Goodbye, Bowie.

David Bowie, born on the 9th of January, 1947, died as he lived: fiercely independent and startling by nature. When a succinct message sounded his passing on January 10th, 2016 the world recoiled. Just two days prior, another Bowie album had hit the shelves, and a good one at that. Although the English fount of marvel had maintained a relative silence in previous years, these circumstances could never have been foreseen. In this moment, while praise and grief have filled the void of information, it is known that the 69 year-old battled cancer for eighteen months. The surprise of this revelation reiterates everything venerable about the man. In an age where information is a given, almost a right, The Thin White Duke rebuked the status quo. He retained a piece of himself and his privacy, allowing the music to speak for itself. He took custody of an illness and death that would have been investigated and commercialized. By his abrupt departure from the life of public consciousness, he abetted the mystique of his being. And the loss has disseminated like rings of water under a skipped stone. Bowie was the Starman, a post-human, a shapeshifter. He blended a savant-like breadth of artistry and left an astounding discography in his wake. He challenged the sexual state of affairs with powdered cheeks and a glint in his eye. He was one that the world will never meet again. As he presciently wrote on his final album, “look up here/I’m in Heaven.” Wherever you are, Planet Earth is evermore Blue in light of you. Thank you for everything.  

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