David Bowie gave me more than I can ever really articulate, or even fully appreciate. It's not an exaggeration to say that my life was changed by him. That's not to say that I went on to live a similarly inspired, ambitious creative life - the huge majority of his fans never did that, either, so I don't feel like a failure that I got a job as a manager, and dabble in writing some pretty un-audacious poetry and fiction. But at 13 years of age, an artist who had always been in the background of my life suddenly came into the foreground, thanks to Ashes to Ashes playing on MTV. I borrowed my mum's recently purchased ChangesBowie CD and slowly took more and more of the songs into my heart - initially resistant to Diamond Dogs, Golden Years and "Heroes", I can still remember the moment they clicked and another little universe opened up.
This was 1990, and luckily the start of a massive re-release of Bowie's albums 1969-1980 on CD, with bonus tracks. I collected them all, at first catching up, eventually pre-ordering. When Scary Monsters came out I was taken by surprise. I read a review on Teletext, quickly called my mum to tell her I was borrowing £15 from her kitty, and took a bus into town. When I got to Our Price records in Uxbridge, they hadn't even put the CD out on the racks yet, and fetched me a copy from the store room.
From then, I was up to speed on all his old works (his classic period, then everything from Let's Dance to the first Tin Machine album) and was a devotee for all of his new releases. I'm the only person I know who owns both Tin Machine II and the original CD release of The Buddha of Suburbia. When Bowie was being ridiculed and dismissed through the 90s, I talked up 1.Outside as a brilliant album (which it is latterly accepted as being), learnt the lyrics to all of 'hours...' and bought every new album on release day. I was lucky enough to see Bowie live 3 times, including a very intimate gig at the Shepherd's Bush Empire, when he walked on stage barefoot and launched into Quicksand. The only copy of Hello! magazine I've ever bought was the one that featured his wedding to Iman.
Through Bowie, I discovered Orwell, Anthony Burgess, Brian Eno, The Velvet Underground, William Burroughs, Andy Warhol, Egon Schiele... I watched the turgid film Wild Is The Wind because Bowie covered the title song. I have visited parts of London that seem pretty bland but for the knowledge Bowie Woz Ere. I holidayed in Berlin partly because of Bowie's time there. So while I love a lot of music, Bowie has always been more than a few albums on my playlist. I have his album artwork on my walls. I have a personal library of books, magazines and DVDs. He's my specialist subject. He's part of what makes me, me.
And when he died, I experienced actual grief for the first time in my life. I had lost people before but I was either too young or not close enough to them to really feel it. I got the news early morning in the morning on 11th January. My mum called my husband to make sure the news could be broken to me before the radio alarm woke me up to tell me, but a friend had text me already to say he'd heard the rumour and then it had been confirmed. I took the day off work. It was my birthday the day before, and I was given three art prints of the album covers of Hunky Dory, Ziggy and Aladdin Sane. Blackstar had been released only a couple of days before and I was listening to that exclusively. When I went out with my family to celebrate my 39th birthday, I'd been a Bowie fan 26 years and he'd never seemed more present or alive. At the meal, my niece wore the Aladdin Sane t-shirt I got her for Christmas.
All day on the 11th, messages from friends came in telling me they were thinking about me. I emailed Radio 6 music and my message was read out, then at my request Kooks was played - because although Ashes to Ashes kickstarted my devotion, Kooks was a song I loved when I was a toddler. Bowie had always been there. I was aware of people on Twitter mocking Bowie fans for grieving, but what did that matter to me? When you're in pain, there's no point someone telling you that you shouldn't be. You just feel how you feel.
2016 was a terrible year for me, largely - not only did I lose Bowie but the Brexit happened, which rocked my sense of the country I grew up in. I also fell out with a close friend, the one who texted me first to tell me Bowie had died. I realised I had lived all my life with occasionally very bad anxiety, and started counselling to deal with that. More than three years on, I'm living with anxiety much more comfortably, my friend and I made amends and Brexit still bothers me but doesn't upset me like it did. But I can still weep when I think about Bowie. My birthday celebrations now include a toast to him, because that's the day he died.
I did something I never ever intended to do, and got a tattoo - I had it done only a few days after his death, because I wanted to always be identifiable as a Bowie fan, for the mark he made on me to be literal and visible to others. I chose the Blackstar hieroglyphics that spell out Bowie, on my left arm. I also changed the thumbnail image on my work email to the Blackstar cover art. A few months later, someone at work who I didn't really know noticed the art and we began an email exchange. He's the only person I know who has as much love and knowledge of Bowie as me. He's now one of my best friends. On only our second meeting, he invited me to his wedding. Becoming close to him rescued 2016 for me.
I realise none of the above is a review of Chris O'Leary's excellent book, but it's context for why it took me so long to finish reading it. I actually raced through it, and then I reached the last entry, for the song Blackstar, and I stopped. I wasn't ready. But in an act of getting through my backlog of reading, I sat down today and read it in an unbroken chunk. What happened was expected - O'Leary wrote knowledgeably and beautifully, and I cried.
I wanted to share with whoever might read this how much writers like Chris O'Leary have helped people like me to fill in gaps, pose new questions and open up new vistas of interpretations of his work. Because if Bowie is a part of who you are, understanding the message that he sent helps you understand yourself a bit more, too. Not everyone gets it, but those who get it, get it.
Or, in other words: the moment you know, you know you know.