Inner Michael

It’s the eve of the anniversary of Michael’s passing. It’s unusually quiet and I am quiet inside. I was invited to drum circle tonight with my Oneida friend. We sat in the woods listening to the sound of the train, something I love; we watched the moon rise, another thing I love. I drummed for Michael; I drummed for Michael’s fans; I drummed for Michael’s family, for Michael’s babies; I drummed for the world; and I drummed for healing. To Native people, the sound of the drum carries prayers. I prayed a lot tonight.

I had some renegade thoughts and I made some random decisions:

I have decided that I love the way Michael’s face kept changing. If I ever entertained the thought that it was strange, I realize that was conditioning from the opinions of others. Michael changed his looks all the time surgery or no, and I’ve decided I love that about him. As an artist, I recognize that Michael knew what looked good, and what would get a response. He was photographed enough to know just how to hold his mouth, how far to open his eyes, which angle was best, where the light source should be and how much. Michael’s poses were as orchestrated as the rest of his art. I like that intensity.

Short hair, long hair, Jheri curls, straight and silky, or pulled back on stage, they were all distinct looks and I don’t think there was anything casually decided about any of those styles. I’ve decided I like them all.

Michael’s face was very much a part of his art. I like all of Michael’s faces. I like the mocha ones and the lighter ones and the alabaster ones where the pigment was gone; in those he looks ethereal. I’ve decided too, that I was startled sometimes by how much his face appeared to change. It seemed that he wore a face for the occasion somewhat like people decide what outfit to wear for an occasion. I’ve decided that all of them are interesting. With his face, Michael knew how to speak without words. As much as I like the idea of words, I like the idea of speaking with no words. Of speaking with your face. I find it avant garde.

I suppose that would appeal to a shaman because it’s the high art of shapeshifting. I think Michael took pains with his face and his makeup with always a flair for the theatrical. But there is a little part of me that thinks Michael knew some kind of magic that he used in constructing his look du jour. It wasn’t all makeup; I’ve decided he was actually shapeshifting his face. Shamans do that you know. If you sit with them and stare at their face it changes in front of your eyes and becomes another, sometimes even animal others. I’ve decided it wasn’t all theatre.

—–

I stopped in the drug store tonight for some mosquito spray for the woods and I saw a tabloid headline that blared in huge letters “MICHAEL JACKSON’S BODY MISSING.” And I’ve decided that when humanity doesn’t come from heart it can be pretty pathetic. You see, that’s the problem. We don’t live in our hearts. We live in our heads thinking instead of feeling or we live in our groins thinking only one thing and thinking everyone else is thinking it too. I think the bright ones among us don’t think from the waist down and we don’t feel from the neck up. And we certainly don’t use the groin area as our reference point for everything. So I’ve decided that tabloids are made by neck up people for the waist down people. And by and for the people who think with their groin. Get the point? Good; let’s dance.

—–

I’ve decided I don’t like death much. It’s not somewhere we should be spending our time. I don’t like it much and I’ve decided I don’t think it’s fair. In fact, I think it was a really bad idea and God should be questioned on this one. He certainly has had some better ideas. This one, I think is shameful. This one frightens people, separates those who love each other, takes people in the middle of something they’d rather finish, ends careers early, separates families, interferes with projects, interrupts genius, causes people to hurt unreasonably, and brings untold grief into the world. I think death should go back to the drawing board.

Or maybe there should be different rules for death like for example, those who are really good people and who are beloved by many should get to stay longer. I think death should be related to a performance based life. The kinder you treat other people, the more you do for others, the more you do for the world and the more you love and are beloved, the longer you should live. Maybe there should be a clause about youthing and aging. If you’re a poor excuse for a human, you should age normally. But if you are a human sweetheart, maybe the aging clock should run backwards for a bit. I wonder if that would be incentive enough.

In that case, there wouldn’t be any tabloids and Michael would still be with us.

—–

I have been thinking about how Michael was the mirror for a world without heart. There are those people who occasionally come along to reflect ourselves to us. God sends them to Earth every once in awhile. Their lives are not easy. Their light shames the darkness and that makes them a target. I have learned so much in my journey with Michael. I have learned to appreciate the man he was and how he changed the world. It’s going to turn out that he is everywhere hiding in plain sight in our culture. 

Michael Jackson had a lot of heart. Ironic that it was lack of heart that took him from us. As a culture, a race, a planet, we really do need to learn to live from the space of an open heart.

A world without heart truly was heartless in its treatment of Michael. A world without soul didn’t appreciate, and many, many people do not know his soul still today. In fact, many took pieces of his soul and we really are in the business of retrieving it for him. It is the least we can do for we did nothing to deserve him. While I may have been acquainted with Michael Jackson from the beginning of his becoming Michael, I didn’t know Michael Jackson until he died. I feel cheated. I feel sad. I feel angry. And in some ways I feel relieved for him. How can you be the most famous man in the world and be the loneliest? It happens when there is not enough heart. He is now carried tenderly and held in trust by another with great heart.

La Chapelle

Now for some other people’s random thoughts…

COMEBACK, GOING HOME
by Gerri Stone (c) 2010

Michael could have done that comeback tour.

And I have no doubt it would’ve been
an orgy of song, sounds, dance, bright lights.
Exciting, dazzling, joyful.

But there was always the damn press
who, armed with scissors and
a knack for distortion,
could’ve created their own
image of the comeback tour.

And perfectly groomed anchors
with well-practiced smirks
would look into the camera and say:

Michael Jackson, King of Pop, Fizzles
King of Pop Dethroned
Michael Jackson comeback? Or Go Home?

And for extra effect, the phrases would
be printed in large white letters
streaming across the bottom of the screen.

So Michael, who kept telling
everyone who’d listen that he
hated touring, decided it was better
to check in with God and ask if he could
just cash out a little early
so he could do the comeback HIS WAY.

Then everyone could hear the music
he’d always wanted to play- raw, unedited.

Sexuality now unrestrained
could be pulsing so strong
a million babies
a million poems
a million songs
would be conceived every night.

—–

And another wonderful idea…

Tribute to Michael Jackson; Nightshift by the Commodores