Michael Jackson: This is it [Not+![[[[[

                                                                                                                                                              Some genius, Michael Jackson, I wrote in my Phyrrhic Dance journal later, where I secreted all my confessions I could not share with any one. Complex and polemic, indeed he was. And what he has is an original talent: something that can’t be taught or learned. Michael is a modern-day counterpart to Astaire and Gila…no one could do it better. It was impossible not see in his supple, smooth and lithe dancing (a light and graceful spin on both foot, braking and tapping) to those of Fred Astaire’s and Gene Kelly’s, and in his whimsical mode of dressing (a white T-shirt and black slacks and black shoes, white plaster around his fingers) to those of Bruce Lee’s in his first debut movie The Big Boss, where Bruce Lee wears a black slacks, black shoes and white socks, a white T-shirt with a white plaster wrapped around his forefinger; and the influence of his light and graceful-flash-like-sweeping, quick and smooth and phantasmagoric dancing mirrors with that of Bruce Lee’s sudden, darting and swift kicks and fist strikes.


Michael’s genius was his uncanny ability to adapt all styles of art and make them his own. He is supremely gifted singer, a composer and perhaps the greatest entertainer ever to live and Michael himself had a unique voice yet mesmerizing. An unflagging self-discipline and rigorous self-criticism complement his natural talents and lifelong training.

Michael Jackson made a dynamic come back in 1995 with his HIStory album which has a spellbind charm and an air of daring sincerity—an autobiographical and heartfelt work. He is an exceptionally accomplished and ingenious songwriter. From the idyllic, commending respect, photo of him on the cover of the album (dressed like a futuristic Roman centurion or a ruler, or a prince; and a practically an invisible, genial smile which gives the impression of a stoic equanimity—a smile that viewed him with dignity and grandeur) and a majestic pose, on the back cover, (viewed from behind on the stage, looking over his shoulder at the spectators like a statue on a pedestal which shows him from below in order to emphasize his sublime grandeur and regal dignity) one becomes aware his vindictive triumphant return after an act of great fortitude; the album is rhythmic but vehement and Michael’s mellifluous voice whips up like a ferocious, plaintive wail and so piquant that it’s hard to absorb the album on a first listening.

It opens with Scream and They don’t care about us (my vote for the best video and dance song and potent lyrics of the ‘90s…at his harrowing best, I should say) both written and composed by Michael Jackson. Scream’s a scintillating duet with Janet Jackson

Michael is one of the greatest geniuses that exists and undoubtedly wants perfection and still seeking a way to go into the inmost recesses of pure art to find the source from where all originality springs. When I listen to his music, I’m awestruck that such trivial voice should muse and thunder in a lovely squeal and wail in an abstruse words.

And one of the primary reason I had been attracted to his persona was that we both wanted to be ourselves and alienated—engaged in a search for self. We could be serious and funny, vulnerable and emotionally strong.

I hate death it is real
I'm tired of losing the ones I Love
I never thought I'd feel so pain after a taken life
Best of Part of you dies as you live
Now, I know for sure death is real
I hate death, it is real


I'm tired of losing the ones I Love
I never thought I'd feel so much pain after a taken life

Best part of you dies as you live

Now, I know for sure death is real

Michael is a person much beloved:

A sweet and gentle spirit, inward bound.

Viewing Michael’s agonies uncovered,

Immolations fifty years have smothered,

Doesn't help one know why he has died

Everything I’ve cherished now is lost

My mama left me first

I felt as though a dam within me's burst

Then Dad a person whom I admired most

I hate death, it is real

I'm shut, and neither can hear nor feel

Waiting for a wound that will never heel

For drained up tears that won’t snivel

I’m tired missing the gone

I’m tired listening to the dead’s song

This is it

Nothing left to mourn

This I cannot do alone, and yet it is real

With the love you left with me I will heal