There’s something timeless about John Lennon.
I was only three when he was murdered. In 1980, I couldn’t grasp death, couldn’t embody the agony of grief, couldn’t journey to Strawberry Fields to cry “Imagine” among a tattered quilt of mourners.
What I could do was bounce about (in the way toddlers do) to the White Album as the adults sat frozen. What I could do was notice the sun casting flecks of Enlightenment across my father’s face as we flew down the Interstate in a red Oldsmobile singing “Here Comes the Sun”.
My early childhood was infused with John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Throughout the years, they helped me first stay connected to my father, then later find a connection to myself. At at a time when grunge and hip-hop dominated the charts, I found refuge in Mean Mr. Mustard, Polythene Pam, Sargent Pepper, Lovely Rita and Lucy in the Sky, who all just wanna hold your hand.
I was always a “good” kid. Never rocked the boat. Never spoke out. Never stood out. Always the chameleon, never the peacock. I did what I was told (for the most part) and learned to suppress my most raw and visceral truths.
Perhaps this is why I gravitated towards John. Rebellion, fire, imperfection, ideals. The courage and inclination to speak up (gasp!). His public persona reflected back the parts of me that desperately wanted a voice. Damn what they think! Damn what they say!
On his birthday, I spent time scouring YouTube for old Lennon clips. I came across a video for “Mother” and listened to it over and over. At some point, I remembered he’d partaken in primal scream therapy in the ’70s and could hear its influences on this piece. As the song progresses, the breath pushes through the vocal chords, shredding his voice…Momma don’t gooooooo…Daddy come home!
I realized how in the moment he must have been while performing this piece. In the moment with the emotions and memories of primal loss. In the moment with catharsis, with the release of letting it flow and rage along the currents of breath and rhythm.
I realized how in all the creative ventures I’ve dabbled in, I’ve rarely allowed myself to fully, completely let go. Not like this.
I realized how I’d like more of this in my life. Letting go, that is. Without abandon.
Lucid Amphibology 