I went to Central Park the other night since it was John Lennon's 31st death anniversary. It's been unseasonably warm so the night was nice. We all partook in the day-long-Beatles-singalong, which is always fun. There was an old man standing in front of me and at one point, he sadly said "I can't remember the lyrics anymore." It made me sigh.
The 50 year span since Beatlesmania makes me wonder a lot of things. It is about the same stretch as their height and the turn of the century. Even though The Beatles were well before my time, I personally do not feel very far away from John or Paul or George or Ringo. I wonder if they felt the same closeness towards Van Gogh or Freud. And if so, did the latter feel the same way towards Liszt or Balzac?
Christmas didn't really hit me until tonight. I was on the subway platform when I heard a busker playing Auld Lang Syne on the violin. He played terribly but I think that's what triggered. It's the memory of joyful and drunk people singing off key at the stroke of midnight. And even though it's not quite Christmas, it's really the merge of all these holiday memories that end the year with hopes of a better one. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy.
Time to put on some Nat King Cole.
