What we might be missing.

Michael Jackson had died. It was the great shock of the inevitable. The question was not whether Jackson would die young - of that we could be sure - but how, and when. In the end, it seemed like time chose well. Earlier and Jackson could have escaped trials and bankruptcy, of course. However, after many decades of looking increasingly like a sordid circus exhibit breathing heavily in front of a live audience, Jackson was starting to claw back. He had paid his penance, at least a little; his music was gaining popularity, as undoubtedly it will, cyclically, until well after we too have passed. A series of fifty concerts sold out in quick time, even though nobody was certain he was in good enough health to even get through one. To announce your comeback, be taken seriously, and not have to actually prove your doubters wrong - that is as good a time as any to go. Now he can live on in memory, in whichever ways memory choses him to live.

The day was not a day of mourning, for the Jackson we had revered for so long had ceased to exist long ago. It was a day of celebration. So it was no surprise that, in the early hours of the morning, in the same dimly-lit club, with the same disaffected DJs and the same expensive drinks and the same leather furniture and the same weary expressions, it was Jackson the people wanted to hear. Over, and over again. The first DJ, adopting an unsuccessful air of integrity, refused. The second was no such idiot, and delivered. From the very first rumbling low drones of Billy Jean, we were hooked; an entire room erupted in celebratory glee, pushing past our prejudices and giving ourselves over to what was absolutely an important part of our collective childhood. The guy may have been a pervert, a criminal, or worse; he could have been responsible for some of the most inexcusably horrifying acts a human could commit. But he managed what few others could; to leave behind something that will outlive his reputation. Here he sits in with Phil Spector, Louis Althusser, Henry Ford - murderers all, but whose achievements are louder remarked. Jackson may arguably be the worst of the lot, but there we all were, youth in youth's time, singing and dancing at his altar. He was a heinous man who still changed the world for the better. May his legacy forever remain in confusion.

It was 3am when we got home, which was apparently too late. "I like one-am," my companion told me enthusiastically. "One-am is a good time." He would have missed the whole moment, all for the sake of an hour on a clock. "What would we have missed out on?"

What would we have missed out on? Well, nothing and everything. Probably nothing notable; maybe everything unnotable. In the end, what makes anything worth more than anything else, anyway? Besides, when it came to it, it appears he himself had avoided note. When I heard stories about that night, no note was taken of him. He was completely forgotten.

It is funny what we'll remember, and how. Will we be remembered in the private mourning of the few, or the loud public mourning of the many? Besides, why not while we're still alive? It is said that we will live on in memory, but surely we don't have to wait until death for that. As I sit here, my existence can be confirmed only by myself (and, perhaps, my housemate who can hear my typing from the other room). To everyone else, I live on only in memory, right now, while I still breathe, and think, and feel. How do these memories construct me? Am I any more real here than I am there? What is of more note? Is there anything that anyone is missing out on?

In the end, only one thing is for certain, even if it is only certain to me.

I'm still here.