Deepak Chopra (din nou)

Pe facebook a fost postată o fotografie ce-l înfăţişează pe Michael Jackson, cu spatele, pregătindu-se parcă să intre într-o scenă scăldată în lumină şi abur, peste care fotografie se află un text. Textul reproduce ceea ce Deepak Chopra a povestit în emisiunea lui Larry King de la CNN, la 3 septembrie 2009:

KING: Will that agony be in the first paragraph of the final obituary, Deepak?

D. CHOPRA: I think so, you know, he was a tortured soul but he was also an ecstatic soul. He could go into a state of ecstasy, which is nothing short of the existential spirit and he could do that in such a way that he brought that ecstasy to people.

I remember a concert I was with him in Bucharest, Romania. The entire city was on fire. There were people on tree tops, there were people on window ledges, on the tops of buses. As far as the eye could see there was a seething mass of humanity, and he went to an ecstatic dance and you could see the ecstasy in the whole city.

G. CHOPRA: Can I make a prediction?

KING: Yes.

G. CHOPRA: In the 20 years I knew him he was never on time for anything so my money is on this not starting on time

sursa: transcripts.cnn.com

M-am tot căznit să găsesc vreun filmuleţ, ceva, din emisiunea aceea. Niente. poate s-o găsi cineva care...

Interesant este că, se pare, Bucureştiul l-a marcat pe Deepak Chopra - poate în aceeaşi măsură în care l-a marcat şi pe Michael Jackson însuşi (probabil acesta să fie răspunsul la întrebarea cum s-a făcut că taman concertul de la Bucureşti a fost singurul din toată cariera lui Michael Jackson pe care acesta a acceptat sau a dorit să-l transpună pe DVD).

A mai vorbit despre Bucureşti şi când a pomenit, pe blogul său, cum stăteau ei la taclale, bând apă de la sticlă (şi-atunci, cum rămâne povestea spusă de o bucătăreasă de la hotelul unde era cazat, că s-a trezit la miezul nopţii cu el în bucătăria hotelului, cerând un pahar cu apă? - personal, o prefer pe aceasta...):

When we first met, around 1988, I was struck by the combination of charisma and woundedness that surrounded Michael. He would be swarmed by crowds at an airport, perform an exhausting show for three hours, and then sit backstage afterward, as we did one night in Bucharest, drinking bottled water, glancing over some Sufi poetry as I walked into the room, and wanting to meditate.

Dar... pentru că tot am cotrobăit, am găsit ceva care ar putea să mai lămurească ceva... Ceva ce a sucit neuronii multora până acum... Este vorba despre o afirmaţie pe care, din câte am observat (asta nu înseamnă că observ bine; da' poţi să ştii?) nimeni nu a băgat-o în seamă şi, prin urmare, nimeni n-a tocat-o mărunt: un început de frază, tot de pe blogul lui Deepak Chopra, de la o postare datată 23 iunie 2010, dar şi 24... şi, dacă nu mă înşel, e scrisă cam anul trecut pe vremea asta (mai exact, la 26 iunie 2009):

His children’s nanny and surrogate mother, Grace Rwamba, is like another daughter to me.

Dar iată întreaga postare:

June 23rd, 2010

A Tribute to My Friend, Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson will be remembered, most likely, as a shattered icon, a pop genius who wound up a mutant of fame. That’s not who I will remember, however. His mixture of mystery, isolation, indulgence, overwhelming global fame, and personal loneliness was intimately known to me. For twenty years I observed every aspect, and as easy as it was to love Michael — and to want to protect him — his sudden death yesterday seemed almost fated.

Two days previously he had called me in an upbeat, excited mood. The voice message said, “I’ve got some really good news to share with you.” He was writing a song about the environment, and he wanted me to help informally with the lyrics, as we had done several times before. When I tried to return his call, however, the number was disconnected. (Terminally spooked by his treatment in the press, he changed his phone number often.) So I never got to talk to him, and the music demo he sent me lies on my bedside table as a poignant symbol of an unfinished life.

When we first met, around 1988, I was struck by the combination of charisma and woundedness that surrounded Michael. He would be swarmed by crowds at an airport, perform an exhausting show for three hours, and then sit backstage afterward, as we did one night in Bucharest, drinking bottled water, glancing over some Sufi poetry as I walked into the room, and wanting to meditate.

That person, whom I considered (at the risk of ridicule) very pure, still survived — he was reading the poems of Rabindranath Tagore when we talked the last time, two weeks ago. Michael exemplified the paradox of many famous performers, being essentially shy, an introvert who would come to my house and spend most of the evening sitting by himself in a corner with his small children. I never saw less than a loving father when they were together (and wonder now, as anyone close to him would, what will happen to them in the aftermath).

Michael’s reluctance to grow up was another part of the paradox. My children adored him, and in return he responded in a childlike way. He declared often, as former child stars do, that he was robbed of his childhood. Considering the monstrously exaggerated value our society places on celebrity, which was showered on Michael without stint, the public was callous to his very real personal pain. It became another tawdry piece of the tabloid Jacko, pictured as a weird changeling and as something far more sinister.

It’s not my place to comment on the troubles Michael fell heir to from the past and then amplified by his misguided choices in life. He was surrounded by enablers, including a shameful plethora of M.D.s in Los Angeles and elsewhere who supplied him with prescription drugs. As many times as he would candidly confess that he had a problem, the conversation always ended with a deflection and denial. As I write this paragraph, the reports of drug abuse are spreading across the cable news channels. The instant I heard of his death this afternoon, I had a sinking feeling that prescription drugs would play a key part.

The closest we ever became, perhaps, was when Michael needed a book to sell primarily as a concert souvenir. It would contain pictures for his fans but there would also be a text consisting of short fables. I sat with him for hours while he dreamily wove Aesop-like tales about animals, mixed with words about music and his love of all things musical. This project became “Dancing the Dream” after I pulled the text together for him, acting strictly as a friend. It was this time together that convinced me of the modus vivendi Michael had devised for himself: to counter the tidal wave of stress that accompanies mega-stardom, he built a private retreat in a fantasy world where pink clouds veiled inner anguish and Peter Pan was a hero, not a pathology.

This compromise with reality gradually became unsustainable. He went to strange lengths to preserve it. Unbounded privilege became another toxic force in his undoing. What began as idiosyncracy, shyness, and vulnerability was ravaged by obsessions over health, paranoia over security, and an isolation that grew more and more unhealthy. When Michael passed me the music for that last song, the one sitting by my bedside waiting for the right words, the procedure for getting the CD to me rivaled a CIA covert operation in its secrecy.

My memory of Michael Jackson will be as complex and confused as anyone’s. His closest friends will close ranks and try to do everything in their power to insure that the good lives after him. Will we be successful in rescuing him after so many years of media distortion? No one can say. I only wanted to put some details on the record in his behalf. My son Gotham traveled with Michael as a roadie on his “Dangerous” tour when he was thirteen. Will it matter that Michael behaved with discipline and impeccable manners around my son? (It sends a shiver to recall something he told Gotham: “I don’t want to go out like Marlon Brando. I want to go out like Elvis.” Both icons were obsessions of this icon.)

His children’s nanny and surrogate mother, Grace Rwamba, is like another daughter to me. I introduced her to Michael when she was eighteen, a beautiful, heartwarming girl from Rwanda who is now grown up. She kept an eye on him for me and would call me whenever he was down or running too close to the edge. How heartbreaking for Grace that no one’s protective instincts and genuine love could avert this tragic day. An hour ago she was sobbing on the telephone from London. As a result, I couldn’t help but write this brief remembrance in sadness. But when the shock subsides and a thousand public voices recount Michael’s brilliant, joyous, embattled, enigmatic, bizarre trajectory, I hope the word “joyous” is the one that will rise from the ashes and shine as he once did.

Şi:

June 24th, 2010

Dear Friends,

On the 1 year anniversary of Michael’s death I would like to share with you a poem I co-wrote with him entitled “Planet Earth” which was published in his book “Dancing the Dream.” This poem is particularly prescient given the destruction of the eco-system. Watch the video, Planet Earth.

Love,
Deepak

Planet Earth

Planet Earth, my home, my place
A capricious anomaly in the sea of space
Planet Earth, are you just
Floating by, a cloud of dust
A minor globe about to bust
A piece of metal bound to rust
A speck of matter in a mindless void
A lonely spaceship, a large asteroid

Cold as a rock without a hue
Held together with a bit of glue
Something tells me this isn’t true

You are my sweetheart, soft and blue

Do you care, have you a part
In the deepest emotions of my own heart
Tender with breezes, caressing and whole
Alive with music, haunting my soul.

In my veins I’ve felt the mystery
Of corridors of time, books of history
Life songs of ages throbbing in my blood
Have danced the rhythm of the tide and flood
Your misty clouds, your electric storm

Were turbulent tempests in my own form
I’ve licked the salt, the bitter, the sweet
Of every encounter, of passion, of heat
Your riotous color, your fragrance, your taste
Have thrilled my senses beyond all haste
In your beauty I’ve known the how
Of timeless bliss, this moment of now.

Planet Earth, are you just
Floating by, a cloud of dust
A minor globe about to bust
A piece of metal bound to rust
A speck of matter in a mindless void
A lonely spaceship, a large asteroid

Cold as a rock without a hue
Held together with a bit of glue
Something tells me this isn’t true
You are my sweetheart, gentle and blue
Do you care, have you a part
In the deepest emotions of my own heart
Tender with breezes, caressing and whole
Alive with music, haunting my soul.

Planet Earth, gentle and blue
With all my heart, I love you.