michael, may you now be at peace: a reflection (no.24)
i was communicating with a friend of mine earlier, and she confirmed exactly what i was thinking: that it is STILL difficult to gather our thoughts. it's still a confusing time. we both thought the crying periods were over, but we've both encountered some type of trigger which could bring the tears on. for the both of us your transcendence is still difficult to take. she acknowledged that how she feels about you is not as intense as how i feel; but she still feels some immense amount of sadness.
inevitably, i still cannot see those three words without feeling some sort of sickness. is it possible to be in a 'denial' stage, just when it pertains to words, and not to the physical? i am still trying to make sense of this... i feel like i am getting closer and closer to what i really want to say to you- and then it slips away from me all over again. and i think to myself, WHY DIDN'T I WRITE IT DOWN?
because it wasn't yet meant to be. and if it truly needs to be heard you will hear it.
i am looking back at some things i wrote about you last year, in relation to the songs you sang, and these targeted words keep coming up; words that people were not using for you at the same rate they are today. words like 'counselor' and asking the question 'can michael simply be a kid- for ONCE?' and '...no matter what michael is singing there is always an element of sadness to it.' i actually wrote a booklet last year with little commentaries on your artistic career... but this is not the book i am struggling with, obviously.
i find it amazing that i became aquainted with you once again in october of 2007, and it only took me six months to 'see you as i do', as you so lovingly sang once.
in the six month gestational period of our aquaintance, you gave birth to a student. in learning about you i learned more about myself, and that acquaintance for me turned into a companionship (to the point where a friend opined you were the only relationship i'd had for two years)... because even though we didn't physically know each other, i knew you overstood.
i wrote in may of 2008 that i began to see you as an unorthodox 'peoples' poet'. you spent a majority of your life physically narrating the histories of our ancestors; i am not sure if we collectively saw you in that way, as we don't necessarily think of a child as taking on the role of a griot. traditionally we have neglected that children could be teachers and bearers of tradition. but i am sure when you stepped down into dakar when you were a child, the people of senegal recognized your gift. it is time we in the states recognize you as well. very few have told our stories in the way you did, and brought them to a global audience. you have presented us with a really rare gift.
i look at what i wrote a little over a year ago in context of all the things i am reading now (after your transcendence). and i struggle with all of it. i struggle because we still haven't figured out that ultimately, none of these words may be important. we will forever use these words to place value on you, and ourselves.
i think i use words, not only to make sense of what is going on (in a common sort of language) but also because it presents a potential to divert from a lot of pain. if i didn't write every day, where would i emotionally be, in relation to your transition?
it can be a very isolating world, when trying to explain things with words.
it's like, how can i actually say that i love you, when we have not met? it's easy, and i don't know how many times i have to keep saying it: all it takes is a little changeup on how we define love. you also just have to focus and remain quiet. and everything i've been writing each day may even seem like sets of rambling to someone else. and i will tell you the truth; my brain can not get quiet, with everything happening.
and how can i merge what i have already written about you, in a larger context?
i know the answer already, but i still have to ask, to see if you're listening.