Tag Archives: David Bowie

Black, White, and Bowie

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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.