The Haanta Series venerates David Bowie
Hail the Goblin King!
The very first time I ever saw David Bowie was when I saw the Labyrinth.
Circumstances were that there was a birthday party, and an atrocious one at that, but I was permitted to ease my horrors of being compelled to attend this event by watching Jareth command his minions, singing and dancing, governing them and presiding over his kingdom by the power of his exquisite dress and magnificent hair. The appreciation for his make-up and finely tailored breeches did not come until much later: I was only eight years old when I saw the film for the first time. As I watched Jareth weave his melodious loom, something in my untempered consciousness roused, and I was instantly a servant of the great Goblin King. This, for some time, was how I knew David Bowie, but soon, sometime during the dregs of adolescence, I came to know his music and succumb to a veneration of a different nature.
David Bowie is rather like Shakespeare: one gets acquainted with him without really knowing how. His music is always playing somewhere, his lyrics are always being repeated by someone, another performance artist is always covering his songs, he appears in various films seemingly from nowhere-- but regardless of the medium, David Bowie has been a jewel on the performance crown for the last six decades at least. His name is more than what sensations his music could furnish: he was a marvel, a grand display of vibrant hues, somber looks, and subdued tones in every medium, and surely whatever he was, whichever persona he adopted for himself, whichever song he chose to compose, which ever character he decided to portray, he was always original.
There is nothing that can smooth away the sting of anguish. His passing must cause everyone who lauded him some grief, and bereavement is what it always is, unwelcome and undisguised and unpleasant, but when we have had time to consider and recollect, it seems difficult to be so sorrowing over a life so well expressed. He devoted himself to his performance, the reward for which are his countless doting subjects now without their king. Whether goblin or human, whether veteran or novitiate, the admiration of such a spirit only serves to brighten his star in the sublime and eternal reign of the ethereal throne. He looks down at us now, master of all he surveys, and is pleased with his lot, glorying in the demesnes of his spectacular estate, and regaling in the reverence of his followers.
I will paint you mornings of gold, I will spin you valentine evenings!
The very first time I ever saw David Bowie was when I saw the Labyrinth.
Circumstances were that there was a birthday party, and an atrocious one at that, but I was permitted to ease my horrors of being compelled to attend this event by watching Jareth command his minions, singing and dancing, governing them and presiding over his kingdom by the power of his exquisite dress and magnificent hair. The appreciation for his make-up and finely tailored breeches did not come until much later: I was only eight years old when I saw the film for the first time. As I watched Jareth weave his melodious loom, something in my untempered consciousness roused, and I was instantly a servant of the great Goblin King. This, for some time, was how I knew David Bowie, but soon, sometime during the dregs of adolescence, I came to know his music and succumb to a veneration of a different nature.
David Bowie is rather like Shakespeare: one gets acquainted with him without really knowing how. His music is always playing somewhere, his lyrics are always being repeated by someone, another performance artist is always covering his songs, he appears in various films seemingly from nowhere-- but regardless of the medium, David Bowie has been a jewel on the performance crown for the last six decades at least. His name is more than what sensations his music could furnish: he was a marvel, a grand display of vibrant hues, somber looks, and subdued tones in every medium, and surely whatever he was, whichever persona he adopted for himself, whichever song he chose to compose, which ever character he decided to portray, he was always original.
There is nothing that can smooth away the sting of anguish. His passing must cause everyone who lauded him some grief, and bereavement is what it always is, unwelcome and undisguised and unpleasant, but when we have had time to consider and recollect, it seems difficult to be so sorrowing over a life so well expressed. He devoted himself to his performance, the reward for which are his countless doting subjects now without their king. Whether goblin or human, whether veteran or novitiate, the admiration of such a spirit only serves to brighten his star in the sublime and eternal reign of the ethereal throne. He looks down at us now, master of all he surveys, and is pleased with his lot, glorying in the demesnes of his spectacular estate, and regaling in the reverence of his followers.
I will paint you mornings of gold, I will spin you valentine evenings!
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