It must be the after effects of the bout of man-flu I’m getting over, or perhaps there’s dust in my eye. But how can it be thirty years since John Lennon was shot dead?!

I guess with hindsight that was my ‘Princess Di’ moment, before such a thing was… fashionable over here. My Elvis. I remember the telephone (landline, no mobiles, no texts) calls from friends, and particularly the good mate who knocked on my door, fell in and got very very drunk (well I don’t remember all of it, because I was very very drunk too), simply to drown out thoughts we didn’t want to hear. We played the entire back catalogue, and I’m doing that again now as I type. I don’t do that often. It’s not helping this itch in my eyes…

The nutter who killed him said he was seeking to absorb Lennon’s energy, and over centuries of myth and occult magic that’s been a theme of those who seek to wield the power of the ‘verse rather than simply swim in it; to bend the worlds to one’s will rather than to revel in the wonder of awareness undisturbed. Perhaps for me that’s why Druidry and not… another path.

It doesn’t, I guess, have anything to do with Lennon himself (didn;t know him, never met him, never would have been likely to) but more with the story of the man – a story which still stands up after three decades. And with the musician. Always. And while his worth lives on – in his music with the Beatles and afterwards, and especially his post-Beatles ethics – he really isn’t entirely dead.

I wonder what he would have thought of this world?

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