YOKO ONO

I saw Yoko Ono's name and thought, "What's she doing now?" Every so often, with some attention-getting declaration, she pops into the news.

I've resisted paying attention to her. Is it because of the outrageous lovemaking photos of her and John Lennon?  I wasn't a prude back in those days, but it seemed as if they were advertizing themselves. And she was wedging her way into Beatles history and the art world, based on her relationship to Lennon.

I read reporter Lily Rothman's "!0 Questions" interview in Time Magazine. It's about Yoko's book "Accord" being published, and her new album, "Take me to the land of Hell." Though I am not a fan, part of my brain tells me that she's an extraordinary woman with extraordinary power and energy,

Watching the video of the interview, I liked the quietly confident, practical way Yoko Ono supported art, creativity, and peace, and liked her promoting ways of using oneself to help the world remain a world that we can live in.

Enjoying the bright-voiced girl who conducted the interview, I found myself more interested in the girl's crisp speech, directness and charity, than in what the 80-year-old, worldly-wise Yoko was proffering, in her very quiet voice. (Tuning up the volume when Yoko spoke, I wondered if it was the microphone, or her way of getting an audience to pay extra attention to every word she uttered.)

John Lennon's love for this woman -- it is still vivid -- his being murdered at age 40 -- how he was changing everything about his life before his death, collaborating with Yoko, moving away from the Beatles, apparently doing everything he could do to make her happy as his wife and artistic partner.

In the video, the tersely eloquent, 80-year-old Yoko looked not young, but not crinkled old or even elderly as she told us how optimistic she was -- told us she was brimming with wonderful ideas and plans.

While the interview rolled on, I Googled -- skimmed what some critics said about her new album, and other albums," and listened briefly to her girlish soprano in a few videos -- unmemorable melodies, rather over-simple, poetic ideas. What I noticed was 42,000 to 57,000 people had listened to them. Were they her fans, or did they listen because John Ono Lennon, (he changed his name to that) adored her. Maybe listening to her songs was a way of revering him?

Well, why not?

Hey, I remember actress wife Trash Van Deere and the great George C Scott -- an evening
we spent with them in his sprawling Connecticut mansion. Beautiful, overly passionate Trish making herself the center of attention during cocktails and dinner -- preaching her politics, reminding George to walk the dogs, getting him to show us the front page photo of her in the Washington Post, ruling the un-rulable George, who was, at that point, drinking a quart of vodka a day.

Did I like her? Well, she didn't' connect with me, or mention the film script based on my novel "Splintered Heart," that I'd sent her, suggesting she could star in the movie.

Is Trish-George, why I am not interested in Yoko's projects?

Hey, I'm the wife, blogger, making video's with my celebrity husband whose name and background wedges me into the theater world, and gets me status, more attention than if I were just me.

I read this to my husband.  John Cullum said strongly, "Em, what you do is important for what the blog and videos say and do."

Hmm..

Here's here's  a link to Ono's new album "Take me to the Land of Hell"

Here's the 10 Questions video. What do you think?

(VIDEO) DAILY MUNDANITIES

Em and John ruefully list those chores that have to be done, no matter where you live or what you do.

Em delights in not having to do what John does.

John delights in the things that Em handles--chores he doesn't like to do.

HALLOWEEN BIRTHDAY

What to wear?  It was my birthday, a week before Halloween. I'd never given a party before. We were going to celebrate Halloween and my ninth birthday.

I had dropped hints about what I wanted for my birthday -- a makeup kit -- a ring with my birthstone -- a wristwatch, guitar, or a real art easel and a set of oil paints.

Daddy's car was parked temporarily on the street. The party was going to be in the garage. We'd decorated the garage with orange crepe paper scallops. Orange paper plates and cups were stacked on two card tables. A skeleton hung on the garage door. The large pumpkin, which I carved all by myself was on a stool. A candle was in it, ready to be lit.

The pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game was tacked up on a white sheet. A five gallon wash-tub, that was used for soaking clothes, was clean and full of water. We were going to a bob for apples.

My class from school was invited. Kids I liked and also the one's I didn't like -- I'd handed out the invitations that I'd crayoned to everyone -- more people meant more presents.

My sister made me a witch's hat from some stiff black cardboard she'd bought at the art store. We found a piece of black cloth for a cape. I wanted a wand. We used an old black umbrella, tied shoe laces and string around it to keep it flat and pointy.

The morning of the big day I woke early -- excited -- nine-years-old seemed wonderfully grown up, mature, important.

At breakfast my first gift was plunked down in front of me -- no wrapping -- it was a handsome jewelry box, brown, with brass corners. It had three drawers. The inside of the box was lined with a soft green felt. It looked like Mom's jewelry box but smaller.

"Look, it has three keys!" one of my sisters said, as if three keys were very important.

I didn't need three drawers or three keys. I didn't have any real jewelry -- just wooden beads, a tin ring from a Cracker Jack box, a fake watch from Woolworth's. I figured a birthstone ring, and maybe the wristwatch were in the other boxes -- three gift-wrapped boxes were sitting on the buffet near the coffee pot.

One box held a grey-pearl pen and pencil set. The other box contained fancy stationery -- pink and blue paper, pink and blue envelopes. The third box had a red leather diary in it -- small, with a little key and lock.

A pen and pencil, stationery, a diary -- was that all?  I looked around but there were no other gifts or wrapped boxes as my other sister said, "Nice useful things you got today, Emily."

There were things to do -- the usual tidy-upping things one has to do every day. I felt old and sad about the useful things till one of my sisters said "Lots of kids are coming, I'll help you get dressed." 

Both sisters helped me put on my makeup -- zig-zag eyebrows, tons of lipstick, and round rouge spots on my cheeks. My two braids hung on either side of my tall witch's hat. My cape was fastened with a large-sized safety pin. I smiled a big real smile when my sister took a picture. I figured I'd win the prize for the best costume. The prize was a kaleidoscope. I loved kaleidoscopes.

The kids who came to the party came with relatives. The relatives sat on chairs and the bench. I got four handkerchiefs, two coloring books, a book of paper dolls, two comic books, a beach ball, and a rag doll. The gifts seemed to be gifts my classmates had been given when they were younger.

I didn't win the prize for best costume. My sister was the host, and she got the relatives to indicate the winner by applauding. There were two other witches, two gypsies, one fairy, three girls in cooking aprons,  and boys in dumb costumes except the winner -- he wore a top hat, and tap shoes. He came as Fred Astaire.

Shall I go on with this story?  I didn't win pin-the-tail-on-the donkey. Blobbing for apples my hat fell in the water, but I did manage to get an apple.

The not happy, not good ... no, it was more than not good, -- it was a bad birthday -- and this un-happy birthday has stayed somewhere in my mind where one's negativity resides.

Is it why I don't celebrate my birthday?  Has it made me anti-social?

I don't celebrate birthdays because advertising my age at this point in time, turns conversations into "how do you feel?" ... "how's your health?" ... "you mean you're still working?" And I'm not anti-social -- my expectations are minimal, and at the same time HUGE.

Maybe this is why I carry around, mentally, a black umbrella -- to put up in case in rains -- to have just in case I need a magic wand. That night on page one of my new red leather diary, using my new grey pearl pen, I wrote "Being nine, is very different from being eight." 

WHAT'S IMPORTANT?

What do you deem "IMPORTANT?" My dictionary says: Important is something that's marked by significant worth, or consequence, valuable, in content or relationship.

What's on your list of concerns?

Is it a person, or persons you love, a pet, a possession? Or is it your home? Is it your job? Your skill, your ability, to do or try to do whatever you do expertly, wonderfully well?

Maybe it's your reputation, the way people treat you, or a passionate commitment you have for helping people? Or some philosophical determination you have for telling the truth, being honest? Or your credit rating -- how much money you have, or maybe, for you, it's essential to be able to pay your bills on time?

What about life and death stuff -- humans, animals, countries, political issues -- voters, immigrants, healthcare, debt ceiling, all of that, along with keeping up with iPads, phones, apps, styles, trends -- warnings, predictions, statistical proof of what's bad or good.

Yes, yes -- all of that is major, significant.

Even so, beware of  being boxed in by external things -- priorities imposed by others, fear, confusion, questioning, wondering why are you doing what you're doing -- where are you heading -- shouldn't you be doing this or that?

I think, based on my life, my observations, the most important thing is to be the boss,  king, emperor of you.  

Huh?

Yes, yes, yes -- it's a gift you can give yourself when you listen to, obey, think, feel, do what's on your mind and in your heart and are free to be YOU.