I turned 46 last wednesday but didn’t write a post or write privately at all and that set things wrong – writing quietly by myself on my birthday has been sacrosanct for years. It’s the thing I do for myself to set my compass, to be present, to acknowledge that I’ve made it one more year on this earth and in this body. I’ve felt weird every day since. I sat down tonight because I feel the itch to set the compass but I am strangely empty of purposeful words. I Promised myself I’d sit down and say shit to myself, be real, but not maudlin.
This is my soundtrack today:
Shit. While writing this I just got the news that David Bowie died today, two days after his 69th birthday. Fellow Capricorn. Luminary. He got me through my worst nervous breakdown, his music propelled me forward when I was scared, gave me the courage not to hide myself, to explore poetry and expression. He made me feel I belonged. He took the sting out of being otherly.
Well, I’ve cried and just feverishly looked for the etching I made of David Bowie in High School art class and the drawing I did of him but only found the drawing I did of Joan Crawford and Billy Idol.
If I was David Bowie I’d have 21 more years left to write anything that matters, to leave something timeless behind to make the world a better place than I found it.
So that’s how I’m setting my compass. I’m 46 years old and this is no age at which to calcify, to conform, to give up or give in. David Bowie was a master of reinvention, fearless creative and cultural exploration.
The only thing he ever did to disappoint me was to get his teeth capped.
I’m not going to worry about how much more Bowie had accomplished by the time he was my age because I’m not him. I’ll just let him continue to light the way to truth for me.
I’m 46, not dead.
I’m 46, the perfect age for a new skin, a fresh thought, a deeper voice.