Both Sides: Memory In Midkife

 Does being in midlife do strange things to the ways we recall experiences?

Almost six months have passed since I taught my last class. I haven’t thought much about my time in classrooms, even though I spent half a century in them, if you count my time as a student, faculty member and artist-in-residence. (Sometimes those roles overlapped, e.g., when I was a graduate student and assistant.) On the other hand, I was a New York City bike messenger for one year, before I started teaching. Today, I found myself thinking about a particular incident from that time for no particular reason.

One late Fall afternoon, I made a run to a Spring Street gallery. At that time, that part of town—SoHo—was still an “artsy “ neighborhood; its streets hadn’t become the rows of designer boutiques and cafés that make Starbuck’s look like a gas station convenience store they are now. I picked up a framed print wrapped in brown paper. It didn’t fit into my messenger bag; my left arm was just barely long enough to cradle it against my jacket as I pedaled ten kilometers to an apartment on the Upper West Side. 

I breathed a sigh of relief that the print—an artist I’d heard of?—was, as best as I could tell, intact. A doorman didn’t stop me on my way in. (Could it have been because I’m White?) I climbed a flight of stairs, rang a bell and the door opened to a face I’d seen before, though not in person, framing blue eyes like no others I’d seen: mirrors of vulnerability.

When I picked up the print, the name on the tag was one I’d grown up with, yet it could have belonged to any number of women, including some who looked nothing like the one who answered the door. Seeing those days confirmed she was indeed “that” one: Judy Collins.

She had to’ve known I was trying not to show how star-struck I was: I was probably the 19457th person who tried to be “cool” in her presence.  My “professionalism” gave me away. “Thank you.” “Happy to help, Ms. Collins. Have a nice day.” “You do the same.”

That memory was prompted by something that came up when I opened a Google browser: an interview in which she talked about, among other things, her 40-plus years of sobriety. That confirmed what I thought that day: She was drunk or hung over; given the timeline, she was probably a year or two from sobriety.

She was also in midlife, at least chronologically. She is now 87 years old, on a “farewell “ tour. Somehow I believe she is still in the middle of her life: She is still creating and performing. Even if she is ending one of those things, she’s nowhere near the end.

What This Day Means

 Today is Veterans Day here in the US. It was called Armistice Day to mark the anniversary of the treaty that ended “the war to end all wars.” Of course, wars don’t end other wars just as having more guns doesn’t prevent gun violence:  something the rest of the developed world has figured out.

Speaking of the rest of the world: Much of it commemorates this day as “Remembrance Day” which, I believe, is more fitting. Veterans should indeed be honored—every day—by giving them what they need. (I say this as someone who believes the only true advancement the human race can make is to get rid of war.) And those who died, voluntarily or involuntarily, in whatever cause, should be remembered in the way any other tragedy is remembered.

Anyway, I took a ride today. The destination and distance are not important, at least to me. Rather, it was a necessary and fulfilling meditation, in part because I passed a few monuments to “the fallen.” I only wish those plaques and statues would emphasize the lost life, usually at a very young age, rather than “heroism” which, in time, is as forgotten as the “hero.”

Vietnam Veteran Bruce Weigl gave a much better tribute than I ever could:

Elegy

Into sunlight they marched,
Into dog day, into no saints day,
And were cut down.
They marched without knowing
How the air would be sucked from their lungs,
How their lungs would collapse,
How the world would twist itself, would
Bend into the cruel angle.

Into the black understanding they marched
Until the angels came
Calling their names,
Until they rose, one by one from the blood.
The light blasted down on them.
The bullets sliced through the razor grass
So there was not even time to speak.
The words would not let themselves be spoken.
Some of them died.
Some of them were not allowed to.

Midlife Sky

 Spring is associated with rebirth; summer with youth and coming of age. Autumn might be the “adult” season and this time—a week and a half into November—might be midlife.

At least, I felt that while cycling today. Now is a time of contrasts: Foliage is at, or just past its colorful peak. At the same time, each day is shorter and colder than the last; nights grow longer and darker. And the sky, at least as I’ve seen it during the past couple of days, grows heavier: a reminder that we, and the world, are that much older. But, for these few glorious days, it’s like a chiaroscuro background, highlighting the falling (or fallen) red, yellow and orange leaves.