"Believing the strangest things, loving the alien."
There's this sense that I have an obligation to write about David Bowie, about his impact on me. But I'm afraid I'm not made for eulogies. I spent all day yesterday weepy and stunned. Today, I'm still stunned. I posted artwork and music videos and other people's essays to my Facebook page. Lou Anders wrote an especially marvelous piece for iO9, Something Happened on the Day He Died: A Tribute to David Bowie. If I were able to write such things, I might write about the profound effect that Outside (1995) had on my fiction, from the post-industrial wastelands of Tales of Pain and Wonder to the artistic mutilations of "A Season of Broken Dolls." Or I might write about the first time I actually saw Bowie perform, December 15, 1979 on Saturday Night Live, when he sang with Klaus Nomi and Joey Arias. Or maybe I'd write about Bowie taught me the importance of alter egos, shifting personae, and artistic reinvention. Et cetera and et cetera.
But I won't write a eulogy, because it's not something I'm good at. But that sense of obligation will be with me for a long, long time.
Kathryn and I had preordered Black Star on vinyl, and, as fate would have it, the album arrived yesterday. As the sun set, we sat together in the front parlor and listened.
"And the silence flies On its brief flight, A razor sharp crap shoot affair." ~ David Bowie
Today, it's cold and sunny. Currently, it's 29˚F and feels like 26˚F.
I have to finish "Eurydice Eduction" today. On Sunday, I wrote 1,085 words. Yesterday, I wrote nothing. And I need to finish proofing "The Cripple and the Starfish" for a reprint.