Month: August 2016

RELOCATION


 

When I look beyond the quarry of my chains and rowing towards a redefined life my soul is nourished.

Santa Fe has star power and can shower your life with photographic moments on the half-hour. You are accepted and expected to be liberal, intelligent, and artistic.  Like any city, village, or town you have some culture to conform to, or else you won’t be taken seriously.  In Los Angeles, I learned you have to be able to put on cinematic charisma to get a conversation going with a stranger.  Here in Ballston Spa, invitations arrive with New York common sense, and some realistic hesitancy. It’s about pre-screening, they need to know you won’t mess up their life.

 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.

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com
Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com
Photo by Adrien Olichon on Pexels.com

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. Ask any soldier what it’s like to come home.


Adventures in Santa Fe Livingness.

GROWING UP IN LOS ANGELES,  under the umbrella of powerful, wealthy, and stylish wings.  Women were models and men were moguls.   A lot of wealth came overnight in the film business – some  it took years to acquire,  but mostly it was a time to spread your wings and ride life. Polo matches, speeding yachts in the Marina,  horseback riding in Bel Air, movie premieres, and nightclubs.  By the time this congregation was in their fifties  the wick of life had waxed over, and a new generation was born to carve  their statutes.  That is the billboard  that I didn’t like, resisted, rebelled against, and scrutinized.  At twenty it was easy to jump ship by enrolling in Sonoma  State College and transforming.  My thirties were  career driven and at forty I saddled up for rebellion.  It jumped out of the birthday cake and sent me on  a jolly ride. Here now, at 60ish, a reversal of rebellion has popped up;   I want to walk a panoptic view.   phone-pics-291.png

Living in Santa Fe has forged a masters thesis on reinventing my rhythm, opinions, tolerance, affinity, and creativity.  That is why I’ve been stationed here for nine years;  it has taken that long to strip down the prongs of my LA umbrella.   If only I could homogenize both parts, but it always feels like oil and water. I’m a city gal and a villager. That word balance bounces up a lot. I find it an abstraction that I cannot untangle.  Oh well, there is always the surprise of life, the moment when you go down the drain and then a hand reaches out and places you on a new path.

A MEMOIR HAS TO END book 2


The sunlight shatters the curtain-less bedroom window and burns into my eyes at daybreak. From this unsheltered spot I rise to see a pot of blue sky over the rooftops, and the expectant afternoon showers building up in the clouds. The sky is filled with crows, eagles, and magpies lingering overhead weightless and free-falling, beyond all of us caught behind electronics. The days  filled with desert showers that drench the soil and turn the arid dry land green and lush. For this I am thankful.  At the end of the day, I am inclined to sit in the courtyard and watch the sky manifest colors unmatched by any Dunn Edwards collection. By the time dinner is topical, I have substituted preparing food, to just snacking, This August underscores the need to sit down, to sort of bob my head to Nancy Wilson music, and do very little. I’m self publishing Cradle of Crime- My Father, Me, and the Mob.  images