Inventory

Now there is space. Space to open what seems intimidating and somehow impossible. Now there is space, and the clock is ticking.

I climb into the attic. It’s cold, cramped, inconvenient. In a word, uncomfortable. But what isn’t? I dive in. Clear a path. Slice open a box.

Folders and folders of paper - far more organized than I remember. Oh yes, each month a folder. Most months with an index. A theme. I realize that my way of making sense is to categorize. Break it down. I write my own indexes.

Only one way to get started. Get started.

I thought I’d make it through a box or two, but before I know it, I’ve inventoried six. More than half. I can do this.

So far I see two categories - works, and journal entries. Works - plays, poems, songs. Journal entries - James’s way of turning each day into art and sharing it with someone - Joan, or Leora; ultimately, me. Not just words. Collage from mail, correspondence, magazine articles, tickets, programs. But mostly words.

So far, journal entries from the early 1990’s through 2006. Some from the 1980’s. Copied pages from the 1970’s.

Gradually it dawns on me, turns a corner, flip-flops.

Until now this project was something of an albatross. I had reduced it to: “James was always afraid his work was going into the trash as soon as he was dead.” (And it almost did. In fact a lot of it did. But eleven liquor boxes full of it didn’t, and were transported to me by loving friends who had thrown up their hands about what to do with it.) “He trusted me with his papers. If I don’t do something to share them, they will go into the trash when I die.”

So the project had become about guilt and obligation, which James and I promised each other would not be how we defined our friendship. We had that moment. James said “let’s not do that. Let’s not do guilty.”

So the albatross suddenly came to life and lifted me. I have twenty years, probably more, of the daily thoughts of a man I loved and found fascinating. I visited him once a week or so just to soak up what he was and what he made. Now I can go back, visit him again but in a time before I knew him. I have a James Time Machine. WHAT A PRIVILEGE! A gold mine.