Nothing is real, and nothing to get hungabout

1970

I remember the apple on the label, spinning round and round in a green blur in the middle of the record that was spinning round and round on the player in my brother's room. I wasn't a day over eight. Forward a couple years later and I can remember sneaking into his room, taking the album from its sleeve, careful not to put my fingerprints on it, setting it on the turntable and oh-so-carefully placing the needle to the beginning of Strawberry Fields Forever.

2002

We caught the train into the city. We had a list of things we wanted to see.

I want to go to Central Park and see Strawberry Fields.

It was raining that day. Soggy yellow leaves were everywhere flat and lifeless on the sidewalk. Someone had placed three red roses in the circle along the top of Imagine. We stood in the rain and stared at the word and roses as if they were an answer to a question.

1980

I'm at the boat with my father. The radio is on but the music stopped. The song is interrupted by the dj announcing that John Lennon had been shot. And had not survived. My father shakes his head, lets out a long breath and says, That's a damn shame. He doesn't understand or even care for John Lennon, but he is defeated by the times. He speaks of JFK's assassination, of the futility in it all. Even though we know who did that, he says, Who would do such a thing?, and walks out onto the deck, still shaking his head. I am stunned and sad, but unsure what right I have to feel so personally affected. Still, everyone will take this personally.

In my young life, there was such speculation the band would get back together. Always hope. One day. Maybe. That possibility ended forever with his murder. I didn't care too much if they got back together or not but I was affected by the hope being gone. And I couldn't stop wondering about all the music that died with him. The songs he would never create, that we would never hear.

Months later, but a new year, Reagan would be shot, the Pope would be shot. My father's words echoed, It's a shame. Who would do such a thing?

This is new, confusing, sad. This is what the zealots are doing.

One week ago

There's a prayer box in the dark candle-lit interior of Notre Dame. It's a box about five feet high and four feet wide, with pads of paper and pencils scattered about the top. A sign beside it reads, Please write your prayer for peace. Last Saturday I wrote down the lyrics to Imagine and jotted a note that, although a song, it was also serving as my prayer.

Today

It's hard for me to believe that it has been 25 years. I hear his voice as loud and clear as it ever was. Give Peace a Chance. For more than one generation he was, of sorts, a musical messiah. A Pied Piper of Peace. I think it's Imagine that is saddled with the unfortunate timeliness. I bow my head when I realize that Imagine is still necessary and applicable today.