Monday, December 30, 2013

Build Me Up Buttercup



I have very vivid memories associated with this song. My daughter couldn't have been more than about 2 weeks old at the time. My husband was holding her on his shoulder and dancing with her to this song, singing it to her.

There have been repeats of this scene over the years, as she grew, too numerous to count. The 2 of them dancing together and him singing this song to her.

This is their song. This has always been their song, and it will probably be the one they dance to at her wedding, when she finally decides to get married. No other song could possibly be an appropriate substitute.

I put this on his MP3 player that I gave him for Giftmas this year. My father also recently gave me a set of speakers that I let him have, which we hooked up to his MP3 player when I gave it to him.

My daughter and her boyfriend were here at the time.We were all in the kitchen talking and suddenly my daughter told everyone to shut up. This song had come on.

And the 2 of them danced around the kitchen together, with him singing it to her. And at that moment there was no such thing as time. The past and the present became one. She was both 2 weeks old and 27 and the room was both our current kitchen and the living room of our old apartment.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Imagine You're Invisible. It's Easy If You Try. (it's even easy if you don't)



It's December 8, 1980. I am 14 years old. I am sitting on the sofa in the living room at my father's house. My father is at work and my stepmother is ignoring me, trying to make me invisible. And that's just how I feel, invisible, alone, lonely, unwanted, unloved, and bored out of my mind. I am not allowed to get up unless I have to use the bathroom, not allowed to talk to anyone, especially my little sister, who has also been ignoring me. She has been told to ignore me. I have been there for days and I will be there for days to come. There is no TV for me to watch, no books for me to read, nothing for me to do but sit here, listen, and observe. I hear a TV in another room, a news report. John Lennon is dead. I hear my stepmother crying, just like she did when Elvis died. She comes into the living room and puts on a Beatles album. She sits on the floor near the stereo and weeps, still ignoring me, still trying to make me invisible. She plays the album over and over. I watch her and say nothing, breathing slowly, barely moving at all, trying to remain as invisible as she wants me to be. I don't belong here. It was a mistake to come back. This is not my home, not my family.

This is what I think of when I think of John Lennon or whenever I hear his name. This is where I go whenever I hear his voice. This is why I have the love/hate relationship that I do with his music and everything Beatles. This is how music really dies. People kill it, turn good things into pain.