On David Bowie
A few people are hating on the Mourning David Bowie on social media. “You didn’t know him? How can you mourn someone you don’t know!”
Ahem. David Bowie was never ONE person. And for some of us he was The One, the one that made us feel a musical love so deep, that we became a little at peace with ourselves, even if everything was all turmoil and broken world… there was a stillness and peace within because it had been said and it wasn’t all in our own heads. Someone else said it. So then it became real.
I’m not crazy. I am not crazy. There’s something in the wavelengths of Heathen that makes me feel like I am not crazy. There’s something more than I’m Afraid of Americans. There’s something else rattling around… and I’m not crazy because I can hear it now. There’s more of it. For a few breathing moments, I’m not afraid. It just is. There is no undoing it. It is here. I’m aware. Now… what can I do about it. Now that I know I’m not crazy.
Bowie was always himself. At any degree of evolution he could share that self. He was always himSELVES. And yeah, absolutely, he wasn’t actually “David Bowie” either. He was David Robert Jones. And David Robert Jones was himself too, with the people who loved him.
David Bowie was himself for me, because I loved David Bowie.
And a person on the planet that has enough courage to share selves, love on multiple levels, never let creativity tap out of the game… that man, that human, that existence…. it should be mourned. You can’t social media shame me because I mourn a man I didn’t know.
He lives in my ears, traveled to my heart, admired Seu Jorge for transferring and translating vibrations that touched on new levels (I’m listening now)… I mourn that the world lost that vibration, that artistic energy, that honesty, a person that had the ability to heart clench your spaces that you thought were long forgotten, too afraid, too ignored to ever feel again.
And suddenly, those spaces… drenched in living emotion.
So. Yes. I mourn.
On “Don’t be that guy.”
Seriously. Don’t be.
Did my best to take myself on a date, at my favorite brewery, just down the street. Took a Poets & Writers magazine with me, with every intention of sitting with a pint and reading, exploring, inspiring myself to get some more writing done. Even… *gasp* write enough to start submitting. Avi (and Jon too) when they speak to me occasionally ask, “Have you been writing? What have you been writing?”
Because both of those gorgeous idiots know how badly I need to be writing and how gloriously different I am when I get to write.
Anyway, I was going to give myself a basic start, to get back in the game.
But then Drunk-o-McGee, sitting next to me, wants to start talking. Then gives the, “So you like poetry! I have a poem I like.” Then making you read a poem on their phone. And it was a good poem. I read John Milton and nodded, like a proper English Major should. “It’s a good favorite to have.”
But then, don’t be that guy, that gets all fussy because I’m the kinda girl that gets poetry but doesn’t get all weepy at On His Deceased Wife. “Aren’t you sad?! It’s a wonderful poem!”
Go home, dude, yer drunk! “Um. It’s just not my jam.”
Martin Espada makes me weepy and chest thrusty. Sylvia Plath makes me I’m looking at you squinty cat eyed. Chaucer makes me horny. Carrie Murphy makes me happy and feministy. Walt Whitman makes me throb. Aaron McCollough makes me feel breath. Anne Waldman makes me feel very zen but also with a kick of angst. Richard Greenfield makes me feel smarmy. And A. Van Jordan makes me feel brainy.
Your pick up an English Major in a brewery poet is going to be John fucking Milton?
Fuck off. Don’t be that God damn guy. At least try to feed me some Pablo Neruda or something. You want to flirt me with me? GIVE ME SOMETHING TO FUCKING EAT.
No, thank you, I do NOT want you to buy me a fucking drink. I’m going home.
On wearing emotions.
Do your best to not wear your emotions. People around you will get very distracted and read a version of yourself that is a fiction. This will make your reality very… very… very complicated. Tiring. Lonely.
And honestly, it would be ideal if people weren’t so brain scattered that they think they have understanding of you on lock, just because they read your emotions. Because you’re a lot more than the emotions that have over powered you.
So much more. But the more you try to “correct” them, the more they think you’re being “defensive” or “combative.”
They’ve read what they read. No going back.
Just breathe.
Drink your beer and breathe, babe.
A few people are hating on the Mourning David Bowie on social media. “You didn’t know him? How can you mourn someone you don’t know!”
Ahem. David Bowie was never ONE person. And for some of us he was The One, the one that made us feel a musical love so deep, that we became a little at peace with ourselves, even if everything was all turmoil and broken world… there was a stillness and peace within because it had been said and it wasn’t all in our own heads. Someone else said it. So then it became real.
I’m not crazy. I am not crazy. There’s something in the wavelengths of Heathen that makes me feel like I am not crazy. There’s something more than I’m Afraid of Americans. There’s something else rattling around… and I’m not crazy because I can hear it now. There’s more of it. For a few breathing moments, I’m not afraid. It just is. There is no undoing it. It is here. I’m aware. Now… what can I do about it. Now that I know I’m not crazy.
Bowie was always himself. At any degree of evolution he could share that self. He was always himSELVES. And yeah, absolutely, he wasn’t actually “David Bowie” either. He was David Robert Jones. And David Robert Jones was himself too, with the people who loved him.
David Bowie was himself for me, because I loved David Bowie.
And a person on the planet that has enough courage to share selves, love on multiple levels, never let creativity tap out of the game… that man, that human, that existence…. it should be mourned. You can’t social media shame me because I mourn a man I didn’t know.
He lives in my ears, traveled to my heart, admired Seu Jorge for transferring and translating vibrations that touched on new levels (I’m listening now)… I mourn that the world lost that vibration, that artistic energy, that honesty, a person that had the ability to heart clench your spaces that you thought were long forgotten, too afraid, too ignored to ever feel again.
And suddenly, those spaces… drenched in living emotion.
So. Yes. I mourn.
On “Don’t be that guy.”
Seriously. Don’t be.
Did my best to take myself on a date, at my favorite brewery, just down the street. Took a Poets & Writers magazine with me, with every intention of sitting with a pint and reading, exploring, inspiring myself to get some more writing done. Even… *gasp* write enough to start submitting. Avi (and Jon too) when they speak to me occasionally ask, “Have you been writing? What have you been writing?”
Because both of those gorgeous idiots know how badly I need to be writing and how gloriously different I am when I get to write.
Anyway, I was going to give myself a basic start, to get back in the game.
But then Drunk-o-McGee, sitting next to me, wants to start talking. Then gives the, “So you like poetry! I have a poem I like.” Then making you read a poem on their phone. And it was a good poem. I read John Milton and nodded, like a proper English Major should. “It’s a good favorite to have.”
But then, don’t be that guy, that gets all fussy because I’m the kinda girl that gets poetry but doesn’t get all weepy at On His Deceased Wife. “Aren’t you sad?! It’s a wonderful poem!”
Go home, dude, yer drunk! “Um. It’s just not my jam.”
Martin Espada makes me weepy and chest thrusty. Sylvia Plath makes me I’m looking at you squinty cat eyed. Chaucer makes me horny. Carrie Murphy makes me happy and feministy. Walt Whitman makes me throb. Aaron McCollough makes me feel breath. Anne Waldman makes me feel very zen but also with a kick of angst. Richard Greenfield makes me feel smarmy. And A. Van Jordan makes me feel brainy.
Your pick up an English Major in a brewery poet is going to be John fucking Milton?
Fuck off. Don’t be that God damn guy. At least try to feed me some Pablo Neruda or something. You want to flirt me with me? GIVE ME SOMETHING TO FUCKING EAT.
No, thank you, I do NOT want you to buy me a fucking drink. I’m going home.
On wearing emotions.
Do your best to not wear your emotions. People around you will get very distracted and read a version of yourself that is a fiction. This will make your reality very… very… very complicated. Tiring. Lonely.
And honestly, it would be ideal if people weren’t so brain scattered that they think they have understanding of you on lock, just because they read your emotions. Because you’re a lot more than the emotions that have over powered you.
So much more. But the more you try to “correct” them, the more they think you’re being “defensive” or “combative.”
They’ve read what they read. No going back.
Just breathe.
Drink your beer and breathe, babe.
