Vol. 12, No. 2,856W - The American Reporter - March 18, 2006

+ In Memoriam +
George Harrison
"Thanks For The Music"

Passings: George Harrison

by Cindy Hasz
American Reporter Correspondent

SAN DIEGO: My dear George: You are gone and so now I can write you the love letter that I knew would never reach you.

A gawky young girl when you and the other twenty-something mop heads with pointy shoes invaded our shores in the 60's, I despaired because I knew I'd always be too young for you.

I was in braids and sixth grade when you stole my young heart. It was black and white, the Ed Sullivan show and it might as well have been the Moon walk, so profoundly did it change my world.

The others were cute, puckish while you were gaunt, awkward yet with an understated style and grace. You haunted my dreams nightly for years; out on the sidewalks of Del Norte with the others in your black, Liverpool trenchcoats.

Paul was cute, John sassy and smart, Ringo funny but you, you were sexy, enigmatic like Norwegian Wood -- dark, quiet and mysterious. Looking into your beautiful, serious eyes it was as if I was looking into a face I recognized as my own, a valence that instantly connected.

Through the years, whenever I came across pictures of the Beatles it was you my eyes were drawn to. Skinny and shy with a crooked smile, you were the yin to John and Paul's yang; the Ganges to their Thames.

More subtle, more exotic and with a deep current of something inexplicable ... magnetic. Maybe it was your kindness and compassion; still waters that ran all the way to Bangla Desh. If defined by anything besides your Rickenbacker 12-string, it would be those still, passionate waters always seeking the larger ocean.

Spiritual and reclusive you were deeply joyful and unfailingly humorous. Whether meditating in strawberry fields of consciousness or singing to the end of the line with theTraveling Wilbury's you were always a pioneer, an adventurer ... a generous, elegant man unafraid of Maya.

But we are still here and missing you. It is good to know that somewhere, in the place you've gone brother, our sweet brother, your guitar no longer gently weeps.

Copyright 2006 Joe Shea The American Reporter. All Rights Reserved.

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