The life and death of a Thriller

Today, we were all reminded that super stars are destined to the same fate as the rest of us humans. They are treated in life as superior, above, and beyond--never left alone, always in the spotlight. Today, Michael Jackson's body was shrouded and transported under watchful, tear-filled eyes for the last time.

There was nothing lavish about his final departure. At the end, we are all the same. And soon, he will finally be left alone and left to his fate with God.

But, in life, Michael was superior, above, and beyond. His music defined a generation and influenced many that came after him. That music will not expire. In that sense, Michael will live on.

He was a king who walked the moon and thrilled us all. His ability separated him from us but brought us together in applause and cheer. He was celestial and we were the astronomers. We and our children and their children will continue to scope him out with our telescopes. In that sense, Michael will always be a star.

In his later years, Michael came under scrutiny for different reasons. Instead of offering kudos, we pointed our fingers and wagged them in shame at him, accusing him of crimes and making fun of his appearance and naming him "Wacko Jacko." He was placed in the spotlight in the courtrooms and the Neverland ranch. Everything he did was analyzed and criticized. And when he attempted a comeback, we all scoffed and declared his day as done. His hysteria became our guilty pleasure--because when a king falls, he and we are reminded of his humanness, and he aligns with the rest of us, and it becomes our turn to raise our noses and dismiss him. In that sense, the sadness of Michael's later life will taint his legacy.

But we always wanted him to succeed. We wanted Michael--Jackson 5 Michael, "Thriller" Michael--to come back. We wanted his skin color back. We wanted his nose back. We wanted the image of the young man with the white glove and matching socks and the crotch-grab and the "owwwwwww" back. We were frightened and saddened by the surgical masks and the in-vitro kids and the forced clef in his chin. We loved Michael Jackson when he was a natural; we shunned him when he became artificial.

But we never denied him. And we remembered why today.

Today, he returned to a natural human state, and we fell in love with and in respect of him again. We listened to his songs with more enthusiasm than we've had for them in a long time--and we remembered our childhoods and the good ol' days, and we sang and smiled and belted out our "owwwwww"s.

Today, under a blanket and in a state that is the final destination all of us humans will eventually arrive at, you, Michael, became our super star again. And we are thrilled to have had you.

"May Allah be with you, Michael, always."--Jermaine Jackson

Trance

Out of my periphery I see my hands, resting on the keyboard cushion, fingers extended and grazing the keys of the board but not pressing anything. The edges of my hands and the letters on the keys become fuzzy and melt into each other--my eyes stare at this image, which becomes the gateway into my trance.

I am moved into another realm, where shapes are ever-transforming and objects are only defined by the boundaries of their colors and the pitches of their sounds. But as they dance, anything definitive about them is redefined.

I'm happily lost and choose not to use the bouncing beats to navigate my way. These are my stars and they make my universe-scape. And here I can forget and meditate and still think actively. I hear bass. I hear drums. I hear natural sounds.

And I hear his voice. Snippets of our conversation are woven into my musical muse. The shapeless beat bodies part, creating a path lit by visual memories of our discussion--I am in the Tooree living room, placed on the seat by the window. I am curled up and hugging my knees with one hand; the other hand gestures toward him as is necessary in Arabic conversation. "Shu3la" I repeat to him several times..."3al 2aleel, shu3la."

"N7abasna u sawayna u 7akayna u t3ibna"--I hear his echo. The recollection of this conversation is jarring against the liquid, soothing sounds of my trance. This debate cuts the notes like a machete to feathers. But both are organic, and both flow for hours (our discussion just a tick mark in the Palestinian conversation continuum). We, he and I, took the talk from the middle of the night to fajr. And right before the largest star in our universe emerged to tell us to stop and stare and mediate, I went to pray for solutions.

I only found more fixation.

I'm sucked out of that memory and back into the shapeless and sound-filled abyss that is my trance. My hands, still positioned on the keys of the keyboard, are coming back into focus.

I'm reawakening and realizing that I need to go back and continue the conversation.

Right to left

Almost 30 years of a left-to-right existance has been weakened by almost three weeks of a right-to-left life in Palestine.

I've seen and read Arabic for years; I was raised on it. But it is not the predominant language in my day-to-day life in the U.S., and so I've always looked at things from left to right. The Arabic sight standard is predominant here, and has apparently affected me in a tremendous way.

I automatically go right-to-left here. I caught myself today: "Why are the freaking pictures loading in reverse??!! UFFFFFFFFF!" Yes, even here, I'm stressed by freaking computers. The pictures were not uploaded backwards (according to U.S. standards of reading); my Arabic eyes were just viewing them that way.

?...degnahc sah esle tahw rednow I