Whitney Houston is ALIVE...

When it comes to music, I'm very eclectic. I love all sorts of music! But I can also be obstinately selective of which artists and tracks I make a soul connection with. One thing I've learnt over the years is that you can't fake this soul connection. It's like love... Or a mind-blowing orgasm. You either experience it, or you don't! And it happens involuntarily. Growing up with musical parents, a mother who went about her household chores humming sweet melodies, and a father who taught himself how to play piano and seemed to always have a tune in his head, there was just no way out for me! I wouldn't have been able to escape the dominant gene (which was in this case, MUSIC) even if I'd done an intensified fast for a miracle. I have no vivid recollection of when exactly music became a vital part of me, all I know is I couldn't live without a song buzzing in my head and the lyrics spewing out of my mouth. I spent most of my childhood singing in various school and church choirs. At home, we had our own family choir and I was the lead singer. It was so much fun! I was about five years old when I first heard Whitney Houston singing "Saving all my love" on radio. The sweetness of the notes was like a heroin shot right to my soul. From that moment on I became Whitney's willing captive. I just can't believe she is gone. Her recently unexpected passing doesn't make sense at all. Mega popstars like Whitney should be immune to death. But I guess life doesn't make sense. That's why they die. Yes, I repeat; life doesn't make sense... Actually, nothing makes sense on this planet. Except maybe for tennis, and Angry Birds, and Desperate Housewives, and books, and writing, and music, and word games, and sex, and more angry birds... This talk of things not making sense reminds me of Judge Judy's most favorite line; "if it doesn't make sense, it's usually not true." I'd like to apply this line to all things that hurt in this world. In that case I can believe in make believe and not hurt when I'm hurt. Yes, as long as it hurts, it doesn't make sense: And if it doesn't make sense, it's not true. It's a bad dream, or a rotten imagination... In my mind right now, I believe Whitney Houston is alive somewhere. Ecstatically snorting the white powder she loved so much and full of life. I believe Michael Jackson is with a bunch of boys in bed in Neverland. And I believe Rudo Mawere wasn't brutally strangled and bundled in a travel bag. I also believe Chelsea FC didn't get savagely 'raped' by Everton yesterday. All is rosy in my mind. All well and making sense! So excuse me for not adding a 'RIP Whitney' to this post. For I blatantly refuse to believe she's dead!