C'mon, you can tell me. We all have at least one, so don't pretend you're oblivious to what I'm talking about.
there, there... it's ok. it stops me too...
Music is all around us and it's fucking beautiful. Birds, cars, water, tunes, chewing, walking, showers, crickets,book page turning - all sounds that can, to someone, be invigorating. And because of it, on more than one occasion, I've stopped breathing by the flood of memories that overtook me. It's that powerful. That's when music finally talks back.
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It was an early Saturday morning in August this past year; I was driving back from Las Vegas. The sky was cloudy & windy, allowing the windows a break from their thanksless job. The air blowing past my face and muh hand, dangling through an atmosphere where very few cars could disturb me. I was on the road a couple hours when the two Pandora stations that had been streaming since yesterday, were played out: The Misfits & The Shirelles. Both are fantastic, but I'd had enough head-banging & head-bopping for the morning. I scrolled through my other presets and perked up when I found the Psychedelic Garage station I created months ago. I forgot what songs rotated through, but greens were The Byrds and it was perfect. I absentmindedly sang the words I knew and mumbled the ones I didn't, laughing.
A couple more songs and a commercial played before The Doors, The End inched up in volume. Without fail, it happens every time. That's when I played the role of driver while my mind reenacted one night 15 seasons in my past.
I saw Palmdale through 19 or 20 year old eyes, driving to my tattoo artists' home around 8pm. He was at least 10 years my senior, cute and just me knowing him made all the bitches jealous. But it wasn't just his face, he was nice and artistic and liked me. The kind of dude that said the right things and for the people that mattered, was never insincere. The type of dude that would always be too cool for the Antelope Valley. He just was and his home complimented that. It was always dark inside, even in the scorching desert sun. I never knew whether that was because the windows were covered with paper or the curtains were permanently stained with cig smoke & whiskey. I'm sure on any given day it could be either.
I stood, a kid, facing his door when it opened with a smile and a 90s button up flannel. A hazy waft of hippie incense levitated around him. At every turn, twisted drawings, posters, prints, books, crows, a thousand things all strewn in a perfectly messed way. Yellowed stacks of paper & tattoo magazines his friends were in, should have screamed hoarder. But it didn't, which is bananas. I can't explain it.
There was never any funny business between us as we never explored that path. But I felt so grown up around him. Like he and I were having real conversations, not just gossip about the weekend. Maybe that was me being 20, but maybe not. I do know he was one of only a few fellas, besides Travis, to ever made me think. I only realize that now by writing this entry.
So we're hanging out & junk when he asked whether I minded some music. Duh... I told him to pick whatever. I dig many genres, but have always held a gigantor fascination for the 60s, especially psychedelia. My favorite band is The Monkees, with about a 1000 others right below. He could have chosen anything from punk to psychobilly to classical to jazz, so how stoked was I when he picked The Doors, The Doors. He commented how you have to be in the right mood for it. I agreed, but confessed to never having heard the entire album before. He laughed and triumphantly declared with his wiry body then it was the perfect night to experience it! He bent over the old player, carefully placing the needle at track one. I remember thinking what precision for such a crappy player & scratched up record. He grabbed a cigarette and lit numerous candles with his smoke.
The record blew through side 1 before I realized just how free our conversation was. It was playing but background noise. At the beginning of side 2, he asked if I was up for something. Unless it's boning, yes, I was up for something. He asked if he could draw a freehand design against my back piece because most people (erm I'm sure ladies) told him no. It had only been about 6 months since he finished two large dragons and the ink addiction was still fresh. I said absolutely! How cool was this gonna be! I have always been a dudes chick, especially then; In my mind it was nothing to be topless in my non-boyfriends home.
He grabbed his script of choice, a sharpie, and I took off my tshirt & bra. I was facing away from him the whole time, but stood there momentarily not knowing what I should do. I didn't want him to touch me sexy like, but I knew he had to touch me in some way. He gently took my shoulders and angled me against the candlelight. As if scripted, the last song of side 2 started as he began. The End. I had never heard it before, I mean really heard it, so I closed my eyes and let the beginning notes dance. I stood there vulnerable, while Jim began his declarations and dude drew his imaginations. The underlying lull of the organ keeping me upright.
He'd pause occasionally to evaluate the vision. The End continued. I was able to follow every movement of the pen, up and down my back, through my shoulders, entwined into my neck. I knew he'd make something singularly incredible. The guitars continued; the Oedipus moaned. He worked swiftly as the song jabbered on through the rise and fall of Jim's emotions, eventually stalling the needle. In fact, it was the only song I heard in the entire 45 minutes span. I'd never taken part of something so supreme. And snap like that, it was over. We dare not move in the hopes of savoring what we'd just experienced. No more drawing, no more music, no more atmosphere. I suddenly became aware of how cold I was. In the same way the soft crescendo swelled, it pulled out even faster. I looked around knowing nothing had changed, yet everything seemed ordinary.
And while I only briefly saw the end illusion, and can recall no part of it today, it will remain perfectly imprisoned in my skin forever.
That was the last night I ever spent with him and I'm glad. I walked back to my car a fucking lady.
Aren't memories glorious.
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I don't like cliches yet I think about "I'll never forget that night." That certainly holds true for now, which is partly why I write this journal. I was scared for so long to fail against some unmeasurable bar, but honestly I just want to remember. Remember my life, remember all the fun & heartache, friends & donuts - before we all become someone else's memory.
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