(no subject)
Jan. 15th, 2016 04:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTo illustrate how not actually over David Bowie's death I am I went on a tangent to day of hey, I should just buy all his freaking albums in digital since I never finished updating my collection from tape and CD to digital. Then I thought back to all the tapes I had and wondered if they even were in digital format, all of them. They are not. THEN I went on a hunt for the earliest of his tapes that I had, which turns out to be called Starting Point, now I remember that, which is available on vinyl and tape and not in any other format. And THEN I went looking for Space Oddity, which I think was the second oldest album of his that I had and which I remembered halfway through I actually do have on digital, and then I pulled up my favorite song of his of all time ever from Spotify (Memory of the Free Festival, which actually turns out to be Memory of A Free Festival in title and the only reason I remember it as the is because that's how he says it and I need fucking grief counseling don't I) and then I listened to it and bawled my eyes out at work. Again.
And because he's been so quiet in his retirementish (retirement. heh.) for so long I didn't think it would affect me that much but I keep thinking how intertwined his music and his performances were in my life and I wasn't actually entirely kidding about the grief counseling, but how the fuck do you find a therapist for a couple of sessions based on "Hi, a rock star died, I feel really really really sad about it." Or, more accurately, how do you fight past the wargs that say that's what it sounds like, and then how do you find a competent counselor of the type you're used to (RC), and then ... there was another obstacle but I've forgotten what it was.
So I guess instead I'm going to go through my routines, build back up my music collection, cry a lot, and keep working on all my creative projects because fuck everything that's what he would have wanted. For me to dye my hair in red streaks, persevere with learning the guitar (damn you and your motherfucking B chords, Bowie, I HATE B chords) and write all my weird stories until I had them right, and listen to all the lectures in all the weird things I want to learn, and real all the myriad books I pick up going 'ooh that looks interesting', draw the stupid fruit until I learned how to draw, and draw all my other worlds even if I did them imperfectly, and be my wild creative self. And, you know, cry a lot. Because I don't think he would have wanted me to do all this and push grief to the side, either. And in any case, that's not healthy. But. Something something influences and the honoring thereof.
And as soon as I've finished some of those lectures I'm going to go listen to Memory of the Free Festival on repeat four or five more times. Well, when I get home, because at this point I think just the opening chords are reducing me to a blubbering mess.
And because he's been so quiet in his retirementish (retirement. heh.) for so long I didn't think it would affect me that much but I keep thinking how intertwined his music and his performances were in my life and I wasn't actually entirely kidding about the grief counseling, but how the fuck do you find a therapist for a couple of sessions based on "Hi, a rock star died, I feel really really really sad about it." Or, more accurately, how do you fight past the wargs that say that's what it sounds like, and then how do you find a competent counselor of the type you're used to (RC), and then ... there was another obstacle but I've forgotten what it was.
So I guess instead I'm going to go through my routines, build back up my music collection, cry a lot, and keep working on all my creative projects because fuck everything that's what he would have wanted. For me to dye my hair in red streaks, persevere with learning the guitar (damn you and your motherfucking B chords, Bowie, I HATE B chords) and write all my weird stories until I had them right, and listen to all the lectures in all the weird things I want to learn, and real all the myriad books I pick up going 'ooh that looks interesting', draw the stupid fruit until I learned how to draw, and draw all my other worlds even if I did them imperfectly, and be my wild creative self. And, you know, cry a lot. Because I don't think he would have wanted me to do all this and push grief to the side, either. And in any case, that's not healthy. But. Something something influences and the honoring thereof.
And as soon as I've finished some of those lectures I'm going to go listen to Memory of the Free Festival on repeat four or five more times. Well, when I get home, because at this point I think just the opening chords are reducing me to a blubbering mess.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-01-16 05:50 am (UTC)Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.
All the things we ever knew
Will be ashes in that hour,
Mark the transient butterfly,
How he hangs upon the flower.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Suffer me to cherish you
Till the dawn is in the sky.
Whether I be false or true,
Death comes in a day or two.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
(no subject)
Date: 2016-01-18 05:00 pm (UTC)