John Lennon: Part 19: “How?” and “Borrowed Time”

 

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John Lennon: Essence and Reality

Part 19: “How?” and “Borrowed Time”

This blog is subtitled “Essence and Reality”, because Lennon’s artistic work embodies a movement towards truth. The quest for truth about himself (essence) and about the world (reality) bewitched him with a sort of wondering enchantment. Of course, these two poles of reality, essence and reality, are part of a triad. We shall discuss the third term in this triad in the next blog, when we consider “Strawberry Fields Forever”. But for now, we’ll see how both development and continuity are visible over the course of the ten years which separated “How?” (1970) from “Borrowed Time” (1980). Simply put, the continuity between these two gems is in Lennon’s search for real values, a search which was guided by a goal that he could feel but not articulate. In “How?” from the Imagine album, he sings:

How can I go forward when I don’t know which way I’m facing?

How can I go forward when I don’t know which way to turn?

How can I go forward into something I’m not sure of? Oh no. Oh no.

We feel the questioning in Lennon’s voice, the melody line and the arrangement. A person with no English whatsoever could sense from the sound alone that this is a song of searching. There is also a subtle irony here: although Lennon sings about going forward, the tune is gently but firmly descending. The emphasis, slight but all the more poignant for that, is on the first word: “how?” The question is elegantly but firmly put. The gentleness of the music suggests what the a sensitive reading of the lyrics confirms: that Lennon is not doubting that it is possible to go forward. No, Lennon is asking how it is possible to go forward when he does not know which way that is. Implicitly, he realises that he can go backwards, but does not wish to. The first verse does not disclose what his desired direction is, but only that he aches because he does not know. His suffering comes from his unsureness. The second verse takes the querying even deeper:

How can I have feeling when I don’t know if it’s a feeling?

How can I feel something if I just don’t know how to feel?

How can I have feelings when my feelings have always been denied? Oh no.

Even more than with the first verse, there is a quiet urgency about the music. The drum both marks time and treads time: it’s suggestive of a clock telling that time is passing but all the while nothing is happening. In the third line, the words “feelings” is accented and a little anguished. But we now know, at least, that he wants not just intellectual realisation and certainty but the sense of “sureness” which comes with feeling (and, we might add, specifically of the feeling of oneself as living here and now). And Lennon knows something else, too, he knows what he does not know, he knows what he lacks. This is the key which Socrates found: that it is wisdom of realising whereof we are ignorant. As Gurdjieff said:

… most sleeping people will say that they have an aim and that they are going somewhere. The realisation of the fact that he has no aim and that he is not going anywhere is the first sign of the approaching awakening of a man or of awakening becoming really possible for him. Awakening begins when a man realises that he is going nowhere and does not know where to go. (In Search of the Miraculous, 158).

The other impressive aspect here is that Lennon realises that he confuses his feelings with ideas. We all do, and we get especially confused over ideas of what we should or should not be feeling. The result is that as we perceive our emotions, an internal and intellectual judge appears and may rebuke or praise ourselves for the emotion. This happens time and time again, and becomes automatic. When our internalised voice is critical of our emotions, especially those which are pleasurable, it often induces a sort of paralysis. Emotion is an impulse, but this judge is another impulse which condemns the first one or otherwise denies it. So it is that two internal antagonistic forces stand in electric opposition, while something very small but also very real is stricken with a sort of fear or horror. The song continues:

You know, life can be long, and you’ve got to be so strong.

And the world is so tough, sometimes I feel I’ve had enough.

The music heralds a change in mood. It is not exactly that it becomes gentler: the song already exemplifies the union of gentleness and strength which can only come from compassion. It is more that Lennon pauses for a moment in his search to consider his position, and how far he has yet to go along a difficult road. That is, at this point, the song’s centre of focus shifts from deep inside. Lennon opens his eyes and heart, and looks around. This larger perspective reappears in the next verse:

How can I give love when I don’t know what it is I’m giving?

How can I give love when I just don’t know how to give?

How can I give love when love is something I ain’t ever had? Oh no.

Again, there is not any doubt except that there is such a reality as love, or that he wants to feel it and to share it. But, he states, he has never felt love, and does not know how to share that or anything else of himself, for that matter. Could this really be true? It depends, I think, on which one means by love. Here, the love he feels in its absence is something which fills the spaces between people. When he comes to the reprise again, Lennon makes an artistically perfect swerve:

You know, life can be long, and you’ve got to be so strong

And the world she is tough, sometimes I feel I’ve had enough.

There is an almost transcendent poignancy in the way that Lennon sings “And the world, she is tough.” It isn’t whinging, it isn’t even complaining. It is objective, sympathetic and supportive all at once. When I think of the song, it’s usually this phrase which first comes to mind. Lennon then repeats the first verse, and the song is done. It has a clean, clear finish. No fade out, just a long closing chord which ends the piece on an upwards note.

“How?” is, to my mind, one of Lennon’s greatest “primal” songs. Arthur Janov, author of the Primal Scream, told Lennon that a resolution of our suffering is possible by experiencing one’s own pain, and releasing it in a cathartic scream. It was a version of “getting it out of your system”. Lennon had been pursuing, among other things, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Transcendental Meditation, and left wing political causes. But he had become disillusioned with the Maharishi, and had even turned to hard drugs. Someone sent him a copy of Janov’s book, and this turned his attention, once more, to internal factors as being decisive in our situation.

Lennon had always had an intuition that the prime arena for our struggles is inside. This surfaced in early in his career, for example, in 1963’s “There’s a Place”(see part 7 of this series) and 1968’s “Revolution”, where he sings:

You say you’ll change the constitution … we want to change your head.

You tell me it’s the institution … you better free your mind instead.

This being Lennon’s basic position, Janov’s thesis met a receptive audience. The idea that all that was needed was medical therapy must also have been appealing. Lennon and Ono entered into treatment with Janov. However after a relatively short but intense period, they left. Lennon had become sceptical of Janov as a person, and came to feel that Janov was exploiting their celebrity, which was probably quite true. However, my reading is that they had benefitted from Janov’s therapy as much as they ever would. And having taken what they could, Lennon went off in his individual way, as was his wont. As often happens, however, we often can’t move on until there has been some sort of personal falling out (and we even engineer such quarrels, more or less unconsciously, when it’s time to go).

Janov’s psychiatric approach worked to a certain extent, but not, I think, because his thesis was correct. In fact, I think it’s wrong. To the extent that it does work, I suspect that it’s because it brings consciousness to our situation. The John Lennon / Plastic Ono Band album captures Lennon’s raw awareness of his situation after the Janov experience (see postings 5, 8 and 15). It is not enough, however, simply to know that I have a problem, as the self-pity on some of those tracks, such as “Isolation” would suggest. Yet, if I know my suffering deeply enough, an implicit intelligence in me (the higher part of the brains or centres, to use Gurdjieff’s terms) will often deal with the issue. That is, generally, we only think in terms of backing one of two sides: we either refuse to continue in denial and to feel guilty, or else we suppress the original emotion which the censor in us condemns. But the higher parts of our intellectual and emotional brains tacitly understand that there is no future in this conflict, and slowly, or even sometimes suddenly, our attitude changes under this new influence. How did Lennon change? This is revealed, to some extent, in the posthumously released “Borrowed Time”. Recorded in 1980, it was not released until 1984 on the Milk and Honey album.

When I was younger, ha-ha.

Living confusion and deep despair.

When I was younger, a-ha.

Living illusion of freedom and power.

When I was younger, a-ha.

Full of ideals and broken dreams, my friends.

When I was younger, a-ha.

Everything simple, but not so clear.

Living on borrowed time without a thought for tomorrow.

Now I am older, a-huh.

The more that I see, the less that I know for sure.

Now I am older, a-ha.

The future is brighter and now is the hour.

Living on borrowed time without a thought for tomorrow.

Illusions, ideals, and broken dreams. The bouncy reggae influence in the music belies the rawness of the confession. Yet, it all works. That Lennon used reggae here is not surprising given not only Lennon’s love of the genre, but also that the title words apparently were suggested to Lennon by a Bob Marley song. The music is not Lennon’s greatest achievement, but it serves the lyrics, and nicely supports the positive message, and the message beneath the words is that time, the time of our lives, is valuable. The music adds to the sagely impartiality of the lyrics. There then follows the last verse and refrain, and Lennon’s comic remarks in the fade out:

Good to be older, a-huh.

Would not exchange a single day or a year.

Good to be older, a-ha.

Less complication and everything clear.

Living on borrowed time without a thought for tomorrow.

Oh yes, it all seemed so bloody easy then.

You know, like what to wear, very serious like.

How am I going to get rid of the pimples?

Does she really love me?

And all that crap!

But now I don’t bother about that shit no more,

I know she loves me!

All I got to bother about is standing up.

I don’t wish to lose sight of what is really critical in this song, and that is the affirmation that our lives are truly valuable. Some things are good, and our time is one of them, so let’s not waste it by thoughtlessness. “Now is the hour! Use it!”, this philosopher is saying. Lennon’s sense of paradox is as sharp as ever: he says that when he was young it seemed that everything was simple, and that it was more complicated. How can this be? When we’re young, we’re cocksure, that makes our outlook on the world both pretentious and simplistic. But we don’t know how to get the hundreds of things we want, and that produces clashing waves of complexity. Now that Lennon is older, he sees more clearly. Seeing more clearly, he knows that he has been prone to over-dramatise matters, a very common failing. We all of us lose perspective at some point or other, hence the line, “what to wear, very serious like”. Also, the simplicity of youth is, to an extent, the result of the illusions, ideals and dreams. When I am totally identified with an ideal or a fantasy everything seems straightforward. Too straightforward, Lennon is saying now. Remove the distorting effect of that over-simplification, and shades of grey start to appear.

Another paradox is that at, one and the same time, Lennon can sing “now is the hour”, and yet he is aware that he was deficient in not giving a thought to tomorrow. Only to the extent that I am present now, can I see what my situation is, and anticipate the needs of myself and of those around me. Again, the artistic touch is far more satisfying and makes the point more sharply than the didactic approach. Another benefit of Lennon’s ironies is that they leave something to the listener. Yoko Ono was always trying to have the audience involved in the art. The idea was good, but I don’t think the intellectual approach to it worked. Lennon shared in her interest, but did it more traditionally and more effectively. Lennon gives you something to tease out for yourself.

And, of course, another factor in his new life is the happiness Lennon has found in family life with Yoko and Sean (see parts 3, 4 and 12). He can now relax in the love he has found, instead of torturing himself with insecurities and doubts. With this, then, we have a clear and engaging picture of how far he had come in only ten years. Lennon had, at this point of his life, engaged in radical questioning of himself, his aims and his values. This song shows the public a man, wiser and older, who has found in his life a basis to meet whatever challenges may lie ahead of him. So, despite my regard for Gary Tillery’s book, I cannot agree that Lennon was a cynical idealist. However disappointed he may have been, he always believed with an intestinal fervour that there was a way forward and that his time did mean something.

Lennon’s career was extraordinary in that, in a very short period, he experienced so much so intensely, but was always groping, even with eyes shut, for what he truly was. Just when he seemed to have been lost himself, to have drowned in narcotics, or left-wing politics, or avant-garde art, Lennon came out on the other side. It’s also telling that, so far as I can see, Lennon was never addicted to probably the most prevalent drug in the modern world: materialism. David Kherdian once said something which I could paraphrase as follows: if a person is not totally identified with success in their field, then that very success can teach them the important lesson that success is not everything. What really counts is was we make for ourselves inside.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Joseph.Azize@gmail.com

 

       

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

JOSEPH AZIZE  has published in ancient history, law and Gurdjieff studies.    His first book The Phoenician Solar Theology treated ancient Phoenician religion as possessing a spiritual depth comparative with Neoplatonism, to which it contributed through Iamblichos. The second book, “Gilgamesh and the World of Assyria”, was jointly edited with Noel Weeks. It includes his article arguing that the Carthaginians did not practice child sacrifice.

The third book, ‘George Mountford Adie: A Gurdjieff Pupil in Australia’ represents his attempt to present his teacher (a direct pupil of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky) to an international audience.The fourth book, edited and written with Peter El Khouri and Ed Finnane, is a new edition of Britts Civil Precedents. He recommends it to anyone planning to bring proceedings in an Australian court of law.

“Maronites” is pp.279-282 of “The Encyclopedia of Religion in Australia” published by Cambridge University Press and edited by James Jupp.