I'm going to say what I said about Chopra after he did his piece on Maharishi immediately after he died last year.
Recall that Chopra revealed private stuff about Maharishi's sickness at a time when Chopra was actually his formal physician (about 20 years ago). And death does not sever the patient/doctor confidentiality yet here was Chopra -- without consent from Maharishi's estate -- revealing personal medical info about Maharishi. I am convinced if someone wanted to pursue it, they could have successfully lodged a formal complaint against Chopra for violating that confidentiality. I don't know if it's the same case here but Chopra is quite quick off the starting block to share intimate stuff about Jackson...and if Chopra was in any official capacity a counsellor, doctor or adviser to Jackson he very well may be violating that same confidentiality again by some of the stuff he writes in this article. --- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "Alex Stanley" <j_alexander_stan...@...> wrote: > > http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deepak-chopra/a-tribute-to-my-friend-mi_b_221268.html > > Michael Jackson will be remembered, most likely, as a shattered icon, a pop > genius who wound up a mutant of fame. That's not who I will remember, > however. His mixture of mystery, isolation, indulgence, overwhelming global > fame, and personal loneliness was intimately known to me. For twenty years I > observed every aspect, and as easy as it was to love Michael -- and to want > to protect him -- his sudden death yesterday seemed almost fated. > > Two days previously he had called me in an upbeat, excited mood. The voice > message said, "I've got some really good news to share with you." He was > writing a song about the environment, and he wanted me to help informally > with the lyrics, as we had done several times before. When I tried to return > his call, however, the number was disconnected. (Terminally spooked by his > treatment in the press, he changed his phone number often.) So I never got to > talk to him, and the music demo he sent me lies on my bedside table as a > poignant symbol of an unfinished life. > > When we first met, around 1988, I was struck by the combination of charisma > and woundedness that surrounded Michael. He would be swarmed by crowds at an > airport, perform an exhausting show for three hours, and then sit backstage > afterward, as we did one night in Bucharest, drinking bottled water, glancing > over some Sufi poetry as I walked into the room, and wanting to meditate. > > That person, whom I considered (at the risk of ridicule) very pure, still > survived -- he was reading the poems of Rabindranath Tagore when we talked > the last time, two weeks ago. Michael exemplified the paradox of many famous > performers, being essentially shy, an introvert who would come to my house > and spend most of the evening sitting by himself in a corner with his small > children. I never saw less than a loving father when they were together (and > wonder now, as anyone close to him would, what will happen to them in the > aftermath). > > Michael's reluctance to grow up was another part of the paradox. My children > adored him, and in return he responded in a childlike way. He declared often, > as former child stars do, that he was robbed of his childhood. Considering > the monstrously exaggerated value our society places on celebrity, which was > showered on Michael without stint, the public was callous to his very real > personal pain. It became another tawdry piece of the tabloid Jacko, pictured > as a weird changeling and as something far more sinister. > > It's not my place to comment on the troubles Michael fell heir to from the > past and then amplified by his misguided choices in life. He was surrounded > by enablers, including a shameful plethora of M.D.s in Los Angeles and > elsewhere who supplied him with prescription drugs. As many times as he would > candidly confess that he had a problem, the conversation always ended with a > deflection and denial. As I write this paragraph, the reports of drug abuse > are spreading across the cable news channels. The instant I heard of his > death this afternoon, I had a sinking feeling that prescription drugs would > play a key part. > > The closest we ever became, perhaps, was when Michael needed a book to sell > primarily as a concert souvenir. It would contain pictures for his fans but > there would also be a text consisting of short fables. I sat with him for > hours while he dreamily wove Aesop-like tales about animals, mixed with words > about music and his love of all things musical. This project became Dancing > the Dream after I pulled the text together for him, acting strictly as a > friend. It was this time together that convinced me of the modus vivendi > Michael had devised for himself: to counter the tidal wave of stress that > accompanies mega-stardom, he built a private retreat in a fantasy world where > pink clouds veiled inner anguish and Peter Pan was a hero, not a pathology. > > This compromise with reality gradually became unsustainable. He went to > strange lengths to preserve it. Unbounded privilege became another toxic > force in his undoing. What began as idiosyncrasy, shyness, and vulnerability > was ravaged by obsessions over health, paranoia over security, and an > isolation that grew more and more unhealthy. When Michael passed me the music > for that last song, the one sitting by my bedside waiting for the right > words, the procedure for getting the CD to me rivaled a CIA covert operation > in its secrecy. > > My memory of Michael Jackson will be as complex and confused as anyone's. His > closest friends will close ranks and try to do everything in their power to > insure that the good lives after him. Will we be successful in rescuing him > after so many years of media distortion? No one can say. I only wanted to put > some details on the record in his behalf. My son Gotham traveled with Michael > as a roadie on his "Dangerous" tour when he was seventeen. Will it matter > that Michael behaved with discipline and impeccable manners around my son? > (It sends a shiver to recall something he told Gotham: "I don't want to go > out like Marlon Brando. I want to go out like Elvis." Both icons were > obsessions of this icon.) > > His children's nanny and surrogate mother, Grace Rwaramba , is like another > daughter to me. I introduced her to Michael when she was eighteen, a > beautiful, heartwarming girl from Rwanda who is now grown up. She kept an eye > on him for me and would call me whenever he was down or running too close to > the edge. How heartbreaking for Grace that no one's protective instincts and > genuine love could avert this tragic day. An hour ago she was sobbing on the > telephone from London. As a result, I couldn't help but write this brief > remembrance in sadness. But when the shock subsides and a thousand public > voices recount Michael's brilliant, joyous, embattled, enigmatic, bizarre > trajectory, I hope the word "joyous" is the one that will rise from the ashes > and shine as he once did. >
