Today's Diva: Orianthi Panagaris

As I've said so many times before,

divas don't have to be

opera singers.

They're anyone who put their hearts and souls

on the line to produce the best 

that they can produce.

Here's another:

I first encountered her in 

This Is It! --

the film about Michael Jackson's "final" tour,

and I thought then: there's a force to be reckoned with,

and that force was not Michael Jackson:

And she is a force to be reckoned with,

and a true diva ~ ~

Orianthi Panagaris

Remembering The Time

to the eternal diva,

Michael Jackson,

August 29, 1958 - July 25, 2009

who reminds us,
all too well,

that divas,

in their strive for artistic perfection
are, in the end,

only human

the face I wear

sticksandstoneslive

the face I wear,

I didn't choose,

so why do you judge me by it?

the color of my hair,

too,

came with this machine,

this avatar,

I found myself trapped within at birth,

so why make jokes about it?

my body too, was not my fault,

and I didn't buy my skin 

color in a bottle on a shelf

maps.grida

I gained them all

the same way you gained yours:

it was an accident of birth.

For some it's lucky;

for some it's not;

our challenge is to see beyond

and behind

the superficial artifices

we face everyday,

and find the fellow soul

beneath.

It's not my fault,

the way I look to you;

I only wish you

would give me a chance

to be not the person you think I am,

but rather the person

I long to be.

 

4/1/2011 - 4/2/2011

rachelnico

So

I had a guy in my life

once

who was kind of like a psychopath;

I don't know

if he truly was one,

but he was

an awful lot like one.

He would mirror

back to me

(or you or anybody)

exactly what we want to see

EXACTLY

to a 

"T"

And I was able to hold

his attention

for over two years,

which meant that

for about a year --

                      maybe a little more--

he actually found some interest or

challenge,

or maybe even enjoyed

mirroring me back

to me;

and I had this crazy belief that,

in the midst of that time,

I penetrated the surface and found and connected with

the man underneath

downloadmonkey

And he was pretty darned extraordinary

and I still believe

in a sick, sad way

that he thought I was extraordinary

too.

I will honestly tell you:

I had never been

so happy

in my life.  Foolishly, I thought

I could make it last

forever.

But when the man you give your love to
is actually
the man deep inside
the mirror,
you have to realize
he
is constantly receding,
because in this world comprised
solely of representations
the mirror
dominates
over the
original


                                . . . and so

every other woman
who sees this man
also sees
herself the way
she would like
to see herself,
and she wants him for her very own;
and if he's living
continually
in his Mirror Stage,
well,
he's very rarely in contact
with the true he,
he's just continually infatuated
with the perfect he
that he thinks he can see whenever
 a woman thinks she has fallen
head over heels in love
with him.

Still,
there has to be a man in the mirror,
a man who on this earthly domain
was given the deadly deed
of having to be the mirror-bearer,
he whose essence
is that mystical 3rd that God created
for the sole purpose
of being able to see
HimSelf.




OK,
honestly,
this is a pretty wild entry here,
but I'm going to ride it out

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 So
how many women fall so
in love (as much in love as I did) with
their psychopath lover?

I'd say almost all of them;
or most of them

So what                                               
is
                                          the
big fucking deal?

There is no deal:
there never was:
for two years, I stood
in front of a
beautiful mirror
and learned to love myself.




Tomorrow
would be
my father's birthday,
had he lived,

but as we all know:
Makropoulos is 425 years old,
so her father,
has long since mingled
with the earth he loved,
with the water he loved,
with the trees he wouldn't cut down,
not even for Christmas:

My father,
the most beautiful man
I will ever know:
tall and slender
and blonde
and quiet; smart
and witty
(I was the one who always got his jokes)
subtle,
and kind,
and so misunderstood,
my
               dear
                dear
father,
I've only just passed the age
he was at when he died,
or so it seems,
as he's been gone
such a long
long
long
time.
It's been hundreds of years
since I saw him last,
and I was just really getting
to know him.

                  Yes,

I loved my father
very much,
and I do believe
he loved me too.


                                                          He just never said it
                                                                       out loud.

artsjournal


And then there was another man:
the man I was married to, many years ago,
he
was 20 years my senior,
I married him
when he was at the age my father was
when he died.

People said to me:
you married a father figure,
and I said:
no! I did not!

He didn't look a think like my father, and
he was shorter than him, and
he could see color
and play the piano.

My father
was tone deaf,
and could only see red.



But I will tell you something
which
I recently discovered
(or came to terms with)
:

Yes.
I did marry my husband
to replace my father, and I am here to tell you:
the biggest
mistake a woman could make
if in a position even vaguely similar
to the one I was in when I married
would be to marry a man
who is the opposite of her father.  Women

make their men
in to the man
they want him to be.
And if the woman is lucky,
the man
is amenable to it.

If a woman feels
she met the perfect man
in her father, well, she tries
to make the man in her life
into her conception of her father.

That is why, quite frankly,
if a woman must marry,
and if she loved her father,
she should marry a man who is like her father,
in looks and temperment,
because if her father is really
a wonderful man (as my father was)
then the man you've chosen
to mold into him won't mind it at all,
and won't mind reflecting him back to you.


Does this mean I agree with Freud, when he said
that every girl and every boy
wants to have sex
with their father and/or mother?

No.

A girl can love her father without wanting to bed him,
and visa versa, just as a boy
can love his parent in the same way.
There is a true paternal love, a love
that adores the daughter
but does not cross that line;
and there is a true daughterly love,
a love that adores
her father, and adores
him all the more
because she knows she is safe with him.

But when it comes to a boyfriend,
a reproduction will suit her fine.
There's no sin in that;
there's not sin in wanting to love your mate
with the same excessive love that a child
once harbored for their parent who was their absolute world.

And if that man (or other mate of whatever gender)
is of like temper,
and seeks to love a woman
with the same adoration that he once
directed solely towards his mother,
well,
they're a match made in heaven.

Soulmates?

Maybe.

That's really another element all together.

Yes, there's no sin in that, because
if we could all find a partner
who we can love with the same love we felt
for the person we loved absolutely most in our lives,
well,
this would be a pretty happy planet,
and would spin
in an energy of
healing bliss.

But alas,
that's not the way the world turns, instead
we live in the tug of war of
users, abusers
used, abused,
passive-aggressive
active complacent
passive passive
active active

and every gradation in between.

Indeed
Indeed.

And we fight and we bicker,
and we flaunt flirt and hurt,
and we ignore the beautiful
simplicity of truth right before
our eyes.

Indeed
Indeed.

(Is it Armageddon yet?)

If it is,
well perhaps
we should
give up our
petty hatreds
now, and love
with a love that exceeds,

like a child loves his mother or her father,
or whomever it was
who once made that child
oh so glad, just to be
alive.

AbusesubA

The reverse of the abuse is
love


The initial abuse occured
when
for a split second

God
or the representation of god
that was produced so god
could see what he
or she
looked like

looked

and said:

"what the heck is that?"

and for a moment the love faltered,

and part of god laughed

at the other part of god

and that laughing part of god

made the other part of god

feel it was less than god,

and so

the cycle of abuse

began

. . . .



slowly,


through time


the abuse has compounded to the point where


pastors abuse parishioners


fathers abuse children


lovers abuse beloved


and the abused are so confused --  because


it all started for them


a long time ago,


when they had come only seeking


love.



It's time to break the chain;


it's time to look in the mirror and recognize


we are all complimentary parts


of the total image






The only way to make that change

to the man in the mirror

is to change the man

looking

at

the mirror.

Time passes in the blink of an eye when you're as old as I am.

No, I haven't posted in a while. And the Blooger world has passed me by. This new technology sometimes baffles me, though I must confess to loving it, too.

Much has happened to me, some of which I may share at some time. The challenging part of being my age is that I've known so many men, and generally, I've learned the types. There are really very few male types. But every now and then one comes along that baffles me, even scares me in his originality. And that is what I've been involved with, until I realized that if I really wanted to live until I was finished living, I really might want to get out of his life. Or get him out of mine. I hope I did it soon enough.

Yes, some people call me a risk taker. I went to a counselor who called me that, and then her conclusion after talking to me for about an hour was that I am an alcoholic. That Twentieth Century; it really was a century of hang-ups. Anything that was done in excess became an illness. One has to understand, though, the anyone who does things in excess is just being human in high gear. And unfortunately, some can't handle it. Indeed, no one can handle it if you push it too high - everyone reaches their limits. A Romanian friend made the comment to me just the other day that we strive to reach our inadequacies. We strive to find our limits. And when we find them, well we try to break through them.

When I was child, oh way too long ago, I was terrifically shy. Everything was a limit for me. You'd think I wouldn't remember that far back, but I do. Because I am still always already that terribly shy fearful child. And whenever I feel myself settling back into my fearful self, I do something else to exceed my limits. The thing is - at 424 years old, well, your outermost limit keeps becoming more extreme and extraordinary.

But I do have my limits.

Like aging children. We are really just aging children. For a period of time, we play the game of society - society is, after all, nothing but a game. The child inside of us learns to play it; some of us learn to play it better than others, because we're a little more keyed in to the folks who are setting the rules. But as we get older, well, the game gets a bit boring. This is why older people become so absolutely childish. They just resort back to their essential selves, the selves they were born with.

Mankind too gets bored with playing the game; this is why we have revolutions. We're due for a big one. Read my blogs about The Grid to see why this is an important topic to me.

Among humans, though, there are some people, who for one reason or another, recognize early on that it's all a game. They decide they will keep their childish selves alive, and take out their social selves whenever they need it. These are some of the most intelligent people around, and the most interesting. But they can also be the most dangerous. Childish impulses can be hurtful, especially when the child was reprimanded with pain. This produces mean abusive adults. You have to watch out for them; they look for people who keep the childish innocence in their eyes, and take the rules of the game very seriously. These are the people who are easily fooled.

I say these things largely because this is what I feel like talking about right now. But also, I look back at my post about Michael Jackson. He was an old soul, too, you know. As a soul, he had become so old that he was just always a child. This can be good and this can be bad. People like this sometimes get confused, and think they can play certain childish games that one really can't play when they've grown out of their childish body.

Yes, that's one of the benefits of just not having died. My body has remained my own; I'm very aware of the stages of its aging. And it is aging, now; it has been, for hundreds of years, aged rather slowly, but it's becoming a little more noticeable these days. In this body, and having never left the earth, I know what I can safely get away with. Michael kept coming back, kept getting new bodies, and he kept forgetting that bodies have this problem with growing up.

I still have so much to share, but I am getting weary. I performed Turandot at the Met tonight, and even though I love singing Turandot, and this bass Ramey is not bad for an old man, well, I am exhausted. But I'll be back, sooner rather than later.

the end at the beginning of the stories

Stories spin themselves out in my mind when I least expect it. They are constructed by the connections I make, between the literature, art, travel and experiences I've had, and my observations of the modern world. I'm at the greatest risk when I actually begin believing that my stories may be true. The only way I can maintain their fictional status, and my sanity, is to write them down. Writing for me is a purgation, and in purging myself of this muck in my mind, I can then turn myself effectively to the task of dealing with my daily life.

Some of my stories are not really stories, they are "what ifs?" They are sketches and contemplations.

And so I begin, with a scenario that may well be a close to the end story, (I have many stories that logically precede this, but on this fine night, this is the story that is working in my craw----) And so it goes:

The Modern Renaissance

We are living at the brink of a Renaissance. In fact, it is beginning already - new art forms are popping up, and new ways of thinking. I'll talk about that more in detail later. Right now I'm a little more interested in the increasing global awareness that we are facing major change, and it may be a change over which we have very little power. Our shared awareness that there are outer forces, most likely celestial, capable of wiping us out in an instant is increasing, and will continue to do so until the year 2012.

I don't want to talk about 2012 right now, but 2012 is part of this story. The amount of propaganda, speculation, and fictionalizing surrounding this year, and, in particular, the date 12/21/2012 (I believe) will only escalate as we approach it. I fear the paranoia that could result more than the date itself.

In addition, many have been contemplating, especially since 9/11/2001, that we are indeed facing the end of the world. Perhaps we are already experiencing Armageddon, with our plagues, planes falling out of the skie, and increasing tensions and fighting between Muslims, Christians and Jews. Are we in fact the lucky generation that will find out if the book of Revelation, and other prophetic books, were authentic prophecy or just a load of crock?

Remember - this is speculation. What I am about to suggest is absolute fiction, but a curious fiction to contemplate.

Of course, if one is Christian or Muslim, the belief is that Jesus is supposed to come again at the end of time as we know it. Recognizing him may be the problem.

At this point, many probably imagine the Messiah will look an awful lot like he did the first time around. The veracity of that belief is utterly contingent upon the accuracy of the representations of Jesus that we've had for over 2,000 years now. I'm not going to suggest that I know what Jesus looks like, but I would like to make a radical suggestion about what he, or she, or they, (why can't Jesus be a plural?) might BE like.

I have always puzzled over Jesus' claim that we must become like little children in order to enter the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew Chapter 18) This has been used as a prime argument for conversion; in my King James translation, it reads "Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." Fundamentally, then, according to this translation, to become as a little child, to toss off all your material connections and follow J.C., is essentially to emulate him.

Emulating that dude is very very difficult indeed, in the modern world; and one might wonder what an individual who acted as a little child would look like in the early 21st century.

Notable Little Children (well, one, for now) and their qualities

What are the qualities of children that make them so endearing to God and Jesus?

They are unassuming. They are innocent. They do not judge, until some jaded adult comes along and influences their perceptions. They are, for the most part, fundamentally moral. Of course, they have some emotional hang-ups, and, well, they're kids, you know. Not much education. But the thing about being a little child is that they learn so quickly, and a child whose talents are recognized and fostered can become absolute masters in their fields, if they remain devoted to pursuing them. Consider the great prodigies in music, for instance, Mozart. Schaeffer's Amadeus (both movie and film) depicted a man of intense genius and skill with his art/craft, but also with the emotional maturity of a10 year old. But the music - ah, listen to some of the arias from La Clemenza di Tito ("Deh per questo istante" - Sextus (Sesto) in Act II) or, one of my favorite's, Suzanna's amazing forgiveness aria at the end of The Marriage of Figaro, (not to mention any number of his instrumental works), and yes, you will hear something akin to the voice of God.

(
Keep listening, this is a scene where a devoted wife who has been wronged attempts to fool her husband with a masquerade that ends with his realizing his errors and begging her forgiveness. This begins around 3.58 on the video. Her response is utter forgiveness, the type that looks beyond the most horrible misuse of trust and reaffirms the power and sanctity of love.)


What power could have guided that hand of musical genius? What power except for an exquisite creative source, so close to the source that created us? Truly, only someone capable of finding in his being the heart and soul of a child could conjure that type of purity. But, as we have learned from Mozart's tragic end, little children are not all purity, especially when they grow up in a demented, material world. They can develop habits that "normal" society might even categorize as perversions.

But could it be that very type of mentality that Jesus promoted? Or was he, perhaps, instead promoting a wisdom of many years, coupled with the spirit of a child?

We are such complex modern people, the idea of actually acting like a little child seems absurd, and self-destructive.

A Child For Our Times
(This is where my "story" asks its readers to really take a leap of trust. Remember this is fiction, a playful jest toying with a number of literary and artistic texts, playing with surprising connections.)

Tonight, I found myself watching the MSNBC coverage of Michael Jackson's last years, and his creation of Neverland. In one interview, done several years ago, a tearful Jackson defended himself against sexual misconduct charges, claiming he could "never" do the acts for which he stood accused. He loved little children far too much for that, he said, and never wanted to see them suffer. He worried for the children of our time, he said, and all the turmoils they face. If there were no more children in the world, he said, I would jump right out that window.

Children, he said, gave him hope.

Michael Jackson's love of children got him in a hell of a lot of trouble, and his contradictory answers on a number of different issues make him an easy target, but what if he was actually telling the truth? What if he truly was innocent, and his Neverland gatherings were precisely as he said, innocent little evenings designed to help children escape the difficulties of their lives in the real world.

Michael Jackson's death has allowed us to begin to separate the man from the mirror (if we are to interpret the mirror as being the multiple representations of him we have over time.) One might say that, with the man gone, the multiple mirror images he produced of himself have become the Real Michael Jackson, and his music stands more firmly than any of his interviews ever did as his most consistent self-representation. Michael Jackson did make mistakes, like Mozart did, and countless others like him did, but when we look simply at his ouevre, we see a child/man desperately trying to express simple, pure reactions to both his own personal life and the life of the world. And his reactions - his music and dance - are purely conceived and perfectly executed, the result of capturing his true talents early in childhood and honing them to a level that far exceeded anyone else in the business today. The talent of Michael Jackson WAS a gift, and it was one that was directly linked to something essential and pure, like a little child. I don't know about you, but when I watch that old "Thriller" video, I just have to get up and dance and chuckle and Michael's playful acting.

Watching the older Michael Jackson being interviewed is a little chllling, especially when he talks about the treatment his father gave him in forcing him to develop his talents, and his love of Peter Pan. (I think he said, in one interview "I am Peter Pan.")

He is, he was. And that is the impression he has left us with.

However, as the media munches on this delectable evolving story, demonizing Joe Jackson, gleefully wandering through Neverland's empty halls, and psychoanalyzing Michael, it also assures him a level of post-humous notoreity that may be producing the first global media icon. With his international following and simple universal message, the man in the mirror exceeds himself on the internet. There's no need to go looking for ghosts at the ends of Neverland halls on those CNN tapes - his ghost is not in the place where those who care claim it is. (Instead, look just behind Jermaine's left shoulder in his interview with Larry King - there's something there that looks more like a ghost to me than the shadow at the end of the hall.) His spirit is everywhere, on the radio, on YouTube, in the media's new love affair with his life and death.

But I diverge. My purpose, it is true, is to explore the idea that M.J. himself has and had the power and ability to deliver a childlike message to the global audience, and he did it. Many rejected him as he edged towards being a 50 year old child; however, his work from the later years reveals a man highly aware of his ability to tap a massive audience.

We are all quick to judge, but we have to remember, as we face a potential judgement day, it is not our place to judge. How many people have judged Michael Jackson, without ever attempting to imagine the hell he lived in? At this point, it's fairly common knowledge that he was denied a childhood, and that is why he so vehemently created the childhood playground he never had at Neverland. The media's and the public's judgemental eye may be more guilty of perversion than the man who has been judged.

I would propose, in this modest and rambling first posting, that one individual who may have all the qualities required of a second Messiah, would be Michael Jackson, if, indeed, Michael Jackson is innocent. And for a few seconds, I would like any reader who has gotten this far, to contemplate him innocent, utterly innocent, of the charges pressed once against him. Judge him, if you dare judge, only by his collected words, and find in that collection the spirit of the eternal child. And in that spirit, we hear the craving for peace and goodness that is essential to usher in a new millenium, just as the book of Revelation proposes will happen.

Of course, Michael Jackson does not LOOK like a Jesus, or a Messiah. But neither did the first one. No one thought he would be a simple man, born of simple people. But those were the people he sought to reach, so that was the form he assumed. In the 21st century, in America and the world, why wouldn't he come again as a young black man who turned white during his 50 troubled years on this planet, than was murdered (martyred) by the industry that produced him for our enjoyment?

No one shouted "crucify him." But how many of us expected and waited for him to die of an overdose, or other medical malfunction? Through this perspective, Dr. Conrad Murray is just an unwitting pawn in a larger game of fate. If he had not been willing to break laws in order to meet the star's requests for drugs, someone else would have done it, for the right price. And in doing it, that someone else (or Murray himself) becomes a tool in dismantling the apparatus of illusion that the American entertainment industry has been practicing nearly ever since its inception. Michael Jackson, in life, was the ultimate victim of that illusion-making machine; in death, that machine itself could actually reinvent him as a martyr.

it's growing late. I know this rambling is insufficient, and my final punch is limp. I'll let Michael himself try to help me sign off here, with good intentions to return and explain some of the other notions that ramble through my head, as I observe the passing of time.



Makropoulos
8/2/2009