Five years ago on this day a man who was and remains special to me exited this world. It was the ultimate shock, even though I had dreamt of just those circumstances, him dying suddenly, more times than I dare to admit now. Those dreams would inevitably lead to me crying in my sleep and shaking myself awake. Then I would check the news to make sure he was still alive, and he was, so I sighed in relief. Until five years ago, when he wasn’t.
And I cried then too, heaving sobs that shook my frame and awakened me in other ways. You see, he died because he was in massive pain, both physical and emotional. He just wanted to ease that pain, and he went too far. His doctor let him go too far because he was who he was, and because he had a special series of shows coming up that he wanted to be prepared for, a series of shows that never happened instead.
I sat in my bedroom with wet eyes for a solid week afterwards, leaving only to work. Those days were warm ones, though, because I wasn’t just mourning. I was remembering, and I was feeling. That’s one thing he always did for me (and still does). He makes me feel these deep emotions that I didn’t think were possible. And I don’t expect anyone else to understand, all those poseurs who sat vigil by the shrine that sprang up overnight, all those sudden fans who declared their devotion when just the week before they were demeaning him.
Michael was always, for me, more than a phenomenon, more than an enigma, more than a fantastic dream. Michael was always a part of my soul, and he still is, five years after his death. I think back to that dark time, and what brought me out of it was always Michael. Forever Michael. I sat there in my bedroom and listened to his music nonstop, from Invincible, to Bad, to Dangerous, to Thriller, to Blood on the Dance Floor, to HIStory, to Off the Wall, to every single one of his young albums, and the records with his brothers. I saturated myself with Michael because as he always has been for me, he was the salve for my ills.
Five years later he is as present to me as he ever was, his music speaks volumes to me and to others about me. Michael and I always had a kindred spirit, and I celebrate that now and always. I don’t expect anyone else to truly understand, and that’s okay, because just as it has always been me and Michael, it will always be me and Michael. Today I am listening to XScape, the latest posthumous album from the legend himself, and I am inspired all over again.
I just keep telling myself that he’s no longer in pain, that his time had come earlier than I expected, but right when it should have, the same way it will happen with me, right when it should it will happen. I just hope I inspire something in others the way he inspires me still.
Forever Michael.
Sam
I still remember exactly where I was when I found out, sitting in my rocking chair with the TV on mute, trying to make sense of something that made absolutely no sense. In a coma. No chance of coming out of it. Dead. Brain dead. Officially dead. Those words scrolled across the bottom of the screen, interspersed with “The King of Pop,” “Series of dates,” “Los Angeles,” and “coroner’s office.” And I sat there as mute as the television set, with tears brimming in my eyes that just wouldn’t come. Not then. It was too fresh, too unreal to be real.
showing. Over the next four years, he was scrutinized more than any other swimmer ever had been, and he was judged on his times and his showings at subsequent world events. Indeed, he came under criticism for his training regimen, which had admittedly slacked off considerably since Beijing. And it all came to a head in London at last year’s Olympic Games. And of course he didn’t get all golds in London. He didn’t even medal in all of his events, but the smile on his face at the end was so much bigger than we had seen in Beijing. Because he was satisfied with his showing, based on how hard (or little) he knew he had trained. He even said before the games that his goal was just to do the best he could, and things would happen as they would. He still won more hardware than any other mens’ swimmer. But, he will always be judged by those eight golds, no matter what else happens in his life.
On the reverse side, absolutely nothing was expected of Seattle grunge band Nirvana, who had very recently been an after-thought on indie record label Sub-Pop. Interestingly enough, the fact that Kurt Cobain blew out his voice while recording a song that would make it into the final album gave them the chance to sign with a major label, Geffen Records. When ‘Nevermind’ was released, it debuted at #144 on the US Billboard Charts.Yet, on the surprising strength of its first single, ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’, the album blew away all expectations, eventually replacing Michael Jackson’s ‘Dangerous’ as the #1 album in January of 1992. The glory of ‘Nevermind’ wasn’t its punk leanings, nor was it its humble beginnings. The ultimate glory of ‘Nevermind’ was that it channeled the angst of young people in the early-90s more so than any album had ever done before for any prior generation. Kurt Cobain’s intense pain transferred to the band’s music was addictive to people feeling that same pain. Eventually, ‘Nevermind’ went on to outsell both of the previously more-acclaimed artists’ records, with a current tally of 30 million copies sold worldwide.