Not Yet

I was told there'd always be something there to remind me.

I want to write how it ended. His life.

But I can't, not yet. You deserve more preparation than that. Consider this a preview for a coming attraction. The rather dark kind that you wonder why is playing before Trolls.

And I can't, not yet, because I haven't found the hand holds on the side of this unwieldy box. I know they must be there; someone delivered this damn thing a few decades ago. But it's been sitting, untouched in the basement, along with unexamined regrets and a C3PO collectors case. And I can’t quite get a grip.

And I can't, not yet, because of something I only just realized as I began thinking about this today: If I do it, then I've done it. And I might not be ready to give that away.

For so many years, the details of that final year, the final month, and that final day have been Mine, and I've known I would one day write about them. But that, the Knowing, it has also been Mine. And once I actually write about it, then I've given that away. And giving things away is difficult. That's why I still have Lionel Ritchie’s Greatest Hits. On cassette.

So I can't give it away, not yet. I don't want it, never wanted it, but it's mine. Quoth Cobain: "I miss the comfort in being sad."

But this thing, this memory and the potential energy stored within its future writing... I've finally taken it out of storage and left it on the counter. It's waiting for me. Now it's looking at me. That's weird, stop looking at me. I'll say this: Not writing about it is the closest I've ever come to writing about it.

There’s yet another, yet similarly disconcerting reason why these words are little more than digital throat clearing. I hoped to present a full scene from the Life of Alan. But when I begin the scene:

INT. LIVING ROOM. He enters from the hallway, carrying… uh… carrying…

…I’m having trouble. I’m having trouble remember any one full scene. I’ve got moments. I’ve got flashes. I can throw together a montage, maybe jam “Always Something There to Remind Me” behind it, and we can all have a good cry. I can do that. I will do that. But I’m thrown by the fact that I can’t find a full scene in my playlist. I want to find something always there to remind me of the boring stuff. How he walked and talked and sat and sang. I crave the boring.

So, instead of moments, big or small, I present this photo. It reveals both his photographer’s eye, his love for New York, and the sense of humor that so many remember. And if anyone is seeking a cover image for their book on New York in the 70s, please contact my agent.

Also, I’d like to get an agent.