Be Close At Hand

Okay everyone, I'll be totally honest. This is a blog. (So put your fucking hands up!) Let's play "tell the truth".

Seriously, the real reason I'm upset is because I finished
Dancing with Demons, the brilliant Dusty Springfield biography, on Friday. It totally depressed me. Being raised in what's described as a dysfunctional house, I get. Her meteoric rise to stardom seemed kind of easy. I mean, that voice, right? I sort of hate that the book pairs extreme talent with extreme suffering, but I guess that's how it goes in real life. Her "quirky" habit of smashing china backstage before a show is widely known. Everyone thought it was hilarious. What I didn't know (and still wish I didn't know) what that Dusty was a cutter her entire adult life. She had been addicted to, like, everything, and talked constantly about suicide. Her personal life was extremely difficult, she didn't trust anyone. Ever. Eventually, after years out of the spotlight and having put in some quality time hating herself and living on foodstamps, she managed a comeback. Totally inexplicably. For a queer woman in her 50s (who, I'm sorry, totally reads as queer, right? I mean COME ON) to get top 40 success again is pretty amazing. Dusty gets her Shit Back Together. Goes to AA forever. Smokes a lot of cigarettes and lives with her cats and gets really aggressive cancer and dies.

I keep wanting to empathize with her. Blonde and Blind. I'm neither of those things and I'm not as talented. But it's a wonder that even someone who doesn't like themselves almost at all can accomplish.

Full-On Bummer.

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