We Can Be Heroes

Because I'm a human person, the past couple of days have had a strange effect on me.  Sunday night, I performed at Chicago's Sketchfest.  Third time in three years.  I had a fantastic support group watching me from the audience as well as a fantastic support group playing with me on stage (and off).  I was doing what I loved.

I went out after with some friends.  Coming off my post show high; I laughed, smiled, and had an all around lovely (and boozy) evening.

During our last stop, I started talking about David Bowie.  How his counter-culture weirdness meant so much to me.  And about 15 minutes later as we were ushered out of the 2:00 a.m. bar at 2:05 a.m., a woman passed by us lamenting, "I'm going home to cry.  David Bowie just died."

It felt like a gut punch.  My brain kicked immediately into the first phase of mourning: denial.  "Shut up.  No.  You're kidding.  Stop.  I can't believe this.  How?  When?  Why?"  No matter what, I couldn't wrap my head around it.

I don't believe discussing him moments earlier - free of the sanctuary of ignorance - was a coincidence.  Because the thing about David Bowie was; he was always there.

Not physically of course.  I always believed I would see him in concert one day and now have to admit that will never be the case.  But his influence is so reaching.  So real.  And so visceral that he was always part of the conversation.  Even if you weren't talking about him.  He was there.  And that's why we mourn.

I won't pretend that I'm the die hard fan that many people are.  I was never alive during his Golden Years (song or cliched phrase).  So I never felt his transformations in real time.  I own only a handful of his vast canon.  And I most likely could recite a mere portion of his catalog.  But it doesn't matter if you knew every song verbatim.  Every moment.  Every choice.  Because the reaching power of his artistry meant that even if you only knew that The Wallflowers had a song in Godzilla called "Heroes", and you really liked it, you were still a David Bowie fan.  Somehow.

Since I was about 18, I claimed that "Heroes" (no, not the aforementioned version) would be my wedding song.  If I ever choose for that day to come, I want to dance with my love under the stars to the wailing sounds of Bowie saying, "I will be king, and you will be queen.  Though nothing will drive them away, we can be heroes.  Just for one day.  We can be us.  Just for one day."  I have no idea who that man will be dancing with me.  But I know what voice will be there to usher in our new life.  And I've known that - unwaveringly so - for many years.

Last year, I was lucky enough to experience "David Bowie Is..." at Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art.  Now, when I go to museums, I usually pace around and enjoy the visuals.  Sometimes I'll read the plaques.  But mostly I wander.  At this particular exhibit, I read (and reread) plaques, took notes, and allowed every visual to wash over me.  I took my time as I let my eyes wander over every stitch of every costume.  It was as close as anyone born in 1987 could feel to watching a genius unfold in real time.

One of my favorite elements was reading original sheets of lyrics.  I loved reading these words that poured out of him.  But mostly, I loved seeing what he crossed out.  The subtle changes he made in his head.  I saw someone whom I admired so fully go through the same motions of the creative process that I did myself.  A man who created Ziggy Stardust.  A man who took us to the moon and back.  A man who sold the world.  Some element of him was just like me.  It was the most connected I've felt ever to someone so far away.  But like I said, he truly was always there.

I'm privileged to have not seen or read a single negative reaction to his death.  And I would love to keep it that way.  Because what's bad to say about a man who lived his life the way we all should.  With abandon.  With humility.  With grace.  With power.  With vision.  We all mourn because David Bowie Is... Us.  If only we could all be David Bowie.