I Wish the King | Another Life For Michael Jackson

1982

Have you ever taken a long, eventful trip, only to come home and find yourself unable to explain your experience? Maybe you saw too many things and don't know where to begin. Or you didn't do all that much, and it's hard to explain where the time went. You come up with a simple line - "Oh, it was just wonderful, very refreshing." Then you turn the conversation back to the present, and try to pick up where you left off.

As I left Denton, I was certain I'd go to L.A. Maybe I would seek out Quincy and Diana, and continue learning from them. Maybe I could trust them to see me occasionally, without revealing my whereabouts to my family or anyone else.

On the second day of my drive I crossed into New Mexico and doubt set in. A cocktail of questions was troubling me and promising some kind of hangover. How did dad and his detective find me? Did he do it just to show me that he could? Did Paul or Mike contact my family? Was the letter real? I felt vulnerable. My power over my own life was in question again. Los Angeles felt wrong, too close to home. If my intuition had served me so well in going to Memphis and Denton, shouldn't I also listen to it now? I spun my wheels about it and drove the van deep into the night. I ran out of gas after sunrise, and was surrounded by a lonely, lovely landscape.

I've heard that the Buddha saw infinity once, for an instant, and realized he couldn't communicate the experience with words.

Such was my experience from April 1979 to January 1982. I saw nobody from my past. I lived all over the Southwest, in the van, earthen structures, modern houses, and also went shelterless in the outdoors. I honed some primitive skills. I revealed my true identity twice and was accidentally recognized once. (None of these incidents were remotely alarming, as people round these parts were indifferent to fame.) I played a bone flute once, and owned a guitar for nearly the entire time I was there. I wrote prolifically - thoughts, lyrics, stories, melodies and chords...CHORDS! A friend lent me as many books as I could stand. Toni Morrison, Herman Hesse, Karl Marks, Ralph Ellison, Edward Abbey. I didn't understand everything I read, but I read on. I stayed with some intriguing people, whose ways of life were wholly different than mine. I ran long distances. I started and stopped smoking tobacco twice in the calendar year of 1980. I lost a lot of weight, until my patchy face was frightening and gaunt. I took the mirrors off my van, so I'd stop obsessing over my appearance. I stopped driving the van. I danced alone in places where people rarely go. I walked on the moon. I lived with people who broke the law for what they believed in. I spoke with few people, and those people had few words to say. I was happy and miserable. Once, as I sat outside in meditation, a piece of paper blew up against my face. I snatched it down and saw that it was my father's letter. But after I read the first word, the wind ripped it again from my hands.

More than anything though, I moved a lot, and communed with the land wherever I was. It's hard to describe those years because I didn't accomplish much. At least nothing that I knew how to measure. Sitting here in the present, I see those years as a precious and necessary step in my development. I can't explain why and I'm not sure I want to.

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One morning, after nearly three years in the wilderness, the idea of Los Angeles reappeared in a vision. As I walked a desert trail, I saw myself behind a piano keyboard, surrounded by musicians old and young.

The following morning, I hitchhiked into Taos, a lovely and sacred place. Some friends who'd looked after my van met me for dinner and returned the keys. The old bus was lovingly washed, mirrors re-installed. They also gave me a book, wrapped in brown paper. "We found it under the seat!" It was the journal Lou Anne had given me, still only one tenth full of my handwriting. I had a pang of fear, wondering if they'd read any of it. Then, as I began to drive into the sunset, I flipped the sun visor down and rediscovered the picture of myself and my brothers. It was very possible these folks had figured me out, but they hadn't let on, and it didn't seem like they wanted a piece of me. Drive west and hope for the best, I decided.