Oh my God can’t believe what I saw as I turned on the TV this evening…

Michael Jackson is dead. You probably already knew that. I never really thought of myself as being a big fan of his, I only own a single album and a couple of CD singles (mostly for the remixes). But the news filled me with such a profound sense of sadness. I heard someone suggest he was ‘our generation’s’ John Lennon. It is difficult of course; Lennon was gunned down, Jackson died of natural/medical causes as far as anyone knows pending the coroner’s report. But for me this is the first time I’ve really connected with a public figure who has died. I suddenly feel like I understand in some ways how people felt when Elvis died, or JFK, or Kurt Cobain or Jeff Buckley. I really admire the contributions of a lot of now deceased individuals but invariably I’ve discovered their works after they have died. This is new, this is strange. To me, at least.

And Twitter… oh, Twitter. Twitter, moreso than any other technology, embodies everything about humanity. It is us at our best and our worst, our most trivial, our most flippant, our most philosophical. Everything, really. So many people dismiss the service as a triviality but it doesn’t speak for itself, we speak via it. Just waking up and seeing the way these rumours of deaths (Farrah Fawcetts’, confirmed, and those of others besides Jackson that were all apaprently hoaxes) perpetuated the service was interesting. We know that we can’t blindly accept anything at face value, we need evidence. Half the world complains that journalistic interests don’t research their stories thoroughly enough, the other half complains that they take too long to report news, to be current. It is a balancing act, surely?

It seemed more and more certain that the rumours were true over time. And for me Twitter sort of embodies such a wide range of people that on any really topical issue you get the full spectrum of responses. A lot of flippancy and jokes about Jackson, people who were really passionate and distressed, people who weren’t really that interested at all.

I’ve been listening to Michael Jackson’s Blood On The Dance Floor album all day. I’ve really enjoyed it since the day I first heard it, but only actually bought a copy of it earlier this year. Some part of my psyche was searching for changed meanings in songs – perhaps Ghosts would take on a different significance for example. But, no, that song isn’t really about ghosts, it’s about jealousy. I am just impressed by the musicality of the songs, and also the raft of social issues present in the selections.

Jackson was 50. That Motown Records is also celebrating their 50th year this year is not lost on me. Indeed lately I’ve been enjoying their Motown 50 podcast, and just a few weeks ago I was listening to one episode featuring the Jackson Five, themselves just children, talking about their musical inspirations and which Jackson was interested in which girl at school. And then somebody mentions that actually for African-Americans 50 is a fairly typical life expectancy age, and this saddens me and angers me, and like the song goes it does make me wanna scream. And I think about Jackson in a larger context of African-American singers singing for equality. I think about Nina Simone and Billie Holliday, and how I had studied their plight briefly at university and how I understood it intellectually at that time but how I didn’t understand it emotionally until I connected with that music, that work. That is the function of art – to make us feel. [But then I stop and realise that the plight of Aboriginals in this country is at least as bad, and that their life expectancy is disgusting low. And the whole thing levels me feeling bewildered and sad.]

I guess that is why he is so dearly missed, because he did make us feel. He made us dance. He made us think. He made us sing. He mastered the art of the music video, staging elaborate theatrical masterpieces to accompany the musical ones. I don’t really think I can say anything that hasn’t been said already, but I did want to say something.

I tried writing something in here last night. It was going to be a terribly witty explanation of why Christians scared me. It even had a witty title to coincide with The World Youth Day celebrations: Ratzinger Is Coming – Look Busy!

The truth is while the general tone of what I was going to write last night and what I am writing now is very different, the issues really aren’t.

I’ve never been a fan of religion, in general. Though my personal experiences, growing up, all revolved around Christianity. I would love to tell you that my experiences were all about the Love and Grace of God, but they really weren’t. If anything Christianity taught me the ‘joy’ of shame. (If the quotation marks were too subtle – they were used to denote sarcasm!)

Christianity taught me I was sinful. Christianity taught me that, in fact, we were all sinful, though apparently there were aspects to my being that were particularly notable in this regard.

And growing up I quickly became aware that there were numerous people who were happy to see me unhappy. People who seemed to derive a good deal of pleasure from my pain. I didn’t understand why they would want to do that to anyone, least of all me. I just assumed I must’ve done something to deserve it – I mean I was sinful, my scripture teacher assured me of that much.

I die a little inside when I think back to that day, but I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I can’t pretend I didn’t run from the bus stop to my home. I can’t pretend I didn’t slam the door behind me and start crying hysterically. The bit that really cuts me, though, is that I clutched a Gideon’s bible and screamed at the sky. Can you imagine that? I can’t recall exactly what I said. I would like to think it was “Why have you forsaken me?” though that seems more poetic than I was at that stage. I imagine it was more likely, “Why are you doing this to me?” Perhaps “Why me?” more generally.

I don’t actually believe in “God” anymore. I don’t, personally, struggle with theological dilemmas or scriptural interpretations. You could be forgiven for thinking the problem had evaporated entirely.

The truth is even without the grandeur of a tyrannical God of Old Testament proportions, I still feel inadequate. I still feel inherently flawed and worthless. I now assume I’m not good enough for the people in my life in the way I used to assume I wasn’t good enough for a deity. I am terrified that I will never be enough for anyone. I am convinced I am unlovable.

I showed a project that I was working on to the person I consider my dearest friend in the world, and they didn’t say a thing about it. It is such a silly reaction on my behalf. I’m sure they were interested. I am sure (intellectually) they do care. But at the time I just wanted to throw myself in the path of a train. I am terrified of being abandoned, but suspect that the people in my life would be entitled to do it, convinced that I probably don’t deserve their affection.

I guess my fear is that Christians already have a theological reason to dislike me. Whereas, other people have to actually take the time to get to know me before deciding I’m worthless and hopeless. That probably isn’t fair. But in at least one area of my life I am well and truly a response-stimuli animal and the response is usually to flinch, before slowly withdrawing entirely.

I worry about investing in people, emotionally. It is easy enough to be dismissive of criticism of you from relative strangers, but another thing entirely when it comes from people you’ve come to care for. I try to be more open with people upfront because its easier that way, because frankly there are some things over which I exercise no or little influence. And unfortunately existing prejudices top that list.

Somebody once made a YouTube video. It was the sort of thing that ordinarily I wouldn’t have given a second thought to. But this time it was different. I lost sleep over it. Because it didn’t come from some random stranger. It came from somebody I loved.