Save Me

“Summer’s done

And gone again

Suddenly it’s fall

And all the times

That we have shared

Live only in recall.

Memories to make us warm

And maybe make us wiser

Swarm with dreams of might-have-beens

And ask the great devisor

Save me   Save me

Save me in a poem

Save me in a song

Summer’s done

And gone again

But you can save me”

-James Albright, 1979

I haven’t even made a dent in the first box.

The first box is 2005, and as you know from “I Began”, that’s where I started. I started there because it was 2005 when I had moved to Florida from Los Angeles and James was mailing me his journals as he completed them. So this box is as familiar as my memory will allow. The other boxes are a mystery - unopened.

I began with January, but today I skipped forward to October. Because it is October here in Charlottesville, Virginia, and for one other reason.

Summer’s done and gone again. Suddenly it’s fall.

When I was a teenager, my boyfriend broke up with me in the fall. Could even have even been the same fall when James wrote this poem. Ever since then fall has felt like an ending, like loss. Days shorter, sun lower, a chill in the air. The fall colors are at peak today, here in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. Soon that will be gone too, and the cold, bare months begin.

But mostly I skipped to October because it’s almost Halloween, and James was born on Halloween. A costume designer, born on Halloween. Perfect.

In his October journal I found the poem which I call “Save Me.” I didn’t remember this one, but now it springs into existence. Comes alive. Calls out. It wasn’t, and now it is. It is, because it was written on a piece of paper, put in a box, given to someone who cared, stored, opened, and read. What happens if that piece of paper ceases to exist?

And all the times

That we have shared

Live only in recall.

Save me.

These blog posts are an attempt to process eleven boxes of James’ writings currently taking up rented space in my storage unit. (See “I Began.”) They are all that is left of James Albright, save his tambourine (here in my office) a moth-eaten fur jacket (closet), and an enormous white hat (attic.)

Save me.

He was afraid that after he died, his life’s work would be hauled to the trash (See “Lessons.”)

Memories to make us warm

And maybe make us wiser

Swarm with dreams of might-have-beens

And ask the great devisor

Save me Save me

It doesn’t make sense to save eleven boxes of papers. They cannot be saved. They can be stored, for a while. But someone, some time, will throw them in the dumpster or heave them onto a pyre. Or they will crumble to dust.

Save me in a poem

What is a human being? One school of thought says that a human being is a thought of God - having no physical form (physical form being a temporary illusion), but having all the creative power of God himself. It says that thought is creation, and thoughts created of love are eternal, and that sharing thoughts expands them.

Save me in a song

So perhaps when I think of my friend with love he springs to life again, in the full flower of his beauty. He was created when God thought him and is extended when I remember him. And by sharing him with others, he is expanded, into eternity.

But why do I have him tethered to these boxes? Why do I need paper to remind me?