No Telephone in Heaven- The John Lennon Wishing Tree
Lennon’s manuscripts, handwritten lyrics, paintings, drawings, doodles, the stuff of his daily life. Lennon’s glasses- iconic, still bloodstained, as Yoko insisted they remain; Lennon’s rumpled clothes in a tragic rumpled paper bag- the evidence bag, exactly as they were returned to her the night of his death. His effects simply displayed, one winter, years ago, This at the Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, my home town.
It was a December night when we drove downtown to see the Lennon exhibit. Great flakes of snow drifted past the illuminated glass pyramid of the new Rock Hall of Fame. We stood on an upper floor, looking out at the lakefront in the darkness of the winter evening. Anchored nearby on the lakefront was a long, heavy carrier, one of those giant Great Lakes ships, at rest, now itself an exhibit. There was a slight family connection, my sister knew someone who was on the crew of the ship- memories, snowfall, out there on the lake.
The ship is a reminder of the industrial life of Cleveland- or of Liverpool, for that matter, John’s hometown. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is a silly place really, I thought, but this night was quite special. Standing in a glass pyramid on a winter night before a frozen lake is certainly a vision that Yoko would appreciate.
In the exhibit of Lennon music and memorabilia was a white telephone next to a white chair, and we were told that if the phone rang to pick it up- it would be Yoko. We spent time near the phone, with some apprehension, but enjoying the possibility of her call.
Yoko Ono- we hoped she would call.
As the old song goes, there is no telephone to heaven, but there was a way to send a message to John if we wished. Yoko had placed a traditional wishing tree, upon which we could hang a little handwritten tag on string, write a message to John and hang it on a branch.
I can’t remember what I wrote.
The tree was white. And the chair. And the telephone, and the snow, and the paper. All in the exposed darkness by great windows of winter.
These anticipations of connections reminded me of music notation.
One night, when I was standing by my piano I had a vivid sense of Beethoven’s presence in the sheet music open there. (Beethoven, another December soul.)
The fact of composition, the actuality of creativity and the intent to transmit directly, person to person, something that was once handwritten, something of such genius and originality, left me staring at the music on the stand above the piano keyboard.
It was as if the ink were still wet on the page, or the sonata had just been composed, as if there was no interval between the composer and us. Beethoven was there in his work. It had the intimacy and immediacy of a postcard, or a long letter you’d just received. Full of the living presence of the writer.
So a Beatle song lyric is a scrawl on a scrap of paper, and there it was. Lennon’s rough drafts were everywhere in display cases.
It’s meant to be simple. Don’t read anything in. Glass Onion.
Outside, visible from where one stood looking at Lennon-art, big flakes of snow in the winter darkness. And Lake Erie, vast winter lake.
We were very moved by the peace there. It was as though the place was filled with it. It was partly Lennon, and Yoko, and December itself. Looking toward holidays which are always complicated by love and darkness and candles and colored lights and politics and war. The Lennons tried to disconnect Christmas and war and their appeal is heard annually. War is Over If You Want It.
Has it been 25 years since the edge of my afternoon paper caught fire?
That December 8th afternoon was dark early on account of winter, and the candles at the little cafe tables were lit. Cafe Flor. San Francisco. 1980.
The flame caught the very edge of my paper as I read the headline that John Lennon was dead, murdered in New York. The front page actually burst into flames in my hands. Shocked and embarrassed, I had to put the fire out by beating it with the flat of my hand.
The art we do. It’s worth it. Peace is worth it. Democracy in the street and in our government is worth it.
Yes, we all have a dark side. Can’t we see it sometimes, loose in the world?
Snow drifting down, working class understanding. Repression and expression. “She” loves “You.”
How personal this is. My piano teacher back in the old days watched so intently, so interested in every note of Rachmaninov, Scriabin, or Gershwin or Satie, or Chopin- and most especially Liszt. There is an extreme amount of love and generosity in all this.
(John Lennon felt he had a limited vocabulary as a musician; those of us who had formal piano lessons carry on as best we can.)
A little light glowed by the black Steinway 9-foot studio grand piano where we sat together of an evening, teacher and I, looking at the piece before us, squinting forward at notes, like lights on a lake, with wonder and intention. Miss Snow. Yes, her real name.
How much this matters, to sit at a piano. Especially in winter, or near Christmas, when carols and hymns come out of the past like a dream, cloying and earnest. And people get out their LP records, and yeah, for us, Beatles.
“Beatles ‘65” was a Christmas album for us -yeah, that long ago.
The Beatles sent their fans a recorded greeting each Christmas. They’re full of the usual upstart charm and mayhem and fun. Sort of an aural Christmas card with puns and plays and skits and Xmas-y goofing off.
We ought to send something back.
We miss you, John! Thanks for coming to America. Thanks for bringing peace to Cleveland. Thanks for reminding us of peace on earth, and peace wherever you are, if you want it.
http://imaginepeacetower.com/yoko-onos-wish-trees/
jk
San Francisco.
12/08/05
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