|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| You're riding on a wave in the ocean. You are floating on the mist, the spray.
Running through your mind, is your life, inspired by nothing less and nothing more than your life.
The exception is the change.
Are you the change that you wish for the world?
To be the change is to be the exception of the rule.
As a human being, to be the exception is to ride on the dangerous end of the wave. You have to take the pain of the risk to accept the thrill of the joy. Mommy and Daddy would not approve of the danger, nor would it be accepted by the mind of the masses who's minds are contently dedicated to survival. On the edge of the wave, propelled by the rush and by the power, you might even wonder if it is the wave that is chasing you.
You imagine yourself being eaten alive by the ocean,
What is the most worth regretting?
I regret not saying goodbye. I regret not saying, I might not be back. I regret not saying, I might not survive. I regret not saying, sorry I didn't make it. I regret not having the time to explain whats on my mind.
I don't need someone to explain this to. I need someone who just understands.
Understands- a person who claims thyself to be.. what exactly?
Change makes the impossible possible.
The very existence of the universe proves that the impossible is possible.
So why not dare to dream? Why not bring more impossibility into existence?
As the wave grows and the other surfers crash and dissolve into it, you, the exception somehow have managed to maintain your balance. You wonder if it is because the wave is chasing you, or perhaps you were just born gifted at surfing. Lost in the moment, there is no memory of whether this is your first time or you've done it before. While you feel like you are floating on the air you know that if you get overconfident, you will be eaten alive. There is no time to think, only focus to stay on top.
How many others collapse into the ocean?
More than you could count.
What makes you any different?
Many sheep ask this question with doubt and fear in their eyes.
All you can hear is baaaaaa.
The wolves ask the same questions with a wink and smile- they have heard the same questions more times than you. They are the wolves after all.
It is a mutual destiny.
With a snarl, and a glare,
you answer back through the cold winter, through the hot summer, through the spring
and into the fall.
"I AM THE EXCEPTION."
| | |
| This Is It was a very private message from an artist, to the many dreamers in the world who are afraid. It is called This Is It, because it is summoning us to take the leap to become. For all of us standing on the edge, we can feel at ease and jump...
Michael Jackson was a true artist. He was born into the world this way.
Michael was always strongly receptive and creative, as well as emotional. Due to his experiences in life, he was forced to understand a great deal of human suffering. Surely, there were times in his life where he was corrupted by the world.
In this way, he grew to understand the pain of desire- in terms of money, intelligence, education, and charm, he was rich. No matter what he could afford or whom he could be tempted to seduce, he could not ignore the pain that he caused through his actions. Songs like Dirty Diana and Billy Jean show poetically and yet so beautifully the experiences that he suffered from and understood. Beneath the overflowing but honest sexuality was every tear he did not have time to cry. He saved the energy from each one that he could to transform them into his influence, which could be seen on stage or in a music video.
The pain he drew his inspiration from was very real. He understood that he had to demonstrate a balance from the pain that he wanted to share, with maintaining refreshing and modern entertainment value to stay influential. While he enjoyed the cheering of his fans, it evolved to him to become merely a sign that he did not fail in his true artistic vision- to change the world for the better. At some point in his life, whether or not he was a great dancer or great singer stopped mattering to him except as a means to change the world. He had accepted his fate, which included not having a childhood. He was able to transform every type of suffering he endured into a POSITIVE influence, even in the less obvious tracks that seem to almost favor evil, but are really for the sake of education of its consequences. He takes several different approaches on the same ideas, while at the same time using all of his energy to keep the audience as diverse and unified by love as possible.
This included the work of the media. What is true above all concerning his representation in the media is that we really have no idea what the truth is about his life. We can only sense the intentions of the production of the news. To influence us to believe this, or to believe that about him. It is undeniable that he was extremely talented. Interviews show he was well educated. His humble and shy character bleed through every facet of his existence.
He was a true artist, in that he lived his life to influence. However- that Michael Jackson is dead.
Let's be honest-
We don't really know what Michael Jackson's face even looks like. We don't know that he hasn't gotten extensive surgery since we've seen him last. We wouldn't be able to recognize the body if we tried. He definitely knows a plastic surgeon that would hook him up. In fact that surgeon is probably rich enough to do it for free, and loves him enough to not tell anyone.
Michael could escape this reality, this cage, this prison that was his life in fame. He sacrificed his entire body and image to make a simple statement. Black or white, does it really matter? Whether or not he intended to change his skin for an artistic purpose- did you stop to feel his suffering when everyone in the world seemed to turn against him? He did this because he was the only person on the planet that could do it, and still have an international fan base. Imagine Obama decided to go white. No dice on the next election. Obama is not an artist, he's a politician!
The greatest inspiration in art is human suffering.
The movie "This Is It" was an artistic masterpiece, created by an artistic genius; and a man that was spiritually strong. He knew how to maintain his body, he knew his limits, and he knew what he was capable of. He was playing chess with the entire world at once. It took a whole lifetime to plan his escape.
So just before his unprecedented sold out 50 concerts, called "This is It", he just goes out right? He did everything he could. I believe his body is still capable of being a dancing machine, but he knows better than to push it. In the film, Michael is shown at first as a bit of a snobby bitch, a little egotistical. The film however, was the bit of magic promised by the whole tour. The film very subtly and gently plays with your emotions. A scene is revisited to double check if you cast judgment on him the first time.Michael was extremely gentle and took great effort not to offend anyone- to hide his criticisms of others in criticisms and goofy mistakes of his own. And don't forget- he was not just a musician and performer, but he took a very hands on approach to every aspect of his work- this included the concert that was destined to never happen, as well as the first movie to be released about his life after his death. He made sure it wasn't even about his life- but rather about fearlessly living and pursuing the dream, while enduring whatever suffering was necessary. The film starts performers all announcing that they are taking the dive to be part of this artistic masterpiece.
Throughout his life, Michael built up a strong network of people he knew he could really trust with his entire heart and soul. He valued these people truly and will never forget them. Outside of his private ring, was the artist- deeply involved in a facade that was his entire public life. Everyone inside of his ring was likewise involved to a lesser extent. They were all bound by something invisible and invincible that would protect his secrets- love.
He was adept at dealing with the media. To understand Michael, you must understand how strong he is, in body, mind, and spirit. Imagine you are in a jungle, simply trying to survive, not knowing who to trust. This was his life. He learned to survive. When dealing with the media, he would make no mistakes- for some time it was equivalent to defending yourself from snakes out to kill you in the wild. Then he evolved and manipulated the world around him to strengthen his influence to those that could see the truth through the hatred.
As an artist, he made sure his life story was so fucking crazy that people at any stage in spiritual development would hear his name and one story about him, be like WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SERIOUS then look up his music and learn about endless amounts of human suffering.
So basically what I'm saying is...
Michael Jackson was the fucking man. And he definitely faked his death. And the best part is, even if you KNOW he faked his death, you will never recognize the mother fucker. You could sit with him and have a drink, and the only thing you'd realize after he left the room was-
You've been struck by a smooth criminal.
-
Thank you Michael Jackson
August 29th 1958 - June 28th, 2009
For sacrificing your life for so many years,
For showing us the way,
For loving yourself,
For being an artist,
For not being scared,
For loving us.
| | |
| She calls me to come upstairs to the attic with her as she has a cigarette, but I know she has other plans for me. There is something urgent about the way she asks. Something so subtle that only the mind can be prepared to hear, with or without the help of the ears.
So I bring my pomegranate wine with me, and sip as I sit, and -
No. This does not happen. There is a dead bee on my chair. Rather it is a dead yellow jacket. I will call them bees, for simplicity rather than disrespect.
I have claimed to have confronted my fears, confronted my fears, I have claimed to be fearless. Yet, I have forgotten to address and will not forgive myself for not confronting my greatest fear, that being all things bug like. My fear was so intense that at one point, I let it rise above me. I was scared while I broke the lobster's back, just because it looked like a huge red grasshopper.
It was much more important though to prove to her and the rest of the world that I could face my fears, rather than yesterday. Yesterday, I had nothing to live for, besides to maintain the shell of my body in the living dream that my ghost would find its meaning sooner than later. Today, I had found the meaning, and to pursue it meant there could be no chance of failure.
How can I believe I will not fail, if I am distracted by a bee buzzing past me ear, simply because it wants to say hello? My own fear could paralyze me. My mind would not be strong enough to endure the journey to come. This had to change.
I reached for the corpse. The bee was dead.
I could not control my body with my mind. My hand would flinch and my entire body shivered violently as I attempted to pick up the bee. To even touch it.
"My spirit is not strong enough," I thought to myself.
I closed my eyes and refocused my mind on the task. I visualized gently brushing the body onto my palm and throwing it away. I tried several times before I was able to defeat my state of self in this one battle. Yet as I dropped the bee from its wing to the garbage pail, I knew this was not enough. I did it hurriedly. I was in a rush. I was still scared, but at least I was fighting.
The bees....
They would become trapped in my attic. They would curl up and die there by the window. Who knows how they enter this house? Who knows, how we enter this world?
She describes them as looking "hopeless" with their "arms crossed". I thought they were accepting their deaths in this way, but she offers a more realistic standpoint. She offers the balance in the truth that I shyly attempt to avoid thinking of. I believe they cross their arms to show that they loved themselves when they died. I believed that.
I imagine I am the bee. I am the bee. I am trapped without the guidance of my queen, with other soldiers that I have fought with to survive. We are the same, we are courageous, for the greater good of our people. We are warriors on the battle field that is life, and we are losing hope and in an inescapable dungeon. Some are dead already, but we must fight to the last breath. I feel myself going insane. I have no will. The others are better left without knowing I am gone. I wish someone will kill me, so I stumble into the way of the human animal. Am I clutching my body already? On my last breaths? I realize I may be holding myself because my body is slowly going cold, and the dead comrades that I have been sent to recover others surround me in an open grave.
I become the human animal again, then I transform one last time.
Now I am the grim reaper of the hive.
I tap my fingers on the wood beside each body to see if it is alive. I recall the many times I have crippled the insect the first time I stepped on it or struck it, and then felt its pain before I was able to complete the murder. The bodies do not move. One by one I lift them up to heaven, and bury them in the earth. Their deaths, in vain? Do I give a fuck? They are fucking bees man.
Do I give a fuck?
The corpse of one bee turns out to be two. I stop and feel for a minute. I ask her,
"Do you think the bees enjoy each other's company?"
"Yes, do you?"
Yes. These two bees might have known each other in their lives. Were they friends? Holding each other... Only one of them had to die alone. While bees may not communicate or mate like we do, how can we be so ignorant as to believe they do not have soul mates? Why else would you die next to a fucking corpse?
As I become less afraid to live, I am more afraid to die than ever.
| | |
| Five Years or So Ago
I made a mistake.
For five years or so,
I have lived with one regret.
How old was I?
Maybe 17?
It must have been after I finished high school.
I don't even remember the details well.
I remember someone was with me.
Someone supported me.
Someone was there for me.
Someone who loved me.
I left home, rented out an apartment.
I had decided not to come back home.
Home was a mess. Don't remember clearly why.
Don't remember what it was exactly.
Just remember hating my parents.
Wanting to leave.
Needing to leave.
I think I'm starting to remember why I hated them so much.
The reasons aren't important, I don't hate them anymore.
Okay, so sometimes I hate them still.
But generally speaking, I don't.
I think that's when I became most miserable.
When I went back.
I didn't keep pushing on like I should have.
It was a difficult decision to go back home, and I made the wrong choice when I did.
I had no choice. I was not strong enough to do any better.
Now I am.
I hope I never have to live with regrets again.
| | |
| HATE HATE HATE DIE DIE DIE
| | |
|
