Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Yes, even here in on this far edge of the Arabian peninsula, we're sitting in front of the box, watching. It turns out that the great triumvirate of mourners I had hoped for won't come together; no Diana, no Elizabeth, and, so far, no sign of Liza.
The nattering commentary is, as usually on these occasions, inane to a head-exploding degree - greatest, historic, most, total...
Well. He was, in fact, a great dancer, of a kind; he was an enormous star; he was a dynamically effective presence. Any further judgments - of the songwriter, the phenomenon, the pioneer in shape-shifting (and, yes, the predator, the addict, the profound mess) - will have to wait for time and cooler heads.
What we have, now, undoubtedly, is a deeply troubled man at rest, a mother bereaved, children bereft of, whatever else it was, the familiarity of the only life they have ever known - and profligate expressions of what might be for some grief, for others hysteria, for most a curious wonder at how we get caught up in these little madnesses.