STARMAN

Today marks the third-year anniversary of David Bowie leaving our planet. I originally wrote this farewell letter to him when he first passed away.

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To the man who fell to earth, to Major Tom, to Ziggy Stardust, to the Thin White Duke, to the Goblin king; you have me at a loss of words. To the man who showed the small town girl trapped in the wrong body that gender is pliable and plastic, flexible like puddy; all I am able to conjure up is “thank you.”

I know just a simple “thank you” isn’t enough, nothing I will write or say will be enough to describe how much you meant to me and how much you shaped me. Most people who know me well know that you are my favorite musical artist of all time, but fail to understand why you are so important to me, and yet I am still never able to explain how close I hold you to my heart.

You introduced me to all things that are queer and camp. You showed me what gender is at a time when I never heard the word “gender” before. You taught me that the whole entire universe is nonsense and that we are all actors in this huge show called Life. You introduced me to Burroughs, Berlin, kraut rock, glam, Brian Eno, Jacques Brel, Iggy, Andy Warhol, Lou Reed, and cabaret. I watched you sing and dance along side of Jim Henson’s creations. I watched you morph from a genderless alien, whose diet consisted of cocaine and milk, into a dignified singer-songwriter who seemed to age more gracefully than wine. You taught me how to be a chameleon, constantly shedding my skin and reinventing myself to become the person I was meant to be, never repeating myself as an artist, and as a human being (if I even am one).

I grew up with Labyrinth and all things Jim Henson from the very beginning of my childhood, but I was first introduced to your music at the age of fourteen; a small town girl who was a prisoner of her own body. Managing with my many bouts of insomnia, I saw you on MTV, the tail end of its days of playing music. It was the superstar DJ Moby, who you toured with and shared an apartment in Manhattan with who introduced me to the world of Bowie. He played the your video “Ashed to Ashes” on his short-lived tv show Señor Moby’s House of Music. From then, I bought the album Scary Monsters and my started questioning my gender and sexuality, began wearing glitter eyeshadow and mascara to the Catholic school I attended, and never looked back. I’ve mocked your baritone wobble in my music, layered my face in pancake makeup, and closed my eyes and flown to the cosmos where you came from, while Starman played over my speakers.

As I listen to your final opus Blackstar for the third time since it was released only a few days ago, it sounds more and more like the end. But it can not be the end, there is no end, and I have learned that from you, my darling David. Maybe you are gone “just like that bluebird”, as you sing in your song Lazarus, or perhaps your visit here on Planet Earth has come to an end, and you have returned to your home planet, far beyond the cosmos.

You showed me endless possibilities to music, art, gender, sexuality, all before I began to blossom as an artist and as a human being. You showed me that nothing is black and white, that there’s grey areas, pink, yellow, blue, gold, purple, and of course, glitter. (Yes, glitter is a color, don’t question me). Thank you, King Bowie. Every time I see a star shining in the sky, I will be reminded that you are sitting in your tin can, far above the world, and that you have made it home safely.

Ground control, Major Tom.

-Aurora Leigh Desmond