So yes, I’m back, after all, proving it wasn’t just about week-long novelty. Proving that I am a loyal soul who’s not easily bored. Okay, that’s stretching things but generally life’s been good and so there’s been precious little to be irritated or bored about.
And today as we (a small army and I) completed another event which holds tremendous personal triumph for me (for doing it bent and lonely and alone and full of miss) and now that I’m feeling like a star and a champion again, I was wondering about the nature of stardom.
Say you are an open book, how are you also mysterious and alluring?
Or put another way, can you be an open book and still be mysterious and alluring? (I love that word, such a delicious word, almost see a mystified smile curving at the edges of lips when you say it).
I say, “Of course, you can.”
Take me, for example, (I’ve recently been accused of being conceited and self-involved – again – so I can now afford to go on about myself. Having labels already, one needn’t fear them anymore.) I’m an open book. But the very fact that I’m so open and everyone who matters knows all about me is alluring and mysterious, like one can say, “No really, I bet this is a farce. I bet the real her is not like this.” And so on.
So there we are. Debate resolved.
Or take Freddy Mercury. How did he feel when he was dying? Everyone knew he was, he made a classic from that story and then he wrote the most moving love songs to men. And now that’s put me in mind of Judas Priest and Turbo Lover and heck, I can’t think anymore. That song always has that effect.
So yes, marshall your thoughts, woman, don’t ramble. And so, there was Freddy Mercury hitting gold and dressing drag and being Queen and then he died, and everyone knew and everyone really wondered and it was all open and it was all there, but who really knew? Get my point?
So he’s really a champion, he turned pain into an art. Another one of those. Blue funking all the way. 🙂
Take Freddy Mercury – a Parsi with a long nose and a really long song. Oh just take Freddy Mercury. He’s just a poor boy from a poor family and I really must save him from this monstrosity that’s my writing.
I can hear my best-ever critic snap, “Atrocious. Bhumika, do you need to?”
We are the champions. Someone agrees.