Michael Jackson Should Live In The Heart Of Everyone

Michael Jackson Should Live In The Heart Of Everyone

© @aladreth antoinette brown - previously published



Michael Jackson should live in the heart of everyone. Yes. Like Jesus.

In a Greek tragedy I recall, Orpheus looks back for one final glance at the ghost of his lover.

I can't tell you how we met, but I can tell you that we slept together.

A day comes and goes and within it there are moments we clearly detail in our mind. As we age, receptors in our brain click quickly during the strangest times to remind us to remember a vivid colour, a street alley, a community involvement. There are different legacies. Sometimes we are the tragedy. Sometimes we are the buffoon. More than likely we succumb to some type of self-preservation by making ourselves in to a hero instead of a crazy person. How sad we cannot be honest. I want to be honest, however things flash in and out.   I can't remember every single detail.

I do remember the exact moment, the first thrust, when I cheated on everyone else in my life and I said in my head, "I can never go back." I cried in the bathtub that lonely night. Part of me was trying to hold on to the innocence I had before. Part of me was trying to keep this new and exciting life I was involved in.

I could not go back but I could not keep up the intensity. When you are touched by a genius, a beautiful soul, a true artist, there are no words to describe the feelings. There is a plant in the desert that only blooms once every 100 years. There are souls who pass through us who will never pass through us but once. They don't come around once a year or once in a lifetime. They come around but once.

I'm not sure too many young people will understand this, but as you age, you begin to see the old soul in yourself and others. Some folks go in to orbit and others burn up on the ground. Things happen to people. Things wear you down.

First off, everything goes fine. Your childhood is great. You get through high school without getting your ass kicked once. You might even graduate from college and then some medical issue takes over your life or your parents get sick and sort of insane and you have to witness their decline. People die. People get accused of things they didn't do. People get fucked over all around you and little by little it tears your skin off.

You judge from a different perspective when you get older. You either become a nasty old bitch or you realize if it were only public opinion that convicted you, we would all be in the hoosegow.

I have changed my mind a lot of times in the last two decades. I'm only adamant on a few things. One being there is a lot of grey. The eye can see sixteen different shades of grey.

There is much, much grey.

Now, in a one-two punch of catastrophic proportions, the earth groans with rude ass cunts, two real gang members, matriarch bones and knife cut dance moves.

Of course, this will involve a silly story. What else would you expect? There are not enough of the near billion stories of normalcy and charity. No. It's easier to speak of plastic, high speed car chases, lions, tigers and bears.

Three water tanks were on the right side of us. They provided water very high in nitrates to the town that was below us. We were on the top of the canyon, totally naked on a quilt, smack dab right in the middle of a deserted county road.

Helicopters were in the distance.

"Are they here for us?" I asked, worried about my exposed body.

"They belong to us," Not too truthfully he replied. They belonged to him.

Nothing belonged to me except a beautiful pair of earrings with my birthstone amethyst and diamonds. No doubt, they are still the most expensive item I have but I can't worship them in public. I can only be my sensitive self in private.

In our decrepit nakedness in the great outdoors, I still thought of us as those little doll cartoon pictures from the 70's.

"Why don't I have one of those?"

"Do you water the garden with that?"

"So, what is THAT for?"

Those doll cartoon pictures from the 70's had the weirdest belly buttons.

The military were performing their exercises in the clear blue sky. Pretty white planes so far up in the sky and I was ashamed of my nakedness. I think I have great breasts and cute feet, but other than that, I'm not happy with anything else. I was afraid but I wanted to be free and open that day. To prove something.

We were in the middle of very passionate things and he would quote Plato, "Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling, and our story shall be the education of our heroes," and I would laugh.

We went naked sky diving. Yes, naked sky diving. I don't expect you to believe any of this. I would be happier if you did not.

We landed hard. I was terrified of landing on a snake. He assured me I wouldn't. I thought I saw my first boyfriend in an astronaut suit behind us but it was just a stunt double practicing in the jet pack.

We got dressed after landing on the desert floor. A car was waiting. We went to a place called "Three Arrows." There were three arrows sticking right up out of the ground there. No one was around except the wife managing the store, the husband fixing the fence and a half black lab dog rummaging the aisles. A body guard stood outside of the store and we bought a lot of things inside. Things we didn't need. One thing I wanted, though, was a small wooden box with a piece of turquoise layered on the top. There was a native drawing and some type of story inside. I think it talked about putting things in the box and leaving them there. Like a God Can. Every culture has a twelve step programme and every culture has a bible. He bought it for me.

I petted the dog and played with his dirty bandanna, twisting it around and around to figure out which way it would look the best. And watched the genius touch things gently with his fingertips as he walked the cement floors of the store. He touched them as he was sucking in their elements to his body. He touched them with love and admiration and half confusion as he had never seen the things before.

Some do not believe me and I don't want to argue about things I know to be true. I don't want to argue about things I know to be false. Hell, at this point, I don't want to argue about things I don't even know anything about. I used to date a gun dealer and shoot machine guns. I dated a Nobel Prize recipient. He had a car that would detect skunks in the area and roll your windows up for you.

I'm too boring now for anyone to imagine I used to be free and thin and lovely.

Throughout the years, I saw myself again many times.

I was the black cat on the piano of the girlboy, the half-mass rock, hot wax relinquished hands of the loneliest child heart.

I was the skeleton sob, God, a wail, zipper on whacked niceness, pillows to fuck the press, to be married to blackness and all signed up for a doctor of divinity.

I was the scream off the wrist, "Love me! Love me!" I was the perfectly formed 'O' mouth.

I was polite, gentle and shy. But, I'm going to get right fucking awful now.


The worse thing, the worse thing has happened; no chance to redeem.

No chance to redeem.