I've expanded "Beatles Girls, Where Have You Gone?" into a
video essay up now at
TriQuarterly Online:
Beatles Girl won’t go away; she confounds my attempts to understand
her. I picture my sentences orbiting the photo, looking for a seam, a
way in. An essay about Beatles Girl stymies autobiography—it’s not me, it’s you,
I want to tell her. Yet my search for meaning in her expression reveals
something about me as well. I’m not simply attempting a biography of a
photo; I’m implicated in a pursuit that began in my parents’ basement
all those years ago, when as a Beatles nut I devoured the oversized book
in which she appears, always drawn back to her after I’d turn the page,
the “Red Album” providing the score in the background. She’s sobbing a
kind of foreign language. I wonder about her, and also about the ways,
and maybe the reasons why, I’ve been tattooed.
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