I cannot watch this video, or listen to this song, without feeling ye chilly kiss o' Death. Ye idea of death has never disturb'd me until Bowie's sudden demise. I don't understand the effect of this artost's death on my psyche, but it has been profound. Perhaps because I am 64 years of age, a mere five year younger than Bowie. I am not often reminded of my old age except for the sometimes intense pain from my arthritis. Of course, when I gaze into the bathroom mirror while applying my makeup, I see an old geezer. I sometimes hear a scolding voice inside me mug, "What the hell are you doing, trying to look punk at your age." But then I hear the voice of Quentin Crisp: "I will tell you the advantage of growing old. As it's toward the end of the run, you can overact appallingly." Yet even the joys of being a drama queen grow old.
And so I look at that image of David Bowie on his aesthetic death bed, looking like a blind man trying to find his way out of mortal existence--and I see that this magnificent human being remain'd an Artist until his very last days. And that is something I can try to apply to mine own existence, for however long I breathe, for however long I am able to write my fiction and therein express the hauntings of my antique soul.