Breathe.
Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
Jai guru deva om
A ladder leading up to a painting attached to the ceiling.
A plain apple with a price tag for 200 pounds.
They intrigued him, fascinated him. He pored over the strange "Unfinished Paintings and Objects" in the little Mason's Yard gallery, the Indica.
The small figure of the artist, dressed entirely in black, pale face almost hidden behind clouds of black hair, appeared and walked over to him. Not saying a word, the artist handed him a card on which only one word was written: "Breathe." He left that night, mesmirized, never having spoken to her, and yet completely unable to erase her from his thoughts.
Shortly after, she asked him to finance her next exhibition in north London, "The Half Wind Show." There were half tables, half pillows, half toothbrushes, half sinks, half beds. He immediately agreed and refused to be credited in the catalog.
He began showing up at galleries with hopes of catching a glimpse or a word with her. Invariably, he would leave disturbed, ruffled, unsettled by their meetings. Her insights, words, and manner were unlike any convention or woman he had ever known.
She sent him Grapefruit, her book of free Zen-like phrases--absurd and intriguing. He wrote her long drabbly letters and she sent simple phrases on cards. "Watch the Light Until Dawn." "Bleed." "Paint Until You Drop Dead." "Scream 1. Against the Wind 2. Against the Wall 3. Against the Sky." "Watch for Me in the Sky."
He was beyond famous but that never deluded or fazed her for a second. Deep down, he was the insecure one, possessive and unsure, uncomfortable with the idea of discovering himself outside of his familiar context. And she knew it.
She challenged him, confused him, did the things he didn't dare, talked freely and openly with him about things you're never supposed to talk about. She was quiet, resolute, unyielding without being pushy, fragile but not dependant, a woman but not dainty, motherly, or deferring. "She's me, in drag," he would say. He shielded her, from press, from drug charges, from taunts, his arm always protectively encircling her shoulders. They spent a whole night talking and recording, songs and thoughts, and he knew.
So he left his wife and son. made his band (the band) and best friends and the world completely confused and angry. They resented, hated, didn't understand her, wondered why this strange homely thing when he could have had any girl in the Western world. They may not have understood, but they couldn't deny the odd understanding and inspiration between the two of them, and their perplexing, encompassing love.
*
"Julia," he sang in the song by that name--my favorite, maybe--floating, haunting, raw, sad and alive, and so so simple. A soft and beautiful tribute to his free-spirited mother who had died 10 years earler. I had always thought it a 'romantic' love song. But there was something in it too ethereal and yearning to be only for his mother, I've always thought.
"Julia, Ocean Child, windy smile, calls me. So I sing this song of love for Julia, Julia..."
He wrote it soon after they met (no, not he and his mother....). I just found out that her name, Yoko, means "Ocean Child" in Japanese. Huh, cool. Oh man, mmmm song.
* * *
also, completely unrelatedly, the drummer for Oasis is actually Ringo's son. who woulda thunk?
i have such a soft spot for ringo. and george is brooding and sweet and mysterious and tempermental and gorgeous. and john, well, he's me in drag. iunno, his spirit or something just makes sense to me. and paul, well, how can anyone not be head-over-heels for paul? ok, ok. i just love them all. but we already knew that.
Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
Jai guru deva om
A ladder leading up to a painting attached to the ceiling.
A plain apple with a price tag for 200 pounds.
They intrigued him, fascinated him. He pored over the strange "Unfinished Paintings and Objects" in the little Mason's Yard gallery, the Indica.
The small figure of the artist, dressed entirely in black, pale face almost hidden behind clouds of black hair, appeared and walked over to him. Not saying a word, the artist handed him a card on which only one word was written: "Breathe." He left that night, mesmirized, never having spoken to her, and yet completely unable to erase her from his thoughts.
Shortly after, she asked him to finance her next exhibition in north London, "The Half Wind Show." There were half tables, half pillows, half toothbrushes, half sinks, half beds. He immediately agreed and refused to be credited in the catalog.
He began showing up at galleries with hopes of catching a glimpse or a word with her. Invariably, he would leave disturbed, ruffled, unsettled by their meetings. Her insights, words, and manner were unlike any convention or woman he had ever known.
She sent him Grapefruit, her book of free Zen-like phrases--absurd and intriguing. He wrote her long drabbly letters and she sent simple phrases on cards. "Watch the Light Until Dawn." "Bleed." "Paint Until You Drop Dead." "Scream 1. Against the Wind 2. Against the Wall 3. Against the Sky." "Watch for Me in the Sky."
He was beyond famous but that never deluded or fazed her for a second. Deep down, he was the insecure one, possessive and unsure, uncomfortable with the idea of discovering himself outside of his familiar context. And she knew it.
She challenged him, confused him, did the things he didn't dare, talked freely and openly with him about things you're never supposed to talk about. She was quiet, resolute, unyielding without being pushy, fragile but not dependant, a woman but not dainty, motherly, or deferring. "She's me, in drag," he would say. He shielded her, from press, from drug charges, from taunts, his arm always protectively encircling her shoulders. They spent a whole night talking and recording, songs and thoughts, and he knew.
So he left his wife and son. made his band (the band) and best friends and the world completely confused and angry. They resented, hated, didn't understand her, wondered why this strange homely thing when he could have had any girl in the Western world. They may not have understood, but they couldn't deny the odd understanding and inspiration between the two of them, and their perplexing, encompassing love.
*
"Julia," he sang in the song by that name--my favorite, maybe--floating, haunting, raw, sad and alive, and so so simple. A soft and beautiful tribute to his free-spirited mother who had died 10 years earler. I had always thought it a 'romantic' love song. But there was something in it too ethereal and yearning to be only for his mother, I've always thought.
"Julia, Ocean Child, windy smile, calls me. So I sing this song of love for Julia, Julia..."
He wrote it soon after they met (no, not he and his mother....). I just found out that her name, Yoko, means "Ocean Child" in Japanese. Huh, cool. Oh man, mmmm song.
* * *
also, completely unrelatedly, the drummer for Oasis is actually Ringo's son. who woulda thunk?
i have such a soft spot for ringo. and george is brooding and sweet and mysterious and tempermental and gorgeous. and john, well, he's me in drag. iunno, his spirit or something just makes sense to me. and paul, well, how can anyone not be head-over-heels for paul? ok, ok. i just love them all. but we already knew that.
Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.