spanish boots of spanish leather

Her name was Liz, and she scared me. I admired her too, but she scared me tons.  Tons being the operative word.  I had never met anyone obese before.  Wildly, actively obese.  Or whatever the word is that comes after 'obese.'  'Morbidly obese' is probably right, but that's not what she died from.

Liz was the most brilliant woman I'd ever met.  She was wildly, actively brilliant.  It was the 1970s, and she had started a women's newspaper in Detroit.  And as I recall, it was wildly, actively subversive for the times.  And certainly for the place.

I admired her wildly. Actively. Fearfully. I knew I'd never have the energy or inclination to be that innovative, progressive, radical, and whatever word comes after 'radical.'  Libertarian is probably right. In the old sense. No one. Ever. Should impede her.

She was a powerhouse.

So this would be the moment to say "But—" and start telling you why she scared me so much. And that's what I was about to do. But. I remember more.

Her husband was a sweet and tolerant man. At peace with himself in many ways. Like someone who meditates. Not like someone who smokes too much weed. I admired him, too.

But this is all beside the point. Brilliant. Feminist. Those were the parts I admired in her.

It was the screaming, raging, and fressing that terrified me. Watching her interact with food. Watching the food fly. Watching it shoveled. Watching it fall all over her body. Watching it hit the floor.

She was a very angry woman.

And she was also by far the most interesting person I had met in my three years in Detroit.

And this, too, is prologue.

At a certain point not long after our sojourn in Detroit, she became quite ill. Terminal, in fact. Cancer.

Let me step back a few years. To pre-Detroit. To hitchhiking around Europe with my officially sanctioned, mother-vetted  'boyfriend' at the time. To Madrid. To the most beautiful store window I'd ever seen. A mannequin dressed in black, covered in an antelope cape and matching antelope knee-high boots.

Spanish boots of Spanish leather.

And me, with all my travel money in hand for the whole of my summer travels before having to return Stateside. After a year abroad. And a war. So. The year must have been 1967. I was 19 years old. There were no credit cards. There was lots of Dylan. That song had been on the first album of his I had ever heard and owned. The Times They Are a-Changing. From 1964.

You couldn't ignore an image like that. Spanish boots...

And so. I spent my small fortune on an antelope cape and matching boots of Spanish leather. And as a result, by Athens I had promptly run out of money, ended up in Constitution Square looking for a hitchhiking partner to finish my travels on the cheap. Instead, I met the 'him' who would many years later be the father of my children.

That's what those boots mean to me. And the antelope cape as well.

But y'know. You come home at last from your travels. And who the hell is gonna wear such things? An antelope cape better suited for a matador. With matching boots. A line of silver frou-frou down the sides. Gevalt. What had I been smoking?

I never wore them. Might of put them on once or twice, and taken them all right off a second or two later.

It was the first time I thought about consumerism (a word that did not yet exist). It was the first time I read about conspicuous consumption. And the weird thing is, I owned next to nothing at the time. Which made the possession of these luxuries even more ludicrous.

She wanted them. Liz, that is. The raging, fressing, ranting, brilliant feminist. She wanted to be buried in Spanish boots of Spanish leather. She wanted to be buried in an antelope cape.

And I thought, well yes. Let me bury my own indulgences with her.  And never ever ever be that impulsive and consumptive ever again.  A fitting tribute. A fitting farewell.

And then credit cards were invented.

well, your railroad gate

Everybody knows about the railroad gate now, of course, but nobody knew about it then.

N and I had built an altar when the album finally arrived. It had taken well over six months by boat to get to Jerusalem and then through customs — and I'd ordered it before it was released in June of 1966. Well now it was spring, 1967, and we'd been waiting all that time for the thing to arrive.

We lit candles. We reverently ingested some of Owsley's finest, and waited patiently before we put the needle down on that precious vinyl. N played a little on his guitar for a while as prelude. And when we were ready, the needle went down.

And then, the moment.

I don't think we moved at all except for turning the records over. It was a double album! And I don't think we breathed at all until we heard that fateful line:

Well, your railroad gate, y'know I just can't jump it ...

We both jumped when we heard it. We knew that gate.

We grabbed our cameras and headed up the hill that divided Jerusalem at the time. The plan was to photograph the train as it headed right through Bob Dylan's gate.

Right. Pretty stupid, I know.

A man was running up the hill after us screaming in Hebrew, "No, no, it's forbidden! STOP!"

Like, right, we were gonna stop.

"If you don't get away from there," he threatened us, "I'm going to call the Police." Pretty over the top, don't you think?

We could see he had a uniform on, so we thought well, maybe we should at least respond. But the uniform turned out to be for the gas station he worked at the bottom of the hill. So of course we blew him off. Besides, we could hear the train coming. N got out his camera and snapped away.

And when we turned to head down hill, sure enough the cops were there and we were arrested.

"Give us your film," the cops demanded.

We were being arrested for taking pictures of Bob Dylan's railroad gate.

I mean, even Owsley couldn't have conjured that one up, right? The film in that camera was becoming more precious by the minute. No way we were giving it up.

We were brought to the director of the program we were studying at.

"Give the police your camera," the director said, not expecting much.

I remember that we giggled, but I could be wrong.

Turned out we weren't under arrest. Yet. Turned out these cops didn't have the authority to arrest us. They were just cops.

No, apparently what was needed was Mossad, or the military police. Something like that.

So they brought us outside in front of our Institute to wait for the paddy wagon to arrive. But by then we were starting to get the munchies. N complained loudly about missing lunch.

The cops bought us some ice cream on a stick. Vanilla on the inside. Chocolate on the outside. Which just makes you thirsty. Torture.

At that point I remembered that I had my camera with me too.

"Can I take pictures of us getting arrested?" Chutzpah, right? But I was so polite.

Nobody thought that seemed strange for some reason. The cops started posing. They put us in the cop car, back seat, front seat, me on the walkie-talkie, eating ice cream. Yah. Big smile, everybody. And then the paddy wagon arrived.

They threw us in the back, and we waved the cops goodbye. And off we went. There were tall stone walls and a huge gate which swung open as our wagon arrived. And those big iron gates closed behind us, with sentries on either side. It looked like an old British fort (not that I'd ever seen an old British fort. I was 18 at the time, and had never seen much of anything).

Inside the stone walls was a huge field, with lots of military and jeep-like vehicles. Everything looked like the color of dust. They drove us to the far end of the field, stopped, and took us out. They grabbed each of us by the arm and brought us into a dank building. Pushed the button and the light for the stairs came on, but it was still pretty dark in there. We climbed up a flight or two of stairs. Stumbling. And they brought us into this room.

There really was just one lightbulb hanging down above a wooden desk. There really was a captain or agent (or whatever they're called) sitting behind that desk with a piece of paper in front of him. And there were two chairs on the other side of the desk. With his eyes he commanded us to sit. We sat. Sentries stayed at the door.

The captain looked at N and barked at him.

"GIVE ME YOUR CAMERA," he said.

Instantly, N handed over his camera.

The captain opened the back and slowly pulled all the film out in a long dark strip, exposing and ruining it all. He handed the camera back to N. And looked at each of us with furrowed brows, scowling.

"WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE," he boomed.

And then he leaning back in his chair.

"And that's why I'm going to tell you this," he said, and paused for emphasis.

"THERE"S GOING TO BE A WAR," he said.

And then he proceeded to tell us that the gas station guy wasn't really a gas station guy. And that the gas station wasn't really just a gas station. And that the hill wasn't really a hill, and the railroad gate.... Right, you get the idea.

He told us that munitions were not allowed in Jerusalem at that time, but that they were going to be needed. And so — inevitably — it turned out that N had photographed the hidden munitions at the border between the two Jerusalems. Oops.

But he knew who we were. A couple of American teenagers studying abroad, whose families checked out, I suppose. And so, we were given a ride out of the fort and back to our Institute, and made it in time for dinner.

We played the song again.

Well, I been in jail when all my mail showed
That a man can't give his address out to bad company
And now I stand here lookin' at your yellow railroad
In the ruins of your balcony
Wond'ring where are you tonight, sweet Marie...

And we'd been there. And I've got the photos to prove it. And then came the war that changed everything...

But not before I got picked up by the military police. Again.

In the meantime, N and I went back to our altar, lit more candles, and played Side 4 — but that's another story...

birthing and deathing

Birthing was easy. Well, I mean, it wasn't easy easy. But it was easy. Pregnancy was easy. There was a time limit to pregnancy and birthing, and it's pretty fixed and universal. This is how the body works in that regard. Expect this. Breathe like that. Push now. Baby. And there were a million books to read. Granted that pregnancy and childbirth don't always go by the book, no matter which book you're reading. But for the most part, humans have this one pretty much down.

Deathing isn't like that. It can be a poof! you're gone kind of death. Or a lingering on in diminishing capacity for years or even decades. Or it can be treatments. Or not treatments. 'Procedures.' Amputations. Meds, and more meds. Hospital visits or hospital beds. Incontinence. Dementia or delusion. Caregivers. No caregivers. Point is, it could be anything, anything at all — and last for a very long time.

It's that Dylan song, that lyric:

he not busy born is busy dying

Which we used to quote smugly looking at our elders. They were busy dying. We were busy living.

At a certain point, I realized that I was busy dying. I think it was when some financial rep came walking into my office (and every office on our floor, building, and likely the entire campus), trying to hook me on planning for my retirement.

I mean, was that some kind of joke?

Busy-being-born people don't plan for their retirements. They're too busy being in the present to be inside that future.

But I did it. I learned about IRAs and TSAs and deferred taxation, and all that shit. And I came to care about it.

And then I started budgeting my paycheck each month, and my expenses each quarter, and my obligations each year.

And then it was long term care insurance. One thing after another...

You get the point. I became one of those older people busy dying. And truth be told, I thought it was kinda fun.

Thinking about the financial part of living and dying, I realize, is one big reaction formation. Yes, the psychoanalysts have a word for this. But it's more than this. van Gennep, in his classic work, Rites of Passage, analyzes both the structure and function of life cycle rituals.

Rites of passage, he says, ritualize the major transitions of our physical being, from birth to death (or cycles of being) — and we take comfort in this. He covers many of the functions of ritual in this regard, including, for example:

public acknowledgement of the transition: Here, the community essentially proclaims that a shift is made, whether or not you feel that you've made the transition at all. Thus, suddenly you may be declared 'a man' or 'a woman' even if it's not at all what you feel. After this point, everyone in the community will treat you as this thing they claim you are.

public acknowledgement of expected shifts in behavior: And once the community declares you man or woman, or married, or widowed, or dead or alive — you are expected to behave in keeping with the rules associated with that status. This can be a very big bummer.

relieving anxiety regarding the life cycle change by transferring the anxiety to performing the perfect ritual: This one is why people make such a fuss over weddings. If you focus a year or two planning the perfect wedding, you don't really have to think much about what being married is all about. Likewise, if you focus on having the perfect birthing experience, you're probably not thinking about what it's gonna be like taking care of that kid for the rest of your life.

Futzing around figuring out retirement finances falls into this last category. Moving numbers around (at least in your head, if there are none in your account) is the great distraction from thinking about this latter end of the life cycle. We don't have to think about what it's really like to get ill or old or frail.

And then our parents start falling into that stage. And all our friends' parents do as well. And thinking about IRAs and retirement isn't the same as dealing with dementia or incontinence or frailty or simply not being recognized anymore. And, unlike the general incompetencies of infants, we know that the older generation (and eventually we ourselves) are not gonna just outgrow it. It's gonna get worse and worse and worse.

Being busy dying turns out to be an opportunity of sorts. An exercise in humility. Patience. Paying attention. And (for many) forming a strong personal relationship with their maker. Learning something new about yourself and the people you care about. I know this sounds like an awful lot of platitudes. I'm just trying to apologize here for the contempt I felt in my youth for anyone who spent an iota of time thinking 'bout the busy-dying end of things. This may well have been the pervasive attitude of my generation.

I realize I've conflated a number of different issues here, but the timing seems to go together: the death and dying of our elders, preparation for our own elder years, and thinking about our own death and dying. These, clearly, are not the same — but they all fit that concern with being 'busy' dying. And the rites of passage to be performed seem to include a mountain of harrowing paperwork to focus on in order to keep our minds off the real stuff: feeling it.

So. Birthing was easy. Raising kids was easy. This isn't easy. And I think this is why some of the older folk I know begin obsessing about grandchildren. Or a new puppy, or something. Focusing on the continuity from one generation to the next, and their birthdays, and their rituals, is another way to not be present with the hard transitions of the moment.

So here's the plan. Being present. To this moment. To this stage, whatever it brings. Not deflecting. No new puppies. Doing this as well as can be done.

Not sure what that's supposed to look like. Haven't read a single book on the subject. I think it's just about paying attention. Could be wrong. And could be fun.

check list for the living

When a good friend checked herself into a posh home for unencumbered elders ... I stopped seeing her. This, despite that she now resided 60 miles closer than she had before. This despite my longstanding secret desire that she move those 60 miles closer.

It took me over a year to visit her in the palace of the still-living. Maybe longer. It was one village I knew I'd never blend in with. For one, I don't speak the language. For two, well, there's everything else. The resident elders have 'drinks' in each others' apartments and then descend to the wood-paneled dining room below (or was it mirrored, or was it both?). Each apartment has a nominal kitchen, but all meals are provided in the Dining Hall below, and the meals are elegant, refined, healthful, and tasteful (in both senses). Jackets are required for men, at least for dinner.

The apartments have call buttons throughout in case of emergency; they have maid service, and linens are provided. I'm not sure if they do all the laundry for you or just provide the linens and towels. There's a pool, a gym (with trainers), rides to and from the opera, the Fromm Institute, wherever. There are high level lectures, a library, holiday celebrations, expeditions. And they let in a certain percentage of Jews. I'm not sure if they've got an actual policy on this. As I said, while this place would make a fascinating study, I'm not the person to do it.

The one visit I did make completely freaked me out. So much for objectivity. So it's also possible I've gotten a lot wrong. But this is how I remember it. I was, however, given the grand tour. There's an infirmary. More than one, I think. Short term and long term. And meds are provided. Doctors. Nurses. All your terminal needs are attended to.

It's a gamble to move in, really. You pay up front for your apartment as well as a monthly — but you won't be selling your apartment when you're gone. It gets reabsorbed into the body (as they put it in Invasion of the Body Snatchers). (I, clearly, am 'not of the body').

The residents don't seem to die, they disappear (another reminder of the Body Snatchers).

"Nobody," my friend told me, "ever speaks of death."

What they say instead, is that an apartment is available.

Residents disappear into the infirmary, and sometimes return for a while. My friend refers to herself and her fellow residents as 'inmates.' and these inmates are all on death row. Although the dates for execution remain indeterminate.

I'm not quite sure why this place scares the shit out of me. It's not just that it seems out of place, belonging more on the Upper East Side. Although a place on the Upper East Side would feel more authentic than this. It's not the tall columns, the sculptures, and flower arrangements. Not just that the place makes me feel like a peasant whose taken a wrong turn and still has mud on her boots. It's not just that 'drink' is not my choice of drug, and it's certainly not that they're 'old' since I do qualify age-wise to be incarcerated in this Death Palace.

It's not just that I can't make conversation to save my life, or the goyische formality and upper crust posture. Or the lack of diversity, including economic...

Where's my anthropological sense of adventure? Where's my enthusiasm to visit my friend? Where's my sense of humor? The place is really hilarious.

Remember Dylan's 'he not busy being born is busy dying'?

It was an anthem. We loved it, repeated it. Had contempt for all those busy dying. The inmates in the Death Palace have already taken care of their 'busy dying' and now are very busy living. Painting, writing, learning, hiking, traveling. With Veblenian vigor. They are, for the most part, pre-terminal. Or at least they start out that way. They've uncluttered their lives, as well as their belongings. They've made room for, well, the pleasure of pleasure.

So how come I can't stand the place?

I think I'm still immersed in the clutter of a messy introspective life. And still immersed in the time consuming lot of 'busy dying' — of sorting out paperwork, of getting things in order (and not just for me). I've spent, I now realize, exactly one year busy living with the dying. One year since my dad's diagnosis. My mom's incapacity. Being consumed with advance directives, hospice, hospitals, and residential treatment centers. Falls in the night. Emergency calls, caregivers, fear of the phone ringing. Paying the bills, paying the taxes, paying the lawyers. Documentation. Documents. Grave diggers. Visitors. Stuff. Distribution of stuff. Recovery. Relapse...

For me, death and dying is a bewildering, messy affair.

But for the inmates at the Death Palace, it's all neat and tidy, squeaky clean and, well, just plain invisible. Just another apartment on the market. Know anyone interested?