The stage was his confessional.
So, when I masquerade in my own wardrobe of lies, I’m comforted by recalling his guts to globally expose quirks, deceits, contradictions . . . and transform them into compelling art.
Even his death was a provocative work of art.
He’s left me pondering: Who will face the armoire, open the door on the right, and raise the alabaster-bodied Lazarus from the dead?
For me, though, he didn’t die but in body – wrapped in gauze with buttoned eyeballs. Just his soul-smoke oozed out into orbit.
And I smile at this thought every time I glance in the mirror and see my awning-striped hair.
A beatific grin of joy warms my heart. It’s the perfect way to celebrate my personal, and far more private, life as a misfit.
It consoles. It gives assurance that I’ll always have this one gloriously galactic companion as I gaze into the deep; into my own strange.
This fellow soul of the black-sheep flock.
Namaste Mr. Bowie.