John Lennon and Yoko Ono

For those who may not know, this photo was once featured on the cover of TIME magazine many decades ago. For those even less in the know, pictured here is Yoko Ono and John Lennon of The Beatles' fame and legacy. But, even without any previous knowledge of who these people are, what context the photo was taken in, or what the history behind the photo is, it still manages to remain a striking image by itself. There still remains a certain subtext, or shadow of meaning, underneath the glamour which speaks even larger volumes about humanity and the nature of our experience, than any historical or socio-political interpretation could ever hope to achieve. This subtext is in many ways more important because regardless of context, there is still the steady pulse-beat that thumps in the throat of the image. This resonates with a certain part of us that is rooted and connected to an eternal humanity, existing throughout the ages. These shadows, what lives in between the lines, are what remind us that we are human; it captures a moment of innocent, sexual vulnerability and tenderness that is often concealed and bastardized by today's cultural piety. What's more, it reassures us, "expressing and embracing our sexuality is perfectly okay; we are human, after all."

For me this photo captures a shifting. It drastically affects the way I perceive the relationship between man and woman, masculine and feminine roles, love and subservience. More conventional gender roles depict woman as subservient to man, and in a way, this subservience is what defines her quality of femininity, and even reciprocally, his quality of masculinity. However, the elements in this photo show a balancing, and reversal of these roles. There's a dramatic contrast between the artifice of dark clothing and the more natural, blemished, light skin texture which adds a yin and yang element, and an interdependence between male and female. It suggests that within this balance, there exists an idyllic microcosm, a loving relationship that is in stasis with the universal macrocosm, and is in many ways, perfect.

John Lennon lies in an exposed posture that reveals something perhaps concealed within man. It is a certain vulnerability and dependence upon woman, seen by his infantile, fetal positioning that clings on to her like a newborn to his mother. He needs her to sustain life, and yet manages to give back for it in terms of love and protection. In a mythical context, this photo represents a reliance of man on the mother goddess, and life giver. Therefore, we also see a cultural shift, which manages to break away from a masculine centered culture. Yoko is the fertile provider, yet beauty and fertility is as a fragile flower, and still requires tenderness and protection in man's embrace.

The Plantation Overseer: An Interpretation

Plantation Overseer and His Field Hands, Near Clarksdale, Mississippi, 1936
Photographer: Dorothea Lange

Sometimes Mr. Jefferson took us out for a Coke on Sunday afternoons when church was over, after the baptism by fire from God's Mississippi sun had all but dampened and wilted our Sunday best. He never let us miss an opportunity to come to church in all the years I knew him. That was Mr. Jefferson; he always had to have a car full of people to bring with before he even thought about stepping through those swinging church doors. Every Sunday at 9 a.m. he'd be outside my house with his wife and a charcoal Ford, honking that horn. On certain days I didn't feel like coming, he'd always make a point to stop in later and visit, and offer me and the boys to go out to lunch sometime, anyway. He'd take anyone out to eat, and talk about anything. "If Jesus was alive today, he'd be drinkin' Coca-Cola," he'd always say, "I bet he'd be a plantation man. Yes, sir. He'd be drinkin' the red, white, and blue, and nappin' in the shade; that's for damn sure." He always said a lot of strange stuff like that, that no one ever quite understood. Mr. Jefferson talked a little bit slower than most folks, a bit softer. He'd always pause between thoughts, like he was really thinking about something. Then he'd let a long draw of tobacco spit shine up the dirt, and tip back his afternoon flask of whiskey. "It's too hot in this Mississippi sun," he'd say. We'd just eat our food, and nod, "Sure is."

The last time I saw him was a Sunday, few days before he passed away. I saw him at the gorcer's, after I told him I didn't much care to go that church with him anymore. He understood, but told me something then that still rings clearer in my ears than any church organ or hymnal ever had. "Listen, I know a lot of folks down at the congregation might give ya certain eyes, and treat ya like yer different. I know 'cause I get the same. But dont' let a few opinions stop ya from being who ya are, from doing what ya need to do. Don't let anyone ever tell ya ya ain't never been worth a damn." Ever since he died I can never drink a Coke without thinking about my dear friend Mr. Jefferson, or about what he said that day. It was the 1930's in Mississippi. There was plenty of hate still burning in the veins of people claiming to be God's chosen, and there still is today. It's as hot as the Mississippi sun, burning on the back of every preacher, and on their tongues during the Sunday sermon. But not Mr. Jefferson; he'd been colorblind his whole life. All he ever wanted was to take us out for a Coke, cool down a bit, and see what was new. He was just tending to God's plantation. That's all he ever did.

Why I Write

Making spaces where space has never been, some create the universe with graphite, paint, smudged hands, and a smock apron. Others conjure up ethereal landscapes with their breath and the air around them, funneling it through strings and hollow, brass tubes. Some people never make anything at all. They only live for the journey, to fully immerse themselves under the surface and not come back up until they've discovered a bit of something. They live so that when the knock from the other side gets louder, they can confidently reply, "Through trough and crest, I cherished it all." Still, others only know how to draw pictures with words, and for all these reasons, I write.  

But what is the point of placing words on a page? The act of it seems hollow. Great things are only created from blood, laughter, love, and tears. To write, for me, is as much about wearing the carpet raw in little circled paths on the floor, peeking through my blinds at three in the morning with droopy, bloodshot eyes. Sometimes it finds me in an upward trance, playing catch with the fluorescence on the ceiling, tossing that piece of fruit in the air one last time and hoping it comes down with an answer attached to it. And the answer is always the same. To write anything worthwhile is to stare death in the eyes, steal breath from something beautiful, hold it, then get lost on purpose and escape; to be honest with ourselves; to make bad decisions, and know what it's like to wake up lonely and sore; to lose something you love, become vanquished, and get it back again. Even when the pencil doesn't push the paper, we are always writing. Even if the words aren't there, we are always living. The universe is a story; all we do is unfold.

 I write for intoxication, for catharsis, because Baudelaire said, "be continually drunk," and Plath told me I couldn't stop the blood jet from flowing, anyway. I write because beating hearts don't fall silent when they lie down at night nor eyes end their visions after the sun comes up. I do it because a high-salary engineering job would have still left me starving. I write for the moments that step on my jaw and leave me face down on the floor. I write for the sake of November mornings, tender, four o'clock moments of love when the air carried through the bedroom window brings with it the crisp, gray reminder of rain. I do it because there are wheels and eyes in my chest that well up every time light dances off the water...and all I want is to drown in it. I write because time rubs against me, and the sands are quickly receding. The reasons why have never really mattered. Sooner or later, we all slip into the ocean.