In the early seventies when I first started listening to The Beatles Yoko was already a diabolical character. She was loathed by fans and critics alike. I, however, found her fascinating. How could you be a fan of John Lennon and not be intrigued by her? In some pictures she seemed to be stern and focused. In others she had that alluring and mysterious smile. In interviews I detected a smoldering intelligence. I didn’t see what the fuss was all about. I read that when John first met her he kept a copy of her book Grapefruit on his nightstand. For years I scoured used bookstores until I found a copy. In Boston, if I remember correctly. Opening the book at random I was enchanted. This was an art form I was unfamiliar with. How could I, I wondered, figure out how to do these things? Such as,
Paste you name on the window.
Borrow a canon.
Go to a distance and fire against
your name.
Or,
Whisper your name to a stone. Send it to
a stranger.
These little performances were whimsically serious and it was easy to believe that Yoko had indeed acted them all out at some point. It was obvious that Yoko and John were mutual muses. I find it difficult to believe John could have dug so deep without her love.
Over time Yoko seemed to grow more regal, more elegant. There was no mistaking she was a powerful woman. And at the same time a great force living for her art, and, of course, for her love of John and Sean. When she and John were split up I rooted for them to get back together. The press portrayed her as begging him to return. The opposite turned out to be true. And the evening of their reunion, sneakily arranged by Sir Elton John, is a beautiful story.
Her anguish at John’s murder was expressed honestly and publicly, there was no masking her crushed heart. The world felt it. At the time I wondered how she would be able to endure. She proved to be heroically strong.
I hear her influence in everyone from Patti Smith to Deborah Harry to Ani DiFranco to St Vincent. Radical artists who are unmistakably themselves.
It is a cold Autumn morning in Central Park. The sky is blue and there is no doubt that Winter is imminent. The foliage blazes in oranges and yellows. Strawberry Fields, the memorial and quiet zone dedicated to John is silent but people are smiling. I hear French and Spanish and Italian whispers. The black and white mosaic with the word IMAGINE at its center is strewn with roses, wildflowers and Autumn leaves. The scene is not really solemn but for a moment I get choked up. I sing those beautiful words to myself. Imagine no religion….
This spot was one of John and Yoko’s favorite places in NYC. They often walked here. They lived a block away at the Dakota Building and it's where, in its entryway, John was shot after returning home from a recording session. In a colossal act of bravery Yoko still lives there and is able to look down on Strawberry Fields and see the daily comings and goings of the pilgrims who visit from all over the globe to honor her husband and meditate on peace. It must give her solace. I wonder if she’s looking down right now at me shivering in the crisp breeze. Wouldn’t that be something.
She sings,
I'm going away smiling, thinking of our life
How we were good for each other, how we knew
When I came to you, I was all black and blue
You just smiled and said, your love was true
We had a great time, didn't we?
Never knew this is how it would be
And,
Made up my mind to say goodbye,
Went to the park for the last time.
But when I saw your eyes,
I knew for the first time,
That there's no goodbye between us.
There's no goodbye,
There's no goodbye,
There's no goodbye between us.
If one day we slip away,
And that may be in the cards,
We will know deep in our hearts
That there's no goodbye between us.
