BY LISA MARGUERITE MORA Poverty, amorphous mishmash of images tangled in my brain, synapses that over-fire, dendrites of my nervous system. Why would I…
I was a child living with an unfathomable free spirit mother and was uncomfortable with Bowie’s colourful strangeness. Part elegant alien, part harlequin he looked like something out of a renaissance Alice in Wonderland court.