That's a question I (and I'm sure many others) have been grappling with for a little more than a year now. Early in the morning on January 11th, 2016, the news broke that David Bowie had died during the night of January 10th. I, for one, happened to be still awake to find out the news just as it broke. The dramatic irony of the whole event for me was that I had just seen a performance of Bowie's musical, Lazarus, that night. On top of the news that my greatest inspiration and hero had died, I had to grapple with the sickening realization that he was dying as I sat crying in a performance of a musical that he wrote, featuring his songs. Needless to say, I was shaken. I didn't sleep that night. The next day a friend and I went to put a flower in front of Bowie's apartment in Soho. I wore a bright blue sweater (a reference to a line in Bowie's song, Sound and Vision) and I cried again.
A year later, I'm still quite shaken. Anyone who knows anything about me knows how deep my love for David Bowie is. The day that the news of his death broke, I believe I must have gotten an apologetic text from every person I have ever met. I don't think I was really able to listen to his music for months afterwards. I still find certain songs particularly difficult (Heroes, Ashes to Ashes, Dollar Days). But let's step back a little bit. Why is it that David Bowie means quite so much to me and so many like me?
In high school I was, in no uncertain terms, the "Bowie kid". More than anything else, David Bowie represented freedom to me – sexual freedom, freedom from concrete gender, freedom to experiment in art, music, and fashion. Bowie was everything that my self-conscious, 14-year-old self-needed and wanted to be. Bowie introduced me to androgyny, drag, glam, soul and so much more. The very person I am today can be traced directly back to the influence of David Bowie. Let's face it, I was gay and weird. I still am. The only difference is that now I am comfortable being gay and weird. More than comfortable, I'm proud.
Even a year later, I have not thought about Bowie's death any less. I'm not really any more comfortable with it. I wake up every morning as usual, then at some point in the day I realize that David Bowie is dead and I get a little sad. I know that is kind of melodramatic, but it's also kind of true. This week being the week of Bowie's birthday and death-day, the thought of a world without Bowie has been particularly heavy. However, just recently I began to realize something. Bowie's death didn't erase him or any of his music from history. If anything, it re-energized it. I mean that – all of those pictures of Bowie I used to stare at in wonderment and the albums I played on repeat in high school are still there. Some other 14-year-old kid can still find their self reflected in Bowie. They too can discover androgyny, drag, glam and soul through him. His death has in no way lessened that.
That is the thought I want to leave you with. That is the one thing that has made all of this bearable. Bowie is still here. And as long as people like myself still care, he will always be here. The reality is, the Starman had to go home at some point. If Bowie was completely comfortable in his own death, as Blackstar reveals him to be, why shouldn't we be?
