Have you ever met that person who when you talk to them, you are just
amazed at the amount of knowledge their brain has retained? Granted,
there are a lot of us that look at these people and feel like we are
wasting our lives because we haven't spent our free time learning the
ways of the world. We feel less enlightened and we might even
contemplate reading a good history book or going to a lecture of some
sort to further enhance our brain power. Maybe we'll even head to an
art museum. Then there are others who look at this very
knowledgeable person and question whether or not it is in fact, them
wasting their lives because seriously, how the hell have you
found the time to learn that much? Do you not work?
Depending on the day, I fall on either side of these personalities.
But, when it comes to one thing specific, I am that person
that knows way too much. Now, I would like to lie to you and say my
knowledgeable subject is something useful like Medieval history or
the life works of Charles Dickens or Emily Bronte. At least then you
would think “wow, this girl has a discipline”. Sadly, my vast
array of knowledge is of something much more... colorful? Yeah.
Colorful is a nice word.
I can't tell you when I started listing to the Beatles. I was young.
My parents and my brother listened to them and I don't think you can
turn on an old rock station without hearing the sounds of “Love Me
Do”. The point is that I have been listening to them since I was a
kid and went through a phase in high school where I immersed myself
into all things Beatles. Clothes, books, albums, history, bootleg
copies of obscure songs... You name it and if I could get my hands on
it, I consumed it. I was a little Beatles monster who decided it was
her life mission to learn everything she could. I started saving for
Europe for the soul purpose to see Abbey Road Studio's before it was
torn down (thankfully, that never happened and the studio still
stands). I went to Liverpool, I've stood outside the Cavern Club and
was at a loss for words over the fact that this small, dark little
club, somehow held hundreds upon hundreds of people to listen to a
band that would change history.
In 2011 I traveled to New York (and side note: I have trouble
sometimes not calling it New New York). I had never been there and
upon hearing that a friend that I had met in Europe the previous year
(and who lives in Australia) was going to be there, I promptly
followed suite. Now I could go on and on about New York. I could
tell you about how I actually found New Yorkers to be nicer than
Californian's. I could tell you about the naked guitar player
walking down the street. I could even tell you about the humid
weather and what it was like to see my friend try a bagel for the
first time. I saw a show while I was there, I visited the Statue of
Liberty and I stood on top of the Empire State Building in the middle
of the night. I was moved to tears at the 9/11 memorial and I got
sunburned beyond belief from riding around on top of a bus where a
nice tour driver told us not to stand because a tree would take our
head off. When I think of New York, all of that comes to mind. But
what probably had the most impact on me was that famous little
mosaic, tucked away in Central Park.
I don't think we had been in the city for more than a few hours
before we set out to explore the park. The Imagine mosaic for John
Lennon was of course, on the list of must see places. It wasn't hard
to find really. It was a weekend and there were people flocking
towards it. Because yes, after all these years, people young and old
still go to this tiled spot and lay flowers down in honor of this
man.
When we came upon it, it was saturated in color. Reds and yellows
framed out the floor and little yellow submarines and green apples
were placed all around. People stood in a circle, snapping pictures,
some humming their favorite tune under their breath. There was a hat
for loose change that would go towards the cause of choice that day.
The entire moment was beautiful and bright and full of life and as I
stood there, I really couldn't believe that I was a part of it. This
memorial that I had heard about for years, that I had seen pictures
of, was sitting right in front of me. To me, it was like someone had
taken one of those $4.99 posters that we see in tourists shops and
smacked it down in the middle of this courtyard with a bit of gloss
and flowers. It just didn't seem possible.
We sat there for a while, watching the people come and go. Little
children ran around, unaware of the history that they were playing
upon. Parents, college students, grandparents and babies all passed
by that day. It still makes me smile to think about the reach that
such a modest memorial has over people.
The rest of New York went by in such quick and city like ways. I
want to go back. I will go back. The city is incredible and before I
went, I figured it was simply a cliché that others said. There is
something about that city. Everyone told me that but they could
never tell me what that something was. I'm not going to repeat the
sentiment to you, but part of the reason I have to go back is because
I believe in that phrase and I need to discover what exactly that
“something” is.
Ah, but we are not done quite yet. You see, my friend left early in
the morning towards the end of our trip while I didn't have a flight
out until evening. So, on my last day in New York, I went to FAO
Schwarz (!!!!) and then headed back to Central Park. I was walking
around this gorgeous area, tree's hanging overhead and blocking the
sun. I wasn't paying much attention as I was chatting on the phone
to a friend, trying to explain to her what I was seeing as I walked
along, when suddenly, my phone cut out. I remember looking down at
it and frowning. I had full service. Nothing should have been wrong.
When I looked up again, I almost didn't recognize where I was. It
was an abandoned little clearing in the park, the concrete paths
jutting off into different directions, their destination obscured by
small hills and flowering bushes. Then I saw it. There, right at my
feet, was the memorial again. Though this time, it wasn't ordained
with flowers or causes or memories of others. It was sitting there
by itself, gray and lacking the luster it had shone with days before,
and there was no one else around.
I knelt down in front of it, reaching out to run my hands across the
tile, trying not to cry because lets face it, I didn't want to be the
crazy girl crying at the Imagine memorial. But as I knelt by this
beautiful example of this mans work, I couldn't help but feel
overwhelmed. It was alone in this big park, completely abandoned for
the time being, a few leaves having washed over it through the day.
There was something so sad about it and soothing and so iconic at the
same time. Life suddenly seemed much bigger than I thought it had
been before. Suddenly, my thoughts and my experiences and all the
little things that had to happen to lead me to that spot in Central
Park, on that day, in that hour, came crashing over me in an almost
crushing weight and for a moment, I couldn't breath.
But here's the funny thing about overwhelming life moments that
threaten to shatter you into thousands of tiny pieces no matter how
hard you try to keep it together.
You keep breathing.
Life still goes on.
I sat in the middle of the mosaic that day, kneeling down and
ghosting my hands over the ground. A man with his daughter walked by
after some time and offered to snap my picture. He did, on a blurry
little camera phone of mine, and moments later, the courtyard was
flooded with a tour group, carrying bouquets of flowers. My time was
over. It was time to move on.
Two hours later I was in a taxi, heading to the airport, preparing to
go home.
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