Geek Girl Charity has had to shoulder the whole load of the website this past week while I dealt with family issues, bad technology juju…and Michael Jackson. Every time I sat at my keyboard, no matter what the task at hand, all I really wanted to do was write about The King of Pop.

I wasn’t surprised by his death. I think most of us (who are of a certain age) have known since the beginning that it would end tragically. I wasn’t surprised by the Cirque du Sucque that is his memorial planning either. He will be used in death as he was in life. (Nothing astonishing there.) What rocked me was the depth of my emotion. Writing about Michael Jackson has turned out to be like dropping a stone into the deepest of wells. I’m still waiting to hear the final splash.

I could tell you about the lonely, eleven year old new girl in town and her mother’s perfect gift (a stereo!) but that wouldn’t mean as much if I didn’t also talk about divorce and women’s rights and money and power and…and…

I could talk about Kay Kay and Mae and how a love of Michael Jackson kept me from getting my ass kicked in 6th grade. But again, if I didn’t also talk about racism and ignorance and how being the smart kid wasn’t always what it was cracked up to be – and how disparate people can form deep but fleeting bonds and… and…

I could write about the delight that was dancing, how it felt to be up on a stage, tapping my heart out to Rockin’ Robin. But again, if I didn’t also speak of what it was to be barely thirteen and have Air Force cadets stare at me (in my spangles and fringe and fishnet tights) in a way that had nothing to do dancing (of the vertical kind at least) I wouldn’t be doing the subject justice.

And if I wrote about dancing, I couldn’t leave out the disco days, the lights, the pulse, where Michael reminded us nightly to ‘keep on with the force, don’t stop – don’t stop ‘til you get enough’. But if I talked about those days it wouldn’t be fair not to mention that we could never get enough – of anything – back then, and then I’d have to talk about what it means to lose a friend and… and…

I suppose I could skip all that and fast forward a year or two, write about being part of the MTV generation, maybe grouse a bit about how it used to be all about the music (the modern day version of walking five miles to school in the snow uphill). I could tell you how Thriller played twice an hour and we still never tired of it. I could write about the freedom of being young but I suppose I would also have to reveal the hardships and the trials and the lessons still to be learned and… and…

I could move forward further still to the Bad days – the busy, sequined, dizzying rush when everything spiraled so close to perfection. But it wouldn’t be fair to mention that without also revealing how exhausting it was to constantly strive and then to one day realize that I was reaching behind me, trying to grasp at something that I might have passed and not relished as much as I could have, I should have, and… and…

But if I had to pick just one Michael moment to hold forever it would be this: My kids were young still and MTV was running one of those retrospectives. They bounced into the kitchen, where I was clearing off dinner and preparing the table for homework time. “Teach us to moonwalk!” they shouted. And the dishes didn’t matter, and the homework could wait, and the night bloomed sweet in our stocking feet and… and…

It’s time to put an end to this and still I don’t know how. I guess I’ll just keep peering down the well, waiting for that final splash, and humming those songs that meant so much to me. I think I’ll start with The Love You Save, then move on to Got To Be There, maybe a little Billie Jean and Beat it. I can’t forget Thriller and The Way You Make Me Feel and Smooth Criminal and… and…