Suburbia, CAWith apologies to those few of you who still bother to visit this site:
What with Signor Ferrari off pursuing other interests, Ugarte on vacation celebrating his newfound professional status, and me exhausted from switching jobs and moving accross the country to study for the bar exam, the blog hasn’t quite been the epicenter of cultural and literary communication it once was.
I was on trial last month, and that meant basically living, eating and breathing work. I achieved a personal “best” for the month of May, billing over 319 hours. I tend to bill about 75% of the time I spend at work, and keep in mind that during May I also was packing up my stuff, moving out of my apartment (and into my grandfather’s place, a temporary pad while the trial went on, as the actual move out to CA occurred on May 21), and taking care of all sorts of stuff like that. I found it exhilarating, but mostly exhausting.
Now I’m out here in Suburbia, CA in our new (rented) three-bedroom house (for which we pay less than we did to rent a one-bedroom apartment in the West Village), and—while I’m not really relaxing—I have to say I am loving it. Maybe too much.
Suburbia is like a narcotic, at least for someone like me who spent the last 7 years in the middle of Manhattan. The quiet, the space, the control—it is all very alluring and satisfying. But, as with all drugs, there is a sinister side. Small quests and victories can easily request the big ones. Instead of changing the world, you find yourself changing lightbulbs (we have so many), filters, water cooler bottles, tires. Yesterday, I mowed the lawn, and it was one of the most satisfying things I have ever done. Then I cleaned out and organized the garage. It’s not done yet, and I have to admit I’m obsessing a bit about it.
The sense of personal satisfaction is almost ridiculous. How ludicrous to be as proud as I am about having brushed the cobwebs out of a 2-car garage? Why do I get goosebumps every time I say “2-car garage”? And speaking of cars, I am literally obsessed with buying a car. At several points already I have become nearly paralyzed when faced with the myriad options available to a first-time car buyer. I must pick the right one—but should I get a sporty car (great fun, but no room for clients or multiple friends), an SUV (super-practical, but gas-guzzling and—wait a minute, am I actually considering buying an SUV!?!?!?!?. See what I mean?
In Manhattan, I knew that I was too focused on the rat race, with too little time and energy left over for the big picture. It is part of the reason I left. But here, in Suburbia, CA, I have more time, more space, more energy. The days are longer, sunnier, more beautiful. And that’s precisely the danger. I’ve already been lulled into a sense of peace and calm.
At 1:00, we come home, slap some burgers on the broiler (Stay tuned. It is only a matter of time before I buy a grill), and have lunch in our kitchen/dining area, now drenched with sun from the floor-to-ceiling windows that are the north and south faces of our new house. The symphony out back has become a riot, and I wonder again what took me so long. This place is paradise.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in the garage, unpacking, sweeping, dusting, organizing. This is my domain, and I’ve got big plans. I’m going to install lights, put down a carpet and a mat, hang my bike from the ceiling, buy a used weight set, a work stand for my bike, some nice tools, put some speakers on the back wall so I can listen to music while I work on the bike or the car (ah, but which car? A classic big Healey?. a used Bimmer? A lowered El Camino with a custom lilac paint job?) . . . for a moment, I seriously consider bringing the TV out here and setting up a little home theater in the garage. Ilsa would probably go for it.
At 8:00, the sun is still shining, and Ilsa is hungry. I shower, and we drive into town to have italian food at a table on the street. The weather here in the evening is unparalleled. The mercury drifts gracefully from the upper seventies to the lower seventies, as the light fades smoothly into dusk, then, finally, darkness. It is hard to describe how peaceful, how comfortable, how transcendent that transition feels. It is time to go home.
We drive back to the house, and our two cats greet us at the door. Ilsa sits on the couch to play with them, I go back into the office (can I call it a study?) to research cars. At eleven, we go to bed.
See what I mean? Part of me knows I’m being lulled into submission. Soon I will start my regular morning bicycle rides, buy my car, maybe even buy an old british twin (motorcycle) as a side project. I’ll be so damn content, so preoccupied with trips to IKEA and Ace and K-mart so that Ilsa and I can expand to fill our containers like goldfish, that I’ll be missing out on the big picture!!!
In the past two days, I’ve hardly thought about how badly the Bush administration is raping this country. And that’s just what they’re counting on, isn’t it? I’d write more, but I have to go water the lawn.
Read Less...
