Stars were born, and a star died.
It happens every day, but I'm feeling it keenly on this cold January afternoon.
|Taken at the "David Bowie Is…" exhibit at the AGO.|
But I do remember a girl I used to look after. She lived in a house in Kentish Town, and she was eleven, and she was the biggest David Bowie freak I had ever met. She would dress up like him after school and belt out Life on Mars as if she had written it herself, and it was wonderful. Through his music and his artistry and weirdness and his sheer force of personality, he gave her a bit of his stardust. He gave a bit of it to all of us.
Accountability Count: Up at 6 every day, except when I slept through my alarm this morning; one hour of writing or revision done every day; music done every other day; language not done at all, ACK; blogging done and edited, but password forgotten so can't post, DOUBLE ACK; social media time seems to be under control THANK HEAVEN FOR SMALL MIRACLES.
Reading: THE NEST, by Kenneth Oppel, illustrated by Jon Klassen
Watching: LABYRINTH. Of course.