Sometimes I'm both struck and stuck. Struck by an overwhelming sense of loss; a meloncholy that lingers unexplained and stuck, insofar as I have no comprehension as to how such a feeling exists and why it exists NOW. It's a classic case of the subconscious entering into the realm of consciousness. That little part in your mind, that golden corridor that houses memories and remains more often than not hidden. Then something happens.
This 'something happens' is like an itch. You know that, although nothing immediate in your life has happened, no birth, no death, no re-birth; something has changed and has in a very subtle manner dripped into your awareness. It's frustrating and annoying especially now that it's two days and no obvious explaination.
Then you watch the news. As somebody who has or at least had an ecclectic taste in music except for all things Diva-ish, it came as a genuine surprise to me that I felt somewhat lamentful in Whitney Heuston's passing. After all, what had I in common with her? She's female, American, black and sang gospel. I'm male, Irish, white and didn't sing gospel. I didn't sing anything!
I never met Whitney Heuston. Most of us haven't. She was obviously very successful at what she did and appears to have inspired many. But why would a person who, although I appreciated and recognised her talent but was not affected by it emotionally, having no attachment to any of her songs, feel somewhat sad?
The answer is memory. It would seem quiet simply that Whitney was living her life while I was living mine. Her success coincided with my attempts to join the world of adolesence and beyond. She was my background music, singing softly in the corridors of night clubs, pubs and even the last chance saloons of taxi-ranks or even Italian Chip shops, long before the days of Supermacs. She sang the anthems for the many sports that I love, singing One moment in Time every time I scored that last minute winner for Ireland in the World Cup Final. Yes my day dreams in bed were all the sweeter with her voice, although subliminal, whispering in my head.
Whitney was probably lurking in the background when I had my first kiss, my first drink, went to my first night- club, when I first fell in love. She was always there, reliable as her smile always gorgeous. I do remember thinking she was beautiful when I was young. She always seemed happy and joyful. It goes without saying that I learned very early in my life, pre- puberty, that I was hetersexual because of her..and Stephaine Powers. Remember her? Hart to Hart. God I loved Stephaine. I couldn't wait to grow up and share baths with somebody beautiful like her just like she did with Robert Wagner. It wasn't even sexual, it was pure and simple puppy love. Innocent as love often is. And Whitney was without a doubt another of my puppies.
Thank you Whitney, not just for your music, which to a great extent is insignificant here as I wasn't a true fan but for reminding me that everybody living during my life has a role in it whether immediate or in the background. That is why I always remember my parents sighing when they would hear of a famous singer or actor dying; similar to this, it wasn't because they knew him or her or even liked him or her but it was because such persons were of 'their time.'
Whitney you were of my time. And it is that time in fact to which I mourn most. I realise that I mourn really, not your passing as I didn't know you, but instead I mourn the childish innocent memories of hoping for a 'like you' person as my first love, the possibilities of the loves to come, the memories I have as you belted out your finest as I was growing up. Going to primary school, then secondary school and so on. Yes Whitney, that lingering meloncholy that lasted for two days stems from a deep acknowledgement of how time and memory are anchored deep in our hearts and entrenched in our minds. And how without noticing it you played a significant part in my life. Thank you for the memories, although mine.
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