This death isn’t news I can absorb, let alone accept. It is 2016. How on earth has flu dared fell our Prince? He bridges everything, personal and artistic, that I love. He was turning racial and gender and sexual and business and metaphysical paradigms on their head while most everyone was still drooling in their Wheaties. He is spirit of the body and body of the spirit and wit and wisdom and the most powerful extroverted introvert of all time. He listens better than anybody, and transforms all that into music that moves everything and everybody–pelvises, limbs, minds. Hearts. Tender tender tenderness, pouring through his piano and guitar and voice and me. Lovesexy to boot. I wrote him a love letter every week of college and have continued to do so in my head the millions of times I’ve listened to his albums since. Nothing and nobody taught me how to fuck like his Sign of the Times. If I was your girlfriend, would you let me dress you?/I mean, help you pick out your clothes before we go out?/Not that you’re helpless/But sometimes, sometimes those are the things that bein’ in love’s about. Princey was also the one who told me it was okay to be grow up female. Women not girls rule my world, he crooned.
Christ, this is like losing your mentor and first boyfriend all at once, and I just can’t stop sobbing. I keep flashing on how Joni said she remembered seeing him in the front row of her concerts when he was a teenager, “enormous ancient eyes glowing.” When he sang “Case of U” later on, he was the only person who could find more in it than she did. Everything he has done has felt like a third eye wink and a secret hand-squeeze and the most heartfelt pussy throb. I want to drive to Minneapolis to join the mourners at Paisley Park, and to Boston to hold my childhood best friend Ana, who studied him with me every day after school. I want to light candles all over New York and embrace kindred spirits on purple velvet chaises and listen to all his songs at once. Try to imagine what silence looks like. I saw him live two times and they were two of the most alive times I ever experienced; that I can never see him again feels simply unlivable. So I’m going to close my eyes, click my heels three times, and pray this isn’t true. Prince can’t go home yet. Our world isn’t home without Prince.
This death isn’t news I can absorb, let alone accept. It is 2016. How on earth has flu dared fell our Prince? He bridges everything, personal and artistic, that I love. He was turning racial and gender and sexual and business and metaphysical paradigms on their head while most everyone was still drooling in their Wheaties. He is spirit of the body and body of the spirit and wit and wisdom and the most powerful extroverted introvert of all time. He listens better than anybody, and transforms all that into music that moves everything and everybody–pelvises, limbs, minds. Hearts. Tender tender tenderness, pouring through his piano and guitar and voice and me. Lovesexy to boot. I wrote him a love letter every week of college and have continued to do so in my head the millions of times I’ve listened to his albums since. Nothing and nobody taught me how to fuck like his Sign of the Times. If I was your girlfriend, would you let me dress you?/I mean, help you pick out your clothes before we go out?/Not that you’re helpless/But sometimes, sometimes those are the things that bein’ in love’s about. Princey was also the one who told me it was okay to be grow up female. Women not girls rule my world, he crooned.
“enormous ancient eyes glowing.” When he sang “Case of U” later on, he was the only person who could find more in it than she did. Everything he has done has felt like a third eye wink and a secret hand-squeeze and the most heartfelt pussy throb. I want to drive to Minneapolis to join the mourners at Paisley Park, and to Boston to hold my childhood best friend Ana, who studied him with me every day after school. I want to light candles all over New York and embrace kindred spirits on purple velvet chaises and listen to all his songs at once. Try to imagine what silence looks like. I saw him live two times and they were two of the most alive times I ever experienced; that I can never see him again feels simply unlivable. So I’m going to close my eyes, click my heels three times, and pray this isn’t true. Prince can’t go home yet. Our world isn’t home without Prince.
