Remembering John Lennon, 25 years later

On the 25th anniversary of John Lennon’s death, I stayed in bed, snuggled and sandwich between layers of memory foam and goosedown. I was the cats pajamas. They say that John and Yoko stayed in bed for months on end. they staged a bed-in, and receiving visitors as if they were laid-back royalty at the Dakota Hotel in Central Park where that half acre of bed slumbered like a fairytale castle. I thought of Princess Diana and the story of the pea, once upon a mattress. What songs came out of that gestation, what art? Neil asked me where I was the day John Lennon was shot. I was at home in bed, writing as it turns out. Someone must’ve called me, because I remember turning on the radio and for 24 hours we listened to every song John ever wrote. I recorded a couple of hours' worth of music before I ran out of tape. As it was, I recorded over all my old poetry reading archives and whatnot. I remember, when I heard the news I was facing south, towards the sun, it was an indeterminate day of sun and clouds. It was raining inside all of us that day John Lennon died. It was like JFK, RFK, MLK all over again—singular days etched into the mind forever.

12/9//2005 Writers’ Group