HERE COMES THE SON

Every morning before I headed to school, my father and I would prepare ourselves for the 'reality' beyond the front door by meditating to the second side of The Beatles' Abbey Road—that iconic rock tapestry of magic realism and the ultimate conclusion to the Fab Four's musical journey. From Here Comes the Sun as a musical icebreaker to the cosmic Because and the reflective lament You Never Give Me Your Money, in less than ten minutes my thoughts soared high above the clouds, far beyond the dreary day of learning ahead of me.

Perhaps it was a curse to be so inoculated against reality that my Beatles-inspired imagination became a far greater influence on me than most of my schoolteachers' lessons. Then again, it was also a way to bond with my dad, who seemed, like Merlin with a young King Arthur, intent on shaping the colours of my 'painting box' mind with a dynamic soundtrack for my life.

No doubt the neurocognitive influence of listening to Abbey Road back then shaped the path that led me to recall this memory of my dad the other day (what would have been his 83rd birthday) and inspired me to create an image of him standing on Abbey Road in full house-building mode, biscuit in hand. The temptation, of course, would have been to depict him shadowing John, Ringo, Paul, and George, but partly due to my lack of Photoshop skills, I settled on having him standing alone, facing the camera, enjoying the famous zebra crossing all to himself. Somehow this seems apt, as stubborn individualist that he was, and much like the Groucho Marx quote about not wanting to belong to any club that would have him as a member—the same would apply to a band, though he did play in one as a teenager covering Buddy Holly songs. In fact, so many of the classic Beatles songs were first introduced to me personally by my dad singing them to me at the end of my bed. I can especially remember his heartfelt rendition of Golden Slumbers, which became my nightly lullaby. So now, when I hear the original record, I hear his voice like a ghost in the background.

Maybe this re-playing of music and memories are my way of getting back homeward to him, though he's no longer here—except, of course, in the ultimate sense.

The only sense.

Once, there was a way
To get back homeward
Once, there was a way
To get back home
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby