You Tell Me That It's Evolution- The Beatles Revolutions 1-9

Chapter One - I'm So Tired

John couldn't sleep, he didn't even want to know what time it was, maybe 3 or 4:00am? It was a muggy night, his linen shirt clung to his body, a body made leaner again by meditation, no booze, fresh air, vegetarian food and frequent attacks of the shits. When he'd boarded that flight to Delhi all those weeks ago, photographers had captured the familiar sight of the chubby Beatle. He hated those pictures, but he also knew that he wasn't the same man now, he wasn't the bloated acid casualty anymore. Drug free (save for the occasional nocturnal joint) and away from his repetitive bingeing on the empty pleasures of clubs, parties, hangers-on and over-indulgence, John felt a renewed sense of purpose. OK, so he'd also felt the most depressed feelings of his life since his mother had been killed. OK, there had been times when he'd stood at the edge of the Ganges and seriously contemplated letting the waters just carry him away. But, if he kept himself busy he could get through it. John had been very busy, he'd written or half written the biggest batch of songs of his career in the shortest period of time, he meditated for up to 5 hours everyday and he spent a lot of his time voraciously reading the papers, reading and rereading letters, reading and writing postcards.

Right now though, John couldn't sleep, "I can't stop my brain" he'd written in a song a few days ago. He'd also written a song about feeling insecure and lonely, about wanting to die while supposedly here to learn how to find peace of mind. Loneliness was always with him. A naturally sociable person John managed to feel isolated even when he was in the company of his trusted inner circle Neil, Mal, Magic Alex and George. Meditation by its nature was a solitary pursuit and whilst it should have helped his mood, John felt that something was missing. He'd tried to apply himself to the course. John had chosen to spend the last few weeks separated from his 29 year old wife in his own quarters, ostensibly so that he could focus on his meditation practice without her incessant words flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. But in truth he found her presence limiting to his obsession with another woman. Everyday he would get up early to run down to the campus post office and collect the almost daily torrent of letters and postcards from this new intriguing fantasy figure with the alien poetic name, Yoko Ono. Sometimes her messages were enigmatic "Fluxus event scores" with instructions like "I am a cloud, look for me in the sky", sometimes they corresponded over deep subjects and she expressed strong opinions. She was like Mimi at times, John was smitten, here was a woman articulating concepts and ideas that were opening his eyes and broadening his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about her, he just wanted to talk and talk with her and that was making him miserable and lonely. He wished he'd been able to bring her with him to this place, if only he'd found a way to keep her a secret from Cyn, a situation that had all the comic potential of a Whitehall farce; it just wasnt practical. He hated being in India while she celebrated her birthday with her husband, the thought had made him ridiculously jealous. John wasn't just jealous of her sharing special occasions though. He was well aware that Yoko was sexually liberated; after all she had staged that happening where men actually cut her clothes off. He had to face it, Yoko meant more than mental stimulation to him, the attraction was definitely physical, he wanted to possess her tiny frame, he wanted to unleash the wanton sexual creature he assumed was behind that cold, unblinking, emotionless front she put on. She'd let him see a glimpse of her softer side and he was hooked. He was hooked, he was lonely and he couldn't sleep.

This night a phrase was stuck on repeat in his head, a phrase he'd arrived at when speaking with Maharishi. They had discussed a philosophy of life that propounded whatever the problem, God would solve it. After all Maharishi had told all the Beatles "Don't worry about it" when their manager and mentor Brian Epstein had died less than a year ago. John didn't want to worry about it , he'd already had too many people die on him, not just Brian but not long before that Alma Cogan, a woman he looked to not just as a lover but as a mother figure and both their deaths had left a void in his life. A void he had all but surrendered to. As John lay on his bed trying to let go of his thoughts a phrase kept repeating itself mantra-like, like a stuck record "don't you know it's gonna be alright, don't you know it's gonna be alright" over and over it went driving him mad with its incessant rhythm. John was so tired but this sounded like it could be a song. John, got out of bed grabbed the Martin Dreadnought guitar that was leaning against the wall and sat back on the edge of the bed cross legged. He started clutching at random chord shapes, trying to twist this idea into some kind of musical shape. This was how he often worked when songs didn't just magically appear, a complete set of lyrics could be present sometimes and yet the tune would bear scant resemblance to the finished article, acting as a place holder until the real song came. John had started to think of tunes as a conduit to transport the message to the listener, in John's mind less important than words. Over and over he repeated that phrase "Don't you know it's going to be alright" changing the emphasis on key words " Don't YOU know it's going to be alright", "Don't you know it's going to BE alright", "Don't you know it's going to BE... ALRIGHT".