When Does the Mind Close?

This Christmas we were with relatives and people of every age. And being with them made me wonder again something I have wondered since I was about 16: When do people's minds close?

Is there an age until which people are open, and then their mind closes? Is it caused by an event? Boredom? Socialization?

As a child I remember vividly how different my Godmother seemed. She was old, yes, and wise, but so open. She was curious, about me and what I thought. About new books. About the news. About new ideas. She knew so much, but she was as inquisitive as if she knew nothing. I knew so few adults like that I found her remarkable. Something in her remained soft, flexible, young. Not naive. Very wise. But open.

Other people seem to close up at age 20. It is as if all new inputs of information after that age will fit into pre-existing structures. New ideas, new experiences simply cannot penetrate. They have ossified. It is over. Of course they keep living. But their minds are closed. It is like a grate that shuts over their minds and hearts. Tiny slivers of things will go in through the grate--but nothing in its entirety--not the wonder, the ecstasy of something totally new. It will be made very very small so it can fit through the tiny slats. And then it won't feel so remarkable anymore.

What do you think? Do you think people's minds close? Why? What causes it? Is it just the passage of time? Or something traumatic?

A Jonathan Gold Moment

Last night after ice skating in Pasadena we went to Chinatown for dinner.

I love Chinatowns, even L.A.'s Chinatown, which never feels as bustling and healthy as other American Chinatowns. But I could sit in the main square forever, staring at the colorful pagodas and the strings of Chinese lanterns.

We went to go to Yang Chow, the best Chinese restaurant in Chinatown, according to Jonathan. But the line was so long, and our boys so tired, we headed down Broadway to try something new: the colorful and crowded Hop Woo. There were peking ducks hanging in front, the restaurant was all garish red and green (which I love). The booths were lime green with strings of crystal beads hanging down, and huge tanks of fish adorned the back wall. Not aquariums--tanks of fish to reach into to pull out your order.

We sat down in the back in a green booth, next to a table of Chinese men. Everything on their table looked delicious.

"What's that?" asked Jonathan, pointing to a huge pot of fish.

"Oh, Tilapia bowl," said the waitress. "It's not on the menu. They are Chinese."

We ordered it.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to a mound of sauteed something or other, heaped on a pile of noodles with veggies. She went over and talked to the Chinese men.

"You no like it," she said. "It is Chinese. They are Chinese."

"Yes, but what is it?" Jonathan pushed. She went back and chattered away again.

"Frog," she said. "I'll see you later, OK?"

Theo looked stricken (he had seen the Muppet movie where Kermit goes on a cross country odyssey to escape some hungry frog leg eating bad guys)

We did not order the frog.

But we felt bold, brave, and very Jonathan Gold.

"Jonathan Gold would definitely have ordered this," Jonathan said. "This is real. A real Chinese experience."

The duck was delish, sticky and so flavorful I found myself sucking the duck out of the marrow of the duck bones. The skin and sauce and cruncky scallions were all mushed into a fluffy bread like a squishy taco. Divine. The tilapia bowl was homey and what felt to us foreigners like authentic Chinese cuisine. Who knows. The broth was full of hongo mushrooms, ginger, tofu skin and other secret spices.

We left full and happy, ready to head back to Hop Woo very soon!

A Question of Human Nature

Dear Reader,

Do you think it is just human nature to take and take whatever you can take?

I wonder about this sometimes. I think about our corporations--how they take and take from employees until the employees threaten to leave, or sue, or go public with their mistreatment. Until then corporations will do anything--cut salaries, double health care costs, take away vacation. If you do a good job and do not complain, you are vulnerable. Unless you have a group that can threaten mass action.

Same in relationships. If you give freely, without complaining, does that mean it comes at no cost to you? Does that mean that your gift, your time, is the new standard for what should be given? Give once, it is a gift. Give constantly and it is just the way it is. Soon someone will ask for more, and forget that what you are doing is already as much as you can give. That it was a sacrifice, something special, given out of love.

I hate to go all Germaine Greer over the holidays, but it makes me think about women. We are trained professionally to be kick ass and hard working. But socially, we are still taught to care for people, to think about how others feel, to serve with a smile. Even if you reject this notion wholeheartedly, this is our society, and this information seeps into you somewhere. It is present in expectations, in social interactions.

Children intensify this. Because you must give wholeheartedly with children. You cannot be on guard, or questioning what they ask for. You must give with love, and give as freely as you can, always. This does not mean spoiling. But it does mean often, very often, putting them before yourself.

And so I wonder, in a capitalist society, where on some deep level we are all trying to get something out of other people, are women at a disadvantage? Are we unwilling/unable to be as ruthless as we need to be? Does love, family, make us vulnerable to those who wish to take advantage of us?

Sure, there are non monetary rewards. Many. But it can also be a total mindfuck. And on some level you have to decide--do you want to be the US of A (a power to be reckoned with?) or Tunisia (beautiful, you should visit sometime, no power at all on the global stage, better join together with 100 other small, powerless nations to make your point on the international stage, at which point the point you were trying to make will be so diluted it will no longer be comprehensible--this was my lesson from Model U.N. in High School, where I was a representative from lowly Tunisia)

How do we walk this line? How do we navigate? How do you stand up without saying I can take advantage of YOU as much as you can take advantage of ME? How do you love and give and take care of those who need it, while also constantly staying on guard, and letting no one take advantage? Or, let's make it less overt and agressive--simply being taking for granted?

(Note: I remember after giving birth I could no long play ruthlessly on the racquet ball court, nor be really aggressive in interviews. I simply could not maintain both personas--the nurturer and the warrior)

How does an act of love turn into an act of weakness in a power play?

Any thoughts wise women of the world? Or wise men?

The Year of Great Books

I attended a top liberal arts college, and believe in the value of that type of education.

Still, despite four years at Wellesley I have great holes. I have not read Balzac or Cervantes or Borges or all of the Odyssey. As I sat and listened to Carlos Fuentes on Saturday night I wondered how this is possible. I read voraciously. I read junk, yes, but I read high-brow, too. I like the slog. I enjoy baroque language and writing that makes you really think.

This year I will try to read 30 great books. I will make up my list over the holidays. And I will let you know what I find right here on this blog. Do they stand the test of time for me? Will they change my life the way they have so many others?

I will let you know.

And, dear readers, are there any great books that changed your life? your philosophy? your mind?

Amir's Garden

It rained all weekend and by Sunday the air was clear and crisp. Like New England, not California. After we dropped off Jonathan's mother at the airport we headed into Griffith Park to hike, vowing to find something new. We drove down a road we have driven only once before and hiked up to a water tower. A man on the trail told us there was a garden there.

Sure enough, we got to the peak--just a peak between other peaks in a part of the park we had never seen--and there was a magnificent garden planted by citizens. It was full of crazy, secret paths, fences of broken trees, strange exotic plants and staircases to nowhere. It wound round and round the hillside. At the top were picnic tables and views of the zoo.

A red tail hawk circled above us, so close I thought it wanted to eat Benji. Magnificent and a little scary.

On the way down we saw a rainbow--which always feels like a blessing.

Thank you, Amir and friends, wherever you are, for creating this beautiful place for us. We will be back with oatmeal cookies and hot chocolate.

Do you know any beautiful secret places in Griffith Park? Share!

Knights and Damsels

Behold the tiny fencers! Theo and Benji are to the far right. This was a local birthday party--with real knights who came and taught our children fencing and flirted with the mothers (fair damsels!)

The boys were fantastic, the knights even better. Every woman should know how to fence! Like the intellectual/swordswoman/whore of Venice in Dangerous Beauty -- one of my favorite movies at one point in my younger days. Another resolution for my 44th year: Learn to fence with handsome knights!

(We tried finger fencing in the kitchen that night and I jammed my fingers when sparring with Jonathan--a skilled and trained fencer. I violated rule # 2: do not fence without armor, or a judge)

Writers Inspiration

On Saturday night, courtesy of Aliza Murrietta, whose husband was out of town at the Second City 50th Reunion, I got to go see Carlos Fuente speak. I almost didn't go. I said no, because it was the second night of Hannukah, and Jonathan's mother was visiting, but then I told Jonathan and he said, "Oh, you must go!"

Fuentes taught Jonathan at Harvard and somewhere in our house is a box of signed books from the great man. He is great, Jonathan told me. Then he began to imitate his former professor. (Something about a great negress's giant wet vagina)

We drove over. It was a dramatic night--very Mexican. There were sheets of rain, rivers of water running down the boulevards, and in Beverly Hills all the street lights and traffic lights were out. The city was dark. We arrived at Royce Hall at UCLA soggy and exhilarated.

The great man spoke. I bought some books. We listened. He gave a lecture. It was A-Z, This I Believe. It was OK. I was drowsy at first, after the adrenaline of the ride over, a belly full of latkes and apple sauce, and sitting in a big warm hall in the dark. I would awaken at certain letters and they would drill into my consciousness, beautiful images, incredible language. (J is for jealousy, O is for Odyssey, M is for Mexico, A is for Amor, L is for the Left) Others were more bland, or drifted by.

Then he answered questions, and here he was brilliant: quick-witted, hilarious, warm, witty, sharp, alive. He answered questions political, personal and literary and made us laugh and think deeply. Being in the presence of a mind like that is exhilarating, inspiring.

At the end someone asked about dreaming, and the writing process, and this is what he said:

At the end of each day, around nine or ten at night, I sit down to write. I jot down the plot points of what I will write th next morning, Important events, conversational turns, things various characters say, surprises and challenges that will arrive--maybe thirteen or fourteen in all. Then I go to sleep. I dream. I awake in the morning and the story is there. It is not usually what I have written down the night before. My subconscious has been at work, and tells me what to write. It is as if, during the night, I have been visited by a second me, who takes over from the first me, and then feeds the first me what to write in the morning.

This is a paraphrase. But it captures the magic of what can happen.

I think I am going to try.