His Gift

Michael Jackson was more to me than just another artist whose music I enjoyed. There was something about the man behind the music that moved me. To describe it challenges me as a writer. It's like Michael threaded his soul--that mysterious energy that survives even after death--into the sound-fabric of every song, every note, every lyric he sang. So when you hear his voice, that soul--so joyous and buoyant--becomes intertwined with yours, possessing you to dance, to yelp, to scream out. Doesn't matter what depth-trapped mood you were in moments before. Or, if it was a sad song--"She's Out of My Life", "With a Child's Heart"--the pain in that clear voice just swells and swells inside you, moving you to the shameless verge. His joy, his pain, had the distinction of being both unique and universal, and his voice was a panacea to those who listened. It was like magic: his ability to communicate beyond words, that extraordinary ability to emote, to channel, to heal those rifts inside you and make you feel...

When Michael Jackson sang, when he danced, the world was moved. And when he passed that summer day, it grieved--and everywhere his voice could be heard...

People wept as they danced. I did.

Michael had the singular power to pull people together from all walks of life and hold them in total rapture. He was a master class magician--not one who tricked, but one who made believers. I'm not a religious person, but when I see performance footage of Michael, there's something beyond the tethers of the mortal world about him. As soon as he gets on stage, it's like he finally shakes those tethers free, becomes pure energy, and just fucking soars--taking you high, high up there with him. And that energy, that aura, is almost palpable it's so powerful--like you could pluck air and pull out a solid thread of electricity...

He almost literally jump-starts you.

And I experience this watching bootleg footage of him on a 17-inch computer screen with my back hunched over. I can only imagine what it must have been like, to have been a speck in one of those sea-of-humanity crowds, and been exposed to that kind of energy. I would have probably been left feeling utterly raw, or high as a kite. Or both.

To call Michael Jackson the King of Pop is limiting--he was simply a supernova contained within a recognizable human shape that blinded and dazzled and lit up the world, and when he sang "rock with me..." we all rocked as one.

Thank you, Michael, for the joy, the music, and the healing. I'll never forget you.