So it seems as if friends, friends of friends and relatives old and young had been pushing me to write in a journal. The suggestions were seriously coming at me hard and fast, heh. The very idea of writing in a journal seemed really stupid.
I've since realized that journals are fucking rad and this negative connotation was only because I could never maintain consistency and would become easily frustrated with the very notion of a journal under the idea that unless I could maintain journalistic perfection, it was not worth an ounce of my time. Weird?
Actually this is starting to sound a lot like this blog and also everything else in my life. Brb, just need to put myself into therapy. Jks, I'm already in therapy.
Anywho, a journal can be a place to write all of your deepest darkest fantasies (Becoming a Vampire Wizard on an estate of vicious unicorns); keep track of your goals; log your dreams; hash out issues with your innermost self or write all of those great comebacks that no-one got to hear because it was too late [see: Wit of the staircase (oh, snap! Jack White.)]
I think you get the point. But in case you don't, I'm trying to say that you can write whatever the dickens you want in a journal and generally it stays private (Unless you're 11 years old and your younger brother guessed your password to your password journal... Fuck outta my face, Baillie.) Once I let go of my perfectionist ideals, journal-ling has almost become a therapy. Lawd knows I need a lot of that! jokes, jokes. But only kind of.
Flipping through it's pages I wondered if there was anything I should share with the world wide internet? Much like this blog and my youtube chanel, I do believe this is a 'just because you can, doesn't mean you should' but I'm going to anyway.
The only changes made in this were grammatical.
This was really hard to type without altering my words to sound wittier, funnier, smoother and more interesting. But I'm trying to keep things nice and authentic here. Is this embarrassing? A little.
The day was Monday. I was 2 minutes and 39 seconds through the song 'Within You' by David Bowie. I received a call from Amy. She asks what I'm doing and if I know Bowie? I was holding back the urge to bite back, 'What the fuck do you mean? Had I not played his music on endless repeat throughout the duration of our shared residency? Had you not been present for our endless one-sided discussions of me talking at you, informing you of every way in which I found I could relate to him and found comfort in our personal parallels and synchornicities? What about my bath time Hunky Dory tradition? Or the endless stream of interviews calculating the ways in which we were familiar?'
There was no need to sass a bitch out like that, so I said simply, 'Yes of course, I'm listening to the Labyrinth soundtrack right now and seriously contemplating getting the Jareth haircut for about the fifth time in my life.'
She told me he died...
I immediately dismissed it as a hoax. She replied with, 'Well, it's all over the internet.'
I pull the phone away from my ear and do a quick google search and sure enough, about 2 hours ago.
I manage to squeak out a panicked, 'I'll call you later.'
I hung up and couldn't breathe. Hysterical, I searched my brain for reason, but everything was a cluttered mess. I realize now that it was an unwillingness to accept not only the event that occurred, but also the dramatic effect it was having on me. Before I knew it, hot tears were streaming down my face and there was nothing I could do about it.
The following moments proceeding this phone call are what has baffled and dizzied me to a state of absolute exasperation.
Not only am I completely floored by the event itself, but what struck me is the absurdity of how personal it all feels. I've had friends die. Living, breathing humans that I have had real life interactions with. Exchanged words with and shared a history. Friends whose deaths never really shook me, in fact you could say I was quite unaffected upon hearing of their passing. Call it cold hearted or overly accepting. The truth is I will never know why? But I just didn't give much of a damn.
But this felt overwhelmingly... personal. I tried to fight back the tears, but it felt dishonest. What's the point in living if I can't live honestly? It may seem overdramatic, but this was what my mind was processing.
I had been rearranging my room. It was in a total state of disarray. Books and clothing were stewn across the floor. Posters, postcards and an assortment of decorative jars, bottles and incense lay in chaos across my bedsheets. I sat on a small corner of my bed and gazed out of the window. For the first time in a long time, my surroundings perfectly represented my inner emotional workings.
I recall reading assortments of poems, songs about the suns cruelty when it had the audacity to shine despite a persons grim, caustic mentality. But no, the grey sky, thick clouds, heavy rain and chaotic bedroom were entirely appropriate. For this, I am grateful.
Dumbfoundedness was replaced by overwhelming grief but before I could become fully consumed I began to rationalise and remind myself that I have things to do and can't afford to be weighed down by the heaving emotional burdens that come with being in a state of mourning. For the next few moments, I waver between being absolutely distraught and accepting. Exhausted and motivated, horrified and content.
I am reminded that this life is not the be all and end all and try to think of death as a sweeter release. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Almost instantaneously as if by magic, the clouds parted and the grey was replaced with magnificent gloomy purple yellow haze. I felt content and alive. Once again reminded of my own mortality and the ticking clocks of the people around me. I am grateful and almost honoured to have been alive at the same time as such a brilliant, true visionary and that I was left with a gift that felt so utterly personal to me and only me. Despite his worldwide adorations.
Almost with a sense of urgency I check Gerard Ways twitter with the knowledge of how touched he would be by these circumstances. Who I could trust to express what I was experiencing. To provide to rhyme to reason, if you will.
'I love you forever David Bowie' ...Perfect.
Not having the energy to cook dinner I head to my car. I am overwhelmed by a sense of excitement. Although his journey on this plane has come to an end my creative pursuits have just begun. This side of the sky is glorious. Smokey purple, yellow and I see a bright rainbow, a good omen.
Although I'm still momentarily teary and my face is showing a moment where I am inconsolable, not only due to devastation, but because I can't talk to anyone about it. How can I explain mourning someone I never even knew? Especially without sounding immature and a little fangirlee.
I feel like it hit me on a deep and totally authentic level that only really applies to me and me only. As if he wrote the words and sang the songs and evolved throughout the ages for me personally. Even though the majority of this occurred before my birth. The sky consoled me with its rainbow and light, sheer magic.
I still remember driving in the car as a child listening to Starman on the radio. I was captivated and payed special attention to the whimsy in the lyrics. Songwriting changed.
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| tasty |
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| So personal, haven't even 'grammed this shit!.. |
Thanks for reading, kiddos! Means a lot. I don't know why I shared my word-for-word journal entry. My brain just said I gotta.
-Saatana Lee Rose (yo Daddy's role model, tell him I said he can keep my hairpins, I have no use for them anymore...) xoxoxoxooxox Love me.
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