Stemmons Freeway … The Triple Overpass … Dealy Plaza …
Images that resonate with nearly the entire populous the Planet over. Maybe not so much any longer in a ‘where were you when?’ kind of way any. But more in a what-really-happened … How? Who? Could it be? … kind of way. Appropriate. Because not everybody that’s here now was there then.
Fifty-two years hence, it remains How? Who? Could it be? Depending on who writes the book. Everything is conjecture. Circumstantial. Convoluted. Some purposefully.The rest succumbed to the gravitational pull of synchronicity. Becoming just one of the parts that the sum is greater than.
As the baffling screenplay unfolds those with backstage passes witness deeper, B-Side cult images: curtain rods; Carcarno & a Coke in the break room. Akin to knowing not just “Abbey Road” in general, but that to create perhaps the greatest B-Side ever recorded the Lads simply pieced together some throwaways they hadn’t finished.
Things just fell into place. The place they were meant to be. So, they Let It.
As was with Kennedy’s assassination. Not that anyone let things happen, per se, they just simply and perfectly happened. They existed on their own. And at 12:30 pm Dallas time, on November 22, 1963 they came together with such force and precision as to send Jackie crawling out over the trunk of the Presidential limousine. Scrambling to retrieve a sliver of her husband’s physical essence. Carved out and blown off by the bullet(s) from a madman’s / madmen’s rifle(s).
Animal instinct. An urge to do … something … anything. The blood. The carnage of bone and muscle. Incomprehensibly fatal. Past the point of no return. And announcing the reign of the still present day mantra: “How? Who? Could it Be?