Dancing With Bowie

 

Walking down the hall, my heels clack against the wooden floorboards. With my head down, I wonder why I am here—why I am so unique.

I wonder why I think in the strangest ways, or what others would consider strange. I don’t think like everyone else. I am open to so much—emotionally. It’s hard to close the door to everything, both good and bad.

I see things that others don’t see, but not with physical human eyes. I see them through my feelings. The images are not always clear; most of the time, they are abstract. It’s the same when I dream. I dream in the abstract—nothing is clear. Nothing ever makes sense until later.

Maybe that’s why I find myself drawn to him. The personas—all different, yet each reflecting something about him or what he was feeling or going through at the time. It’s strange, because even though I knew about him, had heard a few of his songs, and watched two of the movies he starred in—one of which I liked because it was fantasy—I never really paid close attention to him.

Maybe it was because there was a time when I wasn’t open to such awareness. I didn’t quite pay attention to everything. There were things I focused on—maybe a little too much—and I found myself either burned out, or those things were ruined for me by someone else.

I continue walking down the hall. All I hear are my heels against the floorboards and the faint noise coming from the front of the club—drumbeats throbbing, guitar riffs vibrating, people chanting, clapping, and screaming. All of it a near sensory overload.

As I lift my head, I suddenly stop short. I see someone in the hall, sitting on a bench.

It is a man.

He seems familiar, but I can’t quite place his face. Then I realize who it is. He turns his head in my direction, looking at me.

The only things running through my mind are the many personas he wore during his life—four of them come to mind. The Alien, the Madman, the Rebel, and the Aristocrat. Different facets of himself, all interesting. Much like the different facets of myself—the Dreamer, the Shy Girl, the Hidden Rebel, and the Inner Madam Unique. I find myself smiling at those names. I like the way they sound.

I stand there, not moving, not saying a word.

Suddenly, he lifts one of his hands and extends it toward me, motioning for me to join him. I hesitate at first, then put my fear aside and walk over to where he is sitting.

I sit down next to him, but not too close. I don’t want him to think I’m some insane, touchy-feely person. I stare at the wall he’s staring at. Soon, he speaks.

“Nothing wrong with being unique. Nothing wrong with taking creative steps that reflect who you are and reveal things about yourself. Continue to use it to search for meaning. Not everyone will understand it. Some may not even see its deeper meaning. But keep that creativity. Sometimes creativity is the key that unlocks everything,” he said.

His words made sense, and I smiled.

“Relax, love. It’s just you and me. And I don’t bite—unless you want me to,” he said, humor lacing his voice.

I laughed quietly as I relaxed, leaning back against the bench. Then, without really noticing, I turned and rested my back against his arm and shoulder. I stretched out my legs and rested my face in my hand as I continued to stare at the wall with him.

“You and I are dressed alike,” he said.

I looked at his attire, then at mine. We were indeed dressed alike.

Him: a white button-down shirt, left casually open; black suspenders; black pants; black shoes.

Me: the same, with the exception of the black lace bustier beneath my blouse and my two-tone T-strap heels.

“Must be fate,” he said.

“Likely so,” I replied.

“Why do you think you’re finding yourself drawn to me now?” he asked.

For a moment, I smiled, then answered.

“Likely because I’m seeing and learning things about you that oddly reflect myself. It’s no secret between God and me that I found your portrayal of Jareth intriguing—so intriguing that I once wrote a short story about the character. Of course, that story is now lost,” I said.

He chuckled. “Even now, you still find that character intriguing.”

“Very true,” I said.

“And now you’re learning more about me—looking into the meaning of the songs I wrote and the personas I created,” he continued. “You even find me… dare I say, quite attractive.”

Oddly enough, without looking at him, I sensed that he was smirking. He seemed amused that after all this time, I was seeing him in that way.

It was slightly embarrassing.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “I’m sure you’re not the first person to become interested in someone who has long passed on from the Fallen World.”

“You have a point. Many well-known people who passed away still have fans who adore them,” I said.

“Darling, whenever you create a character inspired by me, don’t ever feel strange about it. Think of me as your muse,” he said.

I smiled at those words.

“I will—or at least I’ll try to remember that,” I said.

“You have a gift… a gift for feeling more deeply than others. It allows you to ‘see’ things that others may miss or never consider. It’s that very gift that enhances your creativity,” he said.

Just then, I felt his head rest against mine.

“Kanesha, you are beautiful. Don’t ever think otherwise. Everything about you is beautiful. Remember that,” he said.

I smiled as a few tears slipped from my eyes.

Without warning, we heard the click of a camera, followed by a flash of light. It was odd, because there was no one around. Then, out of the blue, we saw what looked like a sheet of paper slowly drifting to the floor. Once it landed, it revealed itself to be a photograph of him and me.

It was in full color, showing my chin-length dark brown hair, brown eyes, and medium golden-brown complexion that hinted at the Creole heritage from my mother’s side. It also captured my plus-size figure, which I realized was not exaggerated as I sometimes imagined, but balanced—a naturally curvy silhouette.

He was handsome, just as I had always seen him. Of course, his unusual eyes caught my attention. Like many people, I once thought his two-toned eyes were the result of heterochromia, only to learn later—while watching a documentary about him—that it was anisocoria, caused by an injury he had suffered. Yet it wasn’t just his eyes. I had always sensed something unusual about him—not in a strange way, but in a way that felt… dare I say, otherworldly. As if he were more than merely human.

As I thought this, I felt him chuckle. I wasn’t surprised that he was reading my thoughts through my emotions.

“So, you felt that I was more than human?” he asked, humor in his voice.

I smiled.

“Honestly, I sometimes think I’m more than merely human myself. So yes, I’ve had that feeling about you,” I said.

“Darling, the universe is a strange place. So many wonders. So many things still unknown,” he whispered softly into my ear.

“Will humans ever truly know?” I asked.

“That is a question I cannot answer,” he said.

I understood what he meant and was content with it. He could feel that I knew his words were true. And while I suspect many things… whatever I may suspect is not meant to be known.

“My dear, I have to go now,” he said.

“I know,” I replied.

“Stay uniquely beautiful, Kanesha,” he said.

He hugged me, then softly kissed my cheek. Much to my surprise, he then kissed my hand—and just like that, he was gone.

In my hand was a photograph of him and me. I smiled as I realized who must have taken it.

“Heavenly Father… only You would have an ethereal camera.”