When I learned of David Bowie's death I found myself writing, not to say something to readers but to try to get answers for myself. I tried to understand why learning that David Bowie had died made me feel so deeply hurt. As if it was something done to me instead of something that happened to him.
It wasn't that I didn't understand the enormous musical and cultural contribution he made. I did. But the pain was from something else.
I'm not sure I even would have described myself as a fan. Had you asked me the week before to name my favorite performers, I would have listed four or five other names. But if you'd said, "What about David Bowie?" I would have answered "well yes of course David Bowie." And if you'd asked which of his songs was my favorite, I would have had to pick five or six of them, not just one.
Maybe I never thought of him as a rock star. My first impression of him was a somewhat frightening looking, glittery creature in platform shoes who talked about spiders from Mars.
I was 5.
I remember I studied his picture, kind of scared but fascinated too, and I asked my mom if he really was from outer space.
I asked this, wanting the answer to be yes.
My mother paused, looked at his photo, and smiled. Not a big smile for everyone but a little smile only for herself. I still remember her answer: "We aren't quite sure."
So for me, at 5, and even past 45, David Bowie meant you couldn't live in Wonderland but you could reach down the rabbit hole and pull out at least one fantastical creature. Just him being in the same world would make you measure differently somehow.
Maybe I counted on that magical person to be a sort of permanent landmark in the world as I knew it. He activated my deepest wish and need to believe that magic is an option.
In fact, I think I'll keep right on believing that.
After all, you can't believe everything you read in the papers.
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