in the aftermath of death always lies life. as it continues, in others. vibrantly sad, often. or as in sex... after each small death of giving oneself to other(s), numb from feeling too much, one regains energy. to go on.
mostly. most of the time. death is never the end. it is always a beginning, sort of. not necessarily fruitful nor good. it just is. because... one (me, you, them, us) stops being what one (you, they, we, I) was before as death takes away particles of each composite (loved ones, cherished things, ephemeral affections and addictions) that makes one (all) unique.
so one gets tired of death living in a slum-squat in one’s head. selfish, without giving life back. as it deflates mind and dries up flesh, in the trails of dead skin one finds ever-present loved ones who are slowly dying, moldy cherished things, all ghosts of addictive disaffection. one hopes for rebirth after each death, but then... again suddenly, news of an old lover dying, or a best friend from adolescence, then a father dies and in cue, all the musical idols of one’s youth start to die... breathing only half-way, stuck in mid-life in its most decaying form one screams for life. l i f e. one repeats it over and over, and one only wants sex. the feel of. the fluidity of. the music of. s e x. for sex is life. sex always fucks you into existence... always.
i was introduced to Prince by a college friend. it was the end of 1979 and she was playing "i wanna be your lover" in her dorm room. i went in and listened. likeIT, huh? she said as her afro bounced forward as she danced. i nodded as i too started to move to the music. she showed me the album cover. it was a head shot on a baby blue background, Prince’s long hair flowing as he stared at the camera bare chested with intense dark eyes. heSOfineI’doHimRightNOw, she said laughing. we were both young and gay and had become friends as we each pursued each of the sisters that composed a pair of terribly gorgeous twins. after the flirting and the short-lived benefits of these two, separately, we had become friends. she was my guide into much of the black-american soulful funky music I liked then and now. as my black-guru, she took me to many clandestine party-houses in the south side of chicago, where black gay youth grooved to the likes of Prince et al with such gusto and rhythm that each time it was a spectacular show, lived in the excitement of its illegal veil. i loved watching how these kids moved and flaunted their sexuality freely, uninhibited. i listened carefully to their way of talking, not understanding much, but enjoying it all. i was sought after at those parties for my exotic accent and long black hair, and felt cherished up-close and personal as we exchanged the heat of the flesh in the dancing floor as we danced as if it really was 1999 in the middle of 1982. the 70s had ended, and its sexual revolution was heading straight into the AIDS years of the 1980s. no fear just yet, then. but so much fear to come.
because everyday we die; everyday we are born. don’t you forget it. don’t. you.
don’t you feel it? ain’t no particular sign; it just happens. like a burst bubble of solid sadness, today, april ending and it is everywhere. PrinceISdeadPrince is deadPrince is deadPrince is dead.
and i feel a hiss in my ears, a cold breeze of sorts as spring fights to stay, here, my dear, here. you don’t have to be beautiful. you don’t need experience. you don’t have to be rich. to die. i’m gonna show you what it’s all about now, that it’s not 1984 no more. and no more purple rain. no more.
so Prince is dead. rushing in memories of so long ago. of being happy so fast. let’s go crazy. dancing music at its core. in its core. we butterflies all tied up in sex. cocoons of transformation in between our legs for i wanna be your lover living on a string at full speed. Prince is dead and doves cry. as they have so many times. before.
when Bowie died so did my pre-adolescent self, thinking future-future as it all broke in a snap. unhero-like. Bowie was wild in the wind as it lust in my hair then. as. i tried to sleep that night thinking of my soul drying up somewhere far away from me. maybe i’m just too demanding but love me, love me, love me. say you do. as i hear the sounds of mandolins. as i see pictures. pictures of you and me. us. don’t you know you’re life itself. so, dig if you will the picture. engaged in a kiss. dig it?
the sweat covers me. can-can you picture this? it’s not even 1999 no more. so dream if you can an ocean of violets in bloom. it is spring, after all. animals strike curious poses for they feel the heat. and wild is the wind mating as we fuck the heat between me and you. us. so then how can you just leave me standing? alone. in a world that’s so cold? (so cold) dead, gone, cold. so many. so maybe I’m just too demanding. yes, maybe I’m just like my father, too bold. maybe you’re just like my mother. she’s never satisfied (never satisfied). never.
and Prince is dead.
om ulloa. cuban-american writer. resides in chicago and miami loves that funky music. shes the author of palabrerías aNalfabéticas.