Things as they are as a dream

Here is a piece written by Holly Price for McCartney Ltd. in 1976.   It is interesting and a little thought provoking.   It is written a little bit too "far out" for my tastes, but I understand where Holly is coming from.   

Things as they are as a dream

By Holly Price

McCartney Ltd.

July/August 1976

 Okay folks, own up.  How many of us still wear our watches on the right hand?  I still do—I’m just too used to it to switch!   And no, I’m not left handed; although in 8^th grade I launched a campaign to become so.  You might say I was insane.  I spent hours writing with my left hand because he did.   What one will do for love!  I recently found the script of A Hard Day’s night and realized I had sat down with a cassette tape of the film and transcribed each word onto paper!   And not so many years age, either. 

I remember meeting John.  He was in Philadelphia for a month to tape the Mike Douglas show.  I came to each taping, cutting Algebra II and ended up flunking the class.  I stood next to him and my mind was numb with trying to realize – yes---here he is, John Lennon!  Say something, stupid, this doesn’t happen every day!   But I couldn’t think of anything to say.

I saw George and Ringo at Madison Square Garden, the Bangladesh Concert, about two miles from the stage (or so it seemed).  I stayed glued to binoculars and my arms were cramped for hours afterwards.  I got up at one point to take pictures and found that my knees seemed to have turned to water.

Arriving at the premiere of "Live and Let Die" July 5, 1973

And—of course—Paul.   Finally made my way to England, telling myself it was over, I didn’t care.  Sure I’d go and see his house, why not, I practically bought it! Beth and I ventured to St. John’s Wood and were told by Rose that the next day he would be leaving around 5 o’clock for the Live and Let Die premiere.   This was 1973, he’d just finished the British tour and the papers were all full of stories about how nice he’d been to the fans.  Well, we came back the next day and it was all grey and rainy, naturally.   We saw Denny Siewell and Denny Laine go inside and Linda got on the intercom and told us to leave, “It’s a private home.”  We didn’t leave.  (Did she really expect us to?).   At one point, through the half open gate, I saw Mary on the steps in a little white nightgown and nearly fainted.  “Hold on, it’s only Mary.  You’ve still got Paul to content with,” said my objective side.  However, must have decided to spare me that.  They got in a chauffeur driven car inside the gate and drove out.  Someone got out to close th gate and I saw him talking and laughing through the smoked glass window.  He never turned around.  Linda did, thought and she and I indulged in a sarcastic waving session.  “Have a good time!” I yelled.  “Thank you!” she called back.  He never looked at me. 

Seeing a Beatle is a strange thing because, instead of reading about Paul going to the premiere there I was watching him leave for it.  I had made myself a part of the legend.  Although our realities were completely different, we shared the same reality and were part of each others lives.   I had woven myself into his life after years of him weaving into mine.  I was there.  For once, and maybe never again, we shared the same moment.  What I remember most is the wait.  Seeing him lasted on a few minutes.  It all came down to waiting at that gate, teeth clenched, heart beating fast, mouth dry.  Our time meets theirs.  We really are in the same world. 

They mean so much to me.  It’s frightening to realize it.  Why should they?  Music is music, right?  I like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, the Rolling Stones; but they aren’t in my blood.  Beatlemania—if it can still be called that is love once removed.  Knowing the Beatles and knowing the Beatles sounds quite similar when in actuality it is light years apart.  We may know hobbies, addresses, birthdays, shoe sizes even, but we don’t know THEM.  Not knowing them puts us in a very strange position.   Do we love the image?  The vibrations?  The music?  Or the man?  It is a hard and painful question to ask, let alone answer.

I suppose there really are no explanations.  There is a fondness and a glow when I hear them on the radio.  The flow will always remain. Even when I’m 83 I’ll probably still catch my breath at the thought of “The Fool on the Hill” sequence in Magical Mystery Tour.  And for sure it isn’t over, because something like that doesn’t end.  If it ends, then I’ll know it never began.