*** I encourage the reader to take breaks if they should so choose during the reading of this, and follow the links where they are inserted, and listen to the music. It helps this story flow, and perhaps can put you deeper into the tale. This suggestion is optional, obviously. Happy New Year everyone... ***
Ten years ago, on New
Year's Eve, I found myself in the presence of Monte once more, for the final
time to date, in my life.
How this came to be is peculiar, and recalling those moments is both
painstaking and cathartic at once. When I decided to go about this recollection
and retelling, I asked myself if I truly wanted to relive that event, now a
decade ago. During that period, I was captivated by Monte, and when all was
said and done, we did not part on the terms I would have desired. But after
pondering the thoughts that love to run wild in my mind, I made the choice that
I wanted to tell this short little story, an interlude really. If you have not
read over my autobiographical installments I've posted, just know that Monte
played a fairly significant player in the game of my life. It’s almost as if
there were only those few times I spent with him, despite there being billions
of moments in my life thus far. When I mention catharsis, I believe that by
putting the memories down, pen & pad act the conduits to the vessel of
my heart and soul. With that being said...
Monte had relocated from his loft in Columbus to a house in Yellow Springs. If
I believed I was anything but enamored with his apartment in the Short North,
on High Street, it was synchronicity that I should be equally caught up with
his new digs in the Village, once again on another High Street.
While Columbus was a miniature adventure for me to travel to, Yellow Springs
was and is a comforting place for me to go to, close to home. When I was told
by Monte he had moved there, I was broken into halves, into two emotions: the
first being excitement over Monte's closer proximity; the second, however, was
not so amiable. After my first encounter with him, when he told me he was
"not available" spiritually, physically, emotionally; I was wounded,
and I was trepidatious over that closer proximity, nearly as much as I was looking
forward to it.
I was still floating on the surface of a harder crystal meth addiction, and it
remained a weekend habit. But where was Monte at with his use? More important
still, why did I ever think anything would, or could, develop after his telling
me that probably, most assuredly, it wouldn't. I was naive. I was thunderstruck
with the slight obsession of this man, or more precisely, the idea I had of
him. In retrospect (it’s always in retrospect!), to go to Monte's was an
unhealthy step on my part, but hindsight was blurred by thorough infatuation.
Not surprisingly, then, I leapt at the chance to see him. That chance came in
the form of a phone call I received from Monte, while I was visiting my
perpetual best friend and soul-mate, Sara Lee. Winter was just beginning to
settle in for the duration, I had just turned 19, I had a new (and also,
terrible) job as a server, and Sara and I were stoned, naturally. I can even
tell you where I sat (on the floor with my back resting against the wall, and
Sara on her bed), when my mobile rang, and the number that flashed across the
screen was not a set of digits I had expected to see.
It was Monte, and while trying to play it cool (yet sounding like a stammering
mess), I listened to him ask of me a question I could have listened to him ask
me over and over for a lifetime; the words rolling off his tongue and through
his lips were divine: would I like to come and spend New Year's Eve with him?
If there was any doubt of my coquettish ploy before, it was obliterated by this
invitation. Feigning coy was out the window, and I had to restrain myself from
answering too quickly that, oh yes, yes I would adore that.
Before we hung up, though, Monte wanted to know if I could bring something
special with me to celebrate the New Year: mushrooms, specifically, mushrooms
of the... magical variety. It
happened that at the time, unfortunately I could not procure the requested
psychedelics, but I could get my paws very easily on some acid. I told Monte as
much, and he said that would do just fine.
On New Year’s Eve, I worked a closing shift at the restaurant where I was
employed, and then scrambled to gather all the required items for the evening's
festivities. I had to race to go buy some pot, then haul ass to another
friend's to pick up the LSD, and then by the time I made it out to Yellow
Springs, it was less than an hour to the progression of the next year.
I walked into Monte's, and while I don't have memorized every single dialogue
exchanged, I know that the acid was distributed fairly fastidiously. It was
strong shit, and while I told Monte he really should only have one hit (I knew
from much experience throughout the previous month just how high quality it
was), he explained to me that he used to sell it in high school, and two hits
would be fine. I simply shrugged, and handed them over. I was not about to
object to the guy's desires.
After we ate the acid, he got on his Mac, and we video chatted with a friend of
his overseas in London. It started very casually, and was going fine, but then
what I suppose you could call the "tourist" in me came out, and I
kept asking rather silly questions of the British fellow about where he lived:
Was it near Shepherd's Bush? Or Holland Park? Did he ever cross Abbey Road and
strike a pose with his friends like the Beatles? While the man didn't mind
answering, Monte scoffed slightly, and was clearly annoyed with me, to the
point he apologized to his friend for my asking so many questions. We ended the
chat, and while nothing else was discussed about it, I was bruised a bit the
whole thing.
My good vibrations were lowered a tiny bit, but everything was elevated again
when we left to go watch the ball drop downtown. Yes, Yellow Springs has a
beautiful crystal disco ball that drops in the middle of the village at the
stroke of midnight. All the populace gathers around the Little Art Theatre, and
after the countdown, champagne bottles are popped and confetti is thrown. It is
very much like a miniature Times Square in New York, and I absolutely loved it.
Monte & I kissed as 2005 turned into 2006. His sister was there with her
two children as well. It was magnificent.
After we parted ways with his sibling, we began to walk back to his house.
Along the way, I noticed one of my shoelaces was untied. I told Monte we had to
stop so I could tie it back up. Instead, he bent down, and he tied my lace for
me, double-knotted. I slightly embarrassed but more nostalgic to say, that I
never, ever untied that particular shoe again. Much like the prepubescent girl who
vows to never wash her hand after her beloved happens to touch it, I made sure
to never undo that bind Monte made for me. Is there something symbolic in this?
Probably not. But then and there, I had a difficult time differentiating my
shoestrings from my heartstrings.
Back at Monte's house, the acid began to kick in, and after smoking a little
pot from the small black & yellow water bong I had purchased from the
Import House, it kicked in even more intensely. I brought all my CDs with me,
and it makes me grin thinking how even as short a time ago as ten years, iPods
and whatnot were not the norm, and you still had to carry your entire record
collection around on discs in lovely little trapper-keeper-type thingies. Monte
flipped through the pages and pulled out Mazzy Star's first album, So Tonight That I Might See, and put it
on. We laid on his bed while the songs played, and I was carried away by the
ethereal voice of Hope Sandoval. It was serene and complimented marvelously
with the on setting trip.
Monte got back onto his Mac for a while, which was positioned next to his bed,
so while he surfed, I watched him, and fooled around with one of those static
electricity orbs you always find in novelty gift shops, the ones where the
little bolts of neon light are attracted to your fingertips when you let them
graze the plastic. While it was not exactly how I would have liked it to be, I
was still content being there. When the Mazzy record was over, Monte played
some music on his computer. One of the songs that played was a cover by Cat Power,
called "Moonshiner," and my trip began to take a downward direction.
I literally felt like I was in hell. I wanted to say so much to Monte. I had
myriad feelings flowing through me, a multitude of thoughts and emotions I
wanted to express to him, but I could not find the words. I was trapped in my
head. A sense of such sadness came over me, a sense of total desolation. It was
as if I was realizing then & there that Monte would never, ever, ever feel
anything me, and all effort was futile, and I was not only realizing this, but
being forced to confront the realization with no defenses in place. And I
couldn't do anything with it.
Moonshiner by Cat Power
Monte began to not feel so great. He went into the living room area, and put on
another record, this time by Dead Can Dance. If anyone has ever listened to the
enrapturing music of this band (I hate to even label them a band; they are more
profound than that), you will know what I mean when I say it transports you to
another spiritual plane, and that is just what occurred to me when I heard the
songs. I was enthralled. While I was not having a bad trip, I still managed to
somehow "peel" my face off, or it felt like it at least. Music takes
on a different form when on hallucinogens, it takes on a physical, tangible
quality; you can see it, you can feel it, you can be it. I am an intense person
to begin with. I can reel with the smallest of effort, too much for my own
good, perhaps.
Rakim by Dead Can Dance
Monte locked himself in his bathroom, and I knew he was not having a pleasant
experience. I knew two hits was going to be too much. I rapped on the door, and
I was not permitted in. Another fucking closed door in my life. Defeated, I went
back to his bedroom and waited for him. A seemed eternity later he came to tell
me he was going out and would be back soon.
I have no idea where he went, who he went to see, or what he did. I have my
suspicions, of course. He was absent for a solid chunk of time. The acid could
have and most likely exaggerated how long it felt, but regardless, it was a
very, very , very painful stretch of time while he was away.
I listened to more music while he was gone, and when he finally returned, it
was extremely late, or extremely early, depending on whether you prefer
pessimism or optimism. Few words were spoken: we decided it would probably be
best if we tried to get some sleep. While I moved over to make room for him on
the bed, a heart that didn't believe it could sink to any lower depths,
plummeted further, when Monte sat down in the cushioned chair at the foot of
the bed, instead of next to me.
I distinctly remember saying to him, "You can sleep in your bed,
Monte," but I cannot, for the life of me, bring to mind what his reply
was. Perhaps he didn't have one. Perhaps his remaining in the chair was answer
enough.
A shuffled playlist was on the Mac, and of the many songs played in those few
hours I had left with Monte, there are several I know played. The links below
are a couple of them.
Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush
I could not sleep. My eye caught Monte occasionally when he adjusted in the
chair. I remember thinking it would probably feel nicer to rush upon a dull knife
than to suffer in the present situation I was in, but what could I do? I was
tripping balls and was in no position to drive. I could barely speak. My chest
wanted to burst because the aching in it took my breath away. And to top it
off, the silkworm poster Monte had hanging in the living room of his Columbus
loft, was now hanging on the wall of his bedroom, above where he sat. The first
time I saw it, I was riding a euphoria I would never achieve again. Seeing it
now, I wanted to perish.
I wondered what was going through Monte's brain. I knew there were a million
thoughts in there, just as there were a million and one thoughts in my own, but
the crux was that deep down, I knew not one of the thoughts he was thinking was
about me. If a person could feel as alone as I felt then, my empathy goes to
them. The want was five feet away, but it was five feet of mountainous terrain
whose summit could not be seen by my naked eye.
I think part of me has always known, truly, truly known, that I will most
likely be flying solo for the remainder of my years. I say that not to garner
sympathy, or to wallow in pity; I say it simply as a matter of fact. And it’s
something I have had a really long time to appreciate. Sometimes I think I set
standards too high, sometimes I think I have set none at all. Sometimes I
believe there's nobody who would ever be able to conceive of, let alone put up
with, all that goes on in the mind behind my eyes. If I can weep with a change
of the wind, see pulchritude in a wretched thing, remember silkworms from a
decade ago, or smirk at the twinkle in stars nobody can see but me, how on
earth could I expect a person separate from myself to deal with that? Don't
tell anyone, but I'm certifiable, really.
So, in between instances stealing glances of Monte as he tossed & turned
himself throughout the storm of a bad trip, and facing realities that weren't
realities, but distorted versions my LSD-sopped mind would have me believe were
sound, I lost a piece of myself. I'm not entirely certain what I lost it to;
was it Monte? the idea of Monte? the conceit that I must simply be
destined to solitude? But I gave it up, and it could be a bad thing, or it could
be a good thing it happened, because how could I ever find it later, if I
didn't lose a part of me first?
The daylight at last made its appearance, and crept in the windows. Monte had
finally fallen asleep. There was no way sleep was going to visit me. So I went
to the back of his house, where I smoked and smoked as much pot as I
could. And then I closed my eyes. And if feelings can be colors, I felt
the truest shade of blue known.
Monte eventually rose from his slumber. I knew it couldn't have been a particularly
satisfying rest. The gist of what I can remember from our parting, is that he
asked how much he owed me for the LSD. I told him I didn't want his money. I
wasn't even thinking of money in the slightest. I was thinking of what had
happened--more accurately, what hadn't
happened--the night before. The trip was 98% over with, yet I still couldn't
convey with words what I was thinking, or how I felt. All Monte could do was
insist I take twenty bucks.
I gathered my belongings: my music, my bong, and I got in my car. When I looked
to his door, Monte had already shut it. He had no reason to linger there. A
vague numbness overcame me as I drove through town, until I got near the
highway, and then the following song came on the radio, and like a broken dam,
I wept tears in torrents. I heaved & heaved, and all breath left me.
There's a few scars on my heart, figuratively speaking. One of them belongs to
Monte. That's ok though, one hundred percent fine, and I mean that, truly.
Scars add character. I am much the character. And I would not change it for the
world. And if you’re wondering, while I may
have lost the sneakers I wore that night over time, I can tell you
matter-of-factly, that I never undid the double knot in that shoelace J
