I wrote a letter to David Bowie tonight. He's been on my mind. He's actually been in my dreams, too, or something like that. Apparently in the early morning hours of New Year's Eve I sat up in bed, started out a window that opened to the dark Atlantic pushing against a Carolina shore under a waxing moon, and called out "David Bowie" and then fell back into a hard sleep. When she told me about it in the morning it felt familiar and also somewhat embarrassing. As if my dreamwalking David Bowie astral projection mystic visioning secret was out. I didn't remember dreaming about him, so I don't know if I was calling to him or answering him, if I saw him or was seeking him, but I sort of remember it happening all the same.
Our brains are so weird.
So one week later, tonight, I told him I love him, and that my love letter was long overdue. One week overdue in one sense, decades in another. I told him that's how it's been for me lately. Overdue. Radio delay. I'm feeling the whole of my life about a few weeks after it happens. I don't feel in a fog, just in time lag. Laggy like when the Internet slows down. On delay like when you jump too many time zones and give up trying to do the math in your head of where you've been plus/minus where you are going and you don't know whether it's night or day at any of those places but you hope someone will be awake when you try to call them, when you need to hear a real voice. You sort of hope it will be nighttime for you but morning for them, so you can talk and then fall asleep happy, knowing they are going about their day. But then you remember you sort of hope you are actually on your way home, to the same time zone after all. I can feel David Bowie nodding; he's been around, he knows what I mean.
I sent him a photo of me from when I first fell in love with him. Talk about time travel. I assured him that in most ways, I'm happier now. We've been together a long time, David Bowie and me, so maybe that's one of the New Year's messages he wanted to convey to me. I told him the idea, the perfect image, of him and Freddie Mercury working together to compose Under Pressure, was going to be my one word for 2012. Imagine the two of them together. Fierce brilliance. The charged baseline. Creative differences, it apparently wasn't easy. And then perfection. The result was perfection. I played the song again tonight after yet another soul-killing GOP debate. Finding love and passion as an answer to broken politics, we'll need this anthem this year. I've needed it for a long, long time. I thanked David for it. I told him I didn't even want to talk about Vanilla Ice. Unless he needed to.
There are a lot of good reasons not to sleep alone. A small one is to find out if David Bowie has been visiting you in the early morning hours. I told David Bowie I hoped he and Iman share a bed more nights than not. I imagine they live by an ocean some of the year, don't you? That their bed is near a window that looks out over serious moonlight. I told him I hope they are happy in 2012. I told him thanks for dropping by, and that I intend to be happy in 2012. Very, very happy.