Paradise is an ill-fitting word

My vocabulary is excellent but it’s also inflated, and full of hot air, quite frankly.

I occasionally pull the most random, appropriate word out of thin air when seeking to describe something, but there are many times I pull words from thin air, literally; words that have no basis in reality or acquaintance with Merriam Webster. It’s like the world exists solely in my delusional imagination only. The words I come up with sound like maybe they are real, but when I attempt to verify the actual existence of the word, I find absolutely nothing anywhere save some oddball Google hit which has nothing to do with what I’m thinking. This is my vocabulary, a veritable treasure trove of obscure words which share space with an equal number of nonsensical, Alice In Wonderland styled vernacular.

Today we pulled up to the curb at one of the beach cities in the Southern California. I told my afternoon companion “This is paradisical.” It was such a bizarre word that I didn’t quite know how to pronounce it. In fact, the first time I said it, I thought the word sounded odd, so I shifted the pronunciation slightly, but it still sounded wrong, wrong, wrong.

Parasdisical.
Could it really be?

I had no idea if the word was real or if it was just another figment of my lunatic waking dreamworld. In any case, it described the neighbhorhood.

I’ve been in this neighborhood once. It is simply beautiful and elegant and even I lust for a house here.

Houses are too much trouble. I don’t know why they are such an American dream. The banks must have shimmied this fantasy into the cultural American psyche in order to sell more lucrative mortgages. Houses are a pain in the ass! You pay them off forever, you have to pay for the upkeep. When something goes wrong, it’s on you buddy. The toilet stops up at 1 in the morning. OK, do something about it. The onus is on you. To find someone who can fix it, and to pay them for the repairs and materials. You have to mow the lawn, water the lawn, paint, trim, rewire, the list goes on forever of homeowner duties. In fact, I find it curious that when I hear homeowners justify their debt, they always use the “well, it’s for the taxes” line. Of course, despite such an incessant drone of responsibilities, the typical American clamors to own more and more. The government perpetuates this with tax breaks, loans, bailouts, and the banks reward it with any number of financial incentives or perks. Screw that, I think houses are a waste.

But for this little beachside community, I would never see myself wanting to assume the burden of a home loan.

The small residential hamlet is part of a larger beachside city, but this little neighborhood stands adrift the rest of the crazed traffic and business. The streets are narrow and lined with luxurious, extravagant homes and a tsunami of compact vegetation that seems compressed by virtue of some kind of unannounced city code. The landscaping is immaculate and these houses line parallel streets which run leisurely toward a rocky cliff that begins after a road which runs along the coastline. Further down you see rocky cliffs where houses perch. Some of the houses have bi-leveled back yards with tennis courts, volleyball sandbox zones, and all the damned grass around here is the deepest green. This whole area looks like a luscious painting. The houses scream millions of dollars out loud. LOUD.

It is paradisical.

The beaches are public so visitors pour in from all over, but they behave and they are not trashy. It’s because this spot is so secluded and unknown to the broader swath of SoCal people that most don’t know of this hidden pearl. There are no gangsters, no families of 8 rushing to the beach to get out of their non-AC tenement…even the visitors seem of a higher caliber (even myself, ahem).

It’s like a dream. The landscape is etched in the fantasy of an artist seeking to portray the perfect house on the perfect street.

I didn’t have my camera with me, but as is my wont, I pilfered something from Google Earth.

If it were my wont, I could also allow myself to become very depressed or despondent if I fell into the trap of Want.

This is the kind of life I will obviously not attain being that I’m 47. Also, I show the barest inkling of materialism or social competitiveness. I sometimes reexamine my life in reverse fashion. Could I have ever reached this level of luxury with my intellectual toolbox? If I ever wanted it really bad enough, I firmly believe I could have striven to live in this little paradiscal oasis by the Pacific Ocean. Perhaps I’d drive around in a Lamborghini (saw one in the neighborhood) and have a really highfalutin lifestyle. The kind of life that requires constant attention. I have no constant attention to spare. I never have. My hunger is lacking. I don’t care about this bullshit. But still, my occasional exposure to how the “other half” lives does make me wonder if perhaps I might have been happier strolling out to my sundeck on a foggy Sunday morning with the newspaper and a cup hot coffee. The luxurious life always beckons.

IQ is very important, but character is half the battle if we expect IQ to express itself as we rehearse.

Only character enhances a person’s life with headstrong ambition. You must want this life and seek it from a young age. I never wanted the life this badly. I was an ethnic casualty. I was not groomed to behold the material life as unapproachably important. Did I ever dream of languishing in my asocial cave in the sordid landscape of East Los Angeles while writing a hokey blog? I doubt it. Am I unhappy? Hell no. We must fit happiness around our reality, not the other way around. This is the sign of strength. Most people don’t seem able to fashion this ill-fitting garment.

It’s too bad. Sunny days await, why waste them?

BTW, the word does exist.
I pictured it with the wrong spelling

PARADISIACAL