Sometimes, a blank piece of paper is the only way to begin, as it is today. I look out the window at blooming trees and a cupful of flowers rising from the ground. The sky is pale grey, and it is just fifty degrees. May, mybirthday month, reminds me of Casey, who threw the dice all her life. She gambled on her dreams.
Casey never told me much about herself. She lived in the present moment and considered her past a private matter. Once I learned of her struggles as a young woman and her chosen life, she became more real than when I’d known her. During the years we were friends, she handed out selected stories, abruptly, with final endings. Being the inquisitive character, the shallowness of her stories bated me. I had to pry the truth out from other people who had known her, and from government documents.
Casey’s first gamble was at sixteen years old. She sent in a photograph of herself for the Redbook Magazine modeling contest. If she’d won, the Powers Modeling Agency in New York City would grant her an audition as a model. Casey lived with her mother and sister in East Orange, New Jersey. Her father had died suddenly, leaving the family without a financier. Her mother was lost without her husband and unsuited to join the workplace. Casey didn’t tell her mother about the contest until she received the letter of congratulations.
John Robert Powers met Casey in his office on East 56th Street and signed her as a Powers Girl. She was stunning to look at, she was photographed like a movie star, and she was modest. John Powers did not look for aggressive, pouty-lipped fearlessness. The Powers Girls were captioned Long Stemmed American Beauties because they were wholesome, beautiful, tasteful, courteous, and virtuous. They were so far from today’s runway models that it is almost a reversal of style. The models of the thirties were ordained to set the highest example of classic good breeding and education. John not only schooled them in fashion, and individual taste, he instructed them in moral integrity, independence, and patriotism for their country. So Casey went to school at John Robert Powers and became one of the top ten models in the country.
She was a blue-black-haired Irish beauty with emerald green eyes and perfect teeth. She stood only 5’ 7”, but that was fairly standard in those days. When I knew her, she was still thin and beautiful, but she did not fuss about herself or spend much time at her vanity. As a Powers model, Casey had a long line of gentlemen callers. Powers Girls were invited to all the nightclub and dinner show openings, sporting events, community galas, and fund-raisers. Social engagements were part of her job. Casey was not a woman of idle chat, in fact a lot of people thought of her as restrained and unfriendly, maybe even snobbish. I think it was more secrecy. People were always prying into her life because it looked glamorous. But there was another side to that glamour she didn’t want to put a mirror to.
One evening, Casey had a dancing engagement at the Copacabana nightclub in New York City. She was on stage with other dancers when a gentleman noticed her. The next chapter of Casey’s life began that night. At twenty-two years old, she fell in love with a man thirteen years older, of the Jewish faith, and who lived in Hollywood. Casey never told me that she fell in love with a gangster. I do know once she felt love for this man, it could not be reversed. The consequences of her love forced her to change and adapt to a new kind of life and different people.
She did not bury or give back her love after she learned what he did for a living. She asked him to reform his criminal activities, and he agreed if only she would marry him. We all know at twenty-two, a woman believes she can change a man, and a man lets her think she can. Without that dream, many lovers would not have found their mates.
Casey married her love and spent her life trying to keep her husband on track with honesty. I met her husband just after he tried to reform and was beaten down by his past mistakes. I called him Daddy.
Achievement knocked down the barrier of fear. It feels like lifting off from ground level; I am floating like I used to be in the swimming pool, and I am only at my desk reading the news from my attorney. From one beginning to an ending, five years later, after tedious research, unscrambling legal language, and searching for the meaning behind the case references, this journey is over. I won the lawsuit against the bank that attempted toforeclose on my home and Dodger, my ex-partner of thirty-five years, who, for still unknown reasons, pursued the foreclosure.
Agape, eyes widened, nerves settled like snowflakes; the joy of achievement cannot be understated. During this phantasmagoria, life beyond research, consulting with foreclosure agencies, banking laws, and regulations, I detached from my passion for adventure, creativity, parades, parties, and socializing; I sat alone, and resilience shadowed, then enflamed like a log of fire, encapsulated into a daily doctrine. Music by Ennio Morricone, blue note Jazz, the everchanging scenery of seasons, phone conversations with friends who released ambers of comfort, confidence, and advice, and TCM films nuzzled my fatigue.
Some days, I remained in bed, staring at my Icart Ladies of Leisure prints, or sat by my favorite window seat and studied clouds, birds, and leaves. The blossom of tenacity grew into a tree trunk and taught me the art of persistence and emotional strength, which were missing links in my character.
Achievement in fine-tuning relationships, setting down the needle gently instead of plummeting riffs and arguments. In the present, as you all know, if you read the news, our culture has replaced argument and debate with assault and violence. I digress; renewed confidence in my aptitude to fight battles, disputes, and disappointments without Dodger is as solid as concrete.
The next episodic internal journey is regaining my passion for opening the door to interaction with strangers and discovering newness in that engine of life.I hope this admission reaches others who are experiencing depriving themselves of love within and without.
JAGGER PHOTOGRAPH FOR SALE. It is black-and-white and has Mick’s authenticated signature in perfect condition. It is matted and framed and measures 10 in x 11 1/2. For more information, leave a comment.
I won the 4.5-year lawsuit against the bank’s foreclosure of my Follies House. She will sell at market value. I toast with my FB friends, who hung in as I wedged against impossible odds with your patience and comfort. !!!!!!. The photo is from 2000 when we bought her. An enormous hug to my real estate broker, Scott Varley (aka Superman), and my attorney, who had educated and believed in me when I did not!
SILHOUETTE of a Taos night out in 2006. It begins with the sunset—a bubble-gum pink sash that swirls like taffy just above the distant hillside. The transcending forms and colors in the sky distract me; they silence me, keeping me from turning on the television or answering the phone.
The sunset has settled into my routine. I watch it from the roof garden over our Adobe Home and Gallery every night. In the midst of dressing to attend an art auction at the Millicent Rogers Museum, the sun has vanished. The sky turns Taos blue; a luminous oil pigment canvas blue that appears like an endless tunnel you can walk through. As I descend the staircase and cross over the ménage of piles shoved in a corner to allow SC to paint, I think, “This is going to be my home. I’m still here” Adventures in Livingness
In the courtyard where new flagstone has been laid, and a mud ditch blocks the exit, Rudy hitches me on his back and carries me out the side entrance through Tony Abeyta’s yard. Tony’s yard is piled with sand from our flagstone project, and my high-heeled black suede shoes are not at all practical for crossing New Mexican dunes. This is how the evening begins. Out in the parking lot, we circle around once and stop in Robert’s gallery. He has offered me his turquoise squash seed necklace to wear at the auction. The necklace is from Turkey, and sells for $1,800. Millicent Rogers events always attract women with extravagant jewelry, and Robert knows I have no such possessions. He hands me the necklace and says, have fun.
At times like this, I can forget the faces and routines I lived in Solana Beach and feel swept into a labyrinth of unfamiliar vignettes. There are two police cars in the rear of the parking lot, the church looms like a fortress of wet mud, and SC is listening to The Band CD we picked up in Santa Fe. I slide into the car, ensuring my shoes don’t fill with gravel.
There is very little street light along the desert road, and cars approach you at disarming speeds. For newcomers, the pale yellow line that separates oncoming traffic, roaming animals, hitchhikers, leather-clad bikers, and abandoned pets is of no comfort or value. Boundaries and civilities between people are vague, and sometimes, conversations elope into poetry.
At the Millicent Rogers Museum, the director, Jill, who is there to welcome each guest, greets us at the carved wooden doors. This museum was once a home, like most museums in Taos.Each room is an envelope of Native American jewelry, ceramics, paintings, weaving, textiles, and metalwork sealed with Millicent Rogers’s ethereal presence. By coming to Taos and bridging her New York chic with southwestern individuality, she set global trends in fashion, art, and living. he museum collection includes some of her designs that evolved from her residency in the desert. She moved here in 1947 and died here in 1953. Although she could have chosen anywhere in the world to live, she settled in the unaltered, surreal lunar beauty of Taos.
I wandered through the tightly packed rooms, alternately viewing the guest’s attire and jewelry. The woven wraps, belts, and hats worn by men and women form a collage of individual expression. Almost everyone seems to attract attention by the texture and color of his or her attire. It is a festive traditional look, with southwestern accessories paired with jeans or silk dresses. If you come to Taos, look for a belt buckle, one piece of Native American jewelry, and one piece of art.
When the auction was announced, I admired the same etching as the woman next to me. She remarked that the artist was also the teacher of one of her children. I learned that Ellen had six children and 11 grandchildren. She was petite with curly blonde hair, and I liked her instantly. I told her I was a writer.
“So am I,” she answered.
Rather than talk about her work, she began talking about her daughter, who is also a writer.
“I’m so lucky–all my children and grandchildren are creative and artistic.”
It was obvious that her life was a garden of earthly delights and that she had raised many roses. When the auction began, she vanished, and I quickly viewed the art before returning to the two etchings. They were both sold.
As I was walking out, I bumped into Ellen. She was clutching the etchings.
“So, you bought them,” I said.
“Oh, yes, I had to have them.”
She left me with a beaming smile and a closing remark I often hear: “Welcome to Taos.”
I love hearing that so much I don’t want to stop saying, I just moved here. After the auction, we stopped in Marco’s Downtown Bistro, where we joined an improvisational party. It started when Marco introduced us to his friends, Pablo and Joan, who were visiting from Santa Fe.
The dim, glowing melon adobe walls of the bistro, Marco hugging everyone, Joan’s melodious, high-pitched laughter, Pablo telling jokes, Rudy laughing, and then Philip arriving to tell stories crossed over from strangers in a bistro to a fast-rolling film. The conversation and laughter surfed breathlessly from one person to another.
Joan remarked, “My fifteen minutes. This is the best for me. The first time you meet someone, you’re both talking without effort. It’s so perfect.”
We closed the bistro past midnight. Marco had gone home. Joan decided to stay at a friend’s house. Philip agreed to drive to Santa Fe the next day, and we took Tylenol before bed.
Not every night out in Taos is like Joan’s fifteen minutes, but chances are you will have something to write home about. The beginning of Gallery LouLou Taos, NM
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
“I respond to intensity, but I also like reflection to follow action, for then understanding is born, and understanding prepares me for the next act.”
JANUARY
SNOW, ARTIC BLAST, ICE, FREEZING. Maelstrom of inconveniences toppling down in every nook and cranny of body, home, and outdoors. I wore a long-sleeved liner, wool sweater dress, rabbit poncho, and over that, a wool wrap, laptop mittens, sherpa leggings, wool socks, and boots. Mornings, eight degrees, afternoons eighteen, and the absence of sunlight grids my spirit. Repetitive lessons in endurance, tolerance, and acceptance. The outer world stenches corruption, propaganda, cruelty, violence, and haranguing reporters. The election year dominates the bunkum reporting.
It’s been almost a month since I texted or called Dodger. Somedays, I enter the memories, a reel of episodes on our cross-country road trips, hiking barren, narrow, unclaimed paths in Baja, mountains and canyons in New Mexico, and lakes and forests in upstate New York. They appear to be aberrations of myself; I am unrecognizable as he is, too.
FEBRUARY
MATURITY has caught up with me, and I am viscerally aware of this pendulum as replacing the nonacceptance of my lifestyle and future to hardened acceptance, which is a relief. I used to be full of follies, gaiety, and impulse; inner choreography is now critical thinking, studied decisions, and a spoonful of distrust. Instead of unleashing all that I think and feel with strangers, the narrative is split between inching closer to listening rather than personal tete e tet. Once a week, I go outing to the social club, where I find conversant strangers,couples, singles, divorces,and a variety of ages, and yet they all have a commonality that I don’t, they seem genuinely satisfied with their lives, one comment this, after asking the bartender how are you, he smiled, slapped the polished wooden bar with both hands and replied, I couldn’t be happier. Then he opened his phone and showed me a photo of a baby boy. His expression soared through my senses, and I adulated with compliments. Another evening, I opened a conversation with a couple next to me, and for the next hour, I learned of their life; children, travel, cruises, especially, ” Oh, you’ve never been on one? You must go, you’re so perfect for a cruise.
” I’m uncomfortable with more than twenty people.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.” Wendy was really fit to her name; she wiggled in her seat, her hands never at rest, and her thoughts poured like raindrops. Her husband, Christian, nodded a lot, and when he tried to speak, she ran right over him. A few times, he rolled his eyes at me. They’d been married thirty-five years, looked to be in their early fifties, and semi-retired. I left feeling love, had tipped our kinship, a surprising need to leap from trivialities to more substance.
After weeks of metallic gray, the sun broke through, decorating Greta’s room. She is recovering on her bed, floating in Jazz instrumental music, remote in hand and undecided about what to watch. Last night, she socialized at her two taverns’, chatting with Weeds, a man with pockets full, which he offered Greta. For the next thirty minutes, he unplugged a breathless dialogue without inviting Greta, and she knew he was so lit up that he was unflustered when Greta said, ‘ Maybe take a break and eat your food.’ He continued to disentangle his weekly activities, what he thought about the waitress, some local gossip about the bartender who had been fired, where he grew up, and his wife’s battle with lung cancer. ‘ I am so sorry for you both.’ He thanked her and then sealed his tête-à-tête as he ate. Greta took this moment to bid farewell and crossed to the other tavern for crab fritters. The bar was uncluttered, and she sank into the stillness. Her mood flicked into an irritableness, a discourse with the state of her life. The resurgence of the week’s disputes, mishaps, and the approaching day she would be moving, and still directionless. It wasn’t until she was home, swathed in five blankets that she overcame the anxiety until she couldn’t find her phone. She searched all the prominent places, the car, kitchen, entry, and bedroom. ‘ ‘Oh, for the love of God, I left it at the tavern. How humiliating. Maybe I’ll find it in the morning.’ Over the last few days, she has practiced positivity, rearranging her thoughts like a chess board; instead of choosing fear and remorse, she repeated every morning, I’ve come this far; what could be worse than the last five years.
This a refreshing, wonderful story in the fact that I got to see the unfolding of Allen Smiley and Ben Siegel’s story through the eyes of Allen Smiley’s daughter. I got to see the point of view of someone who personally knew Allen Smiley, the other side of him: the family man and her reactions to discovering her father’s past, secrets, and how people viewed her father and the Mafia. To my delight, the author also included journals and files relating to the criminal speculations of Ben Siegel’s murder which helped shape the book’s framework. I felt like a detective myself as I read through the story and found out more and more about her father’s other life.
Excerpt from Robert Rockaway’s book. “BUT HE WAS GOOD TO HIS MOTHER. ”
Another Haganah emissary, Reuvin Dafni, who came to the United States in 1946 to raise money for the Haganah, also met with some well-known Jewish gangsters. Dafni had been born in Croatia in 1913. He immigrated to Palestine in 1936 where he became one of the founders of Kibbutz Ein Gev. In 1940, he joined the Jewish Brigade of the British army. In 1944, he parachuted with other paratroopers behind enemy lines into Yugoslavia and joined the partisans. After the war, he returned to his kibbutz. He did not stay there long. In 1946, the Haganah sent him to the United States to raise funds.
A few months later, the Haganah sent Dafni to Los Angeles. One day, he received an intriguing phone call from a man who identified himself as “Smiley” and requested a meeting. When they met, Smiley asked Dafni to “Tell me what you’re doing. My boss is interested.” Smiley’s boss turned out to be Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. Smiley was Allen Smiley, Siegel’s right-hand man.
Smiley arranged a meeting between Siegel and Dafni at the LaRue restaurant. At the appointed time, Smiley and Dafni went into an empty room at the rear of the restaurant. After a few moments, Smiley left, leaving Dafni alone. Soon two tough-looking goons entered and searched the room. When they were satisfied it was safe, they left.
Shortly thereafter, Siegel came in. He sat opposite Dafni and asked him to tell why he was in Los Angeles. As Dafni relates, “I told him my story, how the Haganah was raising money to buy weapons with which to fight. When I finished, Siegel asked, ‘You mean to tell me Jews are fighting?’ Yes, I replied. Then Siegel, who was sitting across the table, leaned forward till his nose was almost touching mine. ‘You mean fighting, as in killing?’ Yes, I answered. Siegel leaned back, looked at me for a moment and said, ‘OK, I’m with you.’ ”
“From then on,” recalled Dafni, “Every week I got a phone call to go to the restaurant. And every week I received a suitcase filled with $5 and $10 bills. The payments continued till I left Los Angeles.” Dafni estimates that Siegel gave him a total of $50,000.
My memoir, published in 2017, Cradle of Crime-A Daughter’s Tribute is old news to me. Not to Charlie. I met him as he was renovating a house across the street. I didn’t introduce myself as Luellen Smiley, just Luellen. I asked if he would take a look at myhouse for an estimate on painting. He was sweet, a mountain man with a long white beard and hunting boots. Last week, he texted me,” I read your book, my friend and I exchanged Goodreads suggestions, and I told him to read your book.” How did he connect me to my book? I didn’t ask, and now it piques my interest. I’d walk across the street and ask him, his truck is there, so is the ice, and I don’t feel like skating and falling on my butt.
Winter in upstate New York to a gal from Los Angeles is likened to living in the North Pole. Going on five years, my last, I’m not resentful and scouring, but I am not acclimated. Indoors I dress in sherpa from head to toe and wear those finger mittens. Today it is full-throttle rain showers. The street is vacated of traffic and the public, it’s a good day to work on my next book. On my desk area few writing books, the favorites: Henry Miller on Writing, The Diaries of Anais Nin, and Albert Camus’s The Stranger. I haven’t bought a current book in years, the last one was Sam Shepard, The One Inside. I like Miller’s passage: ” The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds.: he takes the path in order eventually to become that path himself.”
Aging in my seventies delivered opening windows to restoring, rearranging, and repairing my persona, personally and in public. If you’ve read any of my essays, then you know explicit is the vortex that moves my thread. Restoring the brick-and-mortar of truth is at the forefront; the next layer is a confession of what I cannot speak in person to anyone, even my closest pals. The third is abstaining from too swift a pen; I’m always in a hurry: I prepare food quickly, walk as if I’m late for an engagement, and wash dishes with perfunctory interest. Everything when I think about it. I know why that is, my father. His shadow was always behind me as I went about myteenage activities at home, so I rushed to get out.
Last week, I stopped taking the powerful Lorzapam medication for neurotic anxiety. My heart raced when I opened an email from my attorney, when a stranger knocked at the door, or when I entered a public place alone. A new sideways rain shower just filled the window pane above my desk. Here is the fourth restorative: get outdoors! I don’t walk in snow or ice, but good old water rain, which I call God’s tears, is one of my favorite nature adventures.
Admittedly, my writing has granulated since moving here. It is tiny in thought and not always tied up neatly. My persona in public needs to be side by side with wine in a dining setting. What I contribute must be joyous and humorous because one of my favorite human activities is to evoke laughter and smiles. I broke away from my taverns and abstained from alcohol for a week. In the second week, visceral and bodily alarms have gone off. I’m lucid, motivated, andeven decisive.
From Anais Nin Diaries 1939-1944.
“I respond to intensity, but I also like reflection to follow action, for then understanding is born, and understanding prepares me for the next act.”
In the mood for pasta tonight, a few hits of green chili to flavor fest the marina, shrimp, garlic, and heaps of asiago cheese, yes sounds good. One step into the kitchen, and there on the electric stove burner is a mouse … I screamed, did you hear me? Then I stomped my feet and it lowered back into the passageway.
” I need emergency treatment, you won’t believe what I just saw,” The receptionist at Pest Control, replied, it sounded like she may be smiling.
” What?”
” A mouse found his way up to the stovetop grill, I mean not all the way, half his body was visible! ” She chuckled, for a full minute.
” I’m more afraid of mice than bears, foxes, or anything. I know it sounds irrational but I didn’t grow up here. “
” Well, let’s get you scheduled… let’s see now, we can get there on Thursday next week.”
” I cannot go in the kitchen..”
” Gee, I am sorry. I noticed that we were there in March of this year.”
“Yes, nine-hundred dollars here! You won’t charge me for this next visit.”
” Well, let me see what I can do.”
Enter, Gary, with a toolbox, and a howdy doody kind of introduction. He appeared as interested in ridding mice as I do shoveling snow. He’s going to retire soon, he says as he pokes around the kitchen, points to the openings, talks some more about retiring, and applies a bit of killer foam behind the stove.
He sets a few traps in the basement as I watch and snap photos.
” Are there any dead ones in the traps from last time?”
” Sure, I see two.”
“Okay, I’ll be upstairs.”
I covered all the stovetop grills with pot tops, ordered disinfectant, and covered every counter with paper towels. I went out to dinner for the next week, feeding on grilled sandwiches and soup. More sightings and drips of mouse visits provoked a second call to Family Pest. They sent out another treatment expert. Gary shuffled in, forty years younger than the previous technician.
My friend JoMarie who is Martha Stewart without a TV show told me to place pine cones dressed with cinnamon. So I listened.
” Mice are difficult, they slip through a fingernail-wide opening.”
“Well, then let’s foam up all those fingernails.”
” I’ll set some traps downstairs. I will move the stove out and see if there is an opening.”
He pulled it out, and alas, a five-by-five opening into the basement.
“ I have to have this blocked off right?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea, we don’t do that.”
” I figured.”
The next call went to a carpenter, he showed up and hammered in sheetrock as he talked about his six kids. He is twenty-four, I tried to do the math, maybe it’s a sympathy card. He agreed to take care of five more repairs in the house and charged me modestly.
A week later after three canceled appointments I crossed his name off the list and explored more carpenters on the web. This will be the seventh I called. Paul showed up, speaking amicably, obliging, harp-like voice and, ready to work. That was two weeks ago, he said he had a bad cold. I’ve read about Lazy Girl Jobs, but carpenters and handymen? Half the population in my village are in the trades so I’m miffed. Utube is not going to teach me how to drywall ceilings, replace a window, box in a pipe, or bring down heavy antique furniture from the attic down thirty stairs without falling down, and most likely on a mouse.
I’m an elf who spends her days writing, translating legal documents, and fussing over the unfixed. I’d rather be monitoring sunshine, waves, surfers, and seagulls… until then, home away from home are adventures in livingness. DEL MAR, CA.
Sunlight seeps through the glass window and tickles the silk flowers, autumn leaves left over from the last street clean-up, lay flat and lifeless.
The street is silent this weekend, the neighbors with three high-pitched voluminous barking dogs are gone, and I notice my shoulders softened from the daily dose of their irritation. The neighbors are tucked indoors, avoiding the freezing atmospheric clutch of winter. In the village, it is Shop Local weekend so I took a walk and stopped at one of the gift shops. A mirage of unrelated items from chocolate bars to errings, tai die dresses, and scented candles crusaded side by side. The owner repeated her lines, ‘ I represent eighty-one New York artists so if you have any questions, no question is refused.’ Feeling brave I asked, What is the meaning of life?’ The result was not what I expected, she did not respond, and the other shoppers, maybe two chuckled. Time to move on.
Rarely do I run into anyone I know, my circle here is a half-circle of acquaintances. The next stop is the Social Club where my curious humor is appreciated.
” Jackie! She just started a few weeks ago. At first interaction, this twenty-something woman avoided conversation, not even a smile. After a few sips of a Manhattan, I pulled out my mini perfume sample.
” Do you like this?” she sniffed, I watched.
” Oh, I love this, What kind?“
” Tom Ford Noir.”
“I Love Tom Ford, he’s so expensive.“
That’s why I buy the body spray, sixteen ounces, forty dollars. I’d rather turn the heat down than go without perfume.”
At that moment, we leaped into gal pals. The Social Club serves up exotic cocktails, irresistible tacos, and an assortment of soups and salads, my kind of table setting. Horace the Bar Manager wears a beret and is always somewhat distracted by his list of duties. He moves behind a narrow back bar pathway as if he is power walking, and always greets me with a genuine ‘How are you LouLou!’.
I meet a cluster of female bar-friendly women, who invite me into their festive fiasco of celebration for one reason or another. We may never see each other again, but the moments count. Sometimes we exchange emails or phone numbers. The adverse effects of alcohol are sometimes diminished for undiluted expression.
I’m learning to understand upstate New Yorkers, their resilience to extreme climate, limited source of funds, pragmatic decisions, family comes first foundation, and quizzical curiosity when they learn I moved from San Diego to purchase a Victorian rental property in Ballston Spa, ‘ Why did you do that?’ I answered, ‘ I fell in love with the quaintness and the house.’ Still visibly unconvinced, I wonder if they think I’m in hiding or avoiding some criminal offense. I’ve not met one person from San Diego, Los Angeles, or Santa Fe, NM in three years. Maybe if I dressed in Pendleton or Northface, I wouldn’t stand out.
On another night, in desperate craving for French Fries, I stopped at Henry’s Pub. The man next to me opened the conversation,
“You’re not from here are you?”
” What gave me away?”
” The way you dress, it’s a nice jacket.”
” I just wear what’s in the closet, urban clothes I suppose.”
” That’s cool. Where are you from?”
” Los Angeles.“
” I’ve never been there, I’m planning a trip to Hawaii, my first time.” He outlined a history of why now, breaking up with his girlfriend, and then he jump-started into a conversation about needing a haircut. This went on for some time, although he was almost shaved. Then he went onto his beard. I listened attentively, imitating interest because he needed to talk, and I knew that feeling so well. Sometimes conversation is not what we need but what the other person needs.
Thanksgiving seeps into a day of light and dark, like a trajectory of blissful silence transitioning to watching the Macy’s Parade, then dancing around my bedroom to old-school hip-hop. Internally feeling more adept than last year, the solitude and absence of friends didn’t snake rattle me, it was more like a day of moving effortlessly between desires without contemplation or sorrow. As the year ends, the comparison of achievements and digressions seemed to evoke a visceral epiphany. I’ve always preferred less chaos and crowds to intimate gatherings, and being alone. Looking in the internal mirror, the reflection released a liberation of abasement, it is who I am, and if refusal of this characteristic triumphs, I will never feel self-affirmation.
Without that, life is an interior war.
I snapped this off a film, I cannot recall which one.
The sky is shy today, she wants rain and snow but she hesitates, as the climate is over thirty. But outdoors isn’t of concern these last sixty days. I never felt more Jewish than now, a reclamation of my upbringing, that I was too rebellious to take seriously, now it is a cancerous disease, antisemitism.I asked my friend who grew up in Istanbul in a surrounding of Jewish Armenians. Why do people hate Jews?.
” They are jealous, most Jewish people are educated, and learn at a young age to develop ambition, to make a better life.”
” That’s it? Jealousy?”
” I think so.”
Armen has been the best believer for me in twenty years. If I didn’t have her confidence, I’d have flattened over the last five years. Everyone needs a friend like that, she presses my buttons, sometimes I say stop, then she says I’m sorry, and we go on.
My first experience with Anti-Semitism was at twenty years old. I was working for a Bank in Beverly Hills in the loan department. One day my supervisor gathered us around and told a joke. I cannot remember it exactly, I do remember that he compared Pizza in the oven to Jews in the Holocaust gas chambers. I told my father. He ordered me to call the President of Gibraltar S & L and repeat the comment. The president was Jewish. I did so. I was assigned a new supervisor.
Under Jewish law, a child is not recognized if the mother is not Jewish. That’s my case, my mother was Catholic and my father was Jewish. When they married in 1949, my father insisted that he raise their children Jewish, he was raised in an Orthodox family, binding him to that history and culture. My mother agreed, she had been excommunicated from her Church becasue she married a Jewish man. Interpersonal punisment exist because of religious differences.
My youngest memory of Jewish education was our Friday night Shabbot diners, with my Mother’s participation, Saturday morning I was dressed up and my father took us to Sinai Temple in Westwood. Twice a week I attened Hebrew school, and learned as best I could to speak and read Hebrew. On Jewish Holidays, my father orchestrated elaborate dedication to Hanukah, Rosh Hashana, Yum Kippur and Passover. These rituals were not nuances, or obligatory gestures, my father was passionate about his faith, and the teachings of the Torah.
After his passing, I did not join a temple, or practice the everday prayers, except on the High Holidays. I did this on my own as my partner was not Jewish. This year on Yum Kippur I joined the New York Synagogue virtual service.
On October 7th, all of what my father had passed on to me about Israel and Jewish morality, exploded. I’ have never felt so Jewish in my life. I was reminded of a day in Junior High when a classmate scornfully said to me,” You are not Jewish because your mother was not! “
When I told my father, he said, ‘ I don’t care if you are a quarter, a half or a whole, you’re Jewish, and don’t forget that.’
Several days after watching the videos of the beheadings, rapes, stabbing and shots, I was sitting in my sunroom, and heard the children next door; screeching, shouting, and crying. As a woman who did not have children, the raucous always bothered me, not today. I loved to hear the children, safe, outdoors, and being as they should, our pleasuure.
VULNERABLE…. weakness and emotionally exposed, failure. Otherwise the moment of courage to rise and understand our fragility without self-degrading,. Excerpt from Rabbi at Temple Ebet Emeth.
Living in Del Mar from 1982 – 1996 enriched my spirit, health, and distance running. Even though I’ve heard, you can’t go back, I’m striving to break that fact.
As children, our waiting depends on how long it takes Mom and Dad to finish what they’re doing and pay attention to our needs. It takes hold of us, like a fever, and we resort to nudging them, whining, even sobbing, If we are made to wait longer than we expected. During the school year, I waited all semester for the summer. In Los Angeles that meant it was hot enough to go swimming in the ocean.
When I lived in Hollywood, I rode two buses, to get to Santa Monica. The second bus dropped me off on Ocean Avenue, above Santa Monica Beach. I ran down the ramp that connects to Pacific Coast Highway and headed north to Sorrento Beach. I jumped into the sand running to find the place where my schoolmates clustered: in a caravan of towels, beach chairs, radios, and brown bag lunches. I couldn’t just run to the ocean, I had to sit and talk and have something cold to drink, and then I made myself wait until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Then I ran down to the shore, and embraced the waves, tumbling inside their grasp until I lost my breath, and floated into abandonment.
After I moved to Santa Fe I stopped thinking about the ocean, I had to remove the memories from my thoughts, so I could continue to experience this spark of New Mexico. The dry sage ocean of pink soil, and radiant blue sky that pinches your eyes when you’re driving, the sunlight, the warmth of a desert night, and the white snow on pink adobe rooftops. It had postcard perfection, even with fallen leaves spread like trash everywhere, the trees almost naked, and the dead plants in the garden. I tried not to think of the ocean, the look of the sea from watery suntanned eyelids, or from the bluff at Del Mar, or the splashing of waves around my shoulders as I tumbled beneath the surface.
I waited, as I did as a teenager, for that time to come in the fall of 2010, so I could return to the sea. I stood at the water’s edge in Del Mar, it was like summer without all the kids screaming, barking dogs, volleyball and paddle board games, lifeguards thrashing the beach in their jeeps shouting, ‘no dogs off the leashes, no glassware, and no surfing today’. They were missing, and so were the parade of beach runners, and surfers. In fact, I was the only one swimming, on that first day at the beach. Before I went into the water, I reclined on a big black boulder and faced the sea, letting my eyes wander amongst the scenes of the beach on a Tuesday afternoon. In front of me was an older man with graying hair, in a beach chair reading. He must be retired, he looked perfected adapted to his spot about five feet from the shoreline. I thought about retirement, and how I still cannot come to grips with spending my days on park benches or in cafes watching younger men and women live. There was one swimmer, on a bogeyboard, he was far out, and floating along, and I wished I’d brought mine with me, but it was in Rudy’s van. The last time I used it was when I lived in Solana Beach in 1997. I also wished I had a new bathing suit, because the one I was wearing was too loose, and the neck straps were tied together in a knot so I could swim without losing my top. The sun baked my body, and I let it without abatement, without shading my limbs or wearing a hat, just enough sunscreen to keep the rays from trotting over my lily-white skin. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, the waiting suddenly felt so imperial, so much so that I began to think about waiting as an aphrodisiac or something like a good cocktail that you have to make last for hours, while you wait for that moment that makes you feel immortal, childlike, and emancipated.
I felt the beach flies, and the tang of salt water on my lips, and when the seagulls swarmed above the water’s surface, like so many beads of a necklace, I thought, that this is about the most beautiful day I could have, and it’s all because I WAITED. I didn’t give up on the ocean, or my place in it, or believing that I would have my day in the sand, under a faded denim blue sky, with cotton ball clouds floating above me. I baked until the sweat drenched my pours, and then I raised myself up and walked slowly to the edge of the water. The surf made tiny breaks not enough to shatter my body warmth and I felt the first sting of the water on my feet, and then my knees., I submerged and found that the best way to celebrate this day was to keep flopping backward on top of each wave as it crashed, and I did this for a dozen rounds, until I felt giddy, submissive, and dented with the surf. That waiting thing again, meant something that I should write about because all of us are waiting for the election, the economy to recover, wars to end, streets to be safe and our real estate to be worth something again. We are all waiting for this big change so we can feel secure and optimistic about the future. There is something useful about waiting, something predisposed, that gives us the support and substance we need, so when the waiting is over, and we are all flush with optimism again, it will feel like the first time. It will overwhelm us with power and joy, like the ocean.
My emotional tail is wagging; curled up in my desk chair. I feel almost as if I was born in this chair. It’s cushioned me through a cyclone of adventures in livingness.
This piece of writing was handwritten on a tablet back in late January. I’ve made some minor additions and deletions. My control over my writing is identical to my control over how I live. Acting on impulse, expanding the mundane into a musical, feasting on all the emotions, and fabricating thorny Walter Mitty encounters. I don’t even think of applying proven methods; I make up new ones.
This plateau of solitude and especially with yourself; with all your flaws. Integrity is more critical; be proud not just for yourself, but because someone out there needs you. Sometimes, solitude feels like a draft, and no matter how many sweaters I put on, the seclusion tugs at my bones. There are not a lot of senior soloists that reside in my village, the majority are family mothers, fathers, and grandparent saints.
If I am drawn into a canvas of what seems my destiny, I draw the opposite silhouette. I am the light against the dark. The green light in my head reminds me that I have some passion for almost everything that God and man created. I just can’t decide which passion to follow. Should I do a museum, gallery, lecture, cruz the country roads, go to a concert, dance at a club, engage strangers in conversation, watch old movies, or read more of the stacks of books on my bedside table. Should I interview the straggly teenagers in the park or hit up the high rollers? Should I write, submit or edit: clean the laundry room, make a fancy dinner, iron my clothes or clean the refrigerator. Living unstructured is a discipline that threads easily some days, and when it doesn’t, I have to control my passion for daydreaming.
Portrait of Martha Graham and Bertram Ross (1961 June 27) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
THIS WEEK LANDS ON poets, writers, musicians, photographers, directors, visual artists, composers, choreographers, actors and the untitled and unrecognized that squeeze in between. Kipling, Salinger ( my all-time favorite) The Rolling Stones, Mozart, Chopin, Opera, Salsa, Beatles, Stieglitz, Nicholas Ray, Kandinsky, Johnny Mercer, Martha Graham Balanchine, and James Dean. I left out about seventy-five of my favorites.
Composition VI (1913) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)They were all lovers before they were artists.
OUR ARTISTS IN HEART travel mentally and physically through life with all the windows open; awaiting a sight, sound, or feeling that draws them to their art. The feelings are what count on our life ledger. I have to thank Billy, my first love at fifteen. He was an artist of music, Gothic charcoal sketches, comic humor, and life. He opened my window to the arts.
That life ledger is always in the red because an appetite of feelings, and emotions eventually depreciates the spirit. Some of us rise above, and the flow of printed green paper comforts that spirit, but emotions continue to dominate all the success.
I have to write this in short sequence, as I am moving between a rigid reckoning of a forever ending TO ONE MY LOVES.
Taos, NM 2006. We opened ( Rudy) our first Photography Gallery, I noticed a postcard at the shop next door, it was Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper from a clip of Easy Rider. I asked for his phone number, and we met.
Dick was elated when I asked him to show me his works, he was not represented in any gallery. Once I opened his portfolio, it was decided I would exhibit him. He is the essence of humility, gratefulness, and dedication. He also has a harmonious way of speaking and…
“What’s it like knowing your father is a gangster? Did you know when you were a teenager? Did you meet Bugsy Siegel? Did your father kill anyone? You know the Mafia kill people.”
Childhood 1955-1961
I called him Daddy. His friends called him Al, or Smiley, the Department of Justice tagged him “armed and dangerous” and his mother named him Aaron. He was born January 10, 1907, in Kiev Russia, one of three sons born to Ann and Hymen Smehoff
He had salty sea blue eyes blurred by all the storms he’d seen. When I say something funny, his eyes crystallize and flatten like glass. Smoothing out the bad memories. He’s always a different color. Dressed in coordinates matched perfectly as nature. My small child’s eyes rest cheerfully on his silk ties, a collage of jewel tones. The silver and blue tie matches the shirt underneath. The feel of his fabric is soft like blankets. He is very interesting to look at when I am a child and open to all this detail.
I cling to his neck in the back seat of his long Cadillac. My mother doesn’t ride with us during the day. She comes along if we are dressed up and going out to dinner. I enjoy the car rides most. He sings songs and his hand flutters about, catching me by surprise behind the ears, and I shriek. Daddy’s laughter echoes inside my ears.
We visit friends in Hollywood who own delicatessens, restaurants, and clothing stores. We go to Paramount Studios and I ride around on a pony or get kissed by cowboys in a Western scene. We go to Beverly Park almost every day to ride the ponies. I am only two years old when Daddy slings me over this big stinky pony, and insists that I go around the ring one more time so he can watch. I meet Hoppalong Cassidy and we visit his booth at Pacific Ocean Park. When my father was a film producer he worked with Hoppalong on a western film.
Our home in Bel Air was where I lived before I knew how fortunate we were. My room was at the end of a long hallway, and I was afraid to leave the room when it was dark because it seemed such a long distance to my parents. The wallpaper danced around my eyes, a collage of flowers illuminated the black background, and I was wrapped in a blue satin comforter. My room was cluttered with dolls. As a young child, I preferred staying in my room and imagining characters for my dolls.
My father showed us, and really paraded us around as if we were exceptionally talented. I never understood why these people fussed over me. I sort of distrusted them, before I understood what that meant. There were exceptions, the ones I knew to be real family people earned my affection. I dreaded the routine of being placed in front of a group of men and women who stared at me as I curtsied or mumbled “Hello.” George Raft came to all my birthday parties, Nick the Greek showed me card tricks and Swifty Morgan told stories all night. Damon Runyon characterized him in his stories as the “Lemon Drop Kid.” I was surrounded by men with FBI files and notorious reputations for being dangerous gangsters. Some of them had been arrested for murder. Others were old-time bootleggers from Cleveland and Detroit. I knew them as Uncle Lou, Doc, or Uncle Johnny. Years later I would discover they were Lou Rhody of the Cleveland Jewish Syndicate in Cleveland, Doc Stacher, the tough New Jersey underboss to Longy Zwillman, (the guy who discovered Jean Harlow in a speakeasyin New Jersey), and Johnny Rosselli, the king of Las Vegas in its heyday. I was enchanted by thesemen, they were family friends, and they never followed the rules.
This home was my father’s showplace. He bought the house in 1955, and that was a bad year for him. I was two years old.. That was the year that a number of his friends and associates died or were murdered. Like Little Willie Moretti from New Jersey, who was killed by rival gangs, and Tony Canero, who died at the blackjack table of the Stardust Hotel.
Willie had a problem keeping his mouth shut. Frank Costello, the leader of the syndicate group most closely associated withmy father, sent Willie out to California where he’d be safe from harm. Willie was unstable, taking bets on losing horses and talking to people he shouldn’t. Frank asked my father to keep an eye on Willie, to become a confidant. He was told to dress up as a Doctor and pay visits to Willie. My father obliged and Willie took a liking to my father. Willie suggested to Frank that the boys should build this doctor a hospital. Frank told the story to some of the other fellows and they must have had a good laugh. Frank had another idea, giving Allen the job of promoting Willie’s good friend, Frank Sinatra. My father declined the offer. Eventually, Willie returned to New York and was found dead stuffed in the trunk of his car. The second tragedy was the suicide of Louis Rothkopf, “Lou Rhody” they called him, or “Uncle Louie.” He was one of four bosses of the Jewish Cleveland syndicate, (the Mayfield Road Gang), and one of my father’s closest friends. I heard that Louie would cross to the other side of the street if he saw a guy that owed him money. He had a big heart. With his wife Blanche, the Rothkopf’s were respectable business owners in the Chagrin Falls area of Cleveland. When Senator Estes Kefauver launched a federal investigation on organized crime, he exposed and ruthlessly slandered Lou and his partners. Not just as bootleggers, and distillery owners, but murderous syndicate men with ties to the Italian Mafia. By this time, Lou and his partners were operating legitimate business enterprises all over Cleveland. Blanche commit suicide two years before Lou also took his own life. I have been told that my father brought Lou in to save the Desert Inn Hotel in Las Vegas, when the first owner,Wilbur Clark, went busted.
* * * * *
The house in Bel Air brings back the best memories of my childhood, but few visions remain. The front yard was a blanket of pink and white geraniums. They were tended to by our gardener, and though I wished to sit in their path, and smell their fragrance, I was told not to play in the geraniums. The flowers were my first contact with nature. It wasn’t enough to just look at them, I wanted to lay with them and watch their breathing.
Our house was perched at the top center of Thurston Circle, a sort of distant cousin to the discreet upper Bel Air locked behind black iron gates. There was no gate at our entrance, and the neighborhood homes were a mixture of two-story colonial and ranch style. The view of Los Angeles from the living room and my parent’s room was an electric and absorbing scene for a small child who hadn’t known anything beyond her house. At night lights glittered against a black sky, and I could sit by the window and dream of what the lights were all about. Entangled bougainvillea grew wildly behind our house. We picked figs and avocados from trees in the yard. There I learned my first lesson about family values. One day my father showed me a nest of small birds perched on a branch of a spruce tree. He pointed out the mother bird hovering over her babies in the nest, and then he drew my attention to the father bird perched on our television antenna. “You see, that’s what the father bird must do, is guard his little family, just like I do.” I asked a few questions, and he just kept telling me that it was so remarkable how animals take care of their families and I should watch them and learn something.
My parents gave me extravagant toys. I was about four when my father installed a roller coaster in our backyard. He sat me in the cart and I rode up and down the bumpy track, screeching with laughter. My mother was always there, watching from a distance. Daddy was the one that loads me up with surprises and Mommy was the one to feed me, clean me up, and tuck me in at night. I could tell her everything, she listened to me and watched over me. She doesn’t interfere with me when I am playing with my dolls.
With last names like Smiley and Funk, you know there’s bound to be something creative going on in the imaginations of this Ballston Spa duo. The couple, both natives of San Diego, Calif., purchased a house at 63 East High St. last May. Luellen Smiley and Rudy Funk have turned a once-ramshackle 1860’s structure, now known as The Follies House, into three furnished apartments oozing with zany charm. Smiley’s brochure touts the place as a “playful vacation residence designed to inspire.” On the wide front porch, a sign offers visitors “Free Records,” paying homage to one apartment’s main decorative inspiration: classic stage musicals. Called the Broadway suite, its walls are adorned with record covers, programs, ballet slippers and even a dance costume. There are dice on the end tables, a life-sized poster of Humphrey Bogart, colorful paper parasols and peacock feathers. For tenants who bring their own films, there’s a projector screen and, tucked into an alcove, a working Victrola. Vintage Broadway memorabilia is everywhere. Then there’s the nearly ceiling-height replica of a bass guitar. “This was actually a costume someone wore,” said Smiley, pointing out the head and arm holes. “These are the kinds of things we like, the really unusual andunheard of.” Growing up in California, Smiley aspired to be a dancer and maintained an interest in the arts.
THE FOLLIES HOUSE
In recent years, she became keen on the idea of renovating and decorating an older home, although the village of Ballston Spa was not first on her list. “When we first came here, I wanted to be in Saratoga, and when I drove through Ballston Spa I said, ‘I’d never want to live here,”‘ Smiley said. “But then we rented here, and I didn’t want to go back on the road. We loved this street. We think this village is really starting to happen.” The couple went to work feverishly last spring to ready the apartments in time for the track season. While not a bed and breakfast, the apartments are designed for temporary tenants — people new to the area or vacationers. Smiley’s off-season rates are $800 a month for the Broadway Suite and $700 for the Boomers Pad. The one-bedroom Boomers Pad is designed with vintage ’50s and ’60s furniture. Smiley said she and Funk combed area antique shops, including those in the village, for many of the offbeat pieces, including the vinyl records and oversized pink sofa. The house’s history mirrors the eclectic style the couple hasbrought to the home. “It was built by a man actually named Dr. Doolittle as a wedding present for his daughter,” Smiley said. “You can see the little touches everywhere. There are butterflies and sun rays carved into the woodworking and doorknobs. It’s a love house. It was built with love.” Smiley said she and Funk have combed files at Brookside History Center looking for old photographs of the house in order to decide what color to repaint the facade. “The exterior of the house is next on our list, and while we haven’t located any photographs, we’re thinking pastels,” Smiley said. “Inside, we used a lot of pistachio and pink.” While Funk commutes to and from California for business purposes, the pair weathered their first winter this year, relying on the kindness of neighbors for jobs like snow-blowing. “We’ve never seen winters like this,” Smiley said. “I’m from the other side of the world. But this is a very supportive community. That’s one of the things we love about the village.”
Smiley has immersed herself in the closely-knit community, joining the Ballston Spa Business & Professional Association, the local chamber of commerce, and helping promote an upcoming Art Walk. The Follies House recently was given a beautification award for significant improvements during the past year. In her brochure for potential tenants, Smiley points out area highlights including the Saratoga Performing Arts Center and destinations within the village, such as the museums, the glassworks studio, Art Ink., and the new gallery and loft spaces on Low Street. Smiley said she also recommends people take a stroll along East High Street, a historic district known for its Victorian homes. “I’ve seen little villages, big villages — but what I see here is the most beautiful village,” Smiley said. “The potential is here. There’s a sense of magic here and the transformation will happen. I’m certain of that.”
I am not afraid to write the truth, to stare and embrace the reflection. It appeared last night; a thought manifested in an abstract way; a torch of light, a rainbow, an open door that symbolized a guide to contentment, and peace of mind, it felt reachable if only I evaporated into the sensibility, allowing change, a complete transformation from this encampment of isolation and fear of making the wrong decision.
The embryo of thought. Sometimes it is negligible, as is life. I am the puzzle maker and every time I try to carve the right size square, I fall off the board and have more material to write about. The puzzle is so vast that it covers our lifetime and the pieces are the choices, and non-choices that fit into themes. My life, is like a melody, a Gershwin tune. As a dancer and prancer at heart, my feet are my hands, and my hands are my heart. Drizzling rain is relative to thoughts on a Saturday; a few thoughts for my book, assembling the bedroom fan, calling friends, a walk with my umbrella to live in rain, answering emails, and those hypnotic Film Noir Classics on Utube. When world news disables self-absorbency, it’s a relief, I hold hands with whatever keeps me alive.
When I was eight years old, our home burnt to the ground in the Bel Air, CA fire, and everything we owned fell to ash. Shortly after my mother moved us to an apartment in Brentwood, a mammoth carton arrived and was placed in the center of the living room. My mother cut it open and urged me to look inside. I sat cross-legged on the avocado green carpeting and discovered a heap of brand-new Bermuda shorts, matching tops, and dresses.
I quickly shed my worn trousers and stepped into a new outfit, dancing about as I zipped myself in. My mother watched, and echoed my childish yelps of elation.I learned they were from my Aunt Millicent and that she lived in New York, and I’d met her when I was a child.
Close to ten years later, my father called and ordered me to his apartment. He said that Millicent was coming over. I knew by now that Millicent was Benjamin Siegel’s daughter, and Ben was my father’s best friend. He was sitting on the same chintz covered sofa the night Ben was murdered and witnessed Ben’s eyes bleeding down his face.
When my father answered the door, I watched as they embraced. Millicent had tears in her eyes. She walked over to me, and took my hand. I looked into her swimming pool blue eyes and felt as if I was drowning. She sat on the edge of the sofa and lit a brown Sherman cigarette. I studied her frosted white nails, the way she crossed her legs at the ankles, her platinum blonde hair, and the way her bangs draped over one eye. What impressed me most was her voice; like a child’s whisper, her tone was delicate as a rose petal.
I spent the rest of that afternoon memorizing her behavior. She emanated composure and a reserve that distanced her from uninvited intrusion. Over the next few years, Millicent and I were joined through my father’s arrangements, but I was never alone with her. When he died in 1982, she was one of three friends at his memorial service, just as my dad was the only friend at Ben Siegel’s funeral.
As the years passed, and my tattered address books were replaced with new ones, I lost Millicent’s phone number. When I began researching my father’s life in organized crime in 1996, I gained an understanding of my father’s bond with Ben Siegel. I reconnected with several of Dad’s inner-circle, but Millicent was underground, and now I understood why.
Last year I received an email from Cynthia Duncan, Meyer Lansky’s step-granddaughter. She told me about the Las Vegas Mob Experience, a state-of-the-art museum in the Tropicana Hotel, that will take visitors into the personal histories of Las Vegas gangsters. Despite my apprehensions about the debasing and one-sided publicity that characteristically surrounds gangster history, I called the museum and was told, “Millicent would like to contact you.”
A month later, I was waiting for Millicent in the Mob Experience offices in Las Vegas. When she walked in, I stood to embrace her, and this time the tears were in my eyes.Millicent’s voice and regal posture was unchanged, “Our fathers were best friends, practically attached at the hip. Your Dad was at the house all the time. I’ll never forget when he met me at the train station to tell us about my father’s… death. Smiley was very good to us. My mother adored him, too.”
Mob Experience
March 27 2011
Photos By Denise Truscello
The Mob Experience Preview Center was like a family room to me, because some of the men featured had been my father’s lifelong friends and protectors. I stopped in front of the Ben Siegel display case and saw an object that was very familiar. My father had the identical ivory figurine of an Asian woman. I still have it. So much of their veiled history was exposed. Between these two men was a brotherly bond that transcended their passing, and was even evident in their shared taste in furnishings.
After I returned home, Millicent and I talked on the phone.
“Your father belongs in my Dad’s room. They’ll just have to make Mickey Cohen’s room smaller.”
“My father hated Mickey”, I said.
“So did mine! When are you coming back? I’ll kill you if you don’t become part of this”.
I dropped into random reflections; the adventures of Ben and my father, gleaned from books, newspapers, FBI surveillance files, films, documentaries, and conversations with people who knew them both. I dreamily visualized these two men, striding along the streets of Beverly Hills when it was a two-story brick village, without islands of garish lighted palm trees, paparazzi, and limousines. They might stop at Al Perry’s Beverly Hills Athletic Club for a steam and work-out, and then take a drive in Ben’s convertible to Santa Anita Race Track. At the track, they’d sit in the Turf Club, immersed in the perfume and red lipstick glamour that Lana Turner, Betty Grable, and Rita Hayworth epitomized. They, and my mother, became the characters I had to write about.
On balmy summer nights, Ben, and Al drove along Sunset Boulevard, stopped in for a few rounds at Ciro’s or the Mocambo, and then played cards at Dad’s apartment at the Sunset Plaza. George Raft was there, too, along with a funny little Runyonesque character by the name of Champ Segal, and Swifty Morgan, with a pocket size fortune of tricks and dice. The FBI were parked in a sedan across the street, watching. Maybe they had an informant planted in the building, like they did when I lived with my father at the Doheny Towers. I know Dad watched Ben’s back, not just because Ben moved so quickly, and in so many directions, but because he was studying him, like an actor studies his character, aspiring to absorb Ben’s magnetic mannerism.
Early the next morning, I opened the shutters of our Havana-hip suite at the Tropicana and looked out at the misty peppermint pink sunrise and flashing multimedia billboards. My eyes sank into the stimulation, like being thrown into a food processor of human temptation. If Ben had lived to build his Monaco-chic hotels and casinos, I’m sure he would have done it differently. He’d been to the French Riviera, and experienced European élan. More importantly, Ben was different, but not in the way you’ve been asked to believe by reporters and law enforcement. Ben was noble, and his violent temper, cost him his reputation. His loyalty to his partners, and his family was intact. What the press wrote about Ben was handed to them by Hoover, two-faced columnists, and informants. He was more than handsome, generous, and fearless; he was an icon, with the finesse for embellishing strangers with importance, facilitating dreams, and taking a fighting stand against Anti-Semitism.
Newspaper reporters from that era like Mark Hellinger and Damon Runyon knew how to write about Ben, and they are the sources I used to draw my own Ben Siegel portrait.It’s easier to read books than go out and interview the relatives, rabbis, and community where they lived.
My dad came into the life by way of a friendship with Ben. He wasn’t physically violent: he could holler loud and intimidate guys, but his real asset was that bullet-proof friendship.
As our jet roared upward, I crunched against a pocket-size window, and studied the paper-thin rows of glass and marble hotels of Las Vegas, the sprawling monopoly of gated communities, each one sandwiched between a slice of palm trees, sprawling to the base of the muddy mountains. Ben, Meyer, and a few others like Billy Wilkerson, Johnny Roselli, Moe Dalitz, and Allen Smiley, peeked beyond the dusty sand dunes, and in the mirage, they saw an oasis. The pioneers of Vegas were not committing any crimes when they financed the building of the first hotels. They were businessman carving out a legitimate future. More importantly, they were demonstrating to the Jewish community that it could be done. You could rattle respect like a Rockefeller or a Kennedy.
When I arrived home, an unfamiliar upright pride and surety about myself surfaced. It is ironic that what my father shielded from me is where I needed to be: among people who understand my family history, and accept it.
It’s been seventy-five years since Ben and Al sat by side, figuring out the next bet. Now, their possessions will share the same room. And from those collections, stories will emerge, and new information, and more questions, and this time their daughters will be there, in the open, to speak in reverence of Siegel and Smiley.
Everything in my path leads me to understanding the men that turned to crime so that they could sit in first class and order Dom Perignon. If my father left a ten-year career in film making with Cecil B DeMille to join Ben Siegel, then Ben’s story has yet to be written.
Today, I look at my father’s collection and see It tells the story of a remarkable life… the precious artifacts of a life onthe edge: photos that document an album from his unnamed sweetheart during his twenties; James Metcalf poems clipped from newspapers; wedding photos; Flamingo party photos; his phone book filled with names like H. L.Hunt, Eddie Cantor, and O.J. Simpson; heartfelt letters to Meyer Lansky and others; and FBI memos that describe my father as a pimp, a murderer, an extortionist and a Russian Jew.
Ironically, the journey to discover my father’s story ends in Las Vegas; for my dad, who was blacklisted from Vegas, that is poetic justice.
THANK YOU FOR READING. IF YOU LIKE THIS PLEASE LET ME KNOW.
Greta dressed in pink jeans, a pink striped polo shirt, and low-heeled pumps. As she opened the door she thought, and said out loud one step to go. She flipped down the top of her car to ride visible, a sort of rehearsal to adjust to the main street on a Saturday afternoon. Storm clouds churned and after checking the weather channel, rain coming in one hour, Greta closed the convertible and went back indoors. Not truly disappointed as she’d stayed up till three am watching the Shooter series on Netflix and woke at eight.
(I use the name Greta in my manuscript because of this, my father repeatedly scolded me when I said, I want to be alone, he replied, ‘Who do you think you are Greta Garbo?’)
Journal June 10th.
The street was quiet except for the barking dogs so I sat down to write, and let the paper stare back blankly. I switched over to Facebook and viewed my feed, the Rolling Stones, Italy Travel, Artnews, Creative Non-Fiction, Emily Luxton Travels, and Jazz photography. Voyeurism, the normalcy of our culture, to watch life from a screen, I’m guilty because I’m at heart a loner, a drifter that moves on the outskirts of socialization. When discourse and confrontation knock at my door, I go dormant to the world outside. My mask is not convincing, So, I bear up, like today, and take nature as my friend; a patch of blue, gray skies, the sun tea cup surprise, the birds and chipmunks on my lawn, and the occasional passersby who are living in their world. At seventy only two lines matter: I’m proud of you, and you could have done better. HONESTY.
The Beatles and the Maharishi 1967 –Philip Townsend
“The Beatles and Maharishi at the Meditation Centre, Abbotsbury Road, Kensington. After this meeting, they went to the Hilton Hotel, Park Lane, where Maharishi gave a lecture. These shots for Beatle purists were taken before they went to Wales or India. The shot of all the fabs, partners and road crew is interesting as it is one of the few with the whole lot in one snap.
The photographs are exclusive as I was the only photographer there. I had been asked by the holy man’s Public Relations agent to take them but they failed to pay, me therefore I own the copyrights.”
What I love is every Beatle has a distinctive expressionat the meeting. Note John contrasted with Paul.
Gallery Loulou 2008
Philip arrived from London late in the evening. We met him at La Posada Resort Hotel. He did not stop smiling and chuckling in spite of his lost luggage, and a twelve-hour flight. His photographs had arrived and were already placed when we invited him into the gallery. Again, a resonating joyous outburst, ” Oh, it’s lovely, marvelous, just marvelous.” He was tall, lanky, and at seventy-something majestically youthful. We spent hours together over the next week. He loved when I made him a cup of Tea, the bumpy New Mexico road trips we planned, and the dinners. The slightest bit of congeniality towards him was returned with a pat or a hug and kiss. Opening night was a sensational tribute to a prince of a man.
Direction is a choice; move back home, move near your children, move for a job, but in my case, I move because my act in Saratoga will come to a close. I’m like a blank space between two paragraphs; it sounds like freedom, no commitments other than being the best I can be. Starting over in a new location is about redesigning within.
I’m still a nomad, searching for adventuresinlivingness. As I lay my head down on my pillow, the interim is asking me to be peaceful, faithful, and confident. It’s about time!
Reminds me of when I went off to college, a liberating extension of those early days when belonging to things didn’t matter, life mattered. If you are single and without children, this is the knife that we must slice into a piece we accept, or no peace will lull us to sleep.
ON THE ROAD FROM SOMEWHERE TO SOMEWHERE, I CAN’T REMEMBER. MAYBE SANTA FE TO SAN DIEGO.
The list of projects stares at me; donating boxes of what I can do without, vacuuming, calling friends, grocery shopping because my frig looks too vacant, finishing the manicure I started yesterday, estimates on the cracked steps, and painting the front porch, well, it’s a short list because I live a short life. Not working on a specific project, other than managing my home, tenants, and repairs. It leaves me with more time than I have ever had, to think, process and write. This week’s Tik-Tok hearing enraptured my attention. I stopped my life to watch game changers change the game. The result will most likely ignite protests, appeals, and millions of Tiks! I write because my head is full of thoughts. I exert neutrality to ignore the number of readers that read it, share it, or like it. It’s not any easier than being the only one without a date on Valentine’s. Day. Why do we all crave an audience? Hmm, has social media collapsed our self-esteem, importance, and relevance? It is comical; hits, clicks, and shares mean we matter.
Academy of Loulou Awards. All of you that respond to my nuanced writings are awarded. A Star award for a few that push my cart.
Marc Romano, Historian, J’amie Rubio, author, and archivist, Antonio Mendoza for the best photographs of the Rolling Stones, Alison Martino for Vintage LA, Rare Jazz Photos for the best photographs of Jazz, Eric Dezenhall real friend and author, Cynthia Duncan, my consiglieri, Santa Fe Bulletin Board to bring back the memories, Scott Varley, the best real estate broker I ever met in 25 years, Las Vegas Mafia History… I’ll think of more later. Warren and Annette Hull, filmmakers, Danielle Haynes, an angelic warrior who joined my battle, William Winant, a high schoolmate and acclaimed musician who remembers me, Larry Henry, torch-carrier of Mafia history and Greg Price, my UK 911 call, along with Gloria Devan, Tere Tereba and Armen Ozaynan who settles me down. Friends, when you are single, are food for the soul.
My direction is following Lawrence Durrell, “Spirit of the Place,” and living where I would never expect to live. I wish I could control my impractical, impulsive, and annoying spirit of adventure. I think about architecture, Jewish deli’s, Italian restaurants, at least five movie theaters built in the 1930s, and neighborhoods of unfamiliar lighting, expressions, and conversations. Gambling on yourself is how much you can adapt, change, influence, and accept the days of your life.
In my syndicate, there must be a dozen pals with the same unsolved equation. Is it age that blocks me and maybe you from relocation, or is it the trauma and stress? What liberation to just pack a suitcase and board a plane like in the movies. Separation from the familiar..
In the fall of 1993, I worked for a king-sized jerk in his commercial real estate office. Dirksen used every opportunity to remind me that I was not as successful as he was.
I was the only female in an office of twelve better-suited men. My Chanel 5 was used sparingly and, I dressed in navy-blue two-piece suits, low-heeled pumps, a leather briefcase slung over my shoulder, and an HP calculator that I refused to master. I was a shrimp swimming with the sharks. On hot blue sky days, I drove around San Diego searching for new listings, meeting prospects and showing office space. One eye was always drifting; scanning the museums, galleries, theaters, and artist hang-outs. The lyrics from EnVogue’s latest release became a sort of mantra to inhale each morning as I dressed for work. I had just turned forty, and Free yourmind and the rest will follow,” spoke to me. I bought the CD and played it continuously, a sort of morning prayer. I tuned out the world I’d been accustomed to and insulated myself in my North Park San Diego bungalow.
THE JAMMERS
I infused my senses with music and dance. During the hottest of summer days, I imploded myself with music videos, magazines, and dancing. I was seated cross-legged on the worn carpeting, watching MTV and flipping through magazines. Hip-Hop was the most exhilarating dance choreography rising to the surface. I watched the music videos over and over. When I searched the yellow pages for dance classes; I found only one offering hip-Hop. Turning forty, without technical training since I was a teen in jazz class, was all against me, but with me was my passion for rearranging myself, and getting back to the art of dance.
Now I needed to find some dancers. The concept was to integrate jazz funk, hip-hop, and Afro-Cuban dance into a collage of classes and performances. Piper Jo was the first dancer to join. He came at me with everything he had; talent, faith, intelligence, and belief in this crazy white chick who wanted to hip-hop. Piper played Miles Davis, emulated jazz-funk, and moved like Michael Jackson. He was twenty years old and this was his first teaching job. When I asked him who taught him to dance he answered; ‘Michael Jackson and James Brown. I danced in my living room every day. My mother couldn’t get me out of the house. God blessed me with this gift, and I want to share it. So, if you put me in your dance troupe I guarantee, you won’t be sorry, no you won’t.’
The second dancer, “Master Jam,” was a former break-dancer and studied classical dance. Vince was the coolest; he sat back and waited for his chance, unhurried, and relaxed, but when the music came on, he flipped everyone out. He was thirty. Both of them belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, group. At our first audition, Piper said, ‘How do you expect to pick dancers if you don’t know what to look for? I swear Lue, you are crazy. But don’t worry, I’ll show you, and don’t be picking every guy out there ’cause he can Hip-Hop, there’s nothing to that. We want dancers with classical training.’ He was right, I wanted to select half of the thirty-some dancers that auditioned. They came dressed in street clothes; wearing scarves and bandannas, and I watched them leap, kick, split, and turn inside out for the job. It was at that audition that I knew I was in the right spot. I added Monique, a startling beauty with Afro-Cuban dance training, and a roster of dancers that came for a while and then moved on. For the first few months, the Jammers taught under a leaky roof, on a tiled floor, without any heat. Piper rode a bus, from the other side of town to get to the building. Vince drove an hour each way to teach one class at night. The first few months showed up for Vince’s Hip-Hop class. But he kept coming back every week. When I apologized, he said, ‘That’s okay Lue, we get it going on, don’t worry about it. They show up soon, I’m sure.’ Master Jam, Moniique, me,, and Piper…
They did show up, and we moved into a suitable Health Club in downtown San Diego. The classes filled up with students, dancers, and working women looking for a new challenge. They came from all different races; Asian, White, Hispanic, and Black. I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. They laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them. We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took pictures of us and featured us in the magazine. People began to think I knew what I was doing. The Jammers thought I could take them places. I pictured them on the front page of Variety, the problem was I was too early.
San Diego was still into rave and rock and roll. The people I was calling for gigs didn’t know Hip-Hop yet. That was too bad because we were having the greatest experience of our life. When I ran out of money, I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent-free and had weekends and evenings for Jammers. After a time of observing their self-expression, I asked myself, where is mine? I still refused to get on stage, Masteer Jam used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group.
After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his career, he had showmanship in the way he held his hands. Vince took over the troupe and added twelve more dancers. Monique became a stage actress. These three were the sparklers in my life, like that star you think you’ll never hold.
When I left the Jammers, I was a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit, and faith into my soul. I mean there are things a business career will never offer; you have to go into the arts for this kind of awakening.
Saturday, a blurry sky like fogged glasses, the temperature down to thirty, and all the counters cloroxed after a Pest control visit for a mouse in the kitchen OF my one hundred and thirty -five- year old home. Unabashed OCD about cleanliness; picture me with a broom, paper towels and, a bottle of Windex or bleach every other day. I am now tiptoeing into the kitchen in anticipation of a mouse and cooking with the vent on so they don’t smell the food. The servicer, Big Bill, like a door to a cathedral gave me all the tips on how to warn them off till they do the exclusions next week.
How I have changed, planning to watch the Daytona 500 tomorrow? Never have done that in my life. One news interview with a race car driver persuaded my senses to watch, they are athletes, of a kind, racing a car at over a TWO-hundred mile an hour next to twenty-something other competitors. I have not watched because of the accidents and deaths, not unlike horseraces, the end is not always celebratory, but I will watch because it’s a new experience.
This pop-up thought came to me; some people follow the direction of security and stability, I chose the direction of reinvention experience like, I knew more than what has been proven over centuries; family, career consistency, saving for retirement, and moderation- which I never had. I also decided I am not going to wring my nerves into revulsion over where will I move? Not allowed to muse on that; believe, have faith, and just concentrate on each day.
Curiosity doesn’t always kill the cat, sometimes it brings confidence. I asked my British friend, ‘is it common for people to lose their curiosity, passion, and desires as they age?’ He responded, LOL, yes. That’s where we are different, he has certainty, whereas I don’t. Being single and living alone affords you freedom of thought, and so it was this weekend, while enveloped indoors to avoid the chilling grip of winter, my thoughts were in a heated argument.
Go to Saratoga and visit the Casino Museum, have a croissant or lobster roll, roam the gallery district, window shop, and get out of this house now.
It’s too cold to walk, I’ve been to the museum, I don’t feel like dining alone again, and the galleries I’ve been to are arts and crafts.
That’s not the reason, is it?
No, I’m not curious.
Just four years ago, I’d pop out of my Santa Fe home and walk up to Canyon Road Friday Night. All the galleries are open and serve appetizers, some live music, some street vendors, and some costumed characters and it was a party. I didn’t mind eating alone because I knew the restaurant owners, bartenders,and regular guests. Sedation of spirit came in the last six months. The first year coming back to my home after a six-year absence was invigorating and new, and unexpectedly in need of serious maintenance and lease management.
In front of El Farol, Canyon Road on a stranger’s beauty mobile. Twice a week for live rockin music and dancing. One of my favorite dance floors because the stage is three feet away.
The second year was getting about town and exploring and then Covid so it was an incomplete year. The third year was a wicked winter and when spring came, the ebullient appreciation of the sun and flowers renewed, and my curiosity temperature was down but not dormant. Circumstances too complicated and gruesome to write, force me to stay here. I’m one of the millions, that live where they don’t choose to live anymore. When the day comes, the freedom to relocate is my curiosity. My next nest is undetermined. My friends, ask me, ‘where are you going to move to?’ This comes up in every third or fourth conversation. And the answer is the same, ‘when I know I’ll tell you.’
Upstate on a clear day.
Poetic justice for a life-long wanderer. Curiosity I call on you to visit my spirit and paddle me out to waters and roads unknown. Give me the confidence to keep my oars afloat; confident, curious, and passionate.
On the road from New Mexico to somewhere… I can’t remember.
He’s digging my grave For the dragon he pays With our nest, now shaved Tumbling into the abyss I visit the comfort robes of the past Monogrammed in stone
The will to relive what’s past comes at night
And must be excluded by daylight.
Of HUMAN BONDAGE
The sky hasn’t decided if it will let clouds overturn the sun, and I haven’t decided if I will pack the stack of books on the floor. No, I don’t feel the drive to lift and organize, my bed is warm and the house is not as warm.
I brought my coffee and peanut butter and honey toast upstairs, on a tray, I happen to collect trays, reminiscent of times when women ate breakfast in bed. Propped upright, I explored a movie about uneven love, tragedy, and resurrection. Of Human Bondage lit my taste, featuring Bette Davis and Leslie Howard. —– FILM MADE IN 1930 IN GRISLY BLACK & WHITE. Uneven love. Days now remind me of reading 1984 in high school, and Fahrenheit 451 on film. We did evolve from a simplistic, hand-carved culture, built on rebars of freedom to a house full of furniture, relics, gadgets, screens, gates, and beeps. The beeps for me, make me jumpy, not seductively strolling around my apartment lighting candles in peace. I really do shimmy every time I hear the beep. I chose Sunday to shut down all communication with the mainland, take the longest bath I can stand, and write. I need a rest, like a chaise lounge on a spacious veranda with honeysuckle, wisteria, and lavender, and then a mile away is the ocean, let me swim again.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
I feel artists, and their works are not featured in the media, or maybe it’s because my scrolling is stuck on the essentials of living. In times of war, people must have known, see it now or never. Over two million working artists in the country, so google says, and when was the last time you discussed it at dinner, with anyone. I haven’t, and I don’t know why? Pop-up thoughts on life.
Remember when you opened the door to your own car and took hold of the steering wheel without any parental supervision.As a teen, my Chevrolet Impala was a haven away from my father. I rolled all the windows down, turned the volume up on the radio, and smoked. My secret joy was hoping the driver next to me would hear the music and notice me. If he was a suitable face I turned around and bobbed my head. Then, just as he looked over at me, I turned away, and looked in the rearview mirror, or sang my heart out to show off brazen behavior, the kind I couldn’t express at home. There was a sense of freedom from examination and explanation. When I drove my spinning Impala that leaped over road bumps in three waves, I was going somewhere alone.
It was the only self-contained space my father wasn’t attached to, and he didn’t like driving with me, because he didn’t like me being in control. That is the sensation that life brings to us in volumes as teens; explosions of discovery. Today I don’t experience that sweat of discovery; my life is deodorized. Remembering the sensations I felt as a teenager, reminds me to intertwine more challenges. If I’m lucky to break through all the percentages of disease, that the late-night commercials warn me of, the edge of my rhythm is asking me to make a commitment; to put the Bo’ Jangles back in my steps. I heard the voice yesterday, almost a whisper, asking me why I exclude long-term commitments: joining groups, classes, associations, serving on committees, planning ahead, and even magazine subscriptions are not worth the trouble because I am always planning on moving.
The answer always comes in the photographs that bring back that moment in time, and the immediate recollection of the internal places I moved from venturing into the unknown. Many years ago, I was in therapy, and in one discussion, this discourse occurred that I considered an awakening then. “I think you jump into unknown places, and situations, to test yourself, and you do that because that is what your father did most of his life.” That is what adolescent behavior is meant for, to learn by experiment, to see how far our strength of character will take us. We each have a different set of alarms and temptations. Why compare what one has to the other? My path is familiar to me, I am a born mistress of unfamiliarity; the quest for discovery keeps me moving.
FORMER HOME IN SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO 2015
As a teenager, I remember the most remarkable configuration of images, that passed by while I was driving, the faces of shopping mothers walking the streets of Beverly Hills and Westwood, the prostitutes positioned along one section of Sunset Boulevard, and their counterpart degenerate gin-soaked soul mates inched up against abandoned buildings, the Ocean Park joggers, and walkers, and picnickers, waving to each other, as they slapped together hard-boiledegg and tuna sandwiches. Like a playroom without walls for Europeans and senior citizens to elope with each other. I didn’t favor one street life over another, they all made sense to me.
Living in the Northeast calls for pragmatic and sensible strides. I’m still learning how to tame my lust for unpreparedness; like going out without an umbrella, leaving delicate brick a brac on the porch, driving with caution for deer, rabbits, and turtles, maintaining a close eye on the water in the basement, and dressing down so I don’t look like I’m from Los Angeles. Every day is experimental in some way. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, maybe that is how I like it.
My first interview on Dad, when I listen now it reminds me how liberating it was to talk about my family history.
KNPR.ORG
Luellen Smiley
Luellen Smiley is the daughter of reputed mobster, Allen Smiley. Smiley’s dad was a close friend and confidant of famous Las Vegas mobster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel and he was sitting on the couch just feet away from Siegel the night he was murdered. While Luellen Smiley hadn’t been born at the time o…
I’ve adopted a savant to facilitate making decisions. I don’t want to use the word hate, it’s useless, but this time I will, I hate making decisions. Whether to go out for dinner, or go to one of villages’ festivals, parades, or events, they rake up events during the winter to keep us off drugs. This weekend was a village-wide Friday sale for shopping, the lighted tractor parade, and appetizers at all the shops in town. Sounded pleasurable and I’m proud of the village to induct us into a community of we care about you. I didn’t go, but I did go out for Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant I’d never been to, festive crowded, and the tempting buffet twinkled like the first time I’d seen decorated food. It’s been five years since I’ve gone out for Thanksgiving so the jubilee of food was a bit musical. I ordered a glass of wine at the bar, the only customer as everyone had reserved tables for grandparents and children and the roar was melodious. My order to go would wait, the celebratory ambiance shattered my loneliness. The bartender, Jovida was like a lightbulb, she kept coming over to me maybe three times asking me polite questions, have you been here before, you must come on the weekends we have live music, while you’re having your wine can I bring you something from the buffet. I wondered if I’d be charged, she noticed my hesitation and said, No charge. So I choose smoked salmon, capers, onion, and horseradish. On m wish list if I’m allowed to eat in heaven, along with Gruyere cheese, tacos, salad, and croissants. The bliss, was a sandwich of bustlingeager activity, laughter, and the children. I remember our family Thanksgiving when my parents were divorced and we went to Nana’s home in San Fernando Valley, through that old tunnel. My mother’s mother is full-flecked Irish so the dinner was grand, and she was a dedicated cooking slave. She made mashed potatoes like I’ve never tasted since, and homemade pies, everything spiced with Nana’s kinship with making the family love her.
I left the restaurant after an hour later with a jubilant bag of turkey, fixings, and pumpkin pie. I found my seat on the bedroom sofa, and watched, ‘ The Train’ with Burt Lancaster. My thoughts were rested, abated for the whole evening, and then the next day, turkey revenge. I could not get out of bed, eat, or think. So I said to myself, it’s okay to do nothing and so I watched a romantic comedy, ‘ Cardboard Husband,’ with Norma Sherer and Robert Taylor, removed three-year-old lipstick and liners, shopped online without buying, saved for later my way of shopping. Then I threw the dice and I got seven. That is where my decisionsare now made. If I don’t get a seven with seven throws, I don’t go out or make a decision. If I get it once- I’m on!It was a perfect day for thanks. I think we should have a Thanksgiving Holiday three or four times a year.
Still flustering over how to save more money, and which expense she should solve; the dental appointment that’s six months overdue, the servicing of her car overdue since June, or elevated reasons to book a trip to San Diego. The urgency to decide sent her into a minor mid-afternoon tizzy and she decided she needed potato chips to solve her physical edginess. She does not use salt in her cooking, and from experimentation over the years realized that salt could elevate her dizzy thinking and lackluster posture. The momentary outdoor freshness stilted her, to stop moving, and breathe deeply like she was in the doctor’s office and they say, ‘ deep breath.’ The street is absent of walkers, workers, delivery trucks, and residents, it’s almost like a graveyard and this does not irritate Greta, she uses the bliss to engulf her creativity, and so she began to write.
“Young woman sitting on the books and typing, toned image”
PUZZLE OF SOLITUDEwill always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are puzzled by too much solitude, or not enough.
I contest what seems endless solitude with my Irish Russian temper; condemning irritants like street noise, absence of friends, short-tempered customer service reps, world news, and mindless tasks. After the first ice rain and snow, the fever dulled, and mindfulness triumphed. I imagined my basement of survival would sink. It did not. There is an inner exploration happening, unfolding like spreading new sheets on my bed, that solitude has befriended me all my life, in the best of times and the tedious. I have to find the frolic and follies in the world I created. I have to laugh alone so I watch screwball comedies, seek humor in my irregularities; wear a sweater inside out, pour coffee into a wine glass for a cocktail and chuckle up and down the staircase, because I keep forgetting where I left my phone. My head is elsewhere-daydreaming. I’ve learned how to repair house calamities; unscrew windows, seal up cracks, fix clogged drains, replace air vents, read the meters, and rejuvenate every wood board, handle, chair, and table with Old English Oil. As one pal commented on a visit to the house, ‘ It’s a perfect day for Old English! The winter forecast is blizzardy and full of warnings I haven’t experienced here; and how could I complain when half of Upstate New York is buried in SEVENTY INCHES of snow and no way out? At the end of the day, pleasure comes in the kitchen; my heart and spirit melt while stirring my weekly slumguillion stew while listening to Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and swing music. Winter has in the past been a funnel that leads to writing.
I made friends with sadness a long time ago. When my senses are faced with tragedy, war, a friend’s hardship, a crying child, or a lost cat, it resonates with emotions I cannot control. I feel that today. The street where I live is lifeless. The residents are not behaving as they have the last three years. Once those leaves turn they all come out in gardening gloves and jackets and place mums on the porch steps. They bring out blowers and try to keep time with a tremendous showering of leaves and begin decorating their homes in flamboyant fashion for Halloween.
Last year, activity flourished as renters and owners placed their hay stacks, witches, pumpkins, and lights in prominence. I think it’s an unofficial traditional contest between neighbors.
Maybe this is our Great Depression and it is more than the economy, inflation, and uncertainty. I think we are all flustered and frustrated with the fall of politics, it feels more like who has the best strategic offense.
Will-powered out of the house on a glory hallelujah day of ballet winds and buttercup sun. I walked along the bike path and observed the cyclists, and joggers, some still masked. Along the way, I smiled at passing strangers, and sometimes even a hello. How reviving to connect with strangers after two years of physical masks. Emotionally optimistic, a rare trajectory of nature and my life within. If nature can survive, why can’t I? What prevents us from launching new growth, mentally emotionally, and financially?
Let me take this day and bless it with hope, miles, and miles of hope and faith that I will land, plant new roots, and bloom.
The safety pin that allows us to walkabout is gone. Lawlessness has landed, an alien from the dominion of hatred, frustration, anger, revenge, mental illness, and loneliness. Depraved directionless menacing strangers leap upon INNOCENTS and are EDITING THEIR PURSUIT OF LIFE. A mounting civil war that no one really calls out, is like lava spreading throughout our cities, suburbs, monuments, schools, hospitals, daycare centers, stores, and restaurants. Everywhere, even on the freeway drivers shoot at drivers.
My gang has stopped watching the news, I have cut down to news flashes, then mute, then maybe the evening news. Not a conversation that I have or overhear is about the crime crisis. Why is that?
When do we begin to lie about our life our feelings, our fears, our everything? I ask this because of simple observation, knowing when someone is not telling me their truth and I remain silent, it’s not my way to ask, why do you lie to me? My friends are not lying, it’s more like a social cultural mask. My wise father once told me ‘Tell them your sister or father just died, and they’ll respond, excellent because they do not want to hear your problems.’ But I do, I’ve always wanted to know the truth. Why should we shield our traumas and hardship, more than our triumphs and accomplishments? Do you know who does not lie? ART and SPORTS. That is why we listen to music, read books, go to galleries and museums, films, the theater, and ballet or other dance performances. I cannot comment on sports because I’m not a spectator although I do love basketball.
We, and I mean this in only a visceral sense, do not believe the politicians, news, social media, or advertisements. We want to, but deep in our inner truth, we know it is the manipulation of our individual thoughts. And that my friends is why I trust art to deepen my understanding of the human condition. Thank you to all the artists and athletes who share their pain and glory.
FOUND ON THE INTERNETTHE PHILADELPHIA PHILHARMONIC MAXFIELD PARRISH ZORBA PHILIP TOWNSEND AUDREY HEPBURN – EDWARD QUINN PHILIP TOWNSEND
I’ve often wondered what people think about when they are alone; taking a run or walk, dining alone, in the shower or tub, or just being on their own. Artists in all genres spend more time alone in the process of creating art.
Waking alone, I step out to open the drape to see if it has snowed. If it has then I’m on landlord duty to wait for the snowblower to arrive, so my tenants can get to their cars. If it hasn’t snowed then I am thankful, not that the snow-white lawns and rooftops aren’t magically transforming, it’s that time of year when the power goes out or some other nuisance like scraping snow off my car and porch.
Then thoughts leap like little squirrels, from musing on my friends, who I need to call, do I feel like writing today, can I stomach thirty minutes of news and a bit of punishment for past mistakes. The one thread that rises in nightmares, and the first moment I wake up is unconquerable, fear is a thread I cannot snip and toss away. Fear is really about the unknown, we cannot supersede circumstances that are in the waiting room of our lives. Either they have already occurred or you know they are on their way to your front door.
THE FOLLIES HOUSE
Now with the coldness, at six or seven in the morning, I crawl back in bed with coffee and think of the past, then the present, then the future, and then my thoughts drift like snowflakes. You know the saying when you are despondent or troubled you will be told to keep busy. I have not understood that advice until now. My life prior to the last two years was dizzy bizzy. And yes, it eliminated fear and malaise, so now without all the lists, commitments, and responsibilities absent, I am on time with my thoughts.
BOOKS FOR SALE FROM MY RESEARCH COLLECTION.BASED IN NEW YORK. PREFERRED SALE OF FIVE OR MORE. HARDBACK $14.00 SB $6.00 + MEDIA MAIL. INDIVIDUAL PHOTOS ON REQUEST.
Luellen Smiley – Some book sections are highlighted but otherwise in good condition.Bugsy Siegel’s book, Mr. Mob & King of the Sunset Strip, sold.
THE BATTLE FOR LAS VEGAS SB – DENNIS GRIFFIN
BUT HE WAS GOOD TO HIS MOTHER – SB R. ROCKAWAY
MOTOR CITY MAFIA SB – SCOTT M. BURSTEIN
THE BOYS FROM NEW JERSEY SB – ROBERT RUDOLPH
CHICAGO HB- DAVID MAMET
DOUBLE CROSS- HB SAM & CHUCK GIANCANA
GANGSTERS AND GOODFELLAS HB AS TOLD BY GUSS RUSSO
THE STARKER HB – JACK ZELIG ROSE KEEFE
MOBBED UP HB – JAMES NEFF
BOUND BY HONOR HB – BILL BONNANO
THE PUBLIC ENEMY SB – HENRY COHEN SCRIPT
NAZIS IN NEWARK SB- WARREN GROVER
THE VALACHI PAPERS PETER MAAS
BLOOD RELATION SB – ERIC KONICSBERG
THE OUTFIT SB – GUSS RUSSO
TOUGH JEWS – SB RICH COHEN
THE MAFIA MURDER OF JFK CONTRACT ON AMERICA-HB DAVID SCHEIM
ORGANIZED CRIME HB – PAUL LINDE
CAPONE HB- JOHN KOLER
LITERARY LAS VEGAS SB -The best writing about America’s Finest City MIKE TRONNES
HONOR THY FATHER SB – ( MY DAD’S) GAY TELESE
MURDER INC SB BURTON TURKAS – SID FEDER
THE LAST MAFIAOSO HB – OVID DEMARIS
ALL AMERICAN MAFIOSO SB- THE JOHNNY ROSELLI STORY CHARLES RAPPLEYE & ED BECKER. SIGNED.
PICTORIAL BOOKS
FABULOUS LAS VEGAS HB – MICHELE FERRARI STEVEN IVES
ORGANIZED CRIME- PLAYBOYS PICTORIAL HISTORY HB RICHARD HANNER
Pretextul acestui blog este mica mea colecție de fotografii vechi. În timp s-a transformat în pasiune. O pasiune care ne trimite, pe noi, cei de azi, în lumea de altădată, prin intermediul unor fotografii de epocă.
Pretextul acestui blog este mica mea colecție de fotografii vechi. În timp s-a transformat în pasiune. O pasiune care ne trimite, pe noi, cei de azi, în lumea de altădată, prin intermediul unor fotografii de epocă.
CASEY, A WOMAN OF SECRETS
The inner voice where gaps of expression are liberated. 