ON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta<br>What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelter. See less<br>Shared post<br><br><br><br><br><br><br><a href="https://www.facebook.com/gootgeldlevine?comment_id=Y29tbWVudDoxMDI0ODA0MDk3OTU4Mzk1Nl8yMDk0MDk5Mzg0ODA0OTQx&__cft__[0]=AZir3RmnNxdJAyXcf_I8lKe5Kp45iAZZg9H4GDHaydaCUWBka4vtUxb4T2JY2u6yTsQJ6oT04i9C_Xer5ma2GF6Wa8EYTHhefjLOPi1FDpV3D3FPIEWV5JRL7E9Awi6SScHhjW5KOtHn9w&__tn__=R-R">Carolyn Gootgeld-Levine</a><br>·<br><br>Dad?<br><br><br><br>LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS

Where Gaps of Expression are Liberated

ABOUT

Luellen Smiley is a creative nonfiction writer, author, columnist, and historian whose writing is deeply rooted in a controversial personal history. She is the daughter of Allen Smiley, a close friend, associate, and business partner of notorious Las Vegas gangster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. Her father was sitting only feet from Siegel when Siegel was murdered in Beverly Hills on June 20, 1947.

That extraordinary childhood history became the foundation for Smiley’s first book, Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute, published in 2017. The memoir explores what it was like to grow up as the daughter of a man connected to organized crime while trying to reconcile her love for her father with the secrecy, fear, and criminal world surrounding him.

Smiley’s work has appeared in publications including the New York Post, MORE Magazine, Southern California newspapers, and Authorlink. She wrote the newspaper column Smiley’s Dice—Adventures in Livingness, which earned a Blue-Ribbon Award from the California Newspapers Association for her Growing Up With Gangsters columns.

Her interest in her father’s history also led her to become a researcher and commentator on organized crime history. She has participated in television, radio, and documentary interviews.

Smiley’s next book, Gaslighting Greta, will be published this year. A personal story that reads like fiction. Her own website describes the project as exploring a woman whose life is destabilized by gaslighting and psychological manipulation.

Her writing career reflects a recurring theme: using personal experience and research to uncover the truth behind complicated relationships and extraordinary lives. From the secretive world surrounding her father and Bugsy Siegel to the deeply personal territory of Gaslighting Greta, Smiley’s work transforms difficult experiences into stories of survival, discovery, and ultimately reclaiming one’s voice.

Luellen Smiley is an author whose life has given her an unusual perspective on secrecy, manipulation, family loyalty, betrayal, and survival—and she uses that perspective as the raw material for her nonfiction storytelling.

COLUMN ON MEN

LouLou

Leave a Comment


ON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelter

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and into a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurousely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation.  How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expressiON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta

COLON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and thON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me, reflecting not just my image but the depth of my thoughts. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread, kneading them into shapes I can manage to understand, even when the night feels endless. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely, highlighting the landmarks of our shared experiences, every turn and detour illuminating our unique path. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation whispers sweet affirmations, weaving confidence into my spirit, a melody that invites me to explore the world more boldly. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion, a vibrant burst that fills the air with joy, reminding me that life is not just about the destination but the delightful surprises along the way. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him, create a tender tableau that captures the everyday beauty of our connection, the little rituals that bind us. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression, instills a sense of belonging and confidence, as if we share an unspoken language of appreciation. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics anchors our relationship in laughter, turning mundane moments into treasured memories. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs, enveloping me in a blanket of understanding and reassurance. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelter, creating a safe haven where my worries dissolve, allowing the true essence of who I am to emerge and flourish amidst the chaos of life, transforming the mundane into something magical with each shared moment, each gentle caress of kindness and love.

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and sheltere modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelterUMN ON MENNavigation Menus are a curON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting GretaON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelter

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelterated collection of blocks that allow visitorsON MEN -Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelter to get around your site.

What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and into a time when my mirrors move toward me. The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurousely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation.  How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelter.   

Discover more from LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS

Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.