Another year passes but the pain never diminishes
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
- Carl Sandburg, "Grass"
Are we here again? Has it been another year? Must we live this day once more: the day of loss, the day that cannot be revoked, the day of remembering?
I pull on my black sweater and pants, and pin my "John Lennon: 1940-1980, We Still Miss You" button on the collar and go out to face the world, grim. The ritual is repeated - two years, ten years... year after year. And yet, the pain is never diminished by the passage of time.
I try to take solace in the fact that John is now "free as a bird," that he is home, safe and dry. In Tell Me Why I read Tim Riley's brilliant words, "When [John] looked at himself and the world around him, he felt unsettled, dissatisfied. Life wore on him." And I try to rejoice that John is now in a place where he "fits in," where he is completely and utterly happy - a place where nothing chafes and everything comforts.
But I am not comforted. I am selfish and feel deprived of the man who walked headlong into life with a "chip on his shoulder that was bigger than his feet." I have the records, but not the voice. I have the movies and interview DVD's and photo stills, but not the guy with the Goon grin or the cackling laugh or the serious sneer. All I have is memory. All any of us have is memory.
And that is not enough.
The world without John Lennon is not better off. It is less spontaneous, less ingenious, less original, less playful, less magical, less lovely. He gave us a collective vision that we couldn't summon for ourselves. He made us believe in Lucy and Prudence and Mr. Kite and the illusive lady of Norwegian Wood. He showed us that if you're sure you can, you can. He pummeled the status quo so that we didn't have to. And in the pressing crowd that was the 1960's, he shouldered ahead of us and paved our way.
Don't get me wrong. I don't see John as a saint. He would hate that. He would far rather be known as the irreverent rocker he was. But even sardonic, temperamental geniuses have those who love them. And for those of us who do (love John, that is) this is a shadow day. A great light has been extinguished here. That it shines on elsewhere is our only joy.
-Jude Southerland Kessler
Author of Shoulda Been There
