David Bowie

I am heartbroken, shocked, and not quite sure how to respond on hearing of the death of David Bowie, just moments ago.

So I'll write.

This blog was/is a way to post stories of my childhood, growing up with a mother who was a David Bowie impersonator. She hand fed my brother and I his music from the time we were born. Hearing his songs is like coming home for us. We knew every word like most kids knew nursery rhymes.

Mum (Donn Shy) as the "Thin White Duke."

Having no idea of Bowie's state, I texted my brother the following at 5:27 p.m. PST this afternoon:

"Cleaning house, listening to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust. Reminds me of being kids and doing the same. And then--HOLY SHIT--what an amazing album! My God! What lucky monkeys we were to be introduced to this music when we were. Beyond comprehension."

Mind you, I'd been listening to that album on a loop since yesterday. Driving to Ojai from Malibu, I cycled through Aladdin Sane, Hunky Dory, as well as TRAFoZS. When driving through Oxnard, the California town I grew up in, I sang Drive In Saturday loud--not a care in the world--reminiscing on the times we listened to the album on tape in Mum's Toyota Celica, then Suburu station wagon, driving that same road when we were all much younger.

Mum became Bowie night after night, performing at clubs and such. It was a bit annoying as kids because, hell, we were kids and just wanted our mum to be a mum. PTA meetings, award assemblies, sandwiches. But as adults, hell if we don't think she was a Badass with a capital "B".

The week mum died (January of 2012)--I couldn't believe it--David Bowie graced the cover of Rolling Stone. 

I bought it. 

I kept it.

 

After my best friend, Great Dane Audrey, passed away, not long after Mum left this earth, I decided I was getting a tattoo. In fact, I was going to design that mother. And I did. 

Mum's symbol in her illness became a butterfly. I had given her, just before she passed, a bracelet I had made with a butterfly on it and a print of a butterfly with the following quote:

"Just when the caterpiller thought the world was over,

it became a butterfly." - Anonymous

She cried. And that memory is forever burned in my mind and when I see a butterfly approach me or my windows, "It's her," I say.

And Bowie. And then there was Bowie. And I sketched. And a butterfly came about with Bowie as Ziggy Stardust as the pattern it the butterfly's wings. And Audrey on the other side, soaking up the sun in a henna-like pattern. And I found one of THE best tattoo artists, Louie Perez at Shamrock Social Club in Hollywood, to finish the design and ultimately create what is now on my left arm for life. I'm so grateful for that and that he was available and up to the task.

 

Yes, I'm rambling. I have no idea how to respond other than to say this one cuts deep, for so many reasons. And though I don't know what I believe anymore when it comes to the afterlife, I wonder if he is where she is and if she is finally able to ask him all the questions she wanted to ask.

I have a special keepsake of hers that I've been searching for for a week. It wasn't where I last put it, the special place where I have been keeping it. I pulled down every storage bin, looked through every file. No where. And was feeling quite devastated. How could I be so irresponsible to misplace it?

When the news broke tonight about Bowie's death, I decided to pull out my "Bowie is Inside" book to have a look, hoping to find a photo I could post to Instagram with my sentiments. 

Out fell the keepsake. 

I don't recall putting it in there, but must have. 



Or must I have?

Thoughts: International Women's Day

Today is International Women's Day. I can't help but think of the many women in my life who have guided me and helped me be my best. One in particular is a writing teacher I had in the twelfth grade, Jeanne Goff.

I was failing miserably. Not that I didn't love writing, in fact, I had found I was falling in love with the process. However, many of our assignments were to be completed at home, an impossibility for me seeing as things at home were, let's just say, rather blatantly dysfunctional. 

Ms. Goff knew this. I could feel it when she looked at me. I'd avert my eyes, but I always felt she could somehow see into my soul. I wondered if she’d once been a girl in my situation. I felt terrible that I would be letting her down by failing her class. And worse, I might not graduate if I didn't turn things around, and quick. 

I approached her at the end of class, just two weeks before the grand graduation ceremony was to commence.

“I’m having trouble writing at home, but I really love your class—it’s my favorite—but I’m failing and scared I might not graduate because of it. Is there anything I can do?”

She took out a slip of paper, jotted down some notes, and handed it to me.

Woody Guthrie

Library

Mr. Hill (Sid)

“Do you know Mr. Hill?” she asked.

“Not well, but I know who he is.”

“Good. Go to him and tell him I sent you. I want you to write a paper on Woody Guthrie. Do you know who he is?”

“No. Never heard of him.”

“Good. Mr. Hill knows a lot about him. He can be a good resource. Also, if you can, tell your parents you’re doing a project that requires making use of the library so you’ll be needing to spend more time at school before, at lunch, and after.”

“OK. Will do.”

The next day, Mr. Hill kindly handed me two cassette tapes of ancient sounding snap-crackle-pop recordings of Mr. Guthrie’s work. This was not the East Coast Rap or Hip-Hop music I was accustomed to listening to. This was old, twangy music, beyond anything I grew up hearing. Harmonica, guitar, mandolin, fiddle, and passion. Loads of gutsy passion.

With titles such as “All You Facists Bound To Lose” I was certainly in for a treat.

I became absolutely captivated by this man. Apparently I wasn’t the only one, as I’d read he was a major influence on Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and John Mellencamp as well as many other beyond-talented musicians. I read books, listened to his music, laughed, smiled, completely lost track of time, and began to really embrace our required reading assignment, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, internally. Much of his music covered his personal experiences in the Dust Bowl era, traveling from Oklahoma to California.

Ms. Goff made a giant out of me. I passed the class. I wanted to hug her but knew that would be uncomfortable as I wasn’t much of a hugger anyhow and wasn’t there a law that teachers and students shouldn’t touch? And I had this newfound passion that seemed to trump any fear or stress or dysfunction going on around me. Writing. Research. Knowledge. 

I began listening, really listening to lyrics, and relating them to my own thoughts and feelings. I began dissecting Dylan’s songs and my mind opened.

She likely has no idea of the impact she had on my life, by showing just a little kindness, a little compassion, and a willing heart. Ms. Goff, my twelfth grade writing teacher successfully made a writer out of me.

Happy International Women’s Day! Be kind, change lives!