Ashes to Ashes

I have several blog posts I’ve started only to get distracted when my brain jumps on a shinier idea du jour. Don’t even get me started on story outlines and starts - I could wallpaper a few houses with those. But these short little non-fiction blog bursts keep me writing when I can’t sit still long enough to lose myself in the tangles of world building. As time has allowed the last few days I’ve been trying to put together a new post. Now, normally it doesn’t take that long for me, but the last 72 hours have been a bit hectic. Garden variety, day ending in -y kind of stuff in my house and life, but from time to time things like to converge. As they do. For the uninitiated, it’s not just misery who loves company. Crazy does, too.

Today though, I feel a little out of touch with reality myself. I happened to be up when the news broke that David Bowie had died. 2-something in the morning or noon, I felt sideswiped. My chest felt hollow, my heart heavy, my stomach dropped.  I can’t claim to own his every record. I can’t claim to have seen him live and in person. I can’t claim to have idolized him. None of that is true. (It’s not true in general for me, not just for Ziggy Stardust.) But what I did know about him and his story, what I was versed in (his depth, his creativity, his ridiculously supernatural talent), what performances of his that spoke to me… those things made his death feel so much more personal and like such a raw fucking deal for humanity as a whole. And whatever I feel, however I’m processing the death of a public figure, of an artist, is nothing in comparison to his family and friends right now.

I went about my day as I normally would. I took care of my day-to-day stuff. But I felt off. My chest still feels hollow. My heart’s cracked. David Bowie’s music may never have gotten me through difficult periods of my life on its own, but I am humbled to realize just how many of his song lyrics are indelibly imprinted in my brain. He’s certainly there all right, even if I never gave him enough spotlight time in my music collection.

So what’s my problem, aside from being able to appreciate his art and evolution?

I have a deep and enduring love for the genius that came from the mind of Jim Henson. Mix that with one of the minds of Monty Python and an early love of fantasy escapism and I would love to go back in time and correct the wrong that movie goers did by allowing Labyrinth to be a box office flop. I was probably 8 by the time I saw Labyrinth from the comfort of my childhood living room. (It took a long, long time for movies to get to cable back in the day.) My young reader’s heart was completely swept away by creeper, stalky Jareth. Still is. (I like a dark ‘hero’ & I’m completely shamefree about it. Stemming most likely from this movie.)

I was entranced as he reminded Sara of every (stalker, weird, dark, horrific, awesome) thing he had done for her. Whether that speaks to some kind of messed up psychological issue or not, I can look back now and see that Jareth is firmly part of my psyche. And, as my filters have taken the day off, you can kiss my ass if anyone else could have played Jareth. Cocky, dark, twisty… a codpiece that 30 years later has its own fandom and memes. In that respect, a vibrant part of the DNA of my writing inspiration has left this world. I guess it makes sense that I feel at least a little broken.

Of the Star Wars variety

I wiped away a few silent but happy tears a few weeks ago when I saw the new Star Wars movie. When Rey used the force in the final fight scene? My inner child lost her freaking mind. I knew what was going to happen, but my emotional response to that scene surprised me. Less than a month later, my emotional response is swinging the other way. My nostalgia is now melancholy. Thank you, Mr. Jones, from one of the countless souls you inspired.