Dearest Michael, child of rhythm, creator of classics, purveyor of funk, I salute you in your jaunt onto the vast dance floor of eternity.
I heard the news abroad, in Italy, where your legacy remains one of splendor rather than scandal and shame. “Michael Jackson is dead!” was the battle cry of an allegiant force, their armory bursting with surprise and remorse — for yours was the pop heard around the world, the vibrations that quaked its entirety. Yours was the sound that inspired a generation, my generation, to be conceived. Your fate, though met long past a brilliant prime, was justifiably felt.
I'm glad to see your revival in death. In the weeks after your passing, bars, cars and marketplaces trembled with your gifts; they still do. Your albums fled shelves and digital depots with stunning urgency. I suppose it’s only fitting for the finality of such a life, its duration so saturated in flare, to be wholly diluted.
Flare, indeed. The glove, the jackets, the skin, the ranch — all pieces in a puzzle of reckless eccentricity that would eventually lead to painful confrontations with the law, the media and your fans. Whether your arm found itself around a chimpanzee, Lisa Marie, a child star or a dangling infant, you clung to what was yours, absolutely yours, while the world tried to strip you of all possession and essence.
Sure, I joined in the ransacking of your character, hungry for the loot found in a good joke or harsh critique. For this I am sorry, Michael, because somewhere in the midst of “Billy Jean,” in its jarring, aural confrontation of intricacy and pop simplicity, its helpless teetering on the precipice of perfection, all your sins are forgotten. Somewhere in the midst of “Thriller,” you ironically become less the monster of recent headlines than a miracle of talent and charisma. Somewhere in “Man in the Mirror,” I forget what you looked like, what you became. Somewhere between that first drink and the last, when your falsetto suddenly pounces from the stereo to consume the room, to shake my bones into motion and my spirits toward delight, you become Michael Jackson, King of Pop —nothing less.
So here's to you, who more comfortably walked on the moon than endured our Earth. May you rest now, peacefully.
