My heart’s at half mast along with the flags of Newark. The Buddhist tenet of nonattachment is not working. I want Whitney Houston to be alive. I long to hear her voice again–alive–lingering confidently acappella.
The family shared her lyrical genius with fans for 30 years. At what price? What is it about the American frenzy for stardom that sucks the sparkle out of brilliance at a young age? Recently I saw My Week with Marilyn and marvelled at her luminous ways of turning sane, rational men into Jello. Her life sputtered early.
Are we a society so dearly dedicated to mediocrity that we delegate the deep desire for expression to others? What to do—
Let’s take our anger and sorrow to the page, the canvas, the mike, the keyboard, the office, the meeting hall, and the boardroom. Belt out something original, something of the caliber of “I have a dream”; “Ask not what your country can do for you”; or “I Will Always Love You.”
And fall to our collective knees, asking for each collective addiction to be removed–greed, passivity, gluttony, consumerism, national debt. I’ll do that right after I tap Publish. I promise.