lizrael update

My first obit.

In 2001 I started as a reporter-intern for the Staten Island Advance. I had already been freelancing as a teenager, so I knew a bit here and there, but I had never taken a course in journalism. I wasn’t unique.

On one of the first days, at our orientation meetings, we reporter-interns were told that the first thing to learn - and the first thing we’d do - was to write an obituary.

Clearly, this didn’t appeal to most of us. At first, I couldn’t see past the dead people. I quickly realized, though, that writing obits isn’t about the dead people; it’s about communicating with the living - the mourning living.

I toughened myself up for the task; after all, most people who die are already old and the families were expecting it… right? So the chances of me getting handed a 47-year-old father of three who died of cancer should have been slim… right?

Slim or not, there I was, staring at this guy’s name, age, cause of death. He seemed Latino from the name. I tried to answer the question list myself, making up a story as I went along.

“He was an insignificant guy; his family lost touch with him years ago when he was caught selling drugs to teenagers. No reason to feel bad, you see.”

Better yet, I thought, maybe the family won’t want an obit; they’ll decline the offer and I’ll wish them luck.

But deadline was approaching and I wanted to be a journalist.

I dialed most of the number and hung up. I looked around the press room. I listened to the phones ringing, the voices, the faint T.V. background noise. The cop radio. The world of a reporter.

And I dialed again.

I spoke to the guy’s brother first. He was sweet and more than willing to gush about his brother, a family man, a hard worker. Loved by all. Missed by all. He passed me to his brother’s widow, and my stomach felt deep and hollow. She was crying a bit, but happy to know he’d be in the paper. It would be a good thing to have.

I finished the interview and missed the guy.

You know why obits are the first thing a journalist is assigned? Because it’s the core of every story s/he’ll ever write. An obit is:

Who:

What:

Where:

When:

Why:

How:

Details, details, details:

Weeks later, I was doing three to six obits a day, at least. It was part of the shift. I spoke to old people, young people, relatives who missed their mothers and relatives who hadn’t spoken to their mothers in years. The mourners of heroes, of saints, of nonchalance, of victims to this or that.

I think about my first obit sometimes when I remember my venture into reporter-hood. There are other stories I remember too - speakers, elections, government events, city issues,  small crimes, fires - and its some of those stories that are the reasons I pulled out of journalism.

But I stopped minding obits after a while and soon enjoyed those phone calls with the  living. It reminded me that I, too, was alive.

Version 1

Larutz.

“Alright. Larutz.”
“Shalosh… shtayim… echad…”
The room collectively sucks in its breath…
“Action!”

[Footsteps sound outside the metal door. A man dressed as a mifaked bursts in, and then abruptly stops. He is listening to music that will be filled in by the director later. He starts to rock back and forth, in tune with the imaginary music. He waves a finger in the air. Soon his whole body is coordinating with our imaginations.]

“Cut!”

I’m sitting on a table with my legs out in front of me, my right foot still tapping the air to imaginary music. I’m opposite everyone else in the room; they are gathered around the director.
I volunteered to help out because the director is a friend, but everyone else knows each other pretty well from working together the past few months.

The movie is about a boy freshly graduated from high school; he has to make a decision between following his dream and sacrificing the next precious years of his life for his country’s army. It takes place against the backdrop of Israeli nationalism.
The movie will be my friend’s first, and his completion of film school.

“OK, od pa’am. Chevre, sheket. Larutz.”

The director has spoken, the assistant counts down from three, we inhale and shut up.

“Action!”

[Footsteps. Mifaked bursts in the door.]

The extent of my helping out at the set has been polishing army boots.
Incidentally, that will also be the extent of my own army service in Israel.

[Mifaked rocks out to silence.]

“Cut!”

Everyone in the room is Israeli and communicates in Hebrew unless using some film terminology: “cut”, “mixer”, “sound”, “action.” The only word I’m hearing in Hebrew that relates to film-making is “larutz” – Roll (camera) – literally meaning: to run.
Roll camera. Start filming. Begin. Run.

The most bizarre, and at the same time satisfying, thing about being on this movie set with my director-friend’s cast and crew is that they are all speaking in Hebrew to each other and that this is the place where I live. I have voluntarily began life in a Hebrew world, and it has begun. It begins again everyday when I wake up and walk outside.
It is possible that I should not fear Hebrew, distrust Hebrew, dismiss myself dressed in Hebrew words when it is what I am to be here, wrapped in it, embraced in it, like the soft wrap skirts Israeli girls wear.
That someone told me “larutz” and I did; I can feel the Hebrew wrapped around my waist, over my legs, surrounding me in its soft melodic fabric that makes me feel like running further, more.
And, on the set, when someone makes a joke in Hebrew, I laugh. When my director-friend declares a five-minute break, the crew disperses into pockets of Hebrew conversation. And when there is something they need me to do in wardrobe, I’m on it - as soon as they give me the command in Hebrew.

“Larutz… Action!”

Israeli (5) - 2005.

And then, he was back.

We met for drinks to catch up and somehow, amid the silence of catching up, we sensed where each of us had been in the past two years.

“You didn’t think I was going to come b’aliyah, did you?” I said it with my best defense mechanism smirk.
“Well… I thought it could go either way. Yes, I am surprised.”

Two nights later he called me again.

“Elizabet, be ready at your house in ten minutes. Can you do that?”
“I’m not home – gimme 15 –“
“B’seder.”
Click.

I was at some friends’ watching downloaded episodes of Americana when he called, and as the last episode was wrapping up I collected my second-hand bag and my ratty cream-colored sweater and thanked the boys on my way out to meet Shachar in front of my house.
I wondered on the walk home what this drive was to meet him. The adventure he brings in any given meeting? What is that adrenaline, really, that he pumps into me with a phone call or an ‘Elizabet’? After two years of not speaking, after two years of failing to find ourselves, what kept the spark of ridiculousness still glowing in two dim hearts?

Ten minutes later, calves burning from the rush home, I found the familiar white VW Gulf parked in front.

A bed poked itself out the back.

He found me a new bed. Crazy.

I found Shachar waiting in the stairwell.

“There you are! Come, help me bring this up.” He took my hand in his and we started towards the car and like Lot’s wife, I looked back behind our trail… Was there something there I missed? Is this a ghost pulling me by my palm towards a car I once knew well?
In breathy silence we managed to pull the bed up to the top floor and in short commands managed to get it into my niche of a room, set under the window. I had been going months on four skinny mattresses piled up like the Pea Princess. I looked at Shachar, who was looking at me.

“Ma ha’sha’ah?” I scrambled to find my pelephone.
“9:50.”
“I have to go darling, I will speak to you soon.”

I walked him to the stairs and just stopped —- and watched him continue down. I didn’t know what to say to this… guy.

“Thank you… you’re so nice…” I stammered, half remark, half question.

I could hear Shachar laughing that familiar laugh as he bounded down the twirls of stairs.

“I am so… Israeli,” he replied, the words floating toward my ears like the beeping of an alarm clock.

Tayelet (4) - 2003.

We’re sitting in the VW Gulf, at the tayelet near Ramat Rachel, me and Shachar.

That’s it, he says.

His eyes are drawn to me and my eyes are drawn to Jerusalem, dark and naked in front of us.

It takes a lot for me to turn my head and look at him; my eyes hit the side of his olive face and I lower my gaze quickly before he turns to meet my own pale features.

It’s hard to imagine I’ll be living here next year.
I feel white and small as I say this.
You know for sure?
Well… I mean, yeah…
You can’t know yet.
He shifts his body in the driver’s seat so he can look fully towards me.
It doesn’t matter if I can or can’t. I have to.
You put all this pressure on yourself; that is no good, Elizabet…

I hate when he talks like this. Like he knows all because he is older, because he’s seen things, because he was unlucky or lucky enough to have been born here, in the middle of my dream.

You have to take it slowly, don’t tell people right away; I’m not saying don’t come, definitely you should come, but slowly, if you come you want to make sure you stay, yes? Stages, Elizabet.
Right.
For real, you listening? It’s not an easy thing, it’s not a dream, I’ve seen people try and they end up going back. You have so much, so much goodness, and you’ll be fine, but stages, slowly.

He takes my dream and refines it; shaves off the fluffy outside and roughens the smooth edges. His bold eyes scare me in the darkness.

I look straight ahead, at the city.

Yeah.

It’s dark except for all the lights and I wonder how this city has been going for 3,000 years. How it exists when I don’t see it. How day becomes night and night forms day and people are always here, always surrounded by smooth white stones.

Soon he falls asleep, his head in my lap, and I sit back and watch Jerusalem become a city of gold. I inhale the chill August morning air and know that I am ready for what will come.

Modi’in (3) - 2003.

We drove up to the post in Modi’in; it was 2 a.m. and I felt invisible.

The road slept and the car’s purr was the only sound along with the crunching of dry leaves under boots. It was like a movie, when the headlights go dim and then dark, the double slam of car doors, more boots on Israeli summer grass,

the subdued whispers of an army reserve post.

Avihu met us, he wasn’t far from what I had pictured, not far from guys I’ve known before. Despite the gun over his shoulder, he didn’t swagger.

I felt like a child as I busied my eyes while Shachar and Avihu rattled on and I knew when they were talking about finding jobs and when they were talking about, “eize chamuda, Shachar!” - “Betach.”

I kept with the rhythm of silence and let my eyes take in the hills of 2 a.m. Jerusalem,

of gold in the darkness,

of emptiness,

of dusty boots.

Jerusalem (2) - 2003.

Shachar took me to a part of older Jerusalem one night, after shutting his law books and telling me –

“Elizabet – we’re going out.”

It was cool air we stepped into from his father’s white VW Gulf and I welcomed the night breeze up my skirt. We held hands as we crossed the dusty road; my flips flopped against the hard stones. He playfully taunted the squealing cats and I giggled, feeling where I belonged. We passed the laughing cafes and came to a crooked row of olden houses.

“These were Arabs, an Arab neighborhood before…” he trailed off and the houses picked up where his voice had left. Looking around politely, I suddenly felt very American as I noticed what made these houses so old, so wise.

I settled out of my American discomfort and into what I was watching: pale stones swaying in the midnight Jerusalem breeze. I let it sink in, the fact of it all, the nature of it, life and death and telling-stones. I looked over at him and he was already paces ahead.

Shachar, the Israeli, was not apologetic.

Israel (1) - 2003.

reign of terror from a child’s mouth

So here’s the problem.

You’ve been training for pain management since you were fourteen and learning how to express your feelings in new ways. Technological advances like razors and parker pen clips on the back of a yellow school bus.

But you’ve graduated since then. Twice. You’ve moved on. You’re not angry, you’re not pained to the bone anymore. You’ve hooked, pulled, smoked a little pot, accomplished a few minor dreams.

You are… Independent
Strong
Unique
Powerful
Driven

You’re not angry. You’re not resentful. You’re not forbidden and you’re not innocent. You’re nobody’s fool and you’re everybody’s chance.

You’re not settled and you’re not committed and you’re not going to be here for much longer.

You’re happy but it’s just you that is happy and what is that good for when there are at least four people around you that really do care about you?

You’re satisfied with your new attitude but no one else is and there are at least seven people nearby who are wondering about you.

You’re in a state of bliss but on both your hands your beginning to realize you need more fingers to count the people who are starting to feel they’ve lost you.

But you’re happy.

——————

My dad said the reason my neck and upper back went stiff in the last few days is because I have not expressed my feelings or stress related to the move and so it has converted from mental energy to physical energy and has collected in this area creating knots of pain. If I could only express the stress in other ways, says dad, the torturous back pain would dissolve.

Can I express stress I don’t feel? Can I say what I don’t feel?

Maybe it’s tucked away somewhere besides my upper back?

I thought maybe if I rant to Microsoft Word for a bit it would eventually come out.

I haven’t cried in three months. I haven’t been with a guy in three months. I haven’t harbored negative attitudes in three months.

I’ve been… happy… for three months.

I’ve been single, proud, excited, positive, outstanding, productive.

Apparently, the people who want me to be happy aren’t happy with this.

They want feelings. Sigh. Feelings only get us in trouble.

Expectations lead to disappointment. Expectations lead to disappointment. Expectations lead to disappointment.

Mantra - mantra – mantra.

Drama is the creation of alternate reality in order to avoid dealing with your own self.

I’ll never go back there. This is the new improved laid back Liz supreme (for 55 more cents, you get a liter of Coke).

And suddenly, a soft wind blows past my ear and whispers in tongues, ‘you’re leaving your loved ones behind…’

I tilt my head to catch the wave and suddenly my surfboard is 100 feet away and I’m doggy paddling to shore. With a week and half till I leave, you want to pop my bubble? Or create one?

Well, I’m not crying yet and my back still hurts.

Good night, lovers.

city stars

window lights are city stars that have led me here - away
stars that carry, stars that mend; city stars never sway.
i peer across city stars; behold the city of Roam
through car windows i see stars; above green stars pointing home.
these stars are where my trust was born; these stars will carry through
but soon the stars of nightlit roads will bring me close to you.

not titled yet

he was staring into space and as the minutes crept by in red digistyle, the space became filled with the stuff he was trying to block out with the soft hum of radio static behind his ears.

he was possessed by a wave of worry and a series of sharp stabs of discomfort to his memory. if only he could ignore the now or emancipate from the then or dislocate the to be. he was learning that staring into space was not becoming space or filling his mind with space or emptying his mind of stuff. he’d have to take it or he’d have to give it a name and store it on a shelf behind the acceptance of the humming and the red digi in penetrating his eyelids.

he remembered when he’d wake up on a Sunday morning and smell toast and he could feel the butter coating his tongue before he even opened his eyes. he remembered when they’d been happy, or seemingly so, and when he’d been happy for it. toast and tea and a review for him of what Saturday Night Live had offered the night before. it was great to be 11 and allowed to stay up for the whole show, but he never could so they’d break it down the next day over warm toast and hot tea.

tomorrow he’d wake up and a cold air would fill his nose and wake him up to the sound of nothing or the radio static if it was still on if she didn’t shut it off before night ended. she didn’t understand why he needed the radio static to fall asleep, and he didnt explain it to her. perhaps if he did, she would need it too and radio static would fill the whole house, the whole house, and red digi lights would surround him up the stairs, in the bathtub, to the closet. static like a hissing fly or a midafternoon cold war, the latest in a series, no sound, no order, just staring and static in the place where toast and tea used to be.