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.

ding dong the witch is dead —

Ding dong the witch is dead — and Malkah cried some, but mostly was in shock.  Malkah was sure she'd live forever, in her witchy way, casting evil spells to disable opponents and take your breath clean away.  Her magic was formidable.

If you told her about a new girlfriend, finally one you'd thought she'd finally approve, she glared and gave her curse:


You'll only hurt her.

And from her mouth to God's ear, that would become the truth.

If she asked you, well, when she's dead do you promise to live in the house and keep it exactly as is, everything in its place? And you're evasive, and talk about how beautiful the dome of the Great Room would be with the ancient Egyptian goddess Nuit painted across the ceiling along with deep blue sky and gold and silver stars — she'd respond with her signature,

I'll curse you from the grave.

Scary shit.  Because when she said it, it sounded really real. Not something you could laugh at.  Not something she'd smile about afterwards.  More like you better duck right now because the sky is falling. Or it will be soon.

She liked to assert preemptive control from the afterlife a lot in those days.

But then, something strange happened as she lay dying for a few years.

She got nicer. Supportive.  Still scary. But scary helpful, instead of scary scary.  She insisted on helping.  On being there for you. On healing you. On telling you how to heal, like you had no idea how to take care of yourself.

Imperious never went away.

Demanding. Penetrating. Glaring.  Regally holding court from her hospital bed.  Looking all the queen of heaven and earth.  She glowed as she reigned. She captured and she captivated. And she still cursed, of course.  You don't give up power like that so easily, right?

But she softened.  Or rather, she let her soft side show.  Well, maybe not to everyone, but at least to Malkah, who was shocked beyond words.  She gave Malkah compliments.

Who knew you could be so competent? she'd say.

I can't believe you're still here taking care of me!  She'd say. Expecting her daughter to up and go poof any second now.

In truth, she had cause not to expect Malkah's care for her at all.  How many of the hired help had up and fled in tears after her rebuke and wildfire rage?  And these were trained professionals, or well, some of them were, with experience of the abuses the elderly can mete out on others.

Ah, that wicked wicked tongue! She was so proud of it.  She boasted of it. Repeated to Malkah over and over some nasty thing she'd said to some good friend or other. And Malkah always wondered why those folks they stuck around.

She loved cursing them. In writing, especially.  How many people have kept copies of her loquacious and lengthy curses?  She was a poet after all. She had a well-oiled facility with words.

Abra-ca-dabra.  I create as I speak. Just like God, the poet uses words to bring evil and good into the world. Which is why it's good idea to keep your mouth shut no matter what just in case you can't tell the difference.

I was silent.  For months on end, I could not write nor speak a word.  I was stunned at her departure.  Yes, I put my shovel full of dirt upon her grave, as did we all, still expecting her to rise once more. To direct me. Forbid me. Coerce me. Condemn me. Demand of me. And to critique my posture, when she just couldn't think of anything else to say.

And then suddenly she was nice. Just like that.

It wasn't her seductive nice that she saved for handsome men.  No, it was the nice that comes from just plain letting go of forcing the world into her mold, her blueprint and requisite dimensions.

Well, okay, I overspoke.  Suddenly she was nice to Malkah at least.

I wonder if this is what Confession is for in religious traditions not my own.  Does letting go bring purity or relief? Especially at the end of life?  I have no idea.  But she let go. She cut the umbilicus that tethered Malkah to her rages.

I'm left here with an emptiness, a dearth of evil.  It seems to be entirely gone inside my being.  No curses from the grave (not even mild admonitions) press down upon my shoulders.  The world feels emptier now.  And emptiness became a theme upon her exit from her gilded stage.

I emptied out her house and gave away or sold her things.  I took the orphaned plants into my garden and watched them up and bloom.  I got a lot of help dismantling her universe. The emptiness feels almost Buddhist in its peaceful glory.

Malkah sold her house to a family of Egyptians.

I'm hoping they'll paint the ancient goddess Nuit upon the dome of that extraordinary Great Room. With deep blue skies and gold and silver stars twinkling from above the vaulted hall.  Bringing peace on earth, of course, and good will to absolutely all.

what is it about cemeteries?

Sometimes just going out to lunch or dinner with an ex isn't just the pleasant experience you think it's gonna be.

We went to one of the places we usually go to. We ordered items congruent with who we each are at the moment. And instantly, the conversation turned to disease, dying, and death — nothing unusual there. Both of us have mothers in need of care. Both of us have fathers who are gone. There, the similarities between us end.

To tell the truth, I thought we'd be together forever. If it wasn't us together, then it would be nobody at all. Turns out, I do 'nobody at all' rather well. Maybe a little too well. Alone, I become (even more) competent. Efficient. You can't be called a control freak if there's no one else around to do things wrong, right? Right. I clearly have no business trying to live with anyone who might be called an 'equal partner.' And I've become just fine with that (And yes, I do know what utter bullshit this paragraph is — but I need it to make my argument here).

So that's why the conversation floored me.

We'd both been thinking about the same cemetery. And suddenly, there we were planning a nice biodegradable, eco-friendly burial side by side, in glorious Marin, overlooking some of our favorite trails. Blew me away, this turn of events. And yet, I probably shouldn't have been surprised.

I've had this intimate conversation before. Used to check out old-West cemeteries with another ex, looking for just the right shabby little rundown plot of earth to lie down under a slab of stone together along the Western Coast. Or up in the Mother Lode of the High Sierra. We'd compose brilliant epitaphs and laugh our heads off. It was always somehow so very romantic. Oh. And another ex, and another cemetery. It's as if cemeteries (like those wooded and mountain top trails) were some kind of foreplay. There were other couples wandering through, clearly as high as we were.

We've flirted with going by way of fire and ash. But no. The call of the earth is just too great. The sound of the sea. The smell of the redwoods just around the bend. The golden hills leading up the mountain. Who could resist all that?

And this time we mean it.

A door opens, I always say, and either we walk through, or we turn aside. And if we turn aside, that door doesn't open again. The moment is lost.

And a door just opened. And I want to walk through it, and make this happen. Time to get serious (or not so serious) and pick a spot overlooking the Pacific. Maybe some shade trees nearby. In this place, nothing (or rather, no one) is marked. There's no stone, no brass plates, no names, no dates. What there is is GPS tracking devices, as you follow a trail. And there you are, rotting anonymously next to an anonymous ex or two or three.

And suddenly, I want to bring my sister there as well. And keep an eye on her (yes, I said that). And somehow that feels a whole lot less — what? Not lonely, exactly. No. A whole lot less useless. As if fertilizing the ground isn't enough to ask for.

Weird as it sounds (even to me) the idea of sheltering my baby sister (who has to be moved from her lonely site, anyway) — makes all this death and dying a bit more palatable. Like — as in life, that I'd have some role to play that feels just right. Taking care of others...

Now, I'm not an idiot. I do know that none of this makes rational sense. But it feels right. And these days, I'm so busy being rational, utilitarian and efficient (this last one, fairly poorly, I might add), that going with something that feels right — just feels ... right.

"In life," she said, " we only lasted 5 months. Maybe we can do better with eternity."

"I wonder," I said, "if I can manage to stay still that long..."

And on that note, let me wish you a delightful New Year's eve — celebrating the last dying ember of a very hard year — and wish you as well the most cheerful of New Years possible. Filled with joy, lollipops and shiny high tech toys, and most of all, with long walks down beautiful trails overlooking the still unspeakably magnificent Coast.