I'm a ★
"Lazarus" was painful when it came out, but then it was painful from the other direction, as there was too much identity in having sat in such solitude attempting to adequately write this sort of a book for five years, in a constant state of anxiety to do with survival (on all levels), -not to mention how, if it were synthesis, could you ever possibly hope to measure up? -Because the book is that one stab at existential validation no one's ever been up to before. It's actually the sole infinitesimal attempt there is at survival on these terms, where no one appears to care, unless it doesn't exist.
The title "Lazarus" means everything. It is truly possible. It is the last mystery beyond explanation. The thresholds laid out will never be acceptable anyhow. I couldn't even talk about them after 2007. There is literally no liberty to express it. The only introspection that can be aired would have to occur through self-awareness elsewhere, only mutuality can free it now. The only thing offered from over here is observance. Do you have any clue (if you read it) where this has the potential capacity to potentially possibly go? Either you know already and will be able to say so, or it's un-openable. I'm going to know how it turns out, -I'll be watching. I'll probably never be able to discuss what will now only amount to hopeless speculation anyway, which is what it will be until I am dead. That's the only way to irrevocably know whether I'm right. But the social experiment of what might be at this threshold is truly a wonderful thought.
There, you have to have a good thought, because "Lazarus" is the saddest thing imaginable at this moment. Departure without resolution is agony. All I can tell you is that there really truly is a potentiality here that is really truly wondrous. All that can be said is that "Lazarus" intentional. There is great hope for the future, reason to be so thankful, elation in release. I'm thankful for his courage and belief.
-And that's from an individual as bitter, hardened and traumatized as the one under the deathbed, the haunting, if you will. That's how you become in a world so hideous it forces you to conceal yourself for your very survival for most of your life.
It's such a knife edge to look at this, to wonder if the entity under the bed (the one with burdened with the skull in ceremony in "Blackstar") was the entity from which release was sought, inspiration as a sort of malign possession, that compelled one to write and write, the skull on the desk, your death right in front of you. Inspiration so integral it expressed the other as one's own expression, right up to the moment of collapse. I'm dying and will never be reached, but I'm liberated from this context in the same token, in death. Was the loss being unable to finish? Was it that it never reached it end? Was the bitterness in dying blind, without ever being reached?
I couldn't see David Bowie was speaking for himself because four days after the book's copyright was recieved (the conclusion that meant I could even begin), someone pinned me to a door with a nine inch blade knife to my temple. I was already being confronted, existentially, with someone doing that much to make me feel threatened for my life, someone vile enough they'd attack me using this book in a heartbeat if it served to enslave me to them, or punish me otherwise. The closest people are there to insure my execution, insure I'll never speak, insure that just releasing the book will amount to some form of execution. I thought the collapse at the end of the book was already my end, I'd been so threatened just for finishing, so afraid for my own life, in utter despair at what just attempting to follow through would mete. The hesitation from that threat is what kept me from following through, even when I could, for it will threaten me, if it does, through the most cruelest means possible, -my own children.
That's what was happening to me when David went into the studio for this, his last. I already felt completely abandoned by acknowledgement that had left my life to be threatened, abandonment deep enough it was no different than being buried alive and not alive anymore. I've never been sucked down deeper in all my life, -or deeper into rage.
So I couldn't see David through the mirror. I wish it had mattered to me enough to move quicker, but it's not easy after one has been consumed; punished, abused and consumed for months and months, where what you're being forced to fight for is your children. The world is so hideous it will never let you breathe. I look forward to death as liberation, because I happen to think I'll be permitted to be alive in it. I never was when I was alive.
I finished reading my children "The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" for Christmas.
