Bach at Midnight: My Platonic Love Story

A Tribute to Jon, in the Key of Life

It’s been almost five years since you died, Jon. But I have not processed my grief in the slightest.

You so fervently disliked the idea of God that I wouldn’t offend you by hoping you might see this. Yet, I can’t help it.

I have tried to write this to you so many times before, but it usually ends in a cheesy, incoherent ramble. Perhaps this time, I will manage. You know I often suffered from being the ‘comedy guy’. I so wish I could be witty about this you-being-dead-thing and make you laugh. But I’m sitting at this Bach concert, and the solo organist is slamming the keys, and I feel it in my bones.

You would probably see your own demise as somehow funny. I think you knew it somehow; you often joked that you’d be dead, and I thought you were exaggerating: but you were right. Unfortunately.

How you loved Bach, how you idealized him. How silly we were, drugged up, skint, lonely, and together... As the music pulsates in the brass tubes, my gut throbs, and I realize how all these feelings belong to a place that I’m avoiding daily.

I miss you.

Between you and me, it wasn’t just a friendship. It was a platonic love of the purest type. Well, platonic passion, more like. I knew you were in love with me but couldn’t respond as you might have hoped. Everyone knew, and you knew they did. But I loved you like a brother, like a soulmate, during those two intense years together.

You were an exceptionally gifted film composer. We worked, ate, and got messed up together nearly every moment of that time. With you, I’ve made my wildest, stupidest drug choices—partly for your company, partly chasing the thrill of youth before it faded. You, forever young, will never know this feeling.

Sometimes, I ponder all those drugs. Unsure what claimed you—hope it wasn’t Valium... What difference would it make if it was? But I remember the day your therapist prescribed you Valium; you were so happy about it; you explained one could die of withdrawal from it. I took it with you a few times; also the ridiculous codeine cocktail that you would filter into all the glasses in the flat.

In your company, I experimented with every drug, yet one critical decision stands out, a moment I still thank myself for. That day, experiencing heroin for the first time and confronted with the temptation for more. The allure was intense; I’ve always been prone to addiction. But, in that critical moment, I managed to recognize that yielding could spell my end.

Bach is so beautiful. You always preferred Bach, Ravel, Debussy to the romantic composers which I loved. My desperate attempts at mocking my over-the-top romanticism was something you loved and understood so well. And how you loved my work, and I yours.

Is this cheesy? I hope it’s not, but even if it is, I’m pretty sure you’d laugh and say something like, ‘It is a bit, but it’s OK Remy, I like it.’

Me and Jon mixing my grad film.

When you were a kid, you were actually terrified of burning in the flames of hell because you knew early on you were gay and your parents were fundamentalist Christians. This deeply marked your entire persona. I think this contributed to your feeling that no one could love you, that you’d never be in love romantically.

Well, I hope you’ve found your peace. I hope you’ve found a place with tobacco, wine, books, a piano, and perhaps a twink or two—why not.

What amazed me about our friendship was the lack of limits. We could discuss anything, absolutely anything. You had powerful beliefs, but you were open and an incredible listener; you were thirsty for other people’s life essence; you needed it to forget your misery.

You always felt that you were ‘lacking’, if only you’d seen how amazing you were objectively. Oh, you knew your musical talent, but you disparaged it all the same. Our love blended intricate, intellectual things with the silliest. My belly never hurt more than during our endless nights together.

I miss you the way Beethoven missed hearing. In fact, I do not know how he missed hearing, but I imagine him brooding and being all dramatic. Well, there you go. As usual, right?

Why can’t I grieve? We ended well. The last time I saw you—at my film’s screening—you loved it, and we enjoyed drinks and chat, a far cry from dark times. How did you die when things were finally looking up for you?

I don’t want to know how you died; in truth, it makes no difference.

I’m glad I found it in me to write this. It’s lacking in every way, but I had to give up on attempting to write you something beautiful; otherwise, I wouldn’t have done it. Since I can’t process your death, I’m hoping it will help me grieve. I’m sending this to somewhat strangers, but the knowledge that they will hear what a unique human being you were, Jonathan Rhys Hill, makes me feel better. And I’m a self-conscious narcissist, as you know, so I must save myself.

In fact, I wouldn’t call some of them strangers anymore. I think the connection between a reader and a writer, when it happens, makes them intimate. Maybe that’s what makes talented artists with shit views intolerable.

Maybe this is just the beginning. I’ll likely write more letters to gauge my progress with grief. Bach is beating my temples; he was so intensely passionate about God, wasn’t he? How singular that he was your favorite composer. You hated God, but he was never far from your thoughts, from your ears, and from your fingers when you composed

Me and Jon in one of our nights in Beaconsfield (Don’t ask me why there is a chicken on the floor next to him)

I wish we could do another film together. I hope to make that one film, the one you know. It’d be the ultimate homage—to you, to us, to our youth.

Now, as time moves on and that velvety period fades, I deeply miss it. It was terrible, the mental pain, extraordinary for both of us. You’ll be glad to know I’m in treatment now—my only regret is not starting sooner. You were in treatment too, but it didn’t save you.

This organist is amazing; you’d just love this. I never realized that organists played with their feet as well. Is that the bass?

Leaning back, eyes closed, I reflect on our fragility, the preciousness of brief grace moments, and how awareness could crush them. They are only for remembering.

This is what you will remain in my life, forever. An intense burst of youth, an incandescent and sad light to my merry darkness.

I love you.

x

Jonathan Rhys Hill (1983-2019)