In her cosmology, Bozling was an alien who lived on another planet.
Kathy was my best friend. Bozling, she said, communicated with her telepathically. One fall night, the leaves still magenta under the stars, she said, crying: “Here’s a tear because Bozling’s not here.” Bozling said, through Kathy, that he had the ability to see our past lives, or akashic records, which are a compendium of everything that has ever happened or will happen on earth. Apparently, in past lives, I’d been a gypsy, a water carrier, and a poet.
It was the late 1970s, the days of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars. Bowie was more than just a rock musician: he was our high priest, and we dressed accordingly. I had a platinum buzz cut and wore silver platform shoes along with men’s neckties and suits. Kathy draped herself in long silk scarves, and painted the moon and the stars in acrylics and glitter on her jeans. We were 16, and perfectly matched.
Kathy didn’t seem sick then. I thought she was plugged in to a higher realm.
I liked the idea, metaphorically, of an interplanetary being. The whole star man ethos was definitely in the air for us. I was reading Edgar Cayce, the American mystic, at the time, and my boyfriend was practicing to see if he could astral project in his sleep at night. I wrote poetry about Bozling, and Kathy sketched pictures of him; a spaceman with antenna, alone, on a cold planet, not unlike the hero in Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince.
Read the whole essay on schizophrenia here.