The inner voice where gaps of expression are liberated.
Author: LouLou
I am a creative Nonfiction author, lifestyle columnist, and mob historian. Personally a free-style chef, historic preservationist, trailblazer, swimmer, and manic Rolling Stones listener.
Since 1997 I have renovated historic homes and converted them into vacation rentals.
Morning comes after two cups of French Press.ย ย I sit here at the desk, peeking out the glass door toย the shady side of the street.ย I do not know where I will be living, what I will be doing, or who I will be doing it with next month. ย Uncertainly, I move in and out of situations and get swept up in my ideas and fantasies.ย I buy and sell, make and remake, move-in, move-out, leave homes, careers, friends and relationships.ย I move out of comfort
art nouveau dome of light (Photo credit: eยณยฐยฐยฐ)
and into uncertainty because it feels more like home moving than staying in one place.
I have to put the words on the paper and look at it to make it real.
Raising a family, sprouting barriers and responsibilities might have changed me, but I didnโt. Iโm unchanged in some ways, still running through the hallways of the hotels, gardens, and neighborhoods. Do you know what I mean?
Levon helm performing with The Band. Hamburg, May 1971. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I have this greatest love for The Band.. brought on by a listen when I was about seventeen.
My two best friends, Lizzie and Billy. Billy played the guitar, from Tulsa, so he got it, and his sister Lizzie sang.
I sat crossed legged in her English boudoir bedroom in Bel Air, and knew they were the musical advisories.ย I never may have known the Band if it wasn’t for them.
How come no one has spoken about Levon? Are we too obsessed with mediocrity? How did our tastes vanish into
CNN.
Now it’s the Kardasian, whatever her name is.ย Who cares. Why? What happened to us?
I loved you Levon. I love you The Band. It breaks my heart.
East Palace Avenue Santa Fe (Photo credit: paigeh)
SMILEYโS DICE-ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS
By:Luellen Smiley
ย SANTA FE,NM.
Iโm sitting outside in a flowerless garden because no matter how many flowers I plant, they only last one season, if that long. The garden is erupting out of its winter coat, and lime green leaves, plants, and stalks will have to do for now. The sky that seals me in is licked with revisionary hope. The kind that comes back laundered and fresh after a chosen recess from believing in the possibility of a preferred life correction.
Behind the garden, a neighbor is drumming a soft tribal beat, and on Palace Avenue the choir is singing inside the Episcopal Church on Palace Avenue. Between these distinctive tastes, there are sparrows fluttering from fan to nest to fountain. The chattering sounds like; โhere she comes, donโt come over here, get out of my nest, watch out for that fat crow.โ
Itโs a mind drift, to be caught inย such UN-structured beauty, away from the manuscripts, remotes, doors, and phones. Itโs like being on an island out here. ย Everything we bring into our experience can be revised; a work of art, a way of speaking, thinking, portraying yourself, your way of loving, or lusting, and we all know about appearance, because our society shoves it down our throat.
Look at the possibilities in revising our patterns of behavior. What we accepted twenty years ago doesnโt mean itโs carved in our organs. We can transmute. The interior life needs lifting and tightening, just as our mind and muscles do. You wonโt find any immediate remedy, or advertisements, or books on the subject because weโre consumers of products that change and revise only the visible tangibles. I wonder if I traded in my eleven year old Land Rover for a new one if Iโd be really happy, and for how long? Or if I flew to Los Angeles and bought cartons of antiques, hats, and perfume if I would be grinning from ear to ear.
I begin with revising the way I experience Santa Fe. Iโve lived on the outskirts, like a storm that blew in and is waiting to blow out. It seems my storm is here for now, and so I let go of the criticism and intolerances. ย Beginning with my favorite activity, dancing, I returned to ย El Farol, my chosen dance hall hullabaloo, then to La Posada across the street and mingled with an assorted group of locals, guests, and actors, (who were real as pippin apples)spent a day cruzing the ghostly town of Madrid to experience the cinematic sparseness, and walked up and down Canyon Road one morning before the shops opened, and was greeted half a dozen times by strangers out walking, uniquely different in attire, disposition and stride. I love that about Santa Fe. You donโt conform, itโs a religion here!
My homework for the next few weeks is revising the interior doors of emotion, and the exterior doors of expression. Iโve set aside the memoir, (did I mention I started that again) after a publisher suggested major rewrites and editing.ย I mean you have to know when to give up because youโre not going to make the team.ย Iโm a six page essayist. If you get me into one hundred and fifty pages, I march all over the globe and lose the reader.
You guys are smart. You know all of this; Iโm just learning. I am a case of insufferable arrested development. If I felt my age, which most of you know, Iโd be looking at retirement brochures. Instead Iโm planning on breaking into new territory. Its a joke between my dreamer self and my inner critic, but Iโm not listening to the critic.
Today I swiveled in my desk chair trying to write the column I thought I was going to write. In between gazing out the window at sky scenery, I made oatmeal cookies, watched the birds, took care of business, had a hair cut, plucked at paragraphs from Anais Nin, and danced on the treadmill. The column didnโt come out of a conscious thought wave; it just rose up, after I typed the words, the throw of the dice. The odds were Iโd find my way from there.
My dad the gambler, who laid a bet on everything from sports, horses, gaming, to the Academy Awards and elections, taught me many valuable lessons. He actually told me once, โTake a chance for heavens sake! Go out and get arrested.โ He knew the odds of that, which is why he dared me. Life corrections begin with edits, then revisions, and then you have a new story!
Our nest, is something we build on our own to give us permission to explore, and then question, and we go back to our little nest, and add a bit more certainty because the dinner was great, and the party lasted longer than we thought, and someone smiled at you in a special way, and then you saw a rainbow.
Some things happened last week; that liquefied into a mirage, ofย an opinion I inhabited. Iย directed this opinion with outdated information, and second hand narratives by writers in print.ย I believed whatย I’dย always believed;ย that actors arenโt like you and me. ย I was wrong! Some actors are like you and me.ย They have open hearts, and inquisitive minds, they drink beer, and dress without designer labels, they like to hang out, and not talk about the movie business, they have interests beyond their Imdb ย star rating, and they answer questions, if you ask them. ย Unless we infiltrate what we criticize, weโre adding to the hypocrisy of theย human condition.
WHERE TO BEGIN THIS STORY OF A FATHER THAT I ONLY CAME TO UNDERSTAND BY READING HIS FBI FILES, BOOKS ABOUT MOB HISTORY WRITTEN BY LAW ENFORCEMENT AND COLLEGE PROFESSORS, AND DOCUMENTARIES PRODUCED BY FOES OF MY FATHER.
My last year with Dad was 1981. Naive, and unconcerned with where I was headed, or how Iโd get there if I figured it out,ย I was spinning around in an executive chair; waiting for the big hand on the black and white office clock to set me free.ย Time didnโt pass; I hauled it over my head, in my bland windowless office, under florescent glare. I was trouble shooting for an ambitious group of USC guys as they gobbled up all of Los Angeles real estate. Without any real sense of survival or independence, my life was in the hands of my father.
โMeyerโs coming to see me; havenโt seen the little guy in twenty-five years.โ ย ย Dad said during a commercial break.
โMeyer Lansky?โ I asked as casually as heโd spoken.
โWho else?โ
โWhy did you two wait so long?โ
โItโs no concern of yours; heโs my friend, not yours.โ I was twenty-nine years old and still verbally handcuffed.
The three of us went out to dinner, and while the two of them spoke in clipped short wave syndicate code, I
noticed that neither one of them looked at all happy.ย It was rare to catch my father in public with a friend, without raucous laughter, and storytelling.ย My attempt to revive the dinner conversation with my own humor,returned two sets of silent eyeball commands to resist speaking.
Several months later I received a call from Dad asking me to come over to his apartment, he had collapsed on the bathroom floor. ย When I arrived, he pleaded for me to stay close by.ย ย โIโll be all right in a few minutes; I just need to catch my breath. โย I sat outside the bathroom door biting my nails, and waited, like our dog Spice, for my orders. For the first time in my life, he was weaker than I, and my turmoil centered on that unfamiliar reversal of roles.
The banner in front of Trader Joes read, Menopause Revival, and White Zen recognized Johnny Depp in Whole Foods, ” because they were skinny Hollywood types, and the cashier at Sunflower Market, piles up a dozen items, and then asks, if I want a bag? The DJ on Santa Fe Blue recites the weekly line-up, but he doesn’t know who the guest musicians are. It’s part of the quirky, puzzling, undefined tonality of Santa Fe.
If undeniable love only happens once, and then it’s gone, what do you do? Shop, count your money, travel, remodel your kitchen, volunteer, protest, have babies, read, or disappear into your illusions, and your art. Be enlightened, shine in your art, in what you loved always, in the froth of life.
Joe Bataan – Ordinary Guy (1975) (Photo credit: Soul Portrait)
I WISH I’D TAKEN A PHOTO THAT DAY,ย on a gravely, twisted uphill hike to Mt Atalayaย a hike that Iโve hungered for because it looms in the rear view, jettisoned above the city, swooping hills, three of them, you have to criss-cross before you reach the 8,800 foot marker in the sky. The temperature was 70 degrees, the wind was napping. Easter Sunday, sprinkles of holiness on Santa Fe, church bells ringing all day long, restaurants hosts pushing metal carts of glossy preparations down the aisles, and the little children, in Easter bonnets, and patent leather shoes, if they still make them, are squirming at the table.
I had a hunger for universal meaninglessness and to end the chatter in my head. Hikes do that. They just erase all the sirens and alarms, the what ifโs and what knots in my head.
Afterward, we sat on the porch listening to Joe Bataan. You probably havenโt heard of him unless you dig into Salsa, as Rudy does.ย Joe is half Filipino and half African. His music touches cords you cannot even imagine, like Afro-Cuban-Filipino fusion rap.ย Everyone is hopeful on Easter; motor bikers, wanderers, ย the wait staff and valet that trot down the street, talking into their ear phones at one another, and guests, pushing baby strollers, swinging shopping bags, taking photographs of our house, and gazing at the sky. When they hear the music from our porch, they wave at us, and might think, we ย have the life, sitting on the porch,ย sipping a glass of wine. What they cannot even imagine is that the entire scene is Roman a clef, a fictional imitation! What we are actually doing is avoiding the avalanche. We were already defaulted on the mortgage, and then we repositioned into a vacation rental. And guests sat on our porch while we took the maid’s entrance. Hah
Sometimes I skim through the works in progress folder and stumble upon something I never finished. This is from that folder, started in 2004.
They make the best friends, and you never have to wonder what itโs like to make love to themโฆ lovers from the pastย are not forgotten, and if they are, then they were not true loves, they were just flings.ย ย In my life,ย lovers have remained in my heart in a separate compartment, just as their letters, and photographs and mementos are kept in separate stationary boxes in my trunk.
Some lovers keep in touch with me, and others vanished after the break-up. Last month two former lovers contacted me. One from 1977, and one in 1984. I have always said one man is not enough; I need three or four circulating my life. Even if I was married, my mantra of โthe more men the betterโ would not be negotiable, and today, that holds true. I’ve been advised by Rudy, that men will read this and assume that I am intimate with my men friends; and I said not all men will, and he said, oh yea, that’s how men think. ย ย
This is a story of lovers reuniting, in different cities than where they met, older, refined in sentiment, and loved in a capacity greater than they once were, as lovers.ย To be continued.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 