So many gifts…gone too soon.

It’s not easy being green, Kermit said.  But something about our purple friend was very Zen.

Heartbroken over Denise  Matthews, somebody asked.  It was the Illuminati and chemtrails, somebody else said.  Addicts will be addicts.  We’re addicted to addicts, said another.  Maybe it’s just too lonely at the top.

People always talk about Prince being a loner as though it was a weird or bad thing.  Creative geniuses can’t by nature waste a lot of time with the likes of ordinary people who simply rise to work for someone else’s passion.  Creative types must by, necessity, be alone.  It’s how all the incredible work we marvel about gets done. The lone way is the only way.

Numb.  I have questions, too.  But not the words or energy to ask.  After Natalie Cole, after Vanity, after David Bowie, death’s greed should have been satiated…at least for a time.

1:35 p.m., 4/21/16, over a can of Campbell’s soup, Beef Pot Roast, rereading Toni Morrison’s Sula, the part about lonely Shadrack’s final National Suicide Day, and how his heart was no longer in it, how he wanted to stay with the purple and white belt, how the people this time, looking at death in the sunshine and not being afraid, laughing and dancing, formed a pied piper’s band behind him…then by text, “Prince is dead.”

Still.  Quiet.  I didn’t feel anything.  “Prince is dead.”  I just stared at the text.

I wanted to be more eloquent than this.  I wanted to write something phenomenal.  But for some reason, my glorious purple prose won’t flow.  So, I will say this:

Thank you.


If you ever wonder what His Purple Badness was thinking. It was probably that…and then some.

Thank you, Prince, for sharing your genius.  Your music.  Thank you for moving us with your instruments…your guitar…especially your body.  Who could look and move like you?  Thank you for every flash of those provocative eyes.  Thank you for the Louis the 16th fashions, the clothes seeming to be made from fancy bed threads.  For the decadence.  Thank you for putting glitter in your hair and your beard.  Thank you for wearing your Afro with pride…from beginning to end.  Thank you for your shy/coy/devilish/mannish smile and your sense of humor.  Thank you for wearing “slave” on your face and nothing on your ass but ass-less chaps??!!  Thank you for having the courage to evolve when we wouldn’t let you; thank you for forgiving us for requesting songs that sent you back to carnal places you no longer wanted to be.

Thank you for Morris Day & The TimePurple Rain. Appolonia’s apples.  Vanity Wendy & Lisa.  Our favorite soul sister Sheila E.  Tamar.  3rdEyeBlind.  Paisley Park.  The New Power Generation.  The rebirth of Tevin Campbell, whose feelings, we hope after all this time, are no longer hurt by some misunderstanding during the course of your friendship.

Thank you for the high notes and the low notes.  For crying like a dove.  For the voice that was deep and scary and surprising like something tucked underneath the stairs but coming up from the basement.  Thank you for giving us someone to adore without all the controversy and for being man enough to wear the lace and the ruffles, the diamonds and the pearls.  Thank you for the album and magazine covers, the coolest fan memorabilia, and that funky unspeakable symbol.

Thank you for being above social media.  Thank you for the allure, for keeping it private, for keeping the mystique.  For saying little and producing much.  For having the maturity to know that familiarity breeds contempt and understanding the importance of never wearing out your welcome….


…And God said, “Why don’t I wrap this purple rain up in a bow?”

And, like a single rainbow over a Paisley Park, thank you for making us believe in God once more and for reminding us that true gifts and all the purple magic surrounding them emanate from Him.

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