Artist Date 93: The IS in HIStory

album-David-Bowie-Heroes

I’ve been listening to David Bowie a lot lately.

It’s a bit like returning from travels abroad and insisting on eating as I did while away.  Toasted bread rubbed with fresh garlic and tomato following a trip to Spain.  Cucumber-tomato salad for breakfast after a press trip to Israel.  And most recently, coffee made in a stove-top moka upon returning from Italy.  Each time, holding on to that place, that experience, for as long as I am able.

Except Bowie takes me back to a place and experience I mostly do not care to hold on to — high school.  It begins at the Museum of Contemporary Art, the David Bowie IS show — Artist Date 93.  I am transported.

I am 14 and wearing a baseball jersey from the Serious Moonlight tour.  My cousin from Los Angeles has turned me on to Bowie.  The same way he turned me on to weed, the Culture Club and all things French.  He is cool with bleached-blonde hair and skinny ties that match his skinny body.  He lights my cigarettes, walks on curb side of the sidewalk and stands up when I leave the table.  He is my ideal man.  He has been all of my life, and although I don’t yet know it, he will continue to be — long after I stop smoking weed, and Boy George gets sober too.

I am rifling through bins of used albums at Sam’s Jams in Ferndale, Michigan and find ChangesOneBowie.  Soon I will commit the words of each song to memory.  I will know them like I know my own name.  My hair is a pinky-red, spiky and sticky with Aqua-Net Extra Hold.  I am wearing iridescent blue lipstick, a plaid pleated skirt from the Salvation Army that doesn’t quite zip all the way up and a Cranbrook Lacrosse sweatshirt  — hooded with a torn front pocket — that I “borrowed” from a boy named Simon, who I met just once and never saw again.

I am in Ann Arbor visiting my friend Stacey.  We have taken the bus from her house to the University of Michigan campus.  There are no buses in suburban Detroit, where I live, save for a yellow school bus.  I feel urban and cool.  We are watching The Man Who Fell to Earth on a big screen.  It is terrible but we love it anyway.  Stacey has also seen The Hunger and Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence.  I have not.  She is clearly the bigger fan.

I am sitting on multi-hued blue shag carpeting in my bedroom holding the cover of Heroes in my hands — singing every word printed on the sleeve.  “And you, you can be mean.  And I, I’ll drink all the time.”  Little do I know how true these words will turn out to be.  A few years later it is TonightBlue Jean and a cover of Brian Wilson’s God Only Knows passing my lips.

I am on the cold sidewalk outside of Record Outlet with my best friend A.  We are here overnight, in line for tickets to the Glass Spider tour which go on sale tomorrow.  I cannot believe my mother has agreed to this.

I cannot believe how long it has been since I have talked to A.  Nearly five years.  That the last thing she said to me was, “Keep them.  They look better on you anyway,” referring to the sunglasses I borrowed and that were still tucked in my bag as I drove away from her apartment.  I no longer have them.

I cannot believe I left Heroes and Tonight in Seattle with my ex-husband, along with The Specials, Thriller and the original soundtrack from Hair.

I cannot believe I remember Simon’s name, how long I held on to that sweatshirt, or that I am waxing nostalgic about high school.

But it is.  And I did.  I do and I am.

In 1990, David Bowie played his greatest hits on tour “a final time.”  “…it gave me an immense sense of freedom, to feel that I couldn’t rely on any of those things. It’s like I’m approaching it all from the ground up now.”  In 1996 he resurrected Heroes onstage.

There is an IS in hIStory — as well as a story.

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Cotton is the Proper Gift for a Was-A-Versary

Today is my wedding anniversary.

Twelve years ago today...
Twelve years ago today…

Except I’m no longer married.

What do you call an anniversary that is no longer?

Was-a-versary? Once-upon-a-time-a-versary?  Just plain shitty?

Are there traditional gifts for it like for a wedding anniversary?  Paper for the first year?

Yes, of course.  Divorce papers.

And cotton for the second?  According to the wedding website, The Nest, cotton represents durability and the ability to adapt.

Yes.  This is so.  Even on days when I feel really fragile.

I don’t remember this day last year.  The first.  Perhaps it was just too painful and my brain protected me, blocking it out.  Like it does, I am told, with the pain of childbirth – this “amnesia” being necessary for the perpetuation of the species.

The amnesia has cleared.  And this year I am more than present for the pain.

It hit me out of nowhere, or so it seemed – arriving Wednesday and continuing to linger like a low-grade cold that lasts all winter long.

I arrived home from my cousin’s wedding, the second in less than 30 days, and was riding my bike when I felt a rush of energy shoot through my body.  It centered in my heart and moved out to my extremities.  Coursing, over and again.  Sharp heat.

I pedaled as hard as I could – trying to force flush this poison from my system.  It didn’t budge.

My eyes welled up behind my oversized Old Navy sunglasses.  My nose flared and felt hot.  But I couldn’t quite squeak out a cry.

I needed more than a cry.  I needed a wail.

This is the feeling I used to drink over.

I should have seen it coming.  The weddings.  The short-lived sex with a boy 12 years my junior.  It was great fun, but as so often has been the case in my history, over practically before it began.  Over before I was done.

Tim, Master Cake Maker.
Tim — Friend, former roommate and wedding-cake baker.

He told me up front he was in no place for a relationship.  But “a little sex won’t kill me,” he said.  Funny, I told him it might kill me.  I knew that somehow my heart would hurt, but I couldn’t help myself.

And then I cut a cord that tethered my ex and I together.  I told him I could not be his best friend.

Our divorce was about as amicable as they get.  We lived together through it all.  Used a mediator.  Never went to court.  The whole thing was done in less than six months.

The night before I left Seattle we sat on his bed waxing nostalgic – remembering him calling me and asking me out for the first time, and me asking “Why?”

He said I was pretty and I had cool shoes.  And then he looked in my eyes and told me I was still pretty.  That I still had cool shoes.  The next morning, I was gone before he woke.

We were close for a while.  And then we weren’t.  I began to heal.  I leaned into the people about me.  Into my art, my writing, my dance.  He noticed the change in me.  In the dwindling frequency of our conversations and commented on it.

“I guess you need space,” he remarked.  I did.  But I was so afraid of losing him in my life that I asked for it in a wishy-washy sort of way.  Backpedaling often.

When he said it again, a week or so ago, I replied in the affirmative.  This time with a little more backbone, adding, “I cannot be your best friend.”  He immediately, expectedly, retreated.

On Wednesday, home from my travels, and the whirlwind that has been my life for the past few weeks, I felt the culmination of the days and of my experiences.  Grief.  Sadness.  It crashed over me like a wave, and all I could do was feel the incredible force of it.

It reminded me of body surfing in Punta Mita with my ex – the Pacific Ocean as warm as bath water.  I got caught by a rip tide and was thrust down into the sand beneath me, head first.  Terrifying.  I began to flail, unsure which way was up.  Until I remembered what I had been taught.

wedding toastDon’t fight.  Stay still.  That my body would naturally float to the surface.  And it did.

I never told my ex, or anyone else, about the experience.  Until now.

I’ve been back in the ocean many times since then.  The experience remains with me.  A shadow.  A teaching.  A reminder, like all of my experiences – especially the most recent ones –I am durable.  Adaptable.  Like cotton.