Wednesday, August 31, 2011
AL CINCILEA ANOTIMP
m-am trezit iar
in timpurile tale suspendate
in culoare peste suflete
si in floarea de crin
dincolo de stele surazi
increzator
in ele
si in nori
e partea ta de nemurire, aici
in anotimpuri rebele
vesele si triste
pe lacul acela de clestar
in verdele ierbii
care a uitat sa creasca
DE ATUNCI
De cand ai unit anotimpurile
Intr-unul singur
POVESTEA UNEI IUBIRI INTERZISE
PARTEA I
BAHRAIN, 1989
Simteam, pentru a suta oara, in cei 17 ani, ca vreau sa prind aripi si sa zbor intr-o alta lume…o lume in care sa fiu stapana doar pe mine insami, eliberata de atatea cutume ,prejudecati si reguli stricte, dictate de stramosi.
BAHRAIN, 1989
Simteam, pentru a suta oara, in cei 17 ani, ca vreau sa prind aripi si sa zbor intr-o alta lume…o lume in care sa fiu stapana doar pe mine insami, eliberata de atatea cutume ,prejudecati si reguli stricte, dictate de stramosi.
Pe de alta parte, credeam ca nu ma pot dezlipi cu usurinta de locurile in care am prins, fara sa vreau, radacini…Si totusi, ma puteam considera fericita, in virtutea faptului ca membrii familiei mele au aceiasi descendenti cu familia regala .Inca din copilarie, mi-au aratat ca civilizatia, arta si traditia sunt concepte care nu-si traseaza limitele doar intre granitele micului nostru regat.
O noua dimineata privita de la geam, azurul marii limpezindu-mi gandurile,
aroma cafelei pregatite de bunica,caldura celor de acasa, m-au facut sa las inca o data in urma gandurile avute inainte cu o noapte.Pescarusul din mine era din nou zglobiu, fericit ca poate goli o mare cu privirea.
aroma cafelei pregatite de bunica,caldura celor de acasa, m-au facut sa las inca o data in urma gandurile avute inainte cu o noapte.Pescarusul din mine era din nou zglobiu, fericit ca poate goli o mare cu privirea.
Forfota din bucatarie mi-a amintit ca tata urma sa gazduiasca, pentru doua-trei zile, un tanar…,,American star”…asa se spune in engleza…De altfel, foarte celebru la ei…Probabil ca are ceva afaceri de rezolvat aici...daca venea sa viziteze, poate ca alegea un hotel.Oricum, nici nu e de mirare, la noi acasa e tot timpul cineva in vizita.
Cursurile de limba engleza de joia trecuta m-au facut sa-mi amintesc acel cuvant obscen scris de baieti pe tabla si de mine, incercand sa-l caut in dictionar si renuntand, nedumerita ca nu-l gasesc.
L-am luat pe Ayan ,varul meu de 13 ani ,si ne-am indreptat spre cladirea unde se tineau, de obicei, cursurile.
L-am luat pe Ayan ,varul meu de 13 ani ,si ne-am indreptat spre cladirea unde se tineau, de obicei, cursurile.
Zambeam, fericita, in vesnica burka, la gandul ca peste cativa ani voi urma o Universitate, fara sa iau in seama prea mult ca va trebui sa las in urma minunata mea familie.
Orasul exotic si modern, in acelasi timp, peisajul mirific al luminilor ce se jucau printre valuri, cladirile impunatoare scaldate de razele lunii, m-au facut sa ma gandesc , din nou,ca traiesc intr-unul dintre cele mai frumoase locuri de pe pamant.
Si totusi…luna e atat de diferita-pentru turisti si pentru localnici.
Cursurile s-au tinut in aceeasi sala.Insa, abia dupa ce mi-am dat jos burka si valul, am constatat ca iarasi erau doar baieti in clasa.Domnul Mansur si-a facut aparitia in stilu-i caracteristic, schiopatand si salutandu-ne cu o aceeasi voce ferma.Era foarte entuziasmat ca cineva avea sa asiste la orele noastre.
-Domnul este din America.El participa la finantarea acestor cursuri si vrea sa se asigure ca totul merge struna.
-Domnul este din America.El participa la finantarea acestor cursuri si vrea sa se asigure ca totul merge struna.
Baietii au raspuns cu un ,,da “ prelung, ca si cand ar fi aprobat vizita celui care tocmai intra.Era un barbat creol, cu umerii lati, cu corp de dansator, cu par carliontat, negru si un zambet ce dezvaluia cei mai frumosi si mai albi dinti pe care-i vazusem vreodata.
Cand s-a apropiat mai mult, am zarit un inger... imbracat in rosu, zambind ,cu un aer degajat...
Dupa ce usa s-a inchis in urma sa,larma care i-a aprins pe colegii si capetele intoarse spre mine mi-au dat de inteles ca locul meu nu era acolo…o singura fata intre atatia baieti…si un barbat strain in preajma…Iar faptul ca acest strain a ainceput sa se uite la ochii mei, la parul meu, la fata mea,m-au facut sa rosesc mai intai, apoi sa ma simt cuprinsa de un sentiment ciudat.Ceva de nedescris…care parca mi-a adus in fata ochilor franturi dintr-o alta existenta.
Mi-am infasurat valul in jurul gatului, apoi am intins mana dupa burka si m-am repezit spre iesire , cu o lacrima mare siroindu-mi pe fata…
- Am inchis usa incet,ca si cand mi-ar fi fost teama…apoi,zgomotul unui pian dezacordat, lumina puternica si aerul uscat de afara m-au facut sa rememorez momente cunoscute, traite... Undeva…dar unde?…candva..dar cand?…Si mereu ochii aceia negri, nelinistiti, ba veseli, ba tristi, ce ma strivausc sub licarul lor…
- Ajunsa acasa, mai tarziu, totul mi s-a parut o aiureala, o nebunie a mintii mele, menite sa traiasca intr-o lume impusa.Spre seara, tata a tinut o scurta intrunire a numerosilor membri ai familiei, anuntandu-ma, in mod special, ca va trebui sa-mi pregatesc tinuta festiva , pentru a-l onora pe oaspetele nostru cu un dans traditional.Mama coordona activitatea la bucatarie, unde se pregateau bucate de sarbatoare.Acesta era felul ei de a se prezenta ca o adevarata stapana a casei.Fratii mei cei mici se jucau in curtea din spate, cu o minge proaspat achizitionata. Rasetele si bucuria tuturor, atmosfera generala de sarbatoare m-au facut sa constat ca nu eram atat de entuziasmata de aceasta vizita, caci odata cu lasarea serii, mi-a aparut din nou in minte strainul cu chip angelic.Mi-am scos costumul sidefiu, din matase, scumpa mostenire de la strabunica , accesorizat cu podoabe purtate si ele, din generatie, in generatie.Apoi ,am privit, mandra, voalul fin,,,voalul magic”, pentru ca ori de cate ori il purtam, simteam ca plutesc, manata de ritmurile atat de cunoscute ale unui vis trait de demult.
- Odata cu lasarea serii, multitudinea de culori a florilor din curtea imensa m-a invitat sa vreau sa le privesc de mai aproape.Am inceput sa numar bobocii care s-au deschis, lasandu-si parfumul sa adore linistea care tocmai s-a lasat. In departare, luminile care inconjurau Palatul Regal dadeau savoare bulevardului intesat inca de turisti, roind fie spre centrul orasului, fie spre hotelurile unde erau cazati. Deodata, vocea lui tata ma trezeste din aceste momente de contemplatie: -Leilya, am sa-ti prezint pe cineva!Vino repede! Am urcat scarile in graba, gandindu-ma ca oaspetii au intrat, probabil, in cea mai mare liniste.
- In multimea stransa in salon,l-am recunoscut, cu uimire, pe barbatul creol de la cursuri!Nu mai vazusem nicicand un chip atat de frumos.Aducea cu un zeu din legendele grecesti sau cu o reprezentare de-a lui Michaelangello.I-am privit fugitiv la inceput, fiindu-mi teama sa-i privesc ochii.Am observat cum cateva suvite ondulate ii razbateau, rebele, de sub turbanul asezat cu maiestrie . Acum il puteam privi in voie…Dupa ce tata a facut prezentarile, el mi-a sarutat atat de delicat mana, incat mii de fluturi au inceput sa zbora din locul in care si-a pus el buzele si pana in strafundul fiintei mele.Am simtit nevoia sa-mi sprijin intregul trup de spirala din lemn de langa mine.Fara sa-mi dau seama ce mi se intampla , am inceput sa-mi ciupesc mainile cu varfurile degetelor, in speranta ca voi afla daca totul era real…Si chiar era… Cu toate ca nu-mi putea vedea fata, l-am observat cum ma privea, uimit, in timp ce dansam. …,,Mi-kel”, ,,Mi-chel”, ,,Mi-chael”…incercam din rasputeri sa rostesc, in gand, acest nume...Caci sufletul meu l-a retinut, deja, pentru tot restul vietii. Am devenit din nou acel pescarus, dansand deasupra marii involburate, sub puterea voalului meu ,,magic”.Am dansat mai bine ca niciodata.Trupul meu s-a unduit, sub privirile acelorasi ochi negri, iar camera devenea parca din ce in ce mai mica…eram doar eu si el…si ochii nostri care se adulmecau , reciproc,intr-un dans fara sfarsit…Brusc, mi-au aparut in minte vorbele mamei despre virilitatea barbatilor, despre femei si ,,fructul “ lor interzis.Apoi, mi-am amintit acele versuri care circula in traditia populara, ca o razbunare pentru femeile condamnate la lumea noastra: ,,Te voi transforma in cenusa, /daca numai o clipa imi voi intoarce privirea spre tine!”Imi venea sa-i strig:,,Lipeste-ti gura de a mea, dar lasa-mi limba libera, ca sa vorbeasca despre dragoste!” Ultimele acorduri si sfarsitul dansului mi-au dat ocazia sa-mi scot voalul si sa-i vad reactia.Uimirea i se citea pe chip, iar glasul i-a devenit grav, incercand, cumva, sa se disculpe: -Domnisoara Leilya, sunt impresionat de frumusetea dumneavostra.S-a oprit cateva momente, mi-a atins mana, dupa care a continuat:
- -Intr-adevar, sunteti o dansatoare innascuta.Mi-a facut o mare placere sa va urmaresc.
- Am inteles destul de bine ce dorea sa-mi transmita, cu toate ca engleza mea lasa de dorit.Si asta,,se datora” rigorilor de pana acum, caci,pana de curand, familiile cu traditie si avere nu erau obligate sa se exprime decat in limba araba. Toata lumea a inceput sa sara in sus si sa aplaude, apoi s-a pornit petrecerea obisnuita in cinstea unui nou-venit. Tarata parca in transa, incercam sa-mi imaginez ce-mi poate starni dorinta de a-l cunoaste mai bine pe acest om:frumusetea, misterul ochilor, dorinta de necunoscut, profunzimea privirii sale?Bataile inimii imi spuneau ca era vorba de acel ,,ceva”,interzis, acel lucru minunat care nu ti se intampla niciodata cu barbatul care ti-e harazit de familie.Am fugit, inmarmurita, in odaia mea, dandu-mi seama ca nu era un joc:era viata mea…si o floare care se deschidea ,cu teama ca va fi ranita….Aceasta e, oare dragostea? M-am framantat ore in sir, in timp ce muzica se mai auzea inca in salonul de oaspeti. Doream sa-l mai vad o data, chiar daca stiam ca nu ne puteam vorbi…sa-i simt privirea,sa-i chem ochii sa ma adulmece… Usa intredeschisa mi-a lasat drum liber spre gangul ce coresponda cu locul in care era petrecerea si cu intreaga curte.Zaream pe geam, prin perdelele colorate,contururi de trupuri in miscare si servitori care alergau in toate partile, cu platourile incarcate. N-am apucat sa ma asez pe bordura de langa pervaz, ca aud, undeva, in dreapata, zgomotul unei usi care se deschide.Zaresc un barbat care se plimba, incet, printer rondurile de flori din curte. Allah!El este!…Strainul meu si-a dezgolit capul si I-am zarit chipul frumos in lumina lunii.S-a oprit sa simta parfumul florilor….apoi, il vad ingandurat, cu ochii pironiti in dreptul Stelei Polare. Ceva ma trimite, incet, spre el…nu mai simt nimic…decat un fior nedefinit in urma mea…probabil freamatul pacatului pe care tocmai il comiteam… Ajunsa in fata lui, m-a privit de parca ne cunosteam de-o viata.Am incercat sa-i spun ceva, nu-mi mai amintesc…tot ce mai tin minte este ca am ramas hipnotizata de privirea lui.Apoi, buzele i s-au deschis, ca si cand ar fi vrut sa rosteasca ceva.Am continuat sa ne bucuram, reciproc, ochii si inima. Stelele parea ca ne dadea curaj sa ne lasam amortiti sub vraja sfanta a lunii. La un moment dat,l-am prins repede de mana si l-am condos in gangul intunecat ce facea legatura cu odaita mea.Acolo nu ne putea zari nimeni…Eram surprinsa de curajul acela nebun, care ma purta in bezna, impreuna cu un necunoscut…Incep sa-mi rasune iar in cap acele versuri:,,Gura mea este a ta, mananc-o, nu-ti fie teama!/Nu e facuta din zahar ce se topeste.” I-am simtit degetele umede si fine, soapta gingasa, mangaierea catifelata, mirosul de trandafir scaldat in roua.Mainile mele au inceput sa se joace prin minuatele-i bucle,apoi,sa-i atinga , firav,pometii si colturile buzelor zambind.La un moment dat, mi-am auzit glasul, ca un ecou, in linistea culoarului:,,Gura mea este a ta…” Am ramas acolo multa vreme, stransi intr-o inlantuire aproape cosmica.Imi simteam trupul ca pe o frunza frematand sub presiunea trupului sau .Aceasta dulce apasare, eu-uramarindu-i linia maxilarului intensificata de o raza subtila,buzele lui conturate divin cautandu-le pe ale mele, iar si iar,m-au facut sa cred ca ma aflu la limita dintre cer si pamant, lasandu-ma apoi sa plutesc din nou in acel dans nesfarsit:dansul ochilor, sorbindu-se prin intuneric, al mainilor, incatusate doar de dorinta de a atinge, al buzelor mele, pedepsite cu scurte muscaturi si impacate, apoi ,de atingeri sublime , cu varful limbii.
PARTEA a II-a
LOS ANGELES, California
1995
- Acele clipe de fericire, imaginea mea sarutandu-i degetele si a lui , mangaindu-mi parul,despartirea noastra in cateva cuvinte pe care abia acum am reusit sa le-nteleg, trupurile noastre imbratisate in gangul intunecat, tremuratul a doua voci, speriate la gandul ca cineva avea sa le surprinda, gustul dulce si amar al unei iubiri ce tresare la fiecare lovitura a sortii…toate aceste imagini mi se invalmasau in minte si imi inundau ochii, cand primele raze ale diminetii au atins varfurile cladirilor . Lacrimi de dor incercau sa scape din nou, eliberate de furia unui trup si de durerea unei inimi frante. Trecusera cinci ani de atunci.Engleza mea devenise mult mai buna, studiam de ceva timp la Universitatea din California, insa continuam sa traiesc aceste amintiri ca pe ceva sfant, cu fiecare apus, cu fiecare rasarit. El era aceeasi celebritate, acum casatorit cu fiica unei alte celebritati.Era prea mult de suportat sa le vad chipurile mereu:in ziare, la televizor.Am incercat,deseori, sa-mi impun sa nu ma mai amagesc cu amintiri care, poate, pentru el ,nu mai aveau valoare. Am luat de pe noptiera fotografia pe care i-o facuse tata inainte de plecare.Acel chip imi zambeste, putin trist parca, iar in urechi imi rasuna din nou vorbele lui:,,Intr-o zi, o sa ne intalnim, vei fi a mea…Ma vei astepta, Leilya?” ,,La ce folos?"mi-am spus... Peste inca doi ani de studii, parintii mei ma vor casatori cu un barbat pe care nu l-am vazut decat o data.Nu demult, as fi renuntat la tot pentru o viata alaturi de omul acesta din fotografie, chiar cu riscul de a-mi pierde familia .Acum, insa, nu mai eram atat de sigura… In dupa-amiaza acelei zile , incercand sa-mi alung gandurile catre el,mi-am indreptat ochii spre comanda televizorului, incercand apoi sa gasesc ceva care sa ma mai destinda.. La un moment dat, in timp ce butonam nerabdatoare, ochii mi-au cazut pe blisterul unui program cunoscut de stiri: ,,Atentat cu bomba la vestitul hotel El Riab din Regatul Bahrain”.Am ramas inmarmurita, presimtind ca ceva rau s-a intamplat.Am luat repede telefonul si l-am sunat pe tata.De la el aflasem, nu demult, ca Michael…al meu…era acolo…Simtea ca are nevoie de liniste, dupa recentele neintelegeri cu sotia… La celalalt capat al firului il auzeam, ca prin vis, pe tatal meu…chiuia, bucurandu-se ca ma aude.L-am intrebat, repede, ce s-a intamplat.Apoi mi-a spus ca oaspetele lui preferat a avut un inger pazitor, care l-a adus la noi la masa, tocmai cand s-a intamplat tragedia., in cursul serii trecute. Inima mea, despicata in zeci de fasii, parea ca-si vine la loc, acum, cand steam ca el e teafar. Am adormit visandu-l din nou, iar spre dimineata am inceput sa ma framant, asistand, neputincioasa, la batalia ce se dadea intre mintea si inima mea.In cele din urma, speranta unei eventuale regasiri a castigat…M-am ridicat din pat,si , cu forte nebanuite, am inceput sa ma pregatesc pentru intalnirea cu EL.
***Inca de dimineata, am primit un telefon care ma anunta ca va sosi in jurul orei 13, cu un avion inchiriat.Am fost instiintata ca vizita o va face domnul Jackson, neinsotit.
La auzul vestilor, am inceput sa tremur de emotie…Ma intrebam :in ce chip este posibil ca el sa fie atat de discret?Oare si el astepta?
Nu mai aveam rabdare …M-am imbracat in rochia rosie, cambrata, fara bretele, de care nici macar tata nu trebuia sa stie, apoi mi-am lasat parul liber, in ton cu starea de spirit.
Cand soneria s-a facut auzita, am mers spre usa, deschizand-o cu teama…
Barbatul acela cu bucle disparuse, avea acum o tunsoare scurta, chipul deschis la culoare, dar era la fel de frumos si afisa acelasi zambet fermecator si strengaresc.
Mana mi-a ramas intepenita pe clanta usii larg deschise, in timp ce il sfidam cu privirea:
-Buna ziua, Domnule Jackson! Nu-mi vine sa cred ca sunteti dumneavoastra , in persoana, la usa mea!
A pasit, usor, spre mine, atangandu-mi umarul cu parul, intr-o inclinare a capului.Zambetul i-a disparut apoi, cand mi-a spus:-Preferam sa ne intalnim in acelasi loc, de data trecuta, dezbracati de principii si prejudecati…Am ramas muta…Cine era omul acesta?Eu il vedeam intr-un singur fel.Eu mi l-am dorit intotdeauna pe acel om, din trecut…
-Domnisoara Lelya, se pare ca drumurile noastre se intersecteaza din nou, insa in alte imprejurari, a spus el.Am remarcat aceeasi voce calda si aceeasi eleganta in miscari.
Mi-am facut curaj si am spus:
-Va rog sa va faceti comod, o sa va servesc un ceai.
-As prefera un pahar cu lapte, zise el, parca nerabdator.
Ii simteam privirea in tamplele, in ceafa mea, peste tot…dar ochii….ochii aceia…nu-i puteam vedea…m-a cuprins o stare de nesiguranta…
Parca ghicindu-mi dorinta, cand m-am intors cu cestile, deja renuntase la ochelarii mari, de soare,astfel ca ii puteam zari acum ochii ,carora genele lungi si negre incercau sa le ascunda tristetea, ca un refugiu…Tinea in maini tabloul cu poza lui, facuta in Bahrain…o uitasem pe masuta de cafea…
,,Allah, ce ma fac?O sa-si dea seama ca m-am gandit la el in tot acest timp!’’.
Insa ceva mi-a spus sa las lucrurile la voia intamplarii si sa aleg tacerea drept ,, cale de lupta”…,,lupta” cu dragostea…
S-a ridicat, oarecum jenat ca-l vazusem,a pus tabloul la loc si mi-a luat cestile din mana.M-a impins, usor, spre canapea.Apoi, ingenunchind, sprijinindu-se pe un picior, mi-a cuprins genunchii cu bratele si si-a asezat capul in poala mea.Am ramas uimita de ce mi se intampla:
-Stttt…m-am gandit la tine mereu…stii?…de aceea am fost in Bahrain…voiam sa te revad…tatal tau mi-a spus ca urmeaza sa te casatoresti si n-am putut sa cred ca asta o sa se intample cu adevarat.
Vocea ratiunii ,pe care o credeam deja pierduta, s-a trezit,instantaneu,in mine si m-am auzit spunandu-i :-Si dumneavoastra sunteti casatorit!…Cum puteti gandi astfel?N-a spus nimic.Singura lui reactie a fost sa ma mangaie suav, pe fata, cu varfurile degetelor…un zambet trist i s-a asternut pe chip.Iar eu n-am putut decat sa izbucnesc in lacrimi si sa fug in dormitor,zavorand usa in urma mea.
Cand am deschis-o, dupa aproape o ora, el plecase…Odata cu visul meu...,,Allah, de ce am lasat ingerul sa plece?E ingerul meu!”.Pe masuta, alaturi de tabloul cu el, era o cutiuta impachetata frumos.Am presupus ca era cadoul de la viitorul sot.
Nu aveam de gand sa-l deschid vreodata…
In ziua urmatoare, am incercat sa nu-mi mai plang de mila, sa nu ma mai gandesc…asa ca am iesit in oras cu cativa colegi de la facultate.
Cand m-am intors, am gasit in usa un billet:
,,Dl.Jackson va anunta ca va asteapta, la ora 20, in fata cladirii”. Nu m-am asteptat la asta…si daca ma voi duce?daca mai era ceva de lamurit intre noi, trebuia lamurit!…gata, nu mai vreau sa sufar! Omul acesta are viata lui, iar povestea aceasta trebuie sa se termine, cat mai curand!
Si nu mai aveam nimic de pierdut…nu aveam de gand sa amarasc zilele unei alte femei…stiam ce inseamna acest lucru… ce a fost scris a fost scris…Am imbracat in graba o camasa banala si o fusta vaporoasa, cu flori rosii si…m-am dus ...ca sa-mi iau adio.Ma simteam, cumva, eliberata…
Chiar inainte sa apuc sa ies pe usa, ceva parca m-a tras inapoi, facandu-ma sa privesc tabloul pe care el il il tinuse in maini cu o zi inainte.Era singura amintire ce ne mai lega…
Masina ma astepta.Mi-a deschis portiera si m-am asezat langa el.Nu aveam cum sa nu-i remarc farmecul, si de aceasta data: mirosul de trandafir salbatic, aerul rebel,camasa alba, usor descheiata, trupul fara cusur, tinuta impecabila si privirea patrunzatoare m-au facut sa uit, pentru cateva clipe, ce aveam pregatit sa-i spun.
Ochii lui mari s-au ridicat int-o privire patimasa, cand mi-a soptit,prinzandu-mi barbia cu delicatete si atingandu-mi , cu varful degetului mic, spatiul de deasupra ei, chiar de sub buza inferioara:-Iubirea mea…nu-ti cer sa ierti nimic…nu vreu sa ierti…dragostea nu iarta niciodata…
Stateam, toropita, fixandu-i lumina din ochi si asteptand sa zaresc acolo ultimul val, ce inunda ultimul cantec al pescarusului.Il auzem, parca, undeva, departe:
- …Ahh….si tot acest timp….stiu ca n-ai incetat sa ma iubesti…nu-i asa?S-a aplecat apoi deasupra mea si m-a impins, usor, pe spate, fara sa mai astepte raspunsul.
Gurile noastre s-au cuprins la unison, cautandu-ne in sublimul unui sarut:amar si dulce, agresiv si usor.Buzele lui erau acum captive dorintelor mele, in timp ce mainile acelea imense erau captive, din nou, trupului meu…
Minutele care au trecut pana la destinatie mi s-au parut zile, saptamani, ani…am reusit sa dam timpul inapoi!Si era minunat...Uitasem de principii, de verigheta lui, de lumea mea, de tot!
- M-a instalat in apartamentul lui, oferindu-mi apoi un pahar cu vin..Paharele ni s-au ciocnit intr-un clinchet care parea sa-si imprastie vraja pentru o singura zi…Apoi a dat drumul apei in cada si m-a asezat in spuma parfumata cu petale albe de trandafir . ,,Clare du lune”, a lui Debussy, razbatea peste tot, intre peretii de marmura alba, la unison cu razele lunii , ce incercau , timide ,sa se prelinga in interior, prin singurul geam al incaperii. La lumina lumanarilor, ii puteam zari suvitele umezite care ii alunecau pe frunte. M-a descaltat , apoi a inceput sa-mi maseze usor degetele si talpile.Un fior de gheata mi-a strabatut intregul corp…Respiratia lui mi-a ars pieptul, gatul…i-am simtit gura peste tot …pe gleznele, apoi pe coapsele mele…Hainele ude, lipite de piele, ma faceau sa par goala,sub privirea lui flamanda…Tremuram, nesigura, la gandul a ceea ce urma sa-mi faca. Pentru cateva clipe, m-a cuprins frica, gandindu-ma daca e bine ca am venit la el. M-a dezbracat atat de delicat, incat mi-a disparut orice urma de teama..Ochii aceia ma priveau fix, ca si cand ar fi trebuit sa stiu ca sunt stapanii singurului meu univers. Si-a lipit obrazul de al meu, mangaindu-mi apoi nasul, dupa care mi-a dat parul la o parte si m-a sarutat pe gat , apoi dupa ureche.Am devenit, incet, prizoniera mainilor lui mari si iscusite… Ma intrebam ce mai avea sa-mi faca…nu stiam ce, dar imi doream sa continue…la nesfarsit… Cu trupul ud, cersindu-i sarutarile, m-a dus in brate si m-a asezat pe patul imens. Cand s-a aplecat deasupra mea, l-am prins de gulerul camasii si i-am deschis nasturii, ca sa-i pot mangaia pieptul…l-am muscat de gat…a scos un scancet , apoi a schitat un zambet nepamantesc , lasand dorinta sa i se citeasca pe chip. Curand, s-a desprins de gura mea si mi-a spus, incet:-Stim amandoi ce inseamna sa mi te daruiesti, acum…Te iubesc, Leilya…tu esti gradina mea de trandafiri…iar trupul tau e mireasma care ma imbata…ohhh…te doresc atat de mult…vreau sa fii doar a mea.-Ooh, Michael, nu stiu ce mi se intampla…vreau sa fiu a ta…te iubesc atat de mult…Vreau sa traiesc…doar acum, doar cu tine… A observat ca imi este rau…mi-a mangaiat spatele cu muscaturi suave, cu buzele-i ude si fiebinti.Apoi, m-a sprijinit de perna din spatele meu si l-am simtit cum aluneca, incet, asemenea mareei.Omul acesta a stiut cum sa-mi posede trupul si mintea si sufletul, pana la sufocare.Valurile marii s-au impletit cu valurile de caldura ce ne inundau corpurile, incandescente parca, iar cantecele pescarusilor au prins din nou viata,in tipete iesite din adancul fiintelor noastre, unite de dorinta, de libertate si de un infinit care acum incepea sa prinda contur. Apoi s-a ghemuit langa mine si abia cand s-a ridicat sa ma acopere i-am zarit lacrimile.Una dintre ele mi s-a prelins pe gat si mi s-a pierdut in par… Mi-am gasit fericirea.Eu eram fericirea.Iar fericirea mea era Michael.Restul lumii nu mai conta. Zilele urmatoare au decurs la fel, intr-o fericire deplina. Intr-o seara mi-a spus: -Te astept demult, stii?Apoi a scos din buzunarul sacoului o cutiuta rosie, in care straluceau doua diamante micute, incrustate pe o pereche de cercei . L-am intrebat, tulburata: -Ce este aceasta? -N-am stiut cum sa ti-l daruiesc fara sa te simti jignita…Mi-a luat mainile si mi le-a strans.Apoi mi-a oferit din nou unul dintre acele saruturi in acre poti simtii gustul eternitatii, mangaierea petalelor de trandafir pe buzele arzande. Il iubeam.Si simteam ca nimic nu ne putea desparti.BAHRAIN 1995-2005 Dupa cateva luni, in urma unor lungi incercari de buna convietuire, el a divortat .Mi s-a parut potrivit sa ma intorc acasa…nu pentru a-mi plange de mila, ci pentru a-mi aduna gandurile. La un moment dat, ma hotarasem ca sunt gata sa fug cu el, sa renunt la tot si sa-l ador de aproape, sa-i dau atatia copii cati si-ar fi dorit…
- A fost insa imposibil sa mai iau legatura cu el, fiindca tata a hotarat, ad-hoc, sa ma casatoreasca mult mai repede decat era stabilit, din motive ce tineau de viitoarele afaceri ale familiei. Noaptea nuntii s-a soldat cu un esec…in cele din urma , a aparut si dovada deflorarii…Omul acela brutal si batran m-a supus unui chin continuu, facandu-ma sa ma gandesc si mai mult la dragostea mea pierduta…Da, pierduta...caci Michael aflase de casatoria mea rapida si ,in curand, isi intemeiase din nou o famile…familia cu multi copii, pe care si-a dorit-o dintotdeauna… Zi de zi plangeam.Tata a observat ca sunt trista, insa a pus totul pe seama shimbarilor din viata mea. *** Timpul s-a scurs atat de repede….Peste 10 ani, stateam din nou plangand in fata televizorului, urmarind supliciul la care era supus omul pe care il iubeam.Acel process ingrozitor mi-a separat sufletul in bucati mici, stiind ca nu puteam fi acolo, ca sa-I iau apararea….Le-as fi spus totul despre noi…dar ce credibilitate ar fi avut o femeie musulmana ca martor?.. si casatorita pe deasupra…Nici nu putea fi vorba sa pot face ceva, mai ales ca, dupa 11 septembrie 2001, oricare cetatean arab ce punea piciorul in S.U.A. era considerat un potential suspect de acte teroriste. Nu-mi ramanea decat sa ma macin pe dinauntru, in tacere… Peste cateva saptamani insa, ca si cand suferinta mea trebuia sa ia sfarsit,in timp ce Michael era declarat nevinovat, sotul meu a murit in urma unei explozii, in port. Stiam ca a fost voia lui Allah…El stie sa randuiasca intotdeauna lucrurile ,cu un rost...ULTIMA PARTE BAHRAIN, 2006 Stiam ca incetase sa mai aiba incredere in oameni si ca venise aici ca sa incerce sa-si gaseasca linistea si sa-si adune fortele. Soarta ne aducea din nou fata in fata, ca doi oameni schimbati, ca doi straini ce au impartit odata o clipa albastra, dintr-un cer acum acoperit. Nu…nu puteam sa uit…dar tipatul pescarusului era innabusit inauntrul meu… Eram acum o femeie de 34 de ani, vaduva, fara copii si fara sperante prea mari ca ii voi putea avea vreodata… nu gasisem inca un tata potrivit pentru ei.
Ne-am vazut la diferite reuniuni mondene, fara sa ne apropiem prea mult,schimband cate o privire distanta.De cateva ori, a venit sa ia pranzul cu noi,invitat fiind de tatal meu.
Insa nicio vorba…Oare se schimbase atat de mult?
Desi anii au trecut, era la fel de frumos, afisand aceeasi eleganta ce-i venea din interior
si aceeasi nonsalanta in gesturi si vorbe.Cand iesea in public, tinutele lui elegante atrageau privirile ascunse sub voaluri ale femeilor , prea putin speriate ca ar putea fi surprinse.
si aceeasi nonsalanta in gesturi si vorbe.Cand iesea in public, tinutele lui elegante atrageau privirile ascunse sub voaluri ale femeilor , prea putin speriate ca ar putea fi surprinse.
Aflasem apoi ca facuse cercetari.Michael stia ca fusesem casatorita si ca acum eram vaduva.
M-a lasat sa ma gandesc din nou la el, pe indelete...
Curand, femeia din trecut a inceput sa se trezeasca din nou la viata…
Visam sa-i aud iar glasul, sa-i ating mainile, sa-i simt mirosul si sa-l privesc de aproape.
Visam sa-i aud iar glasul, sa-i ating mainile, sa-i simt mirosul si sa-l privesc de aproape.
Intr-o seara, la un bairam, s-a apropiat de mine, m-a privit adanc si mi-a spus, cu o voce apasata, cu ochii umeziti de emotie:
-Te vreau inapoi!....Leilya….ma auzi?…te vreau!…pentru totdeauna...
In timp ce se pierdea prin multime, inima mea a inceput sa strige de bucurie:
,,Ingerul meu s-a intors!Mi s-a intors fericirea!”Simteam ca, in curand, ochii lui mari si tristi vor fi ai mei pentru totdeauna.
Ne-am revazut si a doua , si a treia zi,si-n toate cele care au urmat.Noaptea, eram prizonierii propriilor dorinte, inflorite in timp…
De fiecare data, trupul lui ramanea la discretia mea, in timp ce eu eram la fel de uimita , privindu-i ,,minunile”…
Cu fiecare zi ce trecea, chipul ii era luminat tot mai mult de acea bucurie de care aflasem ca doar eu i-o puteam oferi.
Cu fiecare zi ce trecea, chipul ii era luminat tot mai mult de acea bucurie de care aflasem ca doar eu i-o puteam oferi.
Era fericit.Stiam asta.Chiar daca eu trebuia sa incep o viata din care sa-mi exclud familia si trecutul…
Era fericit, mai ales ca una dintre ,,minuni” avea sa vina, in curand, pe lume….
Era fericit, mai ales ca una dintre ,,minuni” avea sa vina, in curand, pe lume….
- SFARSIT-
MARTIN LUTHER KING Jr. PICTURE-by Michael Jackson
MARTIN LUTHER KING Jr. PICTURE-by Michael Jackson
This picture right here, the one Oprah is holding, is proof that Mj had a special talent about him. He could have been a professional artist, not just of artistry, music wise but, and art like, Michaelanegelo, Michael's favorite artist . He was very versatile talent wise. I hope that's what Oprah picked up, and not just a ratings boost.
But this drawing of Martin Luther King Jr. just speaks to me in so many ways. It was made from Michael's hands.
But this drawing of Martin Luther King Jr. just speaks to me in so many ways. It was made from Michael's hands.
Legea atractiei-studiata de Michael
am aratat asta si altor fani si, spre surprinderea mea,o fata a explicat cam ce poate insemna ceea ce a scris el aici:
Anul trecut, Mike a spus intr-un interviu ca el crede in existenta ,,Thriller-ului".Asta chiar m-a socat, ptr ca am citit cartea,,The Secret" cu o luna mai devreme si am realizat ca Mike a avut posibilitatea sa studieze si sa foloseasca ,,legea atractiei", ca sa-l ajute sa ajunga cel mai mare entertainer din lume.Ei bine, aceasta ,,scrisoare" o confirma.Poate ca ceea ce se afla aici e o parte a teoriei care presupune ca,,gandurile devin lucruri"(gandurile atrag dupa sine materializarea lor, m pe scurt, cu cat ne gandim mai mult la un lucru, cu atat mai mult exista posibilitaea ca el sa devina realitate!).
Mi se pare uimitor faptul ca Michael a studiat aceasta teorie cu 40 de ani inainte sa apara cartea,,The Secret", o carte care a avut mare succes, castigand usor atentia publicului.
Este pur si simplu uimitor!a Afost genial!Niciodata nu va inceta sa ma uimeasca acest om frumos!
Paginile sunt, defapt, inversate:CEEA CE CUPRINDE PRIMA PAGINA ESTE, DEFAPT, PROGRAMUL de care vorbeste Michael in a doua pagina
Aici e o transcriere a textului de mana:
I have learned that it is what you put in your mind mentally what you think and do, that makes your person and you can put any mental object in this mind and it will bring it to reality. So this means we can program ourselves to be the people we want to be, whatever the subject matter is, live it by mental physical program, a system of learning and doing, studying all the greats in that field and becoming greater. My program will consist of:
I’m beautiful.
I’m beautiful.
I’m beautiful.
I’m beautiful.
I’m gorgeous.
God is for me, who can be against me? I’m beautiful. I’m a new person now. Beautiful, knowing the secret and determined with fire to move mountains in all I do, molding my own world. I’m beautiful, the old me is behind. I will march ahead anew.
Amintiri cu Michael:)))-din autobiografia lui David Gest_
1.
On Michael’s own money, he and I flew to Nashville and rented a car. He drove. I soon set about driving him mad, just totally bonkers.
In Nashville we were booked into a really nice hotel, Spence Manor. We pulled up alongside an intercom system you had to get past to get to go through the main gates. Michael didn’t know Nasville, so I sensed an opportunity to have some fun.
I told him that because we were in the self styled “Music City” we had to abide by one of the local traditions.
“Michael, you have to sing into the intercom,” I said.
“Sing what?”
“You have to sing ‘It’s Music City and I am here. I’m Mike McDonald so let’s raise a cheer.’ Otherwise they won’t let you in. You have to do it,” I told him.
He gave me a puzzled look but went along with it. The guy on the end of the intercom came on and said in his southern accent, “How can I help you?”
Michael began to sing and the voice on the intercom replied, “Sorry, we don’t let weirdos in here.”
They wouldn’t open the gates. I was laughing so hard I was on the floor. Michael didn’t quite get it for a moment but as soon as he did he nearly peed his pants too. He couldn’t believe he had been such an idiot as to do that.
2
Michael and I used to have so much fun playing jokes on each other. My favourite prank was to put on another voice and pretend to be someone else – I loved to do voices. In the early days of working together, Michael went to stay at a hotel in Little Rock, Arkansas. He loved to eat. He had just arrived and I knew the first thing he would do was order food from room service. So I beat him to the punch. As soon as he got to his room, I rang him up, putting on a woman’s voice, and said, “Honey, do you want to order room service?”
“Oh yes, baby, I’ll have a hamburger,” he said. He always called people sweetheart or baby.
“Ok, darling,” I replied.
“I would like some mustard and ketchup.”
“Baby, we have no mustard and ketchup.”
“None?” he asked.
“None. We just ran out and our shipment is two days late,” I replied.
“Ok, I will have some relish.”
“Honey, we’re all out of relish. We just got rid of the last of it.”
“Ok, I’ll have mayonaise.”
“No mayonaise.”
“Cheese and lettuce?”
“No cheese or lettuce.”
“Fries?”
“No fries.”
“Well, just put some butter and tomato in the bun.”
“Honey, we have no buns, just toast.”
By this point he had enough, so he just started screaming, “You have no mustard, you have no ketchup, you have no fries, you have no buns. What kind of restaurant is this?”
I started cracking up. It was then that I realized I had him. I did exactly the same thing to him 25 years later. We weren’t working together then but I knew where he was staying.
3
Michael used to love calling people up. He would do it when he came over to my house. He would just pick up the phone, dial a random number and start horsing around.
The person at the other end would pick up the phone and Michael would say, “Who’s this?”
They would reply something like, “It’s Lenore.”
He would go, “Oh, Lenore, listen, we’re going to have to get a divorce. I can’t carry on like this.”
“She would go, “No, no, you have the wrong…”
Michael would interrupt and say, “No, Lenore, don’t even try that on me. I’ve just had it with you. We’ll divide the propery evenly and everything but it’s got to be this way.”
Then he would hang up, leaving the person on the other end of the line wondering what the hell had just happened.
Michael used to love calling people up. He would do it when he came over to my house. He would just pick up the phone, dial a random number and start horsing around.
The person at the other end would pick up the phone and Michael would say, “Who’s this?”
They would reply something like, “It’s Lenore.”
He would go, “Oh, Lenore, listen, we’re going to have to get a divorce. I can’t carry on like this.”
“She would go, “No, no, you have the wrong…”
Michael would interrupt and say, “No, Lenore, don’t even try that on me. I’ve just had it with you. We’ll divide the propery evenly and everything but it’s got to be this way.”
Then he would hang up, leaving the person on the other end of the line wondering what the hell had just happened.
4.
We would go to Disneyland. We both loved rollercoasters. Sometimes we would go on them twenty times in a row.
Often, Michael would wear disguises. Once, he was a sheikh and I was his translator. We would go into a place called Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland where they served great tuna salad and sandwiches. Michael was eating organic food only, although, at that time, he had a rather strange idea of what organic was. We would go to KFC, Michael reckoned if you took off the skin it became organic.
Anyhow, at Carnation on this particular day, there were two elderly women and a gentleman in their eighties from Croydon. We started talking in our mock Arabic to each other.
When the two ladies looked over, I turned to one of them and explained, “The Sheikh Majolini wanted me to tell you that you are a beautiful woman and so is your friend,” I said.
These two ladies probably hadn’t been paid a compliment like that in the last couple of decades so they started smiling. We then got talking. They asked what the Sheikh was doing here and I said he had just got divorced from his 97th wife and was now on his 154th child.
“He has 154 children?” they asked, looking shocked.
“That he knows of,” I said. “He has had 97 wives…” and I started naming them, “Jada, Jami, Shakira, Vera…” with Michael saying them in mock Arabic.
There was nothing malacious in it. In fact, Michael picked up their bill. He was like that, always pulling practical jokes on people.
We would go to Disneyland. We both loved rollercoasters. Sometimes we would go on them twenty times in a row.
Often, Michael would wear disguises. Once, he was a sheikh and I was his translator. We would go into a place called Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland where they served great tuna salad and sandwiches. Michael was eating organic food only, although, at that time, he had a rather strange idea of what organic was. We would go to KFC, Michael reckoned if you took off the skin it became organic.
Anyhow, at Carnation on this particular day, there were two elderly women and a gentleman in their eighties from Croydon. We started talking in our mock Arabic to each other.
When the two ladies looked over, I turned to one of them and explained, “The Sheikh Majolini wanted me to tell you that you are a beautiful woman and so is your friend,” I said.
These two ladies probably hadn’t been paid a compliment like that in the last couple of decades so they started smiling. We then got talking. They asked what the Sheikh was doing here and I said he had just got divorced from his 97th wife and was now on his 154th child.
“He has 154 children?” they asked, looking shocked.
“That he knows of,” I said. “He has had 97 wives…” and I started naming them, “Jada, Jami, Shakira, Vera…” with Michael saying them in mock Arabic.
There was nothing malacious in it. In fact, Michael picked up their bill. He was like that, always pulling practical jokes on people.
5.
Sometimes though, the joke would be on us. The funniest thing that ever happened to us was when we went for pancakes one night. It was after 1am and our regular haunt, Dupars, was closed, so we went to another pancake house that we knew on Ventura Boulevard. There was only one couple in there; normally it held 150 people.
The waitress who served us was in her late sixties or early seventies. This was around 1979, when Off The Wall came out. Michael was the no. 1 artist in the world. She didn’t recognize him at all.
We got to the table and she come over and asked us what we wanted to order. I put on a Saudi accent and went “Yamaka fallesh.”
Michael started laughing. The waitress slapped him across the face with the back of her hand. She said, “This is not funny. Your friend is from a foreign country and you have respect for people from foreign countries.”
Michael got nervous. He wasn’t used to being treated like that in public. He slid further inside the booth so he couldn’t get slapped again.
I asked, “What is pancake? Explain please.”
The waitress started miming a pressing motion. She said, “It’s like a cake that you press down.”
Michael started to laugh again and she started to put her hand up again, so he slid further away.
She then said, “Ok, I’m going to take you back to the kitchen.” She and the cook showed us how to make pancakes. I ordered some.
When the pancakes came to our table, I took the syrup bottle and emptied the whole bottle all over the pancakes. She immediately slapped me across the face. It hurt.
“Not funny,” she said. Michael was laughing again.
She brought me a new batch and I ate them. When we left, Michael left her a $200 tip.
We were in the car park, heading back to Michael’s Rolls Royce, when the waitress came running after us.
“I’m not taking this. You boys are probably working your way through college and you need the money,” she said, not even noticing the car he was driving.
Michael insisted but she said, “No, I’m not taking it.” We couldn’t believe it.
The waitress who served us was in her late sixties or early seventies. This was around 1979, when Off The Wall came out. Michael was the no. 1 artist in the world. She didn’t recognize him at all.
We got to the table and she come over and asked us what we wanted to order. I put on a Saudi accent and went “Yamaka fallesh.”
Michael started laughing. The waitress slapped him across the face with the back of her hand. She said, “This is not funny. Your friend is from a foreign country and you have respect for people from foreign countries.”
Michael got nervous. He wasn’t used to being treated like that in public. He slid further inside the booth so he couldn’t get slapped again.
I asked, “What is pancake? Explain please.”
The waitress started miming a pressing motion. She said, “It’s like a cake that you press down.”
Michael started to laugh again and she started to put her hand up again, so he slid further away.
She then said, “Ok, I’m going to take you back to the kitchen.” She and the cook showed us how to make pancakes. I ordered some.
When the pancakes came to our table, I took the syrup bottle and emptied the whole bottle all over the pancakes. She immediately slapped me across the face. It hurt.
“Not funny,” she said. Michael was laughing again.
She brought me a new batch and I ate them. When we left, Michael left her a $200 tip.
We were in the car park, heading back to Michael’s Rolls Royce, when the waitress came running after us.
“I’m not taking this. You boys are probably working your way through college and you need the money,” she said, not even noticing the car he was driving.
Michael insisted but she said, “No, I’m not taking it.” We couldn’t believe it.
Din cartea lui David Gest , ,, “Simply the Gest”
Super , super!!!!:)))))))))))
On Michael’s own money, he and I flew to Nashville and rented a car. He drove. I soon set about driving him mad, just totally bonkers.
In Nashville we were booked into a really nice hotel, Spence Manor. We pulled up alongside an intercom system you had to get past to get to go through the main gates. Michael didn’t know Nasville, so I sensed an opportunity to have some fun.
I told him that because we were in the self styled “Music City” we had to abide by one of the local traditions.
“Michael, you have to sing into the intercom,” I said.
“Sing what?”
“You have to sing ‘It’s Music City and I am here. I’m Mike McDonald so let’s raise a cheer.’ Otherwise they won’t let you in. You have to do it,” I told him.
He gave me a puzzled look but went along with it. The guy on the end of the intercom came on and said in his southern accent, “How can I help you?”
Michael began to sing and the voice on the intercom replied, “Sorry, we don’t let weirdos in here.”
They wouldn’t open the gates. I was laughing so hard I was on the floor. Michael didn’t quite get it for a moment but as soon as he did he nearly peed his pants too. He couldn’t believe he had been such an idiot as to do that.
[...]
Michael and I used to have so much fun playing jokes on each other. My favourite prank was to put on another voice and pretend to be someone else – I loved to do voices. In the early days of working together, Michael went to stay at a hotel in Little Rock, Arkansas. He loved to eat. He had just arrived and I knew the first thing he would do was order food from room service. So I beat him to the punch. As soon as he got to his room, I rang him up, putting on a woman’s voice, and said, “Honey, do you want to order room service?”
“Oh yes, baby, I’ll have a hamburger,” he said. He always called people sweetheart or baby.
“Ok, darling,” I replied.
“I would like some mustard and ketchup.”
“Baby, we have no mustard and ketchup.”
“None?” he asked.
“None. We just ran out and our shipment is two days late,” I replied.
“Ok, I will have some relish.”
“Honey, we’re all out of relish. We just got rid of the last of it.”
“Ok, I’ll have mayonaise.”
“No mayonaise.”
“Cheese and lettuce?”
“No cheese or lettuce.”
“Fries?”
“No fries.”
“Well, just put some butter and tomato in the bun.”
“Honey, we have no buns, just toast.”
By this point he had enough, so he just started screaming, “You have no mustard, you have no ketchup, you have no fries, you have no buns. What kind of restaurant is this?”
I started cracking up. It was then that I realized I had him. I did exactly the same thing to him 25 years later. We weren’t working together then but I knew where he was staying.
[...]
Michael used to love calling people up. He would do it when he came over to my house. He would just pick up the phone, dial a random number and start horsing around.
The person at the other end would pick up the phone and Michael would say, “Who’s this?”
They would reply something like, “It’s Lenore.”
He would go, “Oh, Lenore, listen, we’re going to have to get a divorce. I can’t carry on like this.”
“She would go, “No, no, you have the wrong…”
Michael would interrupt and say, “No, Lenore, don’t even try that on me. I’ve just had it with you. We’ll divide the property evenly and everything but it’s got to be this way.”
Then he would hang up, leaving the person on the other end of the line wondering what the hell had just happened.
(1978)
Michael was staying at my place on Dohney and was happy to come along. He really respected Burt (Bacharach) but wondered, as we all did, what made him tick.
Burt had ordered a bottle of expensive French red wine, which he, Carole (Bayer Sager) and I were drinking. Michael never drank but that night he got interested in wine. Unbelievably; he didn’t even know what wine was.
‘What’s it made of?’ he asked me.
‘Grapes’, I said.
‘I like grapes,’ Michael said. ‘I think I’ll try some.’
So we poured Michael a glass and he drank it. He obviously liked it because he drank another one. We were drinking a 1982 Pomerol that tasted like candy, so he was bound to like it.
By this time, we all had a glass or two and the bottle was finished. So Burt ordered a second bottle. This time, Michael drank virtually the whole bottle. He had really aquired a taste for wine, fine wine at that, and was guzzling the stuff down.
So we ordered a third bottle and Michael drank most of that as well. That’s when I knew we were going to have a problem that night.
The evening came to an end and I drove Michael back to my place. He was, understandbly, happy. In fact, he was flying high, very high. In the car he was talking and laughing. He was singing ‘I Want To Be Where You Are’ and ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’.
Then he started singing more of his hit songs like ‘Ben’. He was giggling away all the time.
‘You’re going to be in trouble,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell Joesph what you did.’
I wasn’t taking the bait. ‘I didn’t do it, you did,’ I said.
It took us a few minutes to get back to my place. The minute I parked the car and opened the door for him, Michael leaned out and threw up all over the place. He spent the rest of the night hanging over the toilet. He was as sick as a dog. I was up all night with him.
He kept saying, ‘I’m going to tell Joe you corrupted me,’ I was kinda worried he would but he never did.
It was his first taste of wine, something he would come to love a little too much in later years. I always felt bad about that night but it sure was funny!
(Al Green’s church, 1978)
When it came time to head for the party, Michael cried off. He had the worst case of crotch rot from wearing his underwear too tight. He couldn’t move. The sides of his legs were all sore and had broken out in a rash.
We went to Al Green’s church the next day, even though Michael was still in a lot of pain. The rash had spread all over his legs and he couldn’t walk properly.
When we arrived, Al was singing the Curtis Mayfield classic, “People Get Ready.” He still had the most amazing effect on people, only now it was a more religious thing.
This woman who was sitting next to us suddenly started hyperventilating, like a lot of Southern African American women do when they go to church. She started speaking in tongues and jumping up and down. Then she fell right into Michael’s crotch.
I will never forget the look on Michael’s face. It was pure horror.
He just sat there, frozen, obviously in terrible pain, whispering, “Help me, help me.”
I just smiled at him and said, “What am I going to do? I’m not going to get her off your penis. You will have to play with your own organ today!”
That woman lay there for ten minutes. It was only when Al Green ushered Michael up to sing with him that we were able to remove her from Michael’s crotch.
[...]
We would go to Disneyland. We both loved rollercoasters. Sometimes we would go on them twenty times in a row.
Often, Michael would wear disguises. Once, he was a sheikh and I was his translator. We would go into a place called Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland where they served great tuna salad and sandwiches. Michael was eating organic food only, although, at that time, he had a rather strange idea of what organic was. We would go to KFC, Michael reckoned if you took off the skin it became organic.
Anyhow, at Carnation on this particular day, there were two elderly women and a gentleman in their eighties from Croydon. We started talking in our mock Arabic to each other.
When the two ladies looked over, I turned to one of them and explained, “The Sheikh Majolini wanted me to tell you that you are a beautiful woman and so is your friend,” I said.
These two ladies probably hadn’t been paid a compliment like that in the last couple of decades so they started smiling. We then got talking. They asked what the Sheikh was doing here and I said he had just got divorced from his 97th wife and was now on his 154th child.
“He has 154 children?” they asked, looking shocked.
“That he knows of,” I said. “He has had 97 wives…” and I started naming them, “Jada, Jami, Shakira, Vera…” with Michael saying them in mock Arabic.
There was nothing malacious in it. In fact, Michael picked up their bill. He was like that, always pulling practical jokes on people.
Sometimes though, the joke would be on us. The funniest thing that ever happened to us was when we went for pancakes one night. It was after 1am and our regular haunt, Dupars, was closed, so we went to another pancake house that we knew on Ventura Boulevard. There was only one couple in there; normally it held 150 people.
The waitress who served us was in her late sixties or early seventies. This was around 1979, when Off The Wall came out. Michael was the no. 1 artist in the world. She didn’t recognize him at all.
We got to the table and she come over and asked us what we wanted to order. I put on a Saudi accent and went “Yamaka fallesh.”
Michael started laughing. The waitress slapped him across the face with the back of her hand. She said, “This is not funny. Your friend is from a foreign country and you have respect for people from foreign countries.”
Michael got nervous. He wasn’t used to being treated like that in public. He slid further inside the booth so he couldn’t get slapped again.
I asked, “What is pancake? Explain please.”
The waitress started miming a pressing motion. She said, “It’s like a cake that you press down.”
Michael started to laugh again and she started to put her hand up again, so he slid further away.
She then said, “Ok, I’m going to take you back to the kitchen.” She and the cook showed us how to make pancakes. I ordered some.
When the pancakes came to our table, I took the syrup bottle and emptied the whole bottle all over the pancakes. She immediately slapped me across the face. It hurt.
“Not funny,” she said. Michael was laughing again.
She brought me a new batch and I ate them. When we left, Michael left her a $200 tip.
We were in the car park, heading back to Michael’s Rolls Royce, when the waitress came running after us.
“I’m not taking this. You boys are probably working your way through college and you need the money,” she said, not even noticing the car he was driving.
Michael insisted but she said, “No, I’m not taking it.” We couldn’t believe it.
[...]
We’d get in the car and sing songs together. He used to tell me I was the worst singer he’d ever heard! He always made me laugh. Michael had a great sense of humour which most people never saw. We loved to go antiquing for furniture and paintings as well as memorabilia. Our favourite thing to do was walk into a store and go, “Do you have any John LeCockah paintings?”
The antique dealer would respond, “We’ve just sold the last one for $100,000.” I’d say to Michael, “Oh no, he’s just sold the last John LeCockah painting.” We would plead for him to get another in and he’d respond, “They are just too hard to find.” We’d walk out and go, “We’ll never buy from that dealer because there’s no such painter!” Michael would be laughing so hard. He had a laugh that was like a cackle: Hhk hhk hhk hhk hhk.
We’d do very normal things. We’d go out for pancakes and French toast and I’d drive his Rolls-Royce. When we stopped for gas, I’d ask him to fill the tank. He’d say, “I’m the star here. I can’t believe you’re making me put gas in the car.” And I’d tell him, “When we’re together, there’s only one star.” That was the reason our friendship was so good. I never treated him like he was a big deal.
(at the 7th Annual American Cinema Awards where Michael was honoured, 1990)
When Michael Jackson came on stage to take his final bow at the end of the evening with Celia (Lipton Ferris – she was the executive producer of the show), she got even more excited. At one point, she wrapped herself around Michael shouting, ‘He’s the greatest, he’s the greatest!’ Finally the musical conductor danced with Celia and Michael could free himself. It was very funny. Even Michael enjoyed it.
[...]
I remember we once went to Disneyland. He was in disguise and we watched Captain EO, a Disney 3D movie which he starred in.
When we came out I said, ‘You were brilliant’ and he went, ‘Oh thanks, have you only just realised?’. Then when we got home I made him Moonwalk in my kitchen — then I tried it and fell flat on my face!?
The Michael Jackson I will remember was smart, articulate and made me laugh. His death was a huge shock but it brought back so many happy memories. The bit that cracked me up the most, making me cry with laughter for ages, was the bit about the woman at church falling on Michael's crotch.
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On Michael’s own money, he and I flew to Nashville and rented a car. He drove. I soon set about driving him mad, just totally bonkers.
In Nashville we were booked into a really nice hotel, Spence Manor. We pulled up alongside an intercom system you had to get past to get to go through the main gates. Michael didn’t know Nasville, so I sensed an opportunity to have some fun.
I told him that because we were in the self styled “Music City” we had to abide by one of the local traditions.
“Michael, you have to sing into the intercom,” I said.
“Sing what?”
“You have to sing ‘It’s Music City and I am here. I’m Mike McDonald so let’s raise a cheer.’ Otherwise they won’t let you in. You have to do it,” I told him.
He gave me a puzzled look but went along with it. The guy on the end of the intercom came on and said in his southern accent, “How can I help you?”
Michael began to sing and the voice on the intercom replied, “Sorry, we don’t let weirdos in here.”
They wouldn’t open the gates. I was laughing so hard I was on the floor. Michael didn’t quite get it for a moment but as soon as he did he nearly peed his pants too. He couldn’t believe he had been such an idiot as to do that.
[...]
Michael and I used to have so much fun playing jokes on each other. My favourite prank was to put on another voice and pretend to be someone else – I loved to do voices. In the early days of working together, Michael went to stay at a hotel in Little Rock, Arkansas. He loved to eat. He had just arrived and I knew the first thing he would do was order food from room service. So I beat him to the punch. As soon as he got to his room, I rang him up, putting on a woman’s voice, and said, “Honey, do you want to order room service?”
“Oh yes, baby, I’ll have a hamburger,” he said. He always called people sweetheart or baby.
“Ok, darling,” I replied.
“I would like some mustard and ketchup.”
“Baby, we have no mustard and ketchup.”
“None?” he asked.
“None. We just ran out and our shipment is two days late,” I replied.
“Ok, I will have some relish.”
“Honey, we’re all out of relish. We just got rid of the last of it.”
“Ok, I’ll have mayonaise.”
“No mayonaise.”
“Cheese and lettuce?”
“No cheese or lettuce.”
“Fries?”
“No fries.”
“Well, just put some butter and tomato in the bun.”
“Honey, we have no buns, just toast.”
By this point he had enough, so he just started screaming, “You have no mustard, you have no ketchup, you have no fries, you have no buns. What kind of restaurant is this?”
I started cracking up. It was then that I realized I had him. I did exactly the same thing to him 25 years later. We weren’t working together then but I knew where he was staying.
[...]
Michael used to love calling people up. He would do it when he came over to my house. He would just pick up the phone, dial a random number and start horsing around.
The person at the other end would pick up the phone and Michael would say, “Who’s this?”
They would reply something like, “It’s Lenore.”
He would go, “Oh, Lenore, listen, we’re going to have to get a divorce. I can’t carry on like this.”
“She would go, “No, no, you have the wrong…”
Michael would interrupt and say, “No, Lenore, don’t even try that on me. I’ve just had it with you. We’ll divide the property evenly and everything but it’s got to be this way.”
Then he would hang up, leaving the person on the other end of the line wondering what the hell had just happened.
(1978)
Michael was staying at my place on Dohney and was happy to come along. He really respected Burt (Bacharach) but wondered, as we all did, what made him tick.
Burt had ordered a bottle of expensive French red wine, which he, Carole (Bayer Sager) and I were drinking. Michael never drank but that night he got interested in wine. Unbelievably; he didn’t even know what wine was.
‘What’s it made of?’ he asked me.
‘Grapes’, I said.
‘I like grapes,’ Michael said. ‘I think I’ll try some.’
So we poured Michael a glass and he drank it. He obviously liked it because he drank another one. We were drinking a 1982 Pomerol that tasted like candy, so he was bound to like it.
By this time, we all had a glass or two and the bottle was finished. So Burt ordered a second bottle. This time, Michael drank virtually the whole bottle. He had really aquired a taste for wine, fine wine at that, and was guzzling the stuff down.
So we ordered a third bottle and Michael drank most of that as well. That’s when I knew we were going to have a problem that night.
The evening came to an end and I drove Michael back to my place. He was, understandbly, happy. In fact, he was flying high, very high. In the car he was talking and laughing. He was singing ‘I Want To Be Where You Are’ and ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’.
Then he started singing more of his hit songs like ‘Ben’. He was giggling away all the time.
‘You’re going to be in trouble,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell Joesph what you did.’
I wasn’t taking the bait. ‘I didn’t do it, you did,’ I said.
It took us a few minutes to get back to my place. The minute I parked the car and opened the door for him, Michael leaned out and threw up all over the place. He spent the rest of the night hanging over the toilet. He was as sick as a dog. I was up all night with him.
He kept saying, ‘I’m going to tell Joe you corrupted me,’ I was kinda worried he would but he never did.
It was his first taste of wine, something he would come to love a little too much in later years. I always felt bad about that night but it sure was funny!
(Al Green’s church, 1978)
When it came time to head for the party, Michael cried off. He had the worst case of crotch rot from wearing his underwear too tight. He couldn’t move. The sides of his legs were all sore and had broken out in a rash.
We went to Al Green’s church the next day, even though Michael was still in a lot of pain. The rash had spread all over his legs and he couldn’t walk properly.
When we arrived, Al was singing the Curtis Mayfield classic, “People Get Ready.” He still had the most amazing effect on people, only now it was a more religious thing.
This woman who was sitting next to us suddenly started hyperventilating, like a lot of Southern African American women do when they go to church. She started speaking in tongues and jumping up and down. Then she fell right into Michael’s crotch.
I will never forget the look on Michael’s face. It was pure horror.
He just sat there, frozen, obviously in terrible pain, whispering, “Help me, help me.”
I just smiled at him and said, “What am I going to do? I’m not going to get her off your penis. You will have to play with your own organ today!”
That woman lay there for ten minutes. It was only when Al Green ushered Michael up to sing with him that we were able to remove her from Michael’s crotch.
[...]
We would go to Disneyland. We both loved rollercoasters. Sometimes we would go on them twenty times in a row.
Often, Michael would wear disguises. Once, he was a sheikh and I was his translator. We would go into a place called Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland where they served great tuna salad and sandwiches. Michael was eating organic food only, although, at that time, he had a rather strange idea of what organic was. We would go to KFC, Michael reckoned if you took off the skin it became organic.
Anyhow, at Carnation on this particular day, there were two elderly women and a gentleman in their eighties from Croydon. We started talking in our mock Arabic to each other.
When the two ladies looked over, I turned to one of them and explained, “The Sheikh Majolini wanted me to tell you that you are a beautiful woman and so is your friend,” I said.
These two ladies probably hadn’t been paid a compliment like that in the last couple of decades so they started smiling. We then got talking. They asked what the Sheikh was doing here and I said he had just got divorced from his 97th wife and was now on his 154th child.
“He has 154 children?” they asked, looking shocked.
“That he knows of,” I said. “He has had 97 wives…” and I started naming them, “Jada, Jami, Shakira, Vera…” with Michael saying them in mock Arabic.
There was nothing malacious in it. In fact, Michael picked up their bill. He was like that, always pulling practical jokes on people.
Sometimes though, the joke would be on us. The funniest thing that ever happened to us was when we went for pancakes one night. It was after 1am and our regular haunt, Dupars, was closed, so we went to another pancake house that we knew on Ventura Boulevard. There was only one couple in there; normally it held 150 people.
The waitress who served us was in her late sixties or early seventies. This was around 1979, when Off The Wall came out. Michael was the no. 1 artist in the world. She didn’t recognize him at all.
We got to the table and she come over and asked us what we wanted to order. I put on a Saudi accent and went “Yamaka fallesh.”
Michael started laughing. The waitress slapped him across the face with the back of her hand. She said, “This is not funny. Your friend is from a foreign country and you have respect for people from foreign countries.”
Michael got nervous. He wasn’t used to being treated like that in public. He slid further inside the booth so he couldn’t get slapped again.
I asked, “What is pancake? Explain please.”
The waitress started miming a pressing motion. She said, “It’s like a cake that you press down.”
Michael started to laugh again and she started to put her hand up again, so he slid further away.
She then said, “Ok, I’m going to take you back to the kitchen.” She and the cook showed us how to make pancakes. I ordered some.
When the pancakes came to our table, I took the syrup bottle and emptied the whole bottle all over the pancakes. She immediately slapped me across the face. It hurt.
“Not funny,” she said. Michael was laughing again.
She brought me a new batch and I ate them. When we left, Michael left her a $200 tip.
We were in the car park, heading back to Michael’s Rolls Royce, when the waitress came running after us.
“I’m not taking this. You boys are probably working your way through college and you need the money,” she said, not even noticing the car he was driving.
Michael insisted but she said, “No, I’m not taking it.” We couldn’t believe it.
[...]
We’d get in the car and sing songs together. He used to tell me I was the worst singer he’d ever heard! He always made me laugh. Michael had a great sense of humour which most people never saw. We loved to go antiquing for furniture and paintings as well as memorabilia. Our favourite thing to do was walk into a store and go, “Do you have any John LeCockah paintings?”
The antique dealer would respond, “We’ve just sold the last one for $100,000.” I’d say to Michael, “Oh no, he’s just sold the last John LeCockah painting.” We would plead for him to get another in and he’d respond, “They are just too hard to find.” We’d walk out and go, “We’ll never buy from that dealer because there’s no such painter!” Michael would be laughing so hard. He had a laugh that was like a cackle: Hhk hhk hhk hhk hhk.
We’d do very normal things. We’d go out for pancakes and French toast and I’d drive his Rolls-Royce. When we stopped for gas, I’d ask him to fill the tank. He’d say, “I’m the star here. I can’t believe you’re making me put gas in the car.” And I’d tell him, “When we’re together, there’s only one star.” That was the reason our friendship was so good. I never treated him like he was a big deal.
(at the 7th Annual American Cinema Awards where Michael was honoured, 1990)
When Michael Jackson came on stage to take his final bow at the end of the evening with Celia (Lipton Ferris – she was the executive producer of the show), she got even more excited. At one point, she wrapped herself around Michael shouting, ‘He’s the greatest, he’s the greatest!’ Finally the musical conductor danced with Celia and Michael could free himself. It was very funny. Even Michael enjoyed it.
[...]
I remember we once went to Disneyland. He was in disguise and we watched Captain EO, a Disney 3D movie which he starred in.
When we came out I said, ‘You were brilliant’ and he went, ‘Oh thanks, have you only just realised?’. Then when we got home I made him Moonwalk in my kitchen — then I tried it and fell flat on my face!?
The Michael Jackson I will remember was smart, articulate and made me laugh. His death was a huge shock but it brought back so many happy memories. The bit that cracked me up the most, making me cry with laughter for ages, was the bit about the woman at church falling on Michael's crotch.
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aici scrie ca doscumentarul are ca pct de plecare o carte din 1910!
am gasit pe yt o descriere interesanta la un video si m-a impresionat sa aflu de ce nu functioneaza ptr oricine si oricand aceasta lege..eee...uite ca la Mike a functionat!
De ce nu functioneza legea atractiei?
Daca privesti acest video, sunt sigur ca esti extrem de familiar cu filmul the secret si cu legea atractiei.
Legea atractiei spune ca daca vrei sa iti faci o dorinta realitate, tot ceea ce trebuie sa faci este sa iti imaginezi, sa vizualizezi imaginea perfecta pe care vrei sa o aduci in realitate iar ea se va indeplini.
Desigur, aceasta credinta nu este noua. Incepand cu sfarsitul anilor 1800, au fost nenumarati autori care au vorbit despre puterea vizualizarii. Cel mai cunoscut autor este probabil Napoleon Hill care a scris Think and grow rich.
Dar, conceptul prezentat de Napoleon Hill este regasit in texte mult, mult mai vechi decat cele de la sfarsitul anilor 1800 si icneputul anilor 1900.
In urma cu mai bine de 2500 de ani, Buddha spunea Suntem ceea ce gandim. Cu gandurile ne cream lumea
Sa ne referim si la Biblie cu celebrul citat Cere si ti se va da, bate si ti se va deschide ?
Exista incredibil de multe texte antice care descriu perfect ceea ce astazi este numita o miscare noua a gandului. Nimeni nu a inventat nimic. Aceste credinte si idei au existat de la inceputul timpului.
Totusi, daca aceste idei sunt impartasite de marii lideri spirituali ai lumii, daca intr-adevar ceea ce gandesti este ceea ce primesti, atunci de ce vizualizarea nu functioneaza pentru toata lumea? De fapt vizualizarea constienta functioneaza mult mai putin decat orice student al legii atractiei ar dori sa admita.
Pentru cei care nu functioneaza vizualizarea si manifestarea scopurilor, obiectivelor, viselor lor exista o explicatie.
Sa luam un exemplu. Sa zicem ca eu am aflat despre legea atractiei acum cateva saptamani. Contempland posibilitatile, ma decid sa incep cu ceva mic. Stiind ca vremurile sunt cum sunt, imi decid scopul : In urmatoarele 4 luni imi gasesc un loc de munca cu un salariu de 3000 de lei pe luna Deja simt o mica satisfactie si bucurie cand ma gandesc ca o sa am un loc sigur de munca si bine platit.
Dupa 4 luni, nimic nu se intampla. Sunt exact ca inainte. Si totusi am vizualizat. Am sarit eu cateva zile pentru ca nu aveam chef sa vizualizez, dar totusi, am facut totul aproape ca la carte. In primele cateva zile am si cautat prin ziare cu anunturi, pe siteuri cu locuri de munca. Si totusi nimic.
Noi oamenii, avem un talent deosebit de a ne inventa dorinte. Si aici cred ca este problema cu manifestarea prin vizualizare. Ne angajam in niste obiective si dorinte superficiale, trecatoare in care nu credem cu adevarat. De ce sa am un job stabil platit cu 3000 de lei pe luna cand eu de fapt imi doresc cu adevarat sa cant? Sau sa pictez? Nici macar nu am stabilit ce fel de job imi doresc.
Iar aici ajungem la punctul cel mai important: legea atractiei functioneaza doar pentru lucrurile pe care le doresti cu adevarat. Fara sa iti dai seama, tot ce iti doresti cu adevarat, ai deja. Aer, mancare, prieteni,familie. Toate aceste lucruri exista in viata ta pentru ca fara ele nu poti trai.
Ca sa iti indeplinesti un vis trebuie sa ti-l doresti asa cum iti doresti sa respiri, iar aceste vise puternice se afla adanc in interiorul tau. Ele nu pot fi fabricate. Ele exista deja. Aceste vise si dorinte interioare exista in fiecare om. Trebuie doar sa le gasesti.
Ce te entuziasmeaza cel mai mult? Este vre-o arie anume? Poate iti place sa ajuti oamenii, poate esti pasionat de computere, poate iubesti scena, arta, poate esti vrajit de stele sau poate iti plac animalele,
Oricare ar fi domeniul tau, el te cheama exact cum tu il chemi pe el. Aceasta este adevaratul sens al legii atractiei. Tu si dorintele tale adanci va atrageti reciproc.
Dorintele interioare adanci pot fi descoperite prin urmarea sentimentelor de entuziasm si implinire. Legatura dintre entuziasm si implinire esti TU si visele tale despre versiunea ta cea mai inalta si fericita care poti fi.
Ai niste daruri unice. Fa un bine lumii si urmeaza-ti entuziasmul.