Cha,Ch,Changes...

Okay...You probably thought, "Why is she writing about David Bowie now instead of a week or two back? The short answer is, I don't tend to follow crowds but the much lamented Mr. Bowie's music has been stimulating the "little gray cells," of late,  as a certain fictional Belgian detective oft admitted.

Hence, the title of this post. I cannot seem to get that song out of my head. Changes, it would seem, have been a recurring theme for me. I have been about overhauling finances, re-stocking the flat, quietly remembering yet another recently departed friend and commemorating the anniversaries of two other significant losses.

Having reached the outer limits of middle age at much too fast a clip for my liking, I am reminded every so often that there were those who, upon my premature arrival, predicted that I would not last the week. Some years after that, yet another medical genius announced to my mother that my "little gray cells" (paraphrasing mine) were in short supply and that I should be shut away as I wasn't worth the air I was breathing. Herr Doktor even went so far as to label my mother, who was by this point so angry she could spit nails, delusional. While that could be said of some aspects of my mother's life, about my budding intellect, not at all. About a male doc with an officious attitude wanting to assert his authority over a woman he regarded as inferior to himself, definitely. It says a lot about the man that he would admit his mistake to mutual friends, yet never utter the   merest apology in my mother's direction.

Though never one to use the word feminist in reference to herself, my mother nonetheless gave my lifelong feminism a fat boost when she stood up to those who would otherwise discount either of us. For me, those lessons began early and have continued. As I make my way into the eighteenth year of her passing, the truly mixed bag--light and dark--that she represents to me is shown again with startling clarity as I recall my teens and how badly she handled my entree into adulthood.

Female, disabled and very alive and aware of the world in the seventies, as my teen years stretched on, so did the growing feeling of "otherness." A quiet kid who did well in school, I was, for the most part, assumed fine by my parents. Seeing no obvious signs of waywardness, trouble or rebellion, they emphasized getting into university as the necessary step to job security and happiness. I was, however, the proverbial fish out of water. Well liked by my teachers, I had only a handful of friends and quickly learned to keep myself to myself if I wanted to look as though I fit in anywhere. Attentions firmly rooted in my studies, music, books, horses, following world events and writing, I was a loner and very private and seeing no-one in my conservative military/governmental community with whom to engage also meant that I saw no real examples of how someone in my situation could become the happy adult my parents were hoping to turn out into the world.

I began to notice those who were "out there," the artists, writers, actors, musicians who in one way or another, whether through word, song, deed, manner or dress, made their presence stick. While I never envied their celebrity, wrote fan letters or plastered my walls with photos or posters, I developed a few favorites, including Elton John and David Bowie. Elton John, though he had a serious side, always seemed to my inexperienced girl eyes, to thrive in front of an audience. I loved his willingness to costume and have what I perceived as fun. Mr. Bowie on the other hand was always a bit darker and in more than one instance, left me wondering about his personas, captivating though they were.

 It wasn't until my university years that I began experimenting with costumes, sometimes becoming a hybrid gothic Elvira-like character. In my life as a working writer the balancing of client needs versus my creative instincts taught me that looking as though something is easy or fun is actually a hell of a lot more work than people realize.
That said, I tip my hat, one last time to the little boy and young man who became David Bowie.

Until Next Time...