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Mystical experiences
Jun. 4th, 2003 08:02 amLisa's new house in Agoura is gorgeous -- eighties museum architecture, very white, high ceilinged and latticed, like living in a smaller version of the Guggenheim in the (literal) shadow of the Santa Monica mountains.
This morning around six I was sitting outside, sipping coffee and diurnal beauty when right over the fence, not ten feet away from me, a coyote came strolling along. Behind him flew a crow, like a town crier. Coyote obviously coming home after working night shift on the nature-red-of-tooth-and-claw gig. Stared straight into my eyes — a malevolent, humorous brown intelligence. Made me shiver, yes he did though the day was muggy. Don't think I've ever seen a coyote before.
Max tells me they're very common throughout southern California: "Not to take away from your mystical experience or anything, Mom." Slangs the word into two syllables.
We also hear various birds calling — a flock of feral peacocks maybe.
Lisa and I stayed up till midnight getting mildly blasted on cheap merlot. "It's beautiful, we love it," she said. "But it could all go away tomorrow, we could end up living in a trailer somewhere in Florida. Biotechs have maybe two years more on a run before that shell game collapses. And I, of course, have five more years after that -- because I'm the person who sticks around to turn off the lights."
Lisa says the higher you move up the corporate food ladder, the less you actually do. "Now I've risen to where I do absolutely nothing except sit around all day looking magisterial and telling people: no, you can't have more money. My secretary does all the real work."
Around midnight Max and I teeter off to the guest house. I notice Lisa has supplied its bathroom with guest soaps and shampoos she's lifted from business stays at various four-star hotels, and this strikes me as so funny that I begin to laugh out loud.
"What's so funny?" asks Max. "You're drunk, aren't you?"
"A little," I say.
"I don't think I've ever seen you drunk before." But he says it affectionately.
Still, I'm surprisingly bushy-tailed when I wake up this morning. Robert is already up, making coffee, supervising Christopher's breakfast and preparations for school. When Lisa wanders in, I realize that while Robert wears a wedding band, Lisa does not.
"How are you, my dear?" I ask.
"God is punishing me. Wine on a Tuesday night!" says Lisa.
"That's why God invented coffee."
She fends off the approach of the pot with uplifted hand. "Oh, no, no, no! God forbid that I offend anyone with coffee breath! In the morning, I pop massive doses of NoDoz. If Max gets bored with the mall scene, he has an open invitation to come up here anytime. He is one extraordinary young man, Patrizia. You did very, very well with him."
"You belong in this house, Lisa," I say. "You know in some metaphysical sense, you've always lived here."
"I know what you mean," she said. And there we leave it for another year.
Robert comes back after he drops Christopher off at school. I don't think I'd ever really talked to him before. He is very bright, has a really original mind which is somewhat camouflaged by the George Plimpton demeanor -- slouchy flannels, languorous prep school accent. We talk politics, Bush's tax cut -- "But it makes perfect sense," he says. "A tax cut for the rich. When you consider that it's the rich who are facing inflation. The inflation rate has remained very low this year except when you consider the costs of goods and services aimed at the upper 5% income bracket -- the cost of private schools, gated communities and the like."
Really interesting concept -- gradated indices for the various economic substrates. Wonder if anyone is doing it?
Then we talked about the middle East. "When someone like Arial Sharon is talking about 'occupied territories,' you know there's a huge change afoot," Robert commented.
I told him about my Judaism For Dummies experience, my Israel conversation with Rabbi Bruce. Robert cocked his head. "Well, American Jews are the worst in that respect. The most aggressive. It's like the IRA. If you talk to anyone in Ireland about the IRA, they'll tell you it's a pain in the ass. 'I was trying to get to Dublin this morning and fucking Paddy blew up the bridge again.' But in this country, it's all cloaked with mysticism."
This morning around six I was sitting outside, sipping coffee and diurnal beauty when right over the fence, not ten feet away from me, a coyote came strolling along. Behind him flew a crow, like a town crier. Coyote obviously coming home after working night shift on the nature-red-of-tooth-and-claw gig. Stared straight into my eyes — a malevolent, humorous brown intelligence. Made me shiver, yes he did though the day was muggy. Don't think I've ever seen a coyote before.
Max tells me they're very common throughout southern California: "Not to take away from your mystical experience or anything, Mom." Slangs the word into two syllables.
We also hear various birds calling — a flock of feral peacocks maybe.
Lisa and I stayed up till midnight getting mildly blasted on cheap merlot. "It's beautiful, we love it," she said. "But it could all go away tomorrow, we could end up living in a trailer somewhere in Florida. Biotechs have maybe two years more on a run before that shell game collapses. And I, of course, have five more years after that -- because I'm the person who sticks around to turn off the lights."
Lisa says the higher you move up the corporate food ladder, the less you actually do. "Now I've risen to where I do absolutely nothing except sit around all day looking magisterial and telling people: no, you can't have more money. My secretary does all the real work."
Around midnight Max and I teeter off to the guest house. I notice Lisa has supplied its bathroom with guest soaps and shampoos she's lifted from business stays at various four-star hotels, and this strikes me as so funny that I begin to laugh out loud.
"What's so funny?" asks Max. "You're drunk, aren't you?"
"A little," I say.
"I don't think I've ever seen you drunk before." But he says it affectionately.
Still, I'm surprisingly bushy-tailed when I wake up this morning. Robert is already up, making coffee, supervising Christopher's breakfast and preparations for school. When Lisa wanders in, I realize that while Robert wears a wedding band, Lisa does not.
"How are you, my dear?" I ask.
"God is punishing me. Wine on a Tuesday night!" says Lisa.
"That's why God invented coffee."
She fends off the approach of the pot with uplifted hand. "Oh, no, no, no! God forbid that I offend anyone with coffee breath! In the morning, I pop massive doses of NoDoz. If Max gets bored with the mall scene, he has an open invitation to come up here anytime. He is one extraordinary young man, Patrizia. You did very, very well with him."
"You belong in this house, Lisa," I say. "You know in some metaphysical sense, you've always lived here."
"I know what you mean," she said. And there we leave it for another year.
Robert comes back after he drops Christopher off at school. I don't think I'd ever really talked to him before. He is very bright, has a really original mind which is somewhat camouflaged by the George Plimpton demeanor -- slouchy flannels, languorous prep school accent. We talk politics, Bush's tax cut -- "But it makes perfect sense," he says. "A tax cut for the rich. When you consider that it's the rich who are facing inflation. The inflation rate has remained very low this year except when you consider the costs of goods and services aimed at the upper 5% income bracket -- the cost of private schools, gated communities and the like."
Really interesting concept -- gradated indices for the various economic substrates. Wonder if anyone is doing it?
Then we talked about the middle East. "When someone like Arial Sharon is talking about 'occupied territories,' you know there's a huge change afoot," Robert commented.
I told him about my Judaism For Dummies experience, my Israel conversation with Rabbi Bruce. Robert cocked his head. "Well, American Jews are the worst in that respect. The most aggressive. It's like the IRA. If you talk to anyone in Ireland about the IRA, they'll tell you it's a pain in the ass. 'I was trying to get to Dublin this morning and fucking Paddy blew up the bridge again.' But in this country, it's all cloaked with mysticism."
