pieces can be read in any order that one wishes. But,
obviously, I have ordered them this way because each piece
builds on what came before. I am making the overview clear
here and providing links, as I began to see that it would
otherwise be confusing for many.
- a short overview of "Message from Michael" and
how I was led to write it
Michael: His Authentic Life..." -
Begins at the top of the next column and expands on some of
the themes that are covered in "Message from
Michael," but also provides additional context about
Michael Jackson and his life, which it seemed necessary to
provide as the years of persecution had a tendency to push
out of public view his considerable humanitarian and
philanthropic work, and his humanitarian, visionary work and
still here, huh! Ready for Part 2…the "big reveal" ha, ha. Well hang on
to your pants. As Scout Niblett says in "Nevada": "Let's come back a
little changed." Ok, venture within, but expect to come back a little
Who's that I hear? Somebody saying "who'd want that!?"
I thought we'd gotten rid of all Republicans in the last description in
Part 1! Well, this one's either, just wandered in, is one of those paid
zombie spies (or thugs) we've been hearing about lately, or is a
glutton for punishment.
Please sir or madam. Reading stuff this self-revelatory could be
shocking to your type. It might even be dangerous; could stress out
your heart to come face-to-face with someone's inner life -- seeing as
how you don't have one; it could be quite alien, probably very scary
(which is probably why you've buried yours). OK, no offense, but
Republicans and all kitty-drowners or butterfly-mashers,
pleaaase….exit, all exits to the right.
OK, now for the rest of us, well if you didn't hear part 1; don't know
how this'll make a lot of sense; but hey, you just might be sensitive
enough to enjoy the emotional roller coaster ride. Still, would be
better to hear part 1 first.
Now, this part. Everyone else, read the title of Part 2: "How to Commit Soul Murder, for Dummies."
There's really no more description needed. You can check out the quotes for any better ideas.
But I will say; this is going to end quite unpredictably for most of
you. I don't think all but the very wise and astute would be able to
envision this ending.
Ok, you've been warned (must have a soul); you've been encouraged: have
soul, then travel; enjoy the emotional roller coaster; and you've been
challenged, can you see the ending coming? At all? That's OK because I
wouldn't have been able to until I'd reached the level of life wisdom
that I acquired at about age 57 -- which is only two years ago. So
don't feel bad about that. But consider then what you may learn in life
about your life experiences and how you may change your views about
them, with greater life experience.
That is the gift I offer you. Its here for all with the courage and the
desire. See you around the soup of consciousness. It's been nice
swirling with you.
Audio Rendition of "My Personal
Tale: Reflections on Persecution of the Talented, Sensitive, and
Unique; and Culture's Sick and Contradictory Purposes
Part 2: How to Commit Soul Murder,
by SillyMickel Adzema
on Persecution of the Talented,
Sensitive, and Unique; and Culture's Sick
and Contradictory Purposes Part
How to Commit Soul Murder,
Started in Grade School
First we have to go back to grade school. I
don't know when I got turned on to football, but I was
young. And we'd play tackle football anywhere and everywhere
-- with absolutely no helmets or padding, just the ball; and
on any surface -- no playgrounds around but we had culmbanks to play on and ash fields for sports -- where
we'd sometimes play baseball with sticks or limbs for bats
and stones or pieces of coal or culm or shale for
"baseballs"; nobody had any gloves either, which
is probably goodbecause
you're better off trying to catch a piece of flying stone or
shale with your bare hands, you'dnever get the finesse needed to catch it with a bulky
glove on your hand. So we played tackle football in the
ashes too. It was better than the street, where -- though
sure enough at times we tried tackle football on the hard
macadam, it was just too iffy trying to protect yourself
when you were coming down -- for the most part we were relegated
to the poor substitute of touch football. To me it
never compared to the pure pleasure of a clean tackles or
that of a perfect run, body making split second subtle
movements, as if time had stood still, to avoid tackles, grabs, to spin around grabs and have them sailing away with you
spun right and still going, then head fakes having you run
right past the tackler who's grabbing air where he was sure
you were going, to make it cross the goal line.
I was a phenomenal runner and tackler. My
friends could not believe that someone as small as myself would throw their entire body directly into the body of a
runner two feet taller, with no thought of harm to my body,
and fully concentrated on getting my arms legs and whatever
around him to bring the big lunk down like he'd been
split-second spider tied. On the flip side, no one could
bring me down. When the goal line was in sight there was no
one could catch me. When there were bodies all around and
piled on top of me, I'd make some instinctive shrug and find
myself free and they'd be behind me collapsing to the ground
and wondering where I'd gone. It was pure instinct. I now
know that my birth prepared me for this. Being delayed, and
oxygen-starved, and yet finding the energy to come exploding
out of the womb with a feeling that I had to do it all
myself as my mother wasn't helping, well, I just could not
stand being brought down, "suffocated" that way,
and the flight to open air was to me the sweetest thing and
the strongest motivation, with a life or death feeling about
it which I think accounted for my phenomenal running. I'd
play football with people who didn't know me, and they'd hog
the ball and keep it within their clique for three quarters
of the game. They'd be behind at that point, and the whole
game I'd be saying, I can run, let me run one; and they'd
say, ok, but not now. Then behind and in the fourth quarter,
I'd get this, "ok, let's see what you can do."
"They'dget me the ball and I'd run right through the
tacklers, descending down on me all at once, and all they'd
see is me coming out the other side, there to evade a few
more tacklers, spinning, down goes another, I'm still going.
Pickup; 30 yards. I'd get back to the huddle; and they'd be
laughing like crazy. "Where the hell'd that come
"Just give me the ball. I told you I can
hysterically they'd hike and hand me the ball, almost like
they wanted to see what I could do with them just watching,
not doing much in the way of blocking, they just couldn't
belief how piles of tacklers hanging all over me would not
bring me to my knees. But I didn't care, I was in heaven
with that football in my hand and up against any number of
tacklers; it was my chance to show them what I knew about
myself, there's no way I could be brought down. And I'd show
them again. No blocking."Pickup; 20 yards."
They're still laughing when I get back to the
huddle. Gus, I remember your laughing the most. You were
captain of our team this one time that this sort of thing
happened. And you were a ball hog, Gus. But I'll give you
credit for wanting to win, because, when you saw what I
could do, you laughed as if you'd been sitting on top of
gold and just discoveredthat and realized how funny that was not to see it.
But once seen , it not too late, you were laughing like
you'd won the lottery. "So what do we do now, "
you'd say, "you need a break?"
"Nope. Just getting started. We don't
got the touchdown do we?" And there you'd go laughing
"OK," laughing hysterically."I can't think of a play. Somebody else just
make up something to put it in his hands. This is just too
funny. They probably don't know what the hell has just hit
them over there. This is going to be fun."
"How bouts I just make like
I'm hiking it
back to Gus," the Center might say, "And you're
set off a little bit to the right behind me and just jump in
front of the ball before it gets to him, and take off."
"Fine by me." And so it went. The
touchdown was supersweet. I'd made it through all the other
tacklers but one. They'd set Angelo down on the goal line,
just standing there like a goalie in case I'd break free.
And now it was only him and me. Instinctively I knew my
strategy. I ran straight at him, as hard as I possibly
could, making like I was going to try to run through him to
get to the goal line. But also I was running with eyes and
my whole posture intently focused on hitting him like a
little to his left side, my going to the right. He saw that
plan far off, and I played it to the hilt; that I was going
to bowl into him to disrupt his tackle and glance off to the
right into the end zone. He bought it completely, was
waiting for his receipt and change, and meanwhile, being a
bigger guy, was seeing himself clock me cold putting his
entire bulk into my advance, directly head on.
I was a couple yards away, still playing that
strategy with every movement and eye glance -- I never once
took my eyes off that right side, it was like I was an arrow
on its way to only one possible bulls-eye. At a full gallop,
anda yard, yard
and a little away, I cut to the left, he was already coming
forward to meet me on his right, my left. My sneakers slid
in the mud in his direction and under him a little, but I
was cutting with all I could to my left and leaning.He was in the air then, but my upper body wasn't
there, just some sneakers sliding in g in the mud below him.
In another nanosecond, I was now moving to right myself and
get my feet under me, off a foot and a half to the left of
his body; his body meanwhile about to hit the ground, his
arms grasping thin air.I heard him hit the ground; my cut had brought my
full-throttle run to a near complete stop.
So, hearing him hitting the ground, not
having even touched me, I just kinda made a step forward,
and I was in the end zone. I looked back at him and smiled.
He smiled too. He said, "Ya got me. I was totally
convinced . I never thought you'd cut." Angelo was a
So that's the kind of thing I experienced. I
never owned any more gear than a helmet -- several sizes two
But I knew of this skill and my love of the
game, much younger. I loved fall days. I loved fallen
leaves. I watched TV and watched Jim Brown run; I'd think I
could do that too. That's what I want to do. I know what it
feels like to do and move like he moves. I can't wait. I'd
watch old movies about Notre Dame and football. I developed
a vision, a powerful overwhelming desire that saw my future
at a big college that had ivy all over the campus buildings;
and playing football; and then on to the NFL. This all while
I was in grade school. I remember lying down with the
football on an autumn day, when there was no one available
to get up a game, just kicking it around and throwing
catches to myself for a while, but then lying down in the
soft mown grass on the side of a hill, smelling the autumn
air, and the scent of the pigskin I was cradling like it was
my best friend, under my right arm. Under my right arm where
I envisioned it spending many glorious moments as I would
clutch it on the way to touchdowns and glory in the future.
I could not see anything upsetting this dream.
I lie there euphoric, envisioning this
glorious life, this chance to use my talents and to show the
world what I could do.I
My life was going to be great. Sure, I was smart, but I also
had a phenomenal talent, and using it was something that
gave me so much joy; so much that I was able to forget my
unloving, mean, draconian father.
to make some sacrifices. I went to a Catholic grade school,
and we knew each other - about 40 of us -- from first grade
and had seen each other grow each year and we knew each
others experiences -- the bad ones -- with the mean nuns and
felt sympathy for each other. I loved those forty kids --
the guys and the gals -- and they were like a second family
-- one where there wasn't all the screaming and hollering
like at home. But this school continued right through junior
high and high school and had only one sport to go out for.
Basketball. How many times I had the thought that I wished
they had football.
But my desire to play football was
all-important. And with my whole family knowing and signing
the papers and all that -- my parents would have to do that
sort of thing -- I switched from the Catholic school to the
local public school in Seventh Grade, which was two years
before you could go out for the foot ball team, but I both
(1) wanted to be established there, and (2) hoped that
somehow they wouldlet
me go out for the team, wouldn't have to play, just to
practice and perfect my skills and get the joy of playing in
practice, was all I'd expect.So I switched school with a heartache for the friends
I left behind, who I've never forgotten to this day, and
never stopped loving either, andalso an anticipation of a joy of following my life's
dream. I was on my way to being somebody, and I had to do
Yes, in fact, while I was still in seventh
grade I did go to the football coach and ask if I could go
out for the team. Coach Wasliewski didn't take me seriously
(I always felt that if I could only have expressed how
important it was to me, that maybe he'd give me a break; but
at that age I didn't have such words, or such confidence to
express myself). Of course, I'll never forget what he said.
He smiled and grabbed the bicep of one arm, saying "Why
don't you wait a couple years till you got some meat on
those bones?" Now, I was strong as I'd been working out
with weights, and such, to build myself up and to be all
that I could be, going well back into grade school. Still, I
took his words to be code that the protocol would not be
broken; it just wasn't something that they'd consider doing.
So for the next two years, while going to
school, and getting my good grades as usual; I took every
spare moment I could find to read books on football, play
football, find any games I could on weekends and show up.
I'd generally play both Saturday and Sunday. There'd usually
be games on the park, the side of the river, up to the dike,
and I'd overcome my shyness and play with these strangers
who'd show up. And if there wasn't a game there I'd go into
Kirby's park looking for one. Most of the time I found one.
If I didn't I'd work out or run or something.
So, two long years. I did a lot else. Growing
up. Being attracted to girls. First dances. First kiss. First
girlfriend, second, uh , third, don't remember. And every
spring I'd fall in love with Nickie, though Ernestine was my
first love, and my secret love, the one I always regretted
breaking up with. She was the only female who
"got" me, and this was in seventh grade, often
during the lunch period. And by this I mean she seemed to
understand who I was,to
see a certain specialness in me that I was trying to hide.
The next person to "get" me didn't come along
until I was 40 years old, and she is my wife now. There were
many girlfriends, but I don't believe I was really
"seen" or "gotten" except for those two
times. And both of them had this characteristic that I felt
they were my best friend, that I could talk to about
anything and never be misunderstood or put down, and that I
would be supported in everything I believed and thought. It
was also great to feel that they thought the things about me
that were different, and which I aspired and believed in
choosing to be different, were great. They even admired
those things in me; where others would not be interested or
would be confused or just not get it.
So anyway, despite my life at home, I was
feeling like I was making my life's dreams come true, and I
was happy -- a little lonely at times, especially in the
beginning -- but generally happy, and then happier, as the
two year waiting period was coming to an end.
Finally, in the summer of '64, I showed up
for football and got the permission slip we all had to bring
in, signed by our parents, before anything more could be
done. What transpired is still hard to relate. But maybe now
you'll understand why.
I took it home all gleeful, and happy, like
it was the first day of a brand new life. I showed it to my
mother, excitedly. To my surprise, she got very serious. She
said something like, "your father and I have talked and
we have to talk to you about this."
I'm sensing a problem, like, yep, it would be
typical, what am I going to have to do, take out the
garbage, plus, whatever, whatever, and help Dad paint the
house next summer, and so on, and so on, so that you coulduse your power to refuse like it was money. Yep, that
would be typical.
Well, I had to wait till my Dad got home that
evening. I'll skip the leadup, and just tell you what I was
told. As I stood there unbelieving I heard the most
outrageous crock of bullshit I ever had heard in my life. I
knew immediately that my father was hating me and trying to
crush me; and that was the reason for their refusal to sign.
I heard them saying -- with my mother doing as much of the
betrayal as my Dad -- that they'd heard you could get hurt
in football, and that they would not sign because they
didn't want me getting any injured.
OK, so we got here parents that beat me with
a strap when I was so small that I could be picked up by my
father with one hand and held by one leg to be whipped.
Parents that said not a word about us playing football in
the street or on ashes or coal with no pads or even helmet
whatsoever. These were parents that let my brother and I, he
2 and 1/2 years older, go hitchhiking on the highways up to
go camping whenI
was only in second grade, him in like fifth, even
hitchhiking up to the amusement park, both still in grade
school. These are parents that knew of my hopes and dreams
since grade school, who signed the papers for me to switch
schools, after sixth grade, knowing the one and only reason
I asked to do that. They were aware of my working out since
grade school, playing football on weekends. They knew I
believed I was gifted and that I hoped to have a life playing
at a big university and then going onto pro
football, because I talked it up at every opportunity; and
they saw me walking around with paperback books in junior
high about how to play football and plays and strategies,
and so on, books that I studied along with my schoolwork. So
I'd been preparing my whole childhood since maybe second or
third grade for this moment. It was the meanest thing that
anyone had ever done. I felt like they were out to killoff any chance of happiness in my life, so that I
could be as miserable as them. And that was largely the
case. I begged, I pleaded, I cried, I screamed. My younger
brother remembers it more clearly than me. He said to me,
after we were well grown up, Yea, I remember you crying,
screaming, begging, holding it out and pleading "sign
it, sign it, please sign it. Please, please, and so
on." Your face was red. It went of for days.
Yes, it did. There was not crack in their
position. My Dad was determined to keep me from doing
anything that would be a reminder to him of his lot in life.
He was determined to drag me into his hell hole with him. Me
and all my siblings. His self-esteem was so pathetically
low, that he could only feel he had done good in his life by
stepping on the crushed souls of his children, hopingthey would not shine very brightly and would not make
him feel worse about his miserable life.
What does all this have to do with Michael
read what I have to say about his life and what was done to
him, you will know that I have more than "book
knowledge" on this subject; you will know that I have
intimate knowledge of the workings of both his mind and
those of his detractors.
wasn't till he died, and I focused again on him, also heard
a little more on TV about him, the kinds of things that were
not being told, that were being left out during his time of
persecution, that I reflected more, then more, and even
writing this today was totally unplanned, as my writing led
to reflection, which I wrote as the realizations came to me.
Yea, I know a little bit about this subject.
I know it enough to hate it; to hate the way that people
scapegoat those that make them feel inferior; the way they
try to crush people with talent and sensitivity because it
makes them feel bad about themselves.
Consideringthe fact that there are people in the world like my
Dad, and the Santa Barbara prosecutors of Michael Jackson,
as well as al l the talk show haters, and Joe Blow pilers-on
to his persecution, I am more convinced than ever that
Michael Jackson was totally innocent, and that what was said
about him was concocted in the minds of people more "pervy"
by far than Michael. And I mourn his persecution, which
eventually took his life, more strongly. And I am more
motivated to do what I can, like these articles, to spread
the word about these evil workings in the social- cultural
rituals of peoples all over the world; these rituals by
which sick people find innocent people who by their goodness
make them realize their inferiority, but since they have
evil others to share their hatred with, they canimpresssickly
twisted views into the populace, which, vociferously upheld
and drilled home by other twisted souls who feel inferior in
the face of talent, and they have to feel like they are
gods, for some reason, will do anything it takes, including
lying to bring down the object that brings up their truth
The Wrapup You Didn't Expect
So that's my
story. And I should say, you know, I mean.... sad story.
I'm much older now and it's not like I've forgotten it...Like I
said, I've been through primal therapy.... I don't want to forget
you see, having gone through Primal... experiencing it, along with
the other ways I've been screwed over... I've accepted it; and it
doesn't affect me, or push me, or anything.
learned to appreciate my Dad; even to love him later in life...and
my mother...seeing them as poor souls who had it so bad that.... I'm
just glad I didn't get their lot in life.
sure, as a kid... as a kid I just hated; I was so mad, I hated.
you see, I didn't know two things -- that I learned in my life --
but it took a lot of life experience and Primal and so on....
had to learn...that cruel people do cruel things not knowing they
are being cruel; and not being able to help it.... They're
driven...by cruel things that have been done to them. It's
always: "There but for the Grace of God go I."
we're fortunate enough to be
able to change our ways, to not be so cruel, to be kinder, gooder...
to help people... that's why we should! Because not everybody
can. Some people are just too crushed inside, more crushed than me.
the other thing is..."OK, so that was football, y'know... but I
had other talent....
I realized in life that it's not . . . . Who is really in
charge of this life is not my parent. I began to realize that
nothing happens, not
even a blade of grass moves... in the wind...unless by the will of
God. I surely believe that... Because I've seen it... in my
life. How many times I've planned things, I went to have; something
else happened that was better for me.
I'm saying is: There's your feeling of destiny, and your
feeling of how it should work out... and then there's you know ...
you may know your talents, but you don't know your goal. You
don't know what God's divine plan is for your destiny. In the end, I
could just think that maybe I might have got football... and been a
jock... and played Pro Football and everything. I might've
been one of those businessmen they always turn out to be; and become
a Republican like they always turn out; and never gone and to school
and gotten that passion for knowledge... that passion...for
knowledge...to know...incredible things that the great minds have
known for millennia... passion for knowledge....
then to actually find out about the way of feeling my emotional
scars, and to go into that and actually do it, and to get the
benefit of that ... would I have done any of that if I had gone on
who knows if I had gone into football if I might not have had
something happen to me as a Pro where I might have had some kind of
weird creepy accident or had my.... people have died on the playing
field... I mean God only knows your fate in life and when something,
some brick wall is blocking the way, even if it is your greatest
desire -- and there's nothing you can do about it -- well, you gotta
know, that God is protecting you there... from something that you
know not what...
found out, I found that out. I even had a house fire. I thought,
"What are you doing, God, trying to kill me?"
had a house fire that burned down all the books, all the books I had
planned, for the rest of my life....
took me ten years... well, nine full years for sure for me to
realize that that was the greatest gift I could receive because it
freed me from all those old books -- some of which are so important
that I will bring them out in some form or other...
it freed me to have a style -- not an academic style, but a style
all my own. It freed me to write, to speak, be comical, to act ... to
be me! In a much freer way than I would have been had I stayed with
all those academic books that I was going to write -- trapped into
academic kind of writing, which very few people would read.
I realize now I got so much coming up; I got so much more material,
and it's so much more... in some ways it's much better than
before. It's so much better than what I had planned. I
wouldn't have come to it otherwise.
and this is so much, this is so much....
life? I realize had to be exactly the way it was and even my
father... You know I can forgive my father. It was hard! But
you know? It didn't kill me.
had it's blessings that I might have resisted. It helped me to know
what's good, in family, in groups and stuff. It helped me to
appreciate love. It helped me to understand love and to be even more
sensitive because I knew my Dad had been miserable. So I was totally
committed to being sensitive and to being all that I could be. Because I knew what it was
like to be well, I guess, smaller... I knew what a small person
looked like. Although for he, it was probably all that he could be.
would be the inspiration for all of his children to be better, to do
better, to raise their children better, which they all did. My
nieces and nephews are wonderful; they're beautiful.
my siblings and I all carry scars. They, my my brothers and sisters,
carry more scars than me because of Primal.
you imagine, I'm going into realms I feel so happy about. You think I
think about football? Hardly.
joy, my greatest joy; the things that's giving me joy now is the
thought of helping somebody out; helping people out. I can't
think of anything better.
see I've come from so much suffering, and still survived over and
over again. A lot of it I did on my own, like my birth.
so I've born me.
went into Primal, and other things that I put in, coming out of
know so many things; I mean I know things; I know I can help people,
through the therapy; and I also know things that I can tell people
that will, how you say, "ease their mind"?
know things that are true; that if only they know, you see, because
it took me a long time to get to them... but they are true. And they
can relieve the suffering that they're feeling unnecessarily.
can't save everybody; but I know that my greatest joy is doing what
I can for the people that God puts in my life, that God brings to
it's not a sad story. It's not a sad story at all. What the story
is, is a story of authenticity. As I was talking about in
"Message from Michael," -- it's a story of
authenticity. It is -- by bucking and defying culture -- which
is exactly what I had to do.
that's the dilemma of culture, and, I thank Michael Jackson for the
message of his life and for all the wonderful things that he's
done. As well, I thank him for his personal contribution to my
understanding of me.
I said at the end of "Message from Michael," this is no.
this person is not lacking, this person's life was not a failure or
tragic. He lived larger than life... He let himself be all that he
could be to the umpteenth degree, surpassing everyone and no one
surpassing him that could dance like him
so I say, Is it the length of your life that's important? Or is it
the richness of the LIFE that's in your life that's important.
think Michael Jackson is happy sleeping with the angels. I
think he's finally at peace.
is SillyMickel Adzema.
You Can't Really Function, You're so Full of Fear" - John Lennon . . .
Drowning in Fear, Unable to See, Life's Much a Struggle, Till You Reach