Death is for lesser mortals: Vale, David Bowie

I still don’t really know what to say. It still doesn’t feel real. I actually didn’t realise how much I cared about him, and loved him, until he wasn’t there anymore. So many others are more articulate than me, and probably have a better sense of what to write about him. But I just have no words. I’m just drowning in his music, and crying. It seems to help, just a little.

I probably never struck anyone as a Bowie fan. I generally kept that to myself. I got into him late, and never really dived in and obsessed about him the way others did. But I always liked his music. I admired him as a storyteller, and a musician, and someone who could do things I could never imagine. His music moved me, and amazed me, and made me dance and smile. I adored his queerness. And I adored Labyrinth. And now he’s not there anymore, and it doesn’t feel real. I think I was another person who felt he was somehow immortal. Bowie doesn’t just die. It just. My heart is breaking.

But only Bowie could say goodbye like that. What a way to go. I picked up Blackstar only a couple of hours before I found out he’d died. And it really is a magnificent album, particularly listening to it now. It’s glorious. What a way to die. My gods.

And so the 70 days begins. 68, if I count from the 10th. I may build a tiny shrine. I may write something. I don’t know. Nothing seems adequate to mark his passing. But I’ll still count the days, and perhaps by the time I get to the prayers, it won’t hurt as much as it does now.

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