Heartplay where the dead ends meet expression

Heart Play - unfinished dialogue - John Lennon & Yoko Ono

heartplay where the dead ends meet expression

One in 20 children will experience the death of a parent before they graduate high The grieving process never ends, but changes with time. They attended the next HEARTplay meeting and have been going ever since. they've lost through conversation, visual expression, music, movement, writing. Charlie Haden / Antonio Forcione: Heartplay jazz review by John Kelman, The set of eight tunes is split almost equally between Haden and Forcione whose use of the subtlest of dynamics creates the most vivid of expressions. . $ Bestseller. (). DEAL OF THE DAY. ENDS IN. Last Dance. But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. Lo! in the orient .. That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the .. I see their antique pen would have expressed. Even such a I gladly and from my heart play the clerk, crying " Amen".

No more be grieved atthat which thou hast done: Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense, Thy adverse party is thy advocate, And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.

I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth; For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more, Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store: So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give That I in thy abundance am sufficed, And by a part of all thy glory live.

Look what is best, that best I wish in thee: This wish I have; then ten times happy me! What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And what is't but mine own when I praise thee? Even for this, let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of single one, That by this separation I may give That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone.

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest; But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty: And yet, love knows it is a greater grief To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes. Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits, For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed; And when a woman woos, what woman's son Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?

Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine by thy beauty being false to me. That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye: Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss; Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay on me this cross: But here's the joy; my friend and I are one; Sweet flattery!

How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou best of dearest, and mine only care, Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.

Thee have I not locked up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part; And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. So am I as the rich, whose blessed key, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.

Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special-blest, By new unfolding his imprisoned pride. Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lacked, to hope. What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speak of the spring, and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear; And you in every blessed shape we know.

In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart. The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.

The canker blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, my verse distills your truth. Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.

When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allayed, To-morrow sharpened in his former might: So, love, be thou, although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness.

Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted new Come daily to the banks, that when they see Return of love, more blest may be the view; As call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. Being your slave what should I do but tend Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide the world without end hour, Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, When you have bid your servant once adieu; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are, how happy you make those.

So true a fool is love, that in your will, Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!

Be where you list, your charter is so strong That you yourself may privilege your time To what you will; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well. If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd, Which labouring for invention bear amiss The second burthen of a former child.

Oh that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done, That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame; Whether we are mended, or where better they, Or whether revolution be the same.

Oh sure I am the wits of former days, To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

HEARTplay bereavement program celebrates 20 years

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy? It is my love that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account; And for myself mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed Beated and chopp'd with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read; Self so self-loving were iniquity.

Against my love shall be as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn; When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn Hath travelled on to age's steepy night; And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring; For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life: His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate That Time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

heartplay where the dead ends meet expression

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains. Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow; Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head; Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new; And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds; Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days Either not assailed, or victor being charged; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarged, If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe.

Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I Than niggard truth would willingly impart: For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. But be contented when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me: So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead; The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered.

The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains. So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or must from you be took.

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away. Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told.

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy disperse.

Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance.

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick Muse doth give an other place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; Or, being wracked, I am a worthless boat, He of tall building, and of goodly pride: Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this, my love was my decay. Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; And therefore art enforced to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love; yet when they have devised, What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.

I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set; I found, or thought I found, you did exceed The barren tender of a poet's debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb; For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb.

There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise. Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you, In whose confine immured is the store Which should example where your equal grew? Lean penury within that pen doth dwell That to his subject lends not some small glory; But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies his story.

Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where.

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compiled, Reserve thy character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry 'Amen' To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polished form of well-refined pen.

Hearing you praised, I say ''tis so, 'tis true,' And to the most of praise add something more; But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.

Then others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast; I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

heartplay where the dead ends meet expression

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thy self thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou gav'st it else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against myself I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.

With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted; That thou in losing me shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence: Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange; Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

For thee, against my self I'll vow debate, For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss: If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come: Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill; Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest: But these particulars are not my measure, All these I better in one general best.

Thy love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, Of more delight than hawks and horses be; And having thee, of all men's pride I boast: Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take All this away, and me most wretched make.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away, For term of life thou art assured mine; And life no longer than thy love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongs Than that which on thy humour doth depend: Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

O what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband; so love's face May still seem love to me, though altered new; Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. In many's looks, the false heart's history Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange.

But heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.

How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow; They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself, it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! That tongue that tells the story of thy days, Making lascivious comments on thy sport, Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise; Naming thy name blesses an ill report.

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less: Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort.

It's a story with not much description, just dialogue. You know those kind of movies? You just go, on the radio you just hear "shh, shh, shh, shh" and they start talking.

We've done 22 songs, basic tracks. So then it was like having a movie, a lot of movie films or like the way they film two movies and it was a matter of which scene started where and which scene works with the next one. There's been a lot of shuffling around, as you can imagine. I was used to working with other people, but not with women you know. But not with a woman who was a wife as well. Totally different scene, and this time around for some reason, we sort of regained our respect for each other suddenly and maybe through this sort of I also think this album is just like it's I think we've got some interesting spaces to go to because we worked together before in many different ways, but still I always had that sort of vague attitude that I was I was the One.

Well, now I know that she knows all about this business and she knows what a backbeat is and et cetera [Yoko laughing in background] and I think this is like the first piece of work we've really done together, and for my part, I just know I will even be more wholeheartedly emerged in working with her in the future, because of the experience of doing this album. You see, in the early days when we were recording together I was having great fun because she was so 'freeform' but when the engineers would talk, Yoko would say, because she's trained musically and I'm not going to go through her list of qualifications 'cause it sounds like I'm promoting her, I don't have to but she knows, she's trained as a musician.

So when she would say to an engineer ineven though it was a freeform jam, "I'd like a little more treble, a little more bass. Because in Japan, even though I'm well known there, she's the queen of Japan, you know? When they talk in Japan and I say, you know: So I really understand it now, not only as a feminist issue, but as a being the 'Other', you know?

When two get it together there is nothing you can't do. So it's as a power it is very strong. But of course John has a different - I mean he can't help it, with his different history from mine - he's a man and all that, so, he has different dreams, and I have a different dream too. When it happens it's really powerful. But sometimes, two people might be praying but at the same time secretly thinking about something else or what ever, and then it doesn't happen. So, that's sort of unified wishing or praying you know is something that doesn't happen that simply.

Well, that shows in the album too because what's happening is instead of, the consciousness is to "let's see what future, or what we," to use a term prayer, "what we shall pray for together. Let's make it stronger by picturing the same image, projecting the same image.

In the Fantasy, of course, in the fantasy world, and you think about fantasy as separate from reality, but fantasy is almost like the reality which is to come, you know. So, in that fantasy world, of course, somebody like George Orwell would have created in Which is the general trend of the male species, I think, up to now.

I agree with that and that's what she told me since we met. I said it badly this afternoon.

heartplay where the dead ends meet expression

But you know like H. Wells, you know, and all that people saying "Incredible what they said happened. What do they call it, "wish fulfilment? The other day there was another quote, remember I showed it to you? The guy had predicted which World War, the Third World War and where it would happen, and they're saying "Oh, look, it's happening just like he said.

And the reporters go "Uh huh. I mean, they were saying funny things about us but that wasn't the point the commercial went out anyway. It was more important to face ourselves and face that reality. Then to continue a life of rock and roll showbiz and either go up and down with the winds of either your own performance or the public's opinion of you.

Because you can become a stereotype of yourself [Laughs]. And also, I must add, I found myself in a position where, for whatever reason, I always considered my self an artist, or musician, or whatever you want to call it, poet, or, that type of person and the so-called "pain of the artist" was always paid for by the freedom of the artist and the idea of being a rock and roll musician sort of suited my talents and mentality.

And the freedom was great. But then I found I wasn't free. I'd got boxed in. It wasn't just because of a contract. But the contract was a physical manifestation of being in prison. And that I might as well have gone to a 9 to 5 job, just carry on the way I was carrying on.

I just got myself boxed in. And there's two ways to go. When I was in the art world the things that I really despised about male artists was that it was like a setup.

Like they would get one tiny idea, you know like alright "I'm an artist who draws circle", then he sticks to that and that becomes his label. He gets a gallery who would promote that and that's his life. And next year he'll do triangles or something. It's such a poverty of ideas, and it doesn't reflect his life at all and continue doing that for maybe ten years or something, people start realize you are someone who continued ten years.

Then you might get prize or something [laughs] and it such a ridiculous sort of routine. When you get the big prize is when you get cancer and you've been drawing circles and triangles for 20 years. And then die, right. The biggest is one when you die. They give you pretty a big one for dying in public. Those are the things we are not interested in doing. That's why we ended up doing things like Bed-ins and she ended up doing things like pop music, whereas she'd come from this avant-garde field, and I'd come from the straight rock field.

Well the first attempt at our being together and producing things together was like "Two Virgins" albums and the events we did whether they were Bed-ins or posters, or whatever the events or films and things we did then, which is what we crossed over into each other's fields.

Like people do from country to pop. We did it from avant-garde, leftfield from rock and roll leftfield. We tried to find a ground that was interesting to both of us and we both got excited and stimulated by each other's experiences.

We wanted to know what could we do together because we want to be together. We want to work together. We don't want to just be together on weekends. We want to be together and live and work together.

heartplay where the dead ends meet expression

So the first attempts were the Bed-ins, and because that was, that was the period too. We attempted a few times to make music together but that was a long time ago and people still had this idea "The Beatles" were some kind of sacred thing that shouldn't step outside of its circle and it was hard for us work together then. The other question people are going to ask is: We are just a normal couple. Normal, What is normal? We are just another couple. The things that John are saying are things that I am saying.

Shakespeare's Sonnets

I think that all men and woman are feeling but the only difference is that we're saying them So there is nothing new in the album in that sense. Everything that's said is an age old feeling that we had. Walking away is much harder than carrying on. Because I know, because I've done both. I hadn't stopped since '62, or 3 till ' On demand, on schedule continuously. It was very hard because one always had that thing "Well one 'ought to, I'm supposed to, shouldn't I be going.

It must be like the guys at 65 where somebody comes and goes [knocks three times] "Your life's over. But still the feeling was still there. Suddenly there's this whole big space that seems to be un-fillable. And of course, naturally it got filled because that's the law of the universe, leave a space and something will fill it and it was filled by a fulfilling experience, to put it in a little cute phrase.

When John and I go out they will say to John, "What are you doing now? Well, I would say "I'm baking bread.

HEARTPLAY - WHERE THE DEADENDS MEET | Releases | Wizard LTD.

What are you really doing? That bit about if there wasn't a mommy or daddy to feed me I'd have to open a can of tuna or something. I don't get a gold record, a knighthood or nothing!? Because ain't nobody else going to do it for him. No nanny, if you can afford nannies. Maybe a grandmother in the old days when the family was more extended than nuclear. But if I, as the housemother for that period, had not attended to when he slept and when he didn't and still I get Toshi to call from the studio to make sure that's he's getting in the bath by 7: And I can't switch off from here and it's a tremendous responsibility, and now I understand the frustration of those women because there is no knighthood.

There is no gold clock. There is a great satisfaction. I took a polaroid photograph of my first loaf. I [Yoko laughs] I was overjoyed. I was that excited by it. I couldn't believe it. It was like an album coming out the oven. The instantness of it was great. And when they first ate a meal of mine, I was thrilled and then when I would, I ended up cooking for the staff, I was so in to it [Yoko laughs], so thrilled with it.

That they would all be, there were about 8 seats, people in the corner, and every day I was cooking lunch for the staff, drivers, office boys, anybody who was working with us.

Then it was beginning to wear me out. I thought "What's this? Screw this for a laugh! They'd be gone by Saturday afternoon. The thrill was wearing off. It became the routine again. So the joy is still there when I see Sean.

He didn't come out my belly, but my God, I made his bones because I've attended to every meal, and how he sleeps, and the fact that he swims like a fish is because I took him to the Y, I took him in the ocean.

I'm so proud of all those, he is my biggest pride. But you're talking to a guy who was not interested in children at all before Sean. I enjoy to look good and I like to be attractive and I enjoy the macho part of rock but I don't have any need to be the idol, and have people think that I just snap my fingers and teenyboppers come crawling in my bed, and that's the way life is, because it ain't like that and I don't want it to be like that.

That's for maybe for younger guys who are just starting in the business and saying, "Oh, good, golden groupies" [Yoko laughs], and that's how it is.

I got over that a long, long, time ago. I'm interested in ourselves, the family and making some music and trying to make something that we are proud of and that other people, then other people can make a choice of whether they want it or don't want it, or what to make of it, and what does it mean and we'll have all the fun of that. I'm not interested in being a sex symbol, or coming on as some big raunchy guy that drops one woman, picks up another the whole bit.

I'm not interested in even projecting that. I'd like it to be known that yes, she kicked me out [Yoko laughs] and it took a long time to get back in. And yes, I looked after the baby, and I made the bread, and I was a house husband. Let them understand that I'm proud of it. It was an enlightening experience for me because it was a complete reversal of my whole upbringing. It's the wave of the future, you know, and I'm glad to be in on the forefront of that too. No the thing of feeling that one did not Painting a picture for his child which he never spent any time with, you know, trying to create a masterpiece to give to the child, but meanwhile the child dies and anyway, he gets VD and the masterpiece burns down.

It's burnt to the ground and even had it survived, better he should have stayed with the kid, that was the conclusion I came to.

Why were you able to see that and most people don't. Most people would've gone on and did the next album and Most people don't live with Yoko Ono. That's the main difference. Or don't have a companion who will tell you the truth and refuse to live with a bullshit artist, which I am pretty damn good at, you know, bullshitting myself and everybody 'round, and she maybe we do it for each other. But I can, that's my answer. I'm going to be Sean's going to be 5. He survived his 5 years.

Rami - Make Ends Meet (Official Audio)

I am going to be 40 and life begins at 40, so they promise [David laughs]. Oh, I believe it too. Because I feel fine. You know, hitting What's going to happen? Although it must have been in my mind somewhere or other, all these So the songs are really inspired songs. You know, I mean There isn't one where I had to sit down and sort of try to make a dovetail joint and I can't imagine how people are going to take it, actually.

I have a hopeful wish, prayer, fulfilment that they will take it in the spirit that it is given, which is with love and a lot of sweat, and life's experience of two people.

I was looking to I was too scared to break away from the Beatles, but I'd been looking to it since '65 when we stopped touring and, I'm - maybe Paul had too, I don't know. I can't speak for the others. Well, it did me a lot of good to get away, and it was a withdrawal. I was in Almira, Spain. I wrote "Strawberry Fields" there by the way. But I was there 6 weeks, and it gave me time to think and sort of and to be separate from the others but still be working and not left in the house alone.

And I used to think, well, you know, like a lot of people do: If I don't do that and, so, from '65 on I was sort of vaguely looking for somewhere to go but didn't have the nerve to really step out in the boat by myself, push the boat off. It's more than a hit record. It's more than gold, it's more than everything it's more than. This is something indescribable! And so that's what happened, you know, we just got so self-involved that I did free myself physically from the Beatles but not mentally.

Mentally, I was still carrying them around. In the back, back, back of the head, although the initial love thing blinds everything. Everything is under shining lights, and you want everybody to be happy just like you, and it's you know, it's rather dizzying. Later on the love is different and one can slow down a little. It's not less it's just different and so therefore I could lift out all this garbage that was still being carried around which was influencing the way I thought and the way I lived, and all the rest of it.

And then finally free myself from the, the mental, let's call it, Beatles, or '60's, or whatever it was. So the first one was a physical escape.