It was 181 years ago this morning that George Washington,
the father of our country, died at the age of 67. Today, millions of people still
mourn the death of the greatest foreigner who ever wanted to make America his
home, who fought and suffered and cried for the right to live in this country.
He got his wish, he got his green card, and he lived in this country until a
damned fool blew him open Monday night. Now he's dead. Now he is ashes. I
really can't get this out of my mind.
Think of Yoko! The poor suffering lonely woman who nobody
ever understood. Nobody except one that is. Her late husband. He saw in her
both a reflection of himself, and a challenge to improve that self. He saw a
welcome alternative to the once exciting, vibrant life that had for him become
a monotonous game but with Yoko, he saw purpose. He found objectives, such as
peace and love. He found artistic satisfaction and inspiration. He says she
saved his life, in that she gave him a reason for not ending it all." If
it hadn't been for Yoko," he said," I'd be dead now." Meaning
when he was a Beatle. Leaving when he was so depressed and frustrated that he
would have lifted all safeguards that prevented drug abuse, he found this
wonderful woman to give him INSPIRATION to stay alive and in love with what the
world could become. But the people all laughed. Weirdos, those two, they said.
HA HA. Bed-ins. Funny. Married in Gibraltar. Hilarious. Growing your hair for
peace, then the hacking it off and selling it to benefit peaceful humanistic
causes. Devastatingly comedic. Laugh at them, those two strange children at
play. But it wasn't enough to keep him ALIVE, and with us for another 10 years.
We may cry because there will be no more, but if it wasn't for Yoko, the last
10 years of his contributions, his art, his soul, wouldn't have existed at all.
Instead of weeping over the loss of the voice, we should cherish that we had it
for an extra 10 years, that we had it at all. It's hard to do. We must also
realize that the person responsible for the past 10 years is now a poor widow
who has already lost a daughter as well as a husband, and now must raise a
five-year-old boy alone. Never mind your own selfish grief, no more new musical
product look forward to. Think of her loss. Cry for her loss. The love affair
of the 60s, they called it. Fuck the 60s it was the love affair of the 20th century; of the fucking history of Man.
Why? Because it was PERFECT. If not perfect, then perfection cannot exist, and
they came the closest of any other couple." Yoko is me in drag,” he said
jocularly at the beginning. Everybody laughed. They look just like two gurus in
drag! But maybe now the world understands. She wasn't bullshitting. He loved
her beyond the world's understanding of the word. She made him whole again. Cry
for Yoko and Sean. And Julian, who didn't have his father enough during the
past 10 years. Love them all for their love for him. This love lasted because
it was. And honest. Nobody took him seriously, not even his best friends--all
three of them. So fuck you, he said. She became his best friend. Cranberry
sauce. All we are saying. They had their problems, like every married couple of
course. He left her for a while. He came back. He had to. They were a pair.
Their souls were Siamese twins." The separation didn't work out," he
said when they reconciled. Now both Yoko and Sean must live with it. And so
must we all. Cry. Cry for Yoko, Sean, Julian. Cry for me, right for you. Cry
for everybody who heard him when he was. Cry for the future generations who
never had the chance, who only have paper and records to know him from. But
don't cry for him. He's better off. He doesn't have his Yoko, but he doesn't
have to exist in a world that kills its heroes and glorifies its killers. Cry
for all of us, because we are still here. Here without his light to make the
long and winding road look and feel better (excuse me Paul).
I
devoted nearly 14 months now to finally rediscovering the Beatles. (I say
finally, even before this tragedy, because I knew that this time my interest in
the Beatles would never pass away, as it did before.) In these past 14 months
since I asked my brother Mark to tape all of the original Beatle records for
me, I have come to know the group and the individuals as well as any hobby that
I have ever been involved in before. I had no idea of what was to happen on
December 8, a date as burned into my mind as August 31, September 4 and 6,
March 8, November 22, 27, 18, April 4, June 5 etc. I had no idea that my love
affair with my favorite Beatle would end on a Monday night with pierced,
destroyed flesh. I miss him horribly, as much as if a member of my family had
died. But one thing I must not forget. I did have him for 14 months. I had 14
months of being a Beatles fan with the knowledge that he was OUT THERE, with
us. It didn't matter that he has nothing more to say. His existence was enough.
I should think whomever is responsible that I didn't have to wait until after
his death to discover him. I found him in time to enjoy him untainted for 14
months, 14 months I'll always treasure. Right now I'm in and there is a full
aggressive in Wednesday's newspaper then he had something to say. He was going
to speak again. "He showed me how to be young, and I was looking forward
to him showing me how to grow old," someone said. Right. Now we must grow
old without him. And, although we will make it, it won't be as rewarding. If thou misseth a savior in this life, then
turneth thou to thy stereos, and live again and again within the magic, the
love, the faith of the hero of the 20th century, the late, so much lamented
John Lennon.
There
is a vigil this morning on the lawn in front Merced Hall at 11. I will give up
part of a football Sunday for it. Gladly. I'll do anything for him now to show
my love. My dad may not understand. He doesn't have to. I'll do the same for
him when it's his turn.
There
is a photograph in Wednesday's newspaper. It was taken on the afternoon of
December 8, and shows John Lennon autographing a copy of double fantasy given
to him by Mark David Chapman, the man who would kill him 3-4 hours later. Photography
is fascinating. There is Dr. Winston O’Boogie himself, looking down at the
album, with Chapman standing next to him, smirking. I wanted to pull the
photograph apart, dive in, and push the monster away. I wanted to rip back the
clock, go there and throw my body between John and the .38. Or shriek. “No
John! Watch out!” It seems so easy, but it don’t come easy.
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