It made perfect sense to me that David Bowie killed off his character Ziggy Stardust at the Hammersmith Apollo in London on July 3, 1973. My first reaction when I read about all of this in that week’s Melody Maker was that it was a smart move, and two, I was feeling very much in the mood to destroy one’s past so one can go on to create something new. Returning to ground zero and from the ashes to rebuild oneself seemed a practical choice. Also, once fans start dressing like the star on the stage, it is time for the artist on that platform to say toodle-oo.
During the punk rock era in the mid-1970s, I felt slightly disappointed when a group or artist made a second album because I thought, at that time, it was already too late. Did you say everything on your first record? Why repeat yourself? Of course, Bowie’s plan is total showbiz, but I would have been happy if he never did a Ziggy song on the stage again. I could support that stance. But now that I’m older, I appreciate the approach to memories by actively participating in a show of nothing but hits. But when a memory stands still, like a photograph on one’s mantel above the fireplace, it’s a moment of frozen time.
As I go through my library today to see what I want to keep or sell/give to the second-hand store, I come upon my Franz Kafka books. Looking at each title brings back the memory of when I read them, mostly when I was in my late teens or early twenties. The absurdity of Kafka’s short stories made an impression on me as I tried to deal with the outside world of my existence. At that time was living in Topanga Canyon, isolated from the outside world, which I suspected was way more interesting than life in Hippie-death canyon. I have been living with these Kafka titles for forty years or more and haven’t reread or looked at them. Mostly they were hidden under another book or surrounded by my clothing, which I forgot about, and all it did was collect dust and a spider here and there. Since I bought and read those books, there have been new translations of each novel and short story. Like exchanging your old and worn down car, for a new model, perhaps I should do the same for Franz Kafka.
It’s no secret that I suffer from mild depression. I know it’s benign because I went to Kaiser Medical Center into their Psychiatric department to see if I could get any assistance regarding my mental health. I had a meeting with a doctor there, and after I told her I was curious about my state of mind and if I could become healthier, she told me that she has patients who can’t even leave their beds due to their depression. So, in other words, I’m a mere tourist in that field. She was supposed to get back to me for recommendations or where to go, but she never did, and in honesty, I could have called back, but I felt an institution could not be a service to me. People have let me down, but literature never disappointed me. One of the reasons I’m going into a deep dive into Marcel Proust’s works - both from his writing and others who comment on him, is mostly due to my attempt to stay sane. I think after I read Proust fully, I will revisit Kafka. So, for now, I’ll keep the older translations, read the new works, and compare the two like I will do with Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.
The only film footage (so far) of Marcel Proust, 1904.
sound advice, Tosh