My Idol, My Ziggy, My Thin White Duke, My Bowie, Has Died
My idol, my Ziggy, my Thin White Duke, my Bowie, has died. Though I think, somehow, all that he was will rise from the ashes of his body like some great ethereal, well-dressed phoenix and continue making art someway, somehow. I have loved David Bowie since I was about 13 years old. I can trace it back to the moment that I learned that Jareth the Goblin King was the man who sang "Golden Years". Since then, bits of Bowie have invaded my life. My love and awe for Bowie, whose work I am still to this day discovering and falling in love with, has encouraged me to take ownership of my oddity, to revel in my weirdness, to proudly identify as an artist, to push myself to experiment and to turn and face the strange changes. Because there is power in his work, and vulnerability, and humility, and courage, and joy. When I found out that he died, I sat down in my room, looked up, and saw his face on the cover of my Scary Monsters vinyl, peaking over at me. The closer I looked, the more Bowie I saw-- not just albums but books, movies, t-shirts, pins, a framed post card my brother sent me from London, a mixed tape my best friend made me in junior high...as I said, "bits of Bowie". My journal, too. Years ago I stopped beginning my journal with the traditional "Dear Diary" and opted instead for "Major Tom", to whom I have confided confidently throughout my eternal adolescence.
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