Saturday, October 9, 2010

John Lennon: We phoned the N.Y.C. operator on 12.9.80

Original Handwritten Lyrics to Imagine*
When we heard John Lennon was shot, a little of our souls, my boyfriend's and mine, abandoned us. Left, became Messengers, imagined Messengers.

We were on our couch, in Silverlake--L.A. One of us grabbed the phone. One of us dialed Information in New York City. We needed the operator to understand, "We're so sorry."

"I know, I know." Her voice was rich and crushed. She really did know.

We asked if we could be put through to the Dakota, to connect. To comfort to Yoko and Sean. Julian, wherever he was.

The telephone operator said, "Don't worry, I'll tell them." Only New Yorkers offer comfort like that in times of tragedy. I'm sorry, but it's true. "The boards are crazy. Thank you for calling. Everyone's calling. We'll tell them." Wished us peace.

We knew we were dumb grieving schmucks and she couldn't contact Yoko but it was beautiful. A conversation about the loved one, between those who loved him. Many moments of sympathy, comfort, kindness since but nothing quite the equivalent.

In tragedy we have to do; in memoriam we reach out. Hey, John Lennon. I'm back here, in New York. Nothing good came from your death but a bullet is insufficient to kill you. Happy birthday.

*The image, original handwritten lyrics to Imagine, is from

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