B is for Beatles

from Edward Gorey's The Gashlycrumb Tinies

On the morning of 9 December 1980, a school day, I was walking down the stairs towards the kitchen. The ABC news was wafting up to meet me as I descended.  I could hear the newscaster begin to cry as "Imagine" began and I wondered why on earth someone would shoot Jack Lemmon dead.  I was 12.

From that day, for weeks, there was wall-to-wall media coverage about John Lennon and his assassination. And an unplanned retrospective began about the Beatles that was impossible to miss.  It was the first second-wave of Beatlemania. And where the first Beatlemania had ended with disbelief and broken hearts, the revival began in that same vein.

I'd been exposed to The Beatles in the years before 1980 as my violinist brother and guitar strumming cousin had listened to and played along with all the Beatles albums, deconstructing the songs, and marveling at the genius.  I'd been in the same room doing my own thing at the time, and by osmosis the germ had taken hold.  

So by the time I realised it was John Lennon and not Jack Lemmon and there was a whole tidal wave of grief and loss being played out in the press and across the universe, the time was right for me to set out on my own Beatle odyssey:  an adventure that would become my decades long obsession; a safe haven; a raison d'etre; a focus for my art and writing; and a style guide for clothing, hair and speech.  

Oh, not to mention the most amazing SOUNDTRACK TO MY LIFE!

When you have those three incredible songwriters and four wonderful musicians collaborating and channeling the spirit, I can't help but think, when someone says they don't like the Beatles, that there's something terribly wrong with them.  Or maybe they just don't like music at all.  How, with such diversity, a song for every mood, a stanza for every moment, how can a person not find genius in there?  Somewhere?  I just can't fathom the thinking, or the lack of it.  Or maybe they just haven't had exposure. Or maybe they're being contrary.  Whatever.  Something's Not Quite Right.

I listen to other music too, nowadays.  I have diversified.  But I do default to the lads more often than you'd think and I don't think I've made a mixed CD (yes, I still make them) that doesn't include a track or two...).  And thank heavens my beloveds still remember me with presents of Beatley things, memorabilia from second hand shops and books and the like.  I can and will, never tire.  There will always be space in the shrine and in my heart...

* * *

My brother died suddenly when he was 45. That night he visited me in a dream with the Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band album.  He didn't say anything.  I pondered that dream intensely.  He was so earnest.  He wanted to communicate something.  

After a while I decided this is what Hec wanted.  I call it Sgt Heckers.

In My Life

There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

* * * 

  Dedicated to the memory of Cynthia Lennon 1939 – 2015

A is for Apple

from Edward Gorey Gashlycrumb Tinies for whom this month's posts are dedicated.

"A is for Apple which is the beginning of all things", or so said John Lennon in 1968 when The Beatles launched their multimedia baby, Apple Corp.  Then in 1976 Steve Jobs started Apple Computers and so began a decades long trademark war between two of the most iconic brands in all of Christendom.

There was somewhat less enthusiasm when Gwyneth Paltrow named her baby daughter Apple Blythe in  2004, although maybe that was because it was a human baby and not a business, or perhaps it was the new millennium and the populace had discovered fructose malabsorption...  either way, there was unarguably a degree of cynicism attached to naming a child after fruit such that nobody (on record at least) subsequently tried calling their progeny Banana or Pear.

As a life-long Beatles devotee (yes, I have a shrine in my bedroom), also a Mac-user and utterly ambivalent about Gwyneth, I didn't have any of that on my mind when I decided without hesitation, to name my son Apple (μήλο) in Greek, Milo, although all sorts of links and parallels could quite legitimately be drawn. Lovely as all that is, Milo was named for the protagonist in Norton Juster's 1961 literary masterpiece The Phantom Tollbooth.   A book I first read when I was nine. (Synopsis: Phantom Tollbooth Wiki)


The adventures of Milo have resonated with me for most of my life in so far as when I discovered the baby I was carrying was a boy, I knew immediately who he would be and I began to dare to hope that just like his literary namesake, his life would be a trippy trip full of quirky, fascinating folk and he would be sweet and kind and engaged by all things.  Because that's what perspective can do for a person who follows that path and not the other...

That's what I hoped for him, anyway.

The Map of the Lands Beyond from The Phantom Tollbooth (1961)
by Norton Juster, illustrations by Jules Feiffer

You can't imagine how pleased I was when one day in October 2o1o I heard that Norton Juster was alive and kicking in Massachusetts. Particularly considering that for some reason up until that very moment, I had imagined he was Norwegian and long dead.  

The moment I got home that day I did the stalker uber-fan thing and googled him to find his address (surprisingly easy), google-mapped his house, and then without any further hesitation took a deep breath and handwrote him a letter and sent a photo (see below).

Dear Mr Juster

I read The Phantom Tollbooth when a mere dot, and was enchanted by every bit of it.

At age 38, when presented with my first child, a boy, I knew instantly he would be Milo and so he is.

Now he is almost four and is the best thing in the world: loving and warm and interested in all things.

Your wonderful Milo has stayed with me for my whole life.  Thank you, thank you for introducing us.  Now I have my own Milo and I am repaying the favour by introducing him to you.

Dear Mr Juster, you are a wonderful, evocative teller of tales and we are so grateful you have shared.

With every best wish, and our love.

And then, in one of the correspondence highlights of my life, I received an email response.

Dear Sophia:

What a lovely letter.  It made my day.  You're right, of course, Milo is the best thing in the world - but, since you named him for the character in my book I own 10% - I'll settle for the smile and the sparkling eyes.

When The Phantom Tollbooth was published in 1961 (next year is the 50th anniversary) the general consensus of the experts was that:

1.It wasn't a children's book

2.The ideas were too complex

3.The vocabulary was too difficult

4.The kids would be put off by all the puns and word play.

Over the years it has been a source of great pleasure for me that they were so wrong.

Letters like yours are a joy. 

I hope your Milo has a wonderful trip to The Lands Beyond!

Best,

Norton Juster

I cannot describe the thrill.

So there you have it.  That is the reason my boy is called Milo.  His formal name is longer.  I had to find a historic or mythical character containing "Milo" (Romilo) to satisfy the Hellenic questioning Milo would inevitably encounter, because I knew just how tedious it would be for him to try and explain for all of eternity that he is named for a fictitious literary character when Greeks just don't do that.  He will have enough on his plate trying to explain why he isn't christened.  And that's a whole other story.

Yeah yeah yeah.

I ordered the stools for the kitchen from Matt Blatt's online store.  And while I was there I found my birthday present to me.

It's hard to deny that Ringo's looking a little bilious.  But then that's Ringo...

Happy birthday to me.

PS  My bedroom shelves were finally finished on Sunday too.  My Beatles babushkas have been photographed on their glossy whiteness.  

A chair made for me.

In an attempt to kick myself out of the melancholic zone into which I've schlumphed, I'm journeying through the Unique Fabrics website for some inspiration.


And I found a chair.  A chair clearly made for me.

From Andrew Martin's "Beatles Book" Collection.