Friday, June 26, 2009

MICHAEL JACKSON THE PHANTOM OF OUR AGE

Michael Joseph Jackson
The Ultimate Entertainer
1958-2009
"Talent, grace, professionalism and dedication"
Quincy Jones on the passing of his 'little brother' Michael Jackson who died on June 25th 2009.
~~~~~~~~~
I have been unsuccessfully trying for more than a week,to complete this blog post in tribute to Michael Jackson but every time I sit to write I am overwhelmed by grief and a poignant sense of personal loss.

Like many people of my age, Michael Jackson' was a musical genius who through no fault of his n became an outcast, forced by the mockery of conformist to languish in society's shadows. However in spite of all the negativity around him he was still able impact in a phenomenal way every facet of the international entertainment industry. He loved what he did and wanted to be the best. No limitations!

Gaston La Roux's iconic character Erik,The Phantom of the Opera', was ridiculed and ostracized by society, forced to create a world of his own in the catacombs of Paris. Andrew Lloyd Webber in his adaptation, converted the villianous Erik into a lonely heartsick man scared by society's rejection, who like Jackson found his solace and redemption in his music and his need to be loved by persons whom he loved regardless of what society felt.

Jackson's
idiosyncrasies and exterior appearance were given, and might I add here, are STILL being given, more prominence in the media and in some people's memory, than his genius and knowledge of the musical art form. We laughed and ridiculed him into the shadows, relegated him to a life of aloneness and a strange existence.

Now his larger than life image will be for many people, but especially for African Americans who grew up in the 70's and 80's, a testament of what could be achieved when your eyes are kept on the prize and when excellence is fought for, even in a world dominated by subtle racial prejudices and purposely placed hurdles of envy and greed.

At a time when achievement and success were measured and even paralleled by the colour, of your skin, when arbitrarily the rules were changed to make the challenge for the 'non-Caucasian' a little more impossible, Michael Jackson steadily eroded the foundations of bigotry, carefully maneuvered opportunists and deftly defied the parasitic oligarchy to repeatedly and triumphantly flaunt his victory flag, not on a slippery slope, as many had hoped, but on the summit for all to see.

At the entertainer's memorial service Reverend Al Sharpton in a one statement encapsulated the hurt many of us felt for so long, for this man.Sharpton directly addressed Jackson's three children and plainly said "Your daddy wasn't strange, it was strange what he had to deal with."

Sharpton knew that for 44 of his fifty years on this earth Michael Jackson
had to deal with parasites who forced him to wear masks, who shackled him to an images and pushed him into the crevices of life reserved for society's vermin by denying him, during his lifetime the freedom to love unconditionally those whom he chose to, simply because it did not conform to their perceptions. Who even now continue under the spurious banner of headline news and talk shows, to compound their narrow mindedness with disgusting allegations and malicious conjecture.

In his lifetime Michael Jackson pleaded with us to heal this world. He knew what humans were really meant to be. Not in the shadow and light of black or white but in the infinity of a rainbow whose colours span the world.

Michael Jackson
looked for the human in each of us and very often encountered animals, especially in those 'humans' who hunted him daily under the banner of journalism. The irony of his life is, in animals he found the human spirit that was lacking in his fellow human beings.

His gentle, loving, giving, imitable style, epitomized the tangibility of a dream that conquered the world.

His passing at the tender age of 50 should jolt us over the threshold of our personal inertia and into an awakening of our individual responsibility to each other, that mandate we have to enrich the quality of life for everyone with whom we interact while we are here on earth.

Now that he has crossed the threshold into that 'place' where there is no black or white, no rich or poor, no celebrity or caste; where true judgment is meted out by that Being who formed him in His own image and likeness, Michael Jackson is finally 'home'.

Home because he knows, someday his detractors will have their moment at that same judgment hall and he'll be there smiling with his angelic boyish smile watching, listening, tapping his feet to a beat and hoping that there are NO skeletons in their closet and their account to the Master Steward will be as fulfilled as his.

Life is crazy and as have witnessed many times those who malign and accuse people without proof always get trapped in devices of their own making.

The Uninhibited Diplomat

No comments:

Blog Archive

NEW RELEASES:

LE NOIREAU- Prologue

There was chaos in Scotland Bay Village. Everywhere, everyone was busy; packing, unpacking, leaving burnt bare lands for the Americans.

Away from the noises and confusion the aquamarine Caribbean waves played a soft calypso rhythm, strumming, rippling, kissing bare toes, feet and ankles dug deep into the cold, clammy sand.

The air was laden, ready, thick with the rancid scent of seaweed, salt and smoke carried in the spray; pushed by angry, crashing, foaming waves against a stony coastline up and around the Bay’s end.

She was misted; creating an eerie appearance as she sat back hunched on a fallen tree trunk embedded in the sand; knees tucked under the wide folds of her skirt. Damp grainy sand and the sea waters rushed up; bubbling in between her fingers and feet. Gently she rested her chin on her knees and looked out at the fading horizon, watching the day in its brilliance and splendor of death at sunset. The fiery gold of the sun’s rays; fingering, shimmering on the aquamarine canopy of the sea, dazzling blinding and ever so slowly, churning to taunting, tangerine orange and saffron reds; cascading into purple, violets and royal blue of evening time with ballet like precision. And later as stars peeping first play hide and seek with the naked eye, streaks of charcoal gray strut into midnight black, shadowing the earth into illusions of peace-fullness, as twinkling jewels finally sparkle in the phosphorescent gleam of a splendid Caribbean moonlight.

The gulf steamer disregarding war time surveillance orders; tugged by, alerting Astral Le Noireau to the lateness of the hour. She sighed lifted tiny hands from the sand and stared as the grains quietly trickled back into their places on the seemingly un-rumpled shore. The signal light of the streamer as it passed by and answering flashed from the lighthouse, momentarily blinded her as she turned huge tear filled almond shaped golden eyes up and then out, taking in the silver-ness of the long familiar Scotland Bay coastline, now bathed in the beauty of a full Caribbean moonlight. The gentle breeze blew her blue black hair into her eyes and face, as one hand rose gracefully to whip the unruly strands back into place. Silently a figure standing in the shadows of a coconut palm tree observed her.

Astral stood crying silently, watching the village she so love fade into the night shadows as the steamer padded laboriously out into the first Boca. Every inch further way from Scotland Bay felt like a fist clenching around her lung, stifling her, killing her. She stood rooted until Chateau le Noireau was no longer visible as they rounded the bend at Delgada Point. Until tears of frustration overwhelmed her and she crumbled to the seat on the almost empty steamer. Astral Le Noireau and her precious possession were some of the last things to evacuate from her village.

The Marines had put her on the ferry.

(c) 2006 Cecly Ann Mitchell


I Write Like

I write like
Anne Rice

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

What Type of Writer Am I?

Type -- J.D. Salinger

You are quite possibly one of the greatest creative minds of your generation... not that you want anyone to know, of course. Not only have you been in hiding for several decades, you refuse to publish any of your recent work. You would very likely be a perennial Pulitzer Prize candidate, but your writing sits in a de-humidified bank vault in your humble New Hampshire ranch, awaiting the day that your next-of-kin decides to make a few hundred million dollars. Why the secrecy? Afraid people will read too much into your repeated affairs with barely-of-age girls? Afraid people will begin to see you in every single one of your maladjusted, unstable characters?

See what type of Writer you are.Take the quiz @

http://roflquiz.com/r/73829/