I don't even know what to say about Prince. He came to us, full bloomed when I was in nursing school, already in my very late twenties. His music was not the music that made my bones what they are but I recognized, I knew without doubt, that he was the real deal. That he had driven a spike into a completely different realm of music, of art, and let it flow free and the world lapped it up and became drunk on its bloody magnificence.
Like Bowie. Like the Beatles. Like the Rolling Stones. Like Little Richard. Like Chuck Berry and Elvis and Howling Wolf and Muddy Waters and Michael Jackson and Joni Mitchell and Aretha Franklin and like St. Jimi Hendrix.
One of those guys.
And as with Bowie, he did not seem human. He transcended sex and race and gender and any sort of description. He was male/female. He was tiny, he was huge, he was a screamer, a whisperer, a musician who let loose the hounds of hell and the doves of peace.
When I wrote my post last night, I should have mentioned people like Bowie, like Prince, even like Mick Jagger and Little Richard, who refused to fit squarely and snuggly into any square of definition as to what a man looked like, dressed like, sounded like, was.
These people were not round pegs in square holes. They were fluid enough to fill any space. Their beings were too liquid to be defined while their music was too amazing to be ignored.
And so, again as with Bowie especially, it seemed impossible that he would die. Like...a mortal? Really?
And yet, yes. Prince's soul in this incarnation at least, inhabited a human body, a body as prey to disease and death as any of us live in.
I can't say that I'm devastated at his death. But I can say that I am hallelujah-holy amazed that he lived among us for the time that he did.
I hope he went in peace. Like a Prince. Like a veritable Prince of Peace.