There is only one fan letter I have ever written. It was to Prince. He was young and not yet a popular culture phenomena and what I witnessed shook me. I turned to my friend with concern for this brilliant performer and said, “He is a human sacrific”. I don’t think many of my friends have ever understood this comment, so I shall now explain. Beyond his immense talent, I saw a muse, and he did what a true muse does: he became a magic mirror for each person so that each saw themselves in him. He completely surrendered himself and opened up, giving absolutely everything that was his to give and it made us see ourselves. It was beautiful and scary, as the mirror of Prince made me want to protect him, to sit him down and explain what he must do to survive. Of course, I was merely seeing myself in that mirror, and my own vunerability as an autistic performer. When I was young and being fast-tracked to Hollywood, the word “vunerability” was commonly used to describe me, with comparisons to Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland. And all I could think was that they did not fair very well in life, and that following in their footsteps may not be the best plan. When one is wide open, lacking what is known as a “fourth wall”, that division between performer and audience, one cannot help but be a muse and a sacrifice. And I knew I would not survive it, at least not for long. So I walked away from performing, over and over, shunning opportunities. But then I would be in some sort of bind, and unable to make a living otherwise, so I would raise my hand and say “Here I am”, and become the public me. It always worked, but would spend me, and take everything, for I could give no less, and the ever-hungry public would always want more. And how does one give more than all? And how does one survive such a thing? No, I would not, could not, this much I knew, and would walk away again, until I needed it again. I would make prayerful barter deals, not with the devil, but with the Godhead of my belief, saying, “If you please get me out of this present mess, I will go back on stage”, and then I would have to make good my promise, at least for a while. I am, without ego or artifice, a born muse and I must muse. I know this may read a conceit, but I freely admit my talent is small. I also admit I adore every moment, it in the moment, of my time on stage, and hate how it spends me so. Is it any wonder I would want to write to Prince, to explain what I saw in his magic mirror? I never became a great fan if his genre of music or trite film, but I was proud of how he survived as long as he did, for, like so many, he was privately me, my muse, my friend.
The last time I made a spiritual deal I promised to keep performing and not walk away until I had nothing more to offer. I assumed this meant I was surrendering to the inevitable fate of being a human sacrifice. Instead, I was blessed with a finding my sweetest of husbands, my equal on stage, but with the savvy and wisdom to somehow keep us in the range and freedom of being able to make a career out of our talent while enjoying a very private, sweet, life. I always felt I must to make a choice between giving all to the public or to just one person. I find it unbelievable that I have been able to do both. I am still a muse, for I cannot help that, but with Doc as my protective wall. And I am his. This is the Happily Ever After I could not have imagined. So, with a kiss and with doves, good night, sweet Prince. I shall keep the afterparty going in my little way, as long as is mine to do, and think of you often. You gave all.