I can't even
The despair has finally set in. I knew it would eventually. It took this long to wrap my head around the fact that he’s gone.
I’ve said for a long time that this is the bad time line. The one where Captain Kirk gets killed a the end. Except it wasn’t Captain Kirk - for some reason he’s still alive and kicking. It was Alan.
It’s hard for me to articulate what about him caught my eye when I was 15. Twenty years later I had the revelation that I was a grown up and I could actually go to things he did and speak with him. I had a very specific goal: I wanted him to know who I was. And over nine years we got to know each other. Every time an event would come up I would find a way to go. Often times I had no idea how this was going to happen until it did. I worked extra hours, I sold crap I didn’t use any more, and some crap I did use but didn’t care. I was late on my rent. I begged. I borrowed. And every time somehow, magically, it happened. I was driven. I always lived in fear that if I didn’t seize every opportunity that came available… one day… he’d be gone. And then I’d hate myself for not having tried my hardest.
The adventures, the shenanigans, the covert ops to get to London or Dublin or New York or Los Angeles or Toronto. Sometimes no one knew where I was except one trusted friend.
That time he called me over to him at a party and talked to me -
with an increasing amount of slurred-ness on both our parts - about anything and everything. That time he deliberately backed into me and pushed me into a wall at the Donmar Warehouse. That time he shoved a slider in his mouth and pantomimed in front of me with his mouth full. He recognized my voice. I would call his name and his head would whip around and he’d say, “Oh. Hello.” The last conversation we had was at the premiere for Dust, a short film I helped produce with crowd funding. I said, “I’m still committing to the bit.” He said, “I’m still cultivating an air of mystery.”
Many people far more eloquent than I have written wonderful tributes about what a kind and generous man he was; passionate about worthy causes and the arts; passionate about helping young actors; passionate about theatre.
Even when he wasn’t doing anything, just knowing he was out there and that maybe in a month or two I’d get to see him was something that was always kicking around in my head. In fact I had actually booked a ticket to see him speak at Latymer Upper and had just worked out the logistics of getting to London when the event was cancelled.
The journey was pure joy.
And now there is no joy.
There will never be another like him.
I’ve said for a long time that this is the bad time line. The one where Captain Kirk gets killed a the end. Except it wasn’t Captain Kirk - for some reason he’s still alive and kicking. It was Alan.
It’s hard for me to articulate what about him caught my eye when I was 15. Twenty years later I had the revelation that I was a grown up and I could actually go to things he did and speak with him. I had a very specific goal: I wanted him to know who I was. And over nine years we got to know each other. Every time an event would come up I would find a way to go. Often times I had no idea how this was going to happen until it did. I worked extra hours, I sold crap I didn’t use any more, and some crap I did use but didn’t care. I was late on my rent. I begged. I borrowed. And every time somehow, magically, it happened. I was driven. I always lived in fear that if I didn’t seize every opportunity that came available… one day… he’d be gone. And then I’d hate myself for not having tried my hardest.
The adventures, the shenanigans, the covert ops to get to London or Dublin or New York or Los Angeles or Toronto. Sometimes no one knew where I was except one trusted friend.
That time he called me over to him at a party and talked to me -
with an increasing amount of slurred-ness on both our parts - about anything and everything. That time he deliberately backed into me and pushed me into a wall at the Donmar Warehouse. That time he shoved a slider in his mouth and pantomimed in front of me with his mouth full. He recognized my voice. I would call his name and his head would whip around and he’d say, “Oh. Hello.” The last conversation we had was at the premiere for Dust, a short film I helped produce with crowd funding. I said, “I’m still committing to the bit.” He said, “I’m still cultivating an air of mystery.”
Many people far more eloquent than I have written wonderful tributes about what a kind and generous man he was; passionate about worthy causes and the arts; passionate about helping young actors; passionate about theatre.
Even when he wasn’t doing anything, just knowing he was out there and that maybe in a month or two I’d get to see him was something that was always kicking around in my head. In fact I had actually booked a ticket to see him speak at Latymer Upper and had just worked out the logistics of getting to London when the event was cancelled.
The journey was pure joy.
And now there is no joy.
There will never be another like him.