You Say You Wanna Evolution?

If John Lennon were alive today, he’d be eighty-five — a man who has earned the right not to march, not to sing, not to explain.

I imagine him walking in Central Park, or in the south of France, or maybe back at Tittenhurst — barefoot in the garden, still laughing with Yoko about the absurdity of it all.

The man who once begged us to give peace a chance would have discovered, at last, that peace is not a slogan but a slow way of living.

He’d fund the protests, not lead them.

Mentor the artists, not manage them.

Speak rarely — but when he did, it would matter.

The only American Beatle, the immigrant who fought for his green card, would still believe in the promise of this country — even as that promise keeps breaking its own heart.

He wouldn’t be disappointed in them — the right, the warmongers, the profiteers.

He’d expect them to behave like that. He always did.

The disappointment would be in us — the dreamers who grew tired, the believers who stopped believing.

I think he’d be disappointed in us, not angry.

Anger was a young man’s tool, a spark to light the movement.

At eighty-five, disappointment would weigh heavier than rage ever did.

He’d see the same old greed with slicker branding.

The same fear — now automated, monetized, and sold back to us through our own devices.

He’d see wars fought by drones and comment sections, cruelty disguised as “content.”

And I think he’d shake his head and say, “Didn’t we already write the song for this?”

He’d recognize the machine; it just runs quieter now.

The gears hum beneath every screen, every algorithm that tells us what to want, who to hate, and when to scroll.

But he’d also see the cracks —

the kids remixing protest chants into beats,

the women, the workers, the immigrants singing truth through TikTok filters.

The new street corner isn’t Times Square or Carnaby Street — it’s a feed —

but he’d still hear the rhythm of rebellion in it.

He’d tell them, “You don’t need a revolution. You just need evolution — and that takes longer than a chorus.”

And maybe that’s where I come in.

I don’t have a guitar slung over my shoulder or a crowd singing along,

but I still believe in rhythm as medicine — in gathering as resistance.

That’s why, on Pearl Harbor Day — Sunday, December 7th, 2025 —

the eve of the day we lost him —we’ll open the doors in Nevada City for Give Peace a Dance.

Not a concert,

Not a memorial,

Not a singular event — Just a Living Rhythm.

A night where sound becomes motion, and motion becomes memory.

We’ll dance because the words still matter.

We’ll dance because the dream still breathes.

We’ll Dance because Peace, like Love, only Survives When You Move With It.