pushing the sky

If there was one bit of news I didn’t expect to wake up to yesterday, it was that Michael Jackson had died.

At first, I heard that “reports out of the US” were saying he died, or was in a coma. I didn’t want to believe it, but over the next half hour, the news was confirmed by more reliable sources, and so it was that a special artist’s life ended.

Michael Jackson was many things to many people, but it was his Black or White that was my very first pop song; it was the first one I can recall being a fan of, of racing to the radio to listen to. I had a tape of the album, Dangerous, that is probably one of the world’s most worn tapes around, particularly around the Black or White part. I watched the video clip a hundred times, as it stayed in the charts for weeks on end. Saturday mornings finished with Video Hits showing Black or White, and on Sundays it was up early to see it again on rage, which usually showed the whole clip, not just the music.

In short, I thought he was a genius, and given the outpouring of grief, emotion and the reactions of the last two days, I don’t think I was the only one. Jackson’s active career spanned 4 of his 5 decades, and at his height in the 80s the monkier “The King of Pop”, first said by his friend Elizabeth Taylor, stuck, and there are no heirs to the throne. From his start in the Jackson 5 to his best-selling solo album Thriller, and even to the mixed Invincible which never the less contained the hit You Rock My World, Jackson did what a performing artist should do best: entertain and thrill the public.

The name Jackson lives in the same echelon as Presley and Lennon, a genius in the musical world, as a singer, songwriter and perhaps foremost as a dancer. MJ’s sublime ability to control his body made perhaps his signature move, the moonwalk, somehow magical and special; no-one quite does it like he did.

I guess I was too young to know what was going on during the first accusations of child molestation levelled against him, but I certainly did when the issue reared its ugly head again in the early part of this decade. You got the feeling watching the documentary that raised the issue that Michael Jackson was really just a bit lost outside of the music world, never having grown up or being allowed to do so in a normal manner. It was the ultimate Peter Pan complex – he wanted to be a kid forever.

Whether the accusations were true or not, acquittal not withstanding, the damage to Jackson’s reputation and his continual strange behaviour led to his fall from grace, as seems inevitable for all child stars. For many though, as is abundantly clear today, this did not diminish his achievements as an artist, and so I would represent him – one of the most brilliant performers we had for years. It is a pity that his life should end so early.

I don’t know whether we’ll see the like of Jackson ever again – the celebrities with a genuine reason to be celebrated, the entertainers that achieve so much on a global scale; one would hope that perhaps someone will be inspired enough to produce music that appeals to so many. It would be a pity too if his music were to be overshadowed by his later days, and I would sincerely hope his music is held up as a shining example of popular entertainment.

Vale, Michael Joseph Jackson, 1958 – 2009.

Jon Stewart is still in fine form:

“Yeah, I’m looking to buy a place.”

Holy shit, did I just say that?

I think I did. In fact, I think this is the beginning of the end – the end of pretending like I can get away with doing just the minimum.

There’s a couple of factors that have prompted me to start looking, not least of which is $17,000 on offer from the Federal and state governments for a first home buyer, plus stamp duty waiver for a place under $500,000. The likely bottoming-out of the market and sufficient savings means it’d be on the foolish side not to take advantage of this confluence of timing.

But that doesn’t stop me being scared out of my mind at the idea, or thinking it is pretty much the end of any idea that I’m still a kid.

… to learn how to write stories again.

As much as I have been mentioning what today is all about, it’s even less online than it is in real conversations around the office. There’s been nothing else which has been a consistent topic over the last month at least, save perhaps considerations of the future beyond today.

Today also marks my 2 year anniversary at work, which is kinda scary in itself. Sure, actual date might be the 6th, but it’s the same week, the same first Monday of February, and that counts more for me.

But back to the topic at hand. Why the constant attention? It’s all about what it means. It’s like report day back in school – it’s a reflection of how your year went, and what you got as a result. As a ‘graduate’, the number is partially arbitrary, but today is also promotions day, which is just as relevant, if not more so. There’s talk from many of quitting if various parameters aren’t met, but that’s got to be a scary step to make.

It’s not like school, where you’ll just be graduating at the end of a fixed term. It’s not like uni, where you have to tick all the minimum requirements boxes to cash in. It’s so much more vague and undefined, just as you need someone to point the right way.

Maybe it’s just me.

It’s something emepheral, almost. Our relationship is defined almost entirely within the confines of the darkness and the music, the undercurrent of alcohol and the late night, the unsteady beat driving our actions and defining our interaction.

It’s hard to have a moment of intimacy when you’re surrounded by strangers at close range. Any such moments must be stolen, and undeclared, lasting mere seconds while the gaps between the moments stretch out, time’s elastic nature playing its usual trick. The music’s volume precludes anything but the eyes conversing, though at this stage it’s still early enough in the relationship that all the common phrases have not been defined in the language of the eyes.

Politeness demands you engage others, but your eyes are drawn back, searching for contact, unacknowledge or otherwise.

Finally, you find yourself outside, the chill night air refreshing after the stale heat of the dancefloor. Another night is over, and each of the group will find their way home, to wake tomorrow, some basking in the aftermath, others holding a head of regret. The moment passes, and you wonder if it’ll occur again.

You cross your fingers and wish upon a star. Maybe the old tales do come true sometimes.

Rachel Bilson! That’s it!

(never mind, you wouldn’t get it anyway)

(It’s inevitable, isn’t it? As soon as I say “I’m on hiatus,” I think of something to write)

I think what’s got me in a bit of a zone is the fact that suddenly, things are real. I don’t know why it hasn’t felt like that until just recently; maybe I’m finally getting out of that age range where you’re expected to goof off, and hitting 22 suddenly sounds very much like “Ok, you’re supposed to be grown up now. Get on with it.”

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m in London and suddenly I’ve realised that, wait, I’m actually here for 7 whole months. Not just two like last time, most of which was spent larking about. Maybe it’s my flatmates – they’re all much, much older, and while they are students, it’s something they’ve come back to.

Maybe it’s that others are talking of careers, and homes, and lifetime partners, and I’m not thinking of any of that, because… well because I’m not sure that I should. That’s Scary Stuff, don’t you know? The grad program I’m on is a nice feather-bed to land on on my way into the workplace, because for the first year at least, it certainly felt like I was just out of uni but not really, and it was all a bit of a lark. And then London happened, or at least kicked off, and it still felt like it was just going to another semester.

But then I got here, and found a place to live, and suddenly… it’s all too real.

Whatever the reason, it’s like I’m finally realising I’m out of uni, and way out of school. The work I do day-to-day affects other people in their day-to-day world, even if just slightly. In some cases, there are people praising my work, and that drives an intense sense of satisfaction. In others, there are those who criticise and point out how it gets in their way. And all the time I’m watching them thinking “hang on, you use this for real?“, as if I’d always considered that this was merely an exercise like at uni, and I was being trained for the “real thing”. But now I’m here, I’m called on as a subject expert, having worked on it for a year and a half (and still knowing all too little).

It’s not too early for a quarter-life crisis, is it? When the hell did life become real?!

Even after 2 years, the memory is strong. The dream lives on, growing, changing, adapting to the newer perspective. I want to reach out and grab it, to hold it tight until it becomes real, or it truly dissipates. Regret and desire all mixed in with a hint of words unsaid.

Imagination, dreaming – they all serve their purpose.

Occasionally, melancholia hits, and you just can’t sleep.

There’s still days when I think that this is it, and from tomorrow, it’s back to university, I’m done pretending, or that the alarm clock is going to go off and I’ll wake and it’ll still be February 6th, 2006, and I have yet to turn up for my first day, or it’s May 21st, 2005, and I’ve got to fly to Sydney today for my interview. After a year and three months, I’m still not sure if it’s real, that what I’m doing makes a difference to someone’s life and all that money in my bank account is there for a reason. I’m still younger than the new grads this year, by a year or two yet, and I’ll be younger than the grads next year too (though they’ll be closer). I’m ahead of schedule, dammit.

And I’m not sure if I’ll ever shake the feeling, at least until I’m leading or delivering a reasonably large project. Am I alone? From the sounds of it, not really, but is that a symptom of the job or of the expectations we have? If I were to look critically at myself, I’d see that I do have skills that I didn’t have when I turned up that fateful Monday morning, that I have this body of knowledge and an opinion that is value, even if I occasionally have too big opinion of it (I’m working on it, ok).

It’s real, and it’s bloody terrifying. Stay at uni as long as you can!