Jill Bolte Taylor's Stroke of Insight

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Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Princess Leia's Celebrity Ball

Princess Leia died today. May the Force be with her, and with us all.

Prince, Sharon Jones, Leonard Cohen and Alan Rickman await the Princess in a cosmic room. A place without walls nor ceiling nor floor except the stage that sits at its center, lit by twin alien moons. They make an unlikely band, but things have shifted post-mortem, and karma breathes and beats through every timeless moment here. Cohen’s eyes as always are dark, ageless, inscrutable, hidden by the brim of his hat; he is about to step to the mic. But in this incarnation he is a young black woman, with wild plaited hair streaming past his spaghetti-strapped shoulders. His gown is of deepest funereal black.

Young Prince is on bass, the sleeves of his t-shirt brushed with stardust. He has just come in from a flight through the Swan Nebula, and light clings to him leaving a faint tail as from a comet. He never appears without a pair of black wings, one of which always hides his face. In life he was a dazzling dancer toying with the lines between flesh and fantasy; here in the In-Between he is a shy boy, beautiful and strangely birdlike, praised in whispers too soft for him to hear.

Jones is the newest of the group; she’s still wearing a red sequined gown, is shoeless and appears somewhat dazed. But ever the performer, she dances a little jig and smiles a smile that reflects the rays of the two moons. She will be on the alto-sax tonight, for stellar jazz is the only true cosmic response to the entrance of the Princess.

Lastly let the audience turn its attention to Rickman who is, of course, master of the most complex set of rhythm instruments ever seen this side of Death’s door. He sits a high leather-backed stool amid skin and steel and bowl-shaped devices that squat and tower and hover all around him. He handles sticks and brushes wizard-like, scowling, his flowing white tresses bound in a ponytail that cascades down his back and blends with his white ruby-studded gown.

A hush has rested over this crowd for what seems like, and probably is, millennia. There is no celebrity seating at this event, but strangely, no noses are out of joint. George Michael came too late to get a good spot, and so has wandered in at the very last minute to see that kindly Florence Henderson has saved him a seat. Gene Wilder is, of course, front and center, his eyes lit up like twin stars (“I’m simply dying of anticipation,” he jokes darkly to Edward Albee, who is sitting next to him and totally gets it). Wilder has carried a torch for the Princess for years, but then who has not? A few rows back, Muhammad Ali, here seen as a small white girl, is weeping tears of joy. Elie Wiesel, seated next to him and radiant as a very, very old and lovely woman, offers him a tissue with a brow arched in gentle irony.

Strangely, or perhaps not, Kenny Baker is incarnate as R2-D2; he is seated next to Anton Yelchin, which makes the both of them feel they must have had something very great indeed in common at one time, if only they could remember. Instead they amuse themselves with opening tiny holes in the space-time continuum, throwing Ali’s wet tissues into them, and then closing them again.

Now you can hear them: little whispers, gasps of awe, rushing throughout the vast, nay endless, audience: “The architect! The architect has arrived!” And indeed someone is moving forward through the gathered souls. He is the builder of this auditorium, the one who dreamed this party up, perhaps not the original founder of the idea, no, but the one who made this particular incarnation of the idea, possible. He is The One Who Came Before. A swift patter of clapping arises; everyone is on their feet as David Bowie approaches the stage.

And he is a sight to behold, this Star Man. His incarnation is a real stunner. On one side, as he approaches, he is a glorious sunrise; on the other, the most heartbreaking of sunsets. When he turns his face one way, it is the face of a gorgeous woman; and the other way, a smooth-jawed, handsome man. At some angles his skin appears black as the cosmic sky; and at others, white as an alien moon. Music flows from him wherever he goes, emanating from his hands, his eyes, his smile. He arrives at the stage and bows deeply to the audience, raising his hands for silence. And it is silent.

“It is nearly time,” he says. And everyone can feel that this is so. What has been, on this planet, a terrible, loss-filled year, is in this place a gathering of forces, nay, of The Force. And now the moment has arrived. Indeed it has always been arriving, is arrived, will arrive, will have arrived. There is no need for talk that tries to define time; there is no need for talk at all, anymore. The assembled souls are beginning to learn this now. It is good to stop, isn’t it, being impressed with how much time one spent in a different plane, doing and achieving and accomplishing this or that, or what you were in that incarnation. It is good to drop one’s focus on events and look instead at what is happening Now.

And Now, we note that music has begun to play—or was it always thus? Rickman is brushing softly on the steel, and Jones is playing one sweet, gorgeous note as if she has always been playing it. Prince’s fingers are walking along the bass, and Cohen—oh, Cohen! That voice, growling deep and low, you can’t mistake it.

But wait, what is happening? Bowie is looking off to stage left, out into the vast blackness of the cosmos. The music swells and begins to break, a syncopated rhythm, and Bowie raises one hand as if greeting an old friend. For that is what she is, and what they all are. What we all are. A collective breath is drawn by a billion stars, Inhale, Exhale.

Her arrival is sudden as a comet arcing across the night sky: no fanfare, no warning. Only a soft sound as of fabric tearing: there is a hole in the cosmos where time used to be. Here. She is here. A single beam of light graces the stage. There isn’t a dry eye anywhere. Welcome, Princess. Welcome.


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