If we experience disappointment our inner oars, the ones that carry us over the tidal waves, must be accessible, we must pick them up and bash the waves.ย If you are at a red light in life-like me, get a tune-up and then floor it!
FLOOR IT
Category: 60 YEARS OLD
EXCERPT FROM SMILEY’S DICE- DAD’S MERRYMAKING
The day I was born, May 11, 1953 the headlines of the The Los Angeles Time read:
GANGSTERS INVADE SOUTHLAND CITIES.
Among gangsters and their hangers-on named were Abe (Longy) Zwillman, Frankie Carbo, Meyer Lansky, Allen Smiley, whose true name is Aaron Smehoff, Gerald Catena and William Bischoff.
When I met Daddy he had salty sea blue eyes and when my actions were worthy of laughter, his eyes retracted into a blur of skin. Dressed in perfectly matched shades of pink, silver and blue my child eyes rested cheerfully on his silk ties, a collage of jewel tones. The feel of his fabric was soft like blankets. He was very interesting to look at when I was a child and open to all this detail.
I clung to his neck in the back seat of his baby blue Cadillac. He sang songs and his hand fluttered about, catching me by surprise behind my head, and his laughter echoed in my ears. Sometimes we drove through the Paramount Studio Gates, and I was chauffeured in a cart to the Western Stage where we watched cowboys and musical dancers. I was too young to understand this was just a film; thus began my insatiable yearning to be a dancer.
Rory Calhoun was one of the stars Dad was close pals with.ย Just this week I dug into research about Rory Calhoun. I learned he died in 1999, and that heโd also been a ward in Preston Reformatory where Dad was sent at eighteen years old. Rory came a few years later.
We spent a lot of time with the Calhoun family. They had two girls the same age as me. Their exotic Spanish villa on Whittier Drive and Sunset enraptured my girlish senses.ย Inside it was like a movie set, with animal rugs, oil paintings of Spanish Troubadours and Moorish decorations. Rita, Roryโs wife, wore tiny stacked high heels and she clicked across the Spanish tiles like a flamenco dancer. The whole family was blessed with dreamy looks. I didnโt realize that I was surrounded with extraordinary beauty; everyone had these exceptional vogue looks. The importance placed on that kind of beauty was just as distorted as my examination.
Rita danced a stern feminine demeanor, extremely seductive but not without a battle. I learned my first lessons about temptation just by watching her. She fanned the room with perfume and laughter, and men just succumbed like drugged animals. I felt my first tingle of sexuality in the arms of Rory. He was a treasure of natural emotion, physically and orally.ย ย They both gambled, borrowed money from the other, and they bet on everything.
On Sunday we went to Beverly Park, a cherishedย amusement park across from where the whimsical Beverly Center shopping Mall is today. I was only two years old when Dad slung me over a big stinky pony, and insisted I ride around the ring so he could snap photographs.
Inside the Cadillac, insulated from the outside world by metal and glass, he drove without intention of destination, or so it seemed. Though I didnโt know it, he often changed directions to confuse a tailing federal agent. The places he took me became our secret. Sometimes he asked me to close my eyes and count to a hundred. It was a game; he wouldnโt tell me where we were going. Iโd open my eyes and weโd be somewhere unfamiliar, a storefront, hotel room, or someoneโs home.
When the Ringling Brothers Circus came to town, Dad took me every weekend and I met some of the performers. He was no less enthusiastic about the circus than I was. Now I understand as Iโve learned he traveled with Ringling Brothers for a year just after he landed in New York. He was in the wardrobe department! How suitable to his style. Everyone we knew was in some kind of act.
I remember places like Canters Deli on Fairfax. We always had the same waitress, the one with a big air-tight bee-hive.
โ Whatโll it be today honey?โ
โ Iโll have a hot dog.โ
โ No. Last time you got sick. Honey, get her a turkey sandwich. I have to talk to some people outside–make sure she doesnโt leave. โ
โSure thing Mr. Smiley, you go ahead.โ
โWhen are you coming back Daddy?โ
โWhen you finish your lunch. Be a good girl.โ
While I waited for the sandwich, I watched the waitresses very closely. They entertained me; their husky voices and swift mannerisms as they swooshed between tables, calling out orders, โ Matzo ball soup–chicken on the side, Russian on rye no mayonnaise.โ Sometimes he left me long after the sandwich was gone. Iโd turn and watch the door, to see if heโd come in, or ask the waitress.
โ Would you please tell my father Iโm finished.โ
โFinished already! What about dessert? How about a slice of cheesecake?โ Even if I said no, sheโd bring me dessert. Several times I was left so long that I got up and went outside looking for him. I noticed my father down the street talking with some other men. I ran back to the booth and waited. When he came back to the table, I asked him,
โWhere were you Daddy?โ
โI had to meet someone about business. You remember what I told youโMommy doesnโt have to know about this.โ
โI remember.โ Why my outings with Dad remained fixated as birth marks is because they were filled with wonder, amusement, and mystery. My father mixed a little business with my pleasure, but it wasnโt obvious because no one had an office. His business associates worked out of shoe stores, cigar stands, hotels, barber shops; all sorts of fronts that camouflaged the booking of bets.
I bet too. That when I lose Iย never give up on the silver lining.
WHO IS BUGSY?
LUCILLE CASEY SMILEY
All my life people have asked me the same questions:โ Whatโs it like knowing your father is a gangster? How old were you when you found out? Arenโt you afraid of his friends? You know they kill people.โ
I live in a temporary tide-pool, a lily
floating against the current, weighted
down by a suit of armor that shields me
from the beauty, love and freedoms stirring in my bud.
What seemed insignificant at the time was the diving board into my Dadโs history. I was watching a Bugsy Siegel documentary on my television in San Diego during 1993. It was the first one Iโd seen. Three historians joined in on the violence Bugsy honored and esteemed. Half-way through the celebratory lynching of Bugsy and his pals, a reporter made the statement that โItโs obvious Allen Smiley was there to set Bugsy up for the hit.โ Andy Edmonds stated that Dad conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting. It wasnโt until a photograph of my dad appeared on the screen; a man with thick graying hair that I noticed an expression Iโd never seen, horrifying misery. I moved closer to the television to see his face up close. A kaleidoscope of emotions rose to the surface: anger, shame, curiosity, and disbelief. I was forty years old.
The first time Iโd seen those photographs of Ben Siegel slumped on that sofa; an eye bleeding down his face was a day back in 1966 at the age of thirteen. My best friend Dena lived in Brentwood with her divorced mother and siblings. We hooked in the unfamiliar and confusing imbalance of a broken home life. Dena was suffering depression after her parents divorced and I was dangling from my fatherโs fingertips hopelessly conflicted after my mother died. Dena wouldnโt let a day go by without calling me. โAre you all right?โ She didnโt like my father and her reasons were mature beyond her years, โYour father scares me.โ After school one afternoon we stopped in the Brentwood Pharmacy. Dena was looking at the book rack and I was following along.
โLily, my mother told me your father is in a book, The
Green Felt Jungle. Itโs about gangsters. Wanna see if they have it?โ I agreed to look because Dena was interested, but it meant nothing to me. She twirled the book rack around as I stood behind her watching.
โThatโs the book! Let me look first and see what it says,โ she whispered. I could feel her arm tense up as I grasped it.
โOh my God! There he is,โ she said. We hunched over the book and read the description of my father, โAllen Smiley, one of Ben Siegelโs closest pals in those days, was seated at the other end of the sofa when Siegel was murdered.โ Dena covered her mouth with one hand and kept reading silently.
โWhat does that mean? Who is Siegel?โ I asked.
โShush–not so loud. Iโm afraid to tell you this. Itโs awful.โ
โWhatโs awful? Tell me.โ
โBugsy Siegel was a gangster in the Mafia. He killed people. Your father was his associate.โ
โI donโt think I should see this.โ I turned around abruptly to leave the drugstore. Dena followed me out.โ
โLily you canโt tell your father you saw this book. Please donโt tell him I told you.โ
โWhy not?โ
โMy mother told me not to tell you. Swear to me you wonโt tell your father!โ
โI wonโt. Donโt you tell anyone either.โ
A few days later after Dad left for the evening I opened the door to his guarded bedroom. I walked around the bed to a get a closer look at the photographs on the wall. It was the first time I could read the inscription.
A PITCH FOR PUBLICATION
IN NOVEMBER OF 2005 I reserved a space at the San Francisco Writers Conference. I was nervous and edgy when I boarded the plane. My pitch proposal, pitch suit, and pitch necklace, were tucked inside my suitcase. The pitch convinces an agent or publisher, that you know your subject well enough to feel one hundred percent confident.ย It may sound irrational that a writer could work five years on a book and not know what it is about. As an emerging writer I view my work through a kaleidoscope lens. I see multiple themes, subplots, and messages, and they change with each reading. Then there are loose knots of personal misery, lost versions and rejections ringing in my ears. My pitch has to convince an agent, that at least 5,000 people will buy my book. The pitch suit is the outfit you wear for an interview; only for writers, the guidelines are very loose. Some writers wear their narrative. I brought my tailored, looking successful, pants suit. My pitch necklace is a gold Buddha medallion that my father had designed for my mother. I wear it for good luck and because I know the necklace has survived all the family tragedies. The conference is at the St. Francis Hotel at Union Square. From experience, I have learned that choosing a conference because of its alluring location is meaningless; I never pay attention to past experience.
It was pouring when I arrived. The staff at the front desk greeted me with musical familiarity. Every time I swished by they called out, โHello, Ms. Smiley.โ I imagined them as a chorus singing my name. I arrived one day early to pace the galleries, cafes, museums and Saks. After the first night, I had to switch rooms. I was directly above the street dumpsters, where for hours the chugging of trash kept me awake. I moved frantically, to scoop everything up and not miss a moment of San Francisco. After switching rooms, I dashed over to the Espresso Bar. It faces the corner of Powell and Sutter. Outside, the streetcars clanged by, passengers dangling from the bars like vines on a tree. In between the tracks, workers both blue and white-collar, and some without any collar at all, jammed the sidewalks on foot, bicycle, moped and skateboard. With phones and iPods attached, eyes alert, they buzzed on the vibe of Saturday, moving like musical notes in a symphony.
In the cafรฉ an elderly woman wearing a SFWC name tag was seated next to me. I noticed she positioned her book on the corner of her table. She looked overwhelmed and frightened. As I introduced myself she smiled courteously, and said she was a neurotic housewife all her life and didnโt have much to write about, so she wrote about her husbandโs war stories. I told her she should write about the neurotic housewife. Just as I was leaving, she stopped me and thanked me for speaking to her. โThereโs always a guardian angel around.โ Her voice lingered in my thoughts all weekend.
At six oโclock that evening, I was gliding around my room dressing for the gala. I reached for my jewelry bag. It was gone. The weekend was ruined! I would never get published, Iโm too wired, too reckless, too distracted. I called the front desk. Heather said she would call me back. Bang, bang, bang, went my shoe against the bed frame. Then the phone rang.
โHello, Ms. Smiley. Iโm sending the bellman up with your jewelry.โ
I answered the door recoiling with pained joy. The bellman listened attentively. I rushed upstairs to Harry Dentonโs Starlight Room. There I began wine tasting with Maggie, Peg and George; three new comrades in a room of hundreds.
I spent the next day among more comrades, writers with unpublished stories, books, and works-in-progress. I listened to panels of writers; agents and editors discussed the fateful downward spin of publishing and upward battle towards reward.ย We sat in our chairs looking overly anxious, taking copious notes, and waiting for answers to our questions. At the end of the panel discussion we all lined up to meet the agents and editors. While we stood in line we met each other.
โWhatโs your story about?โ the woman behind me asked.
โGrowing up with gangsters,โ I replied.
โ Oh well! That will get you an agent.โ
โ I hope so.โ
During the conference, I experienced a lucky throw of the dice. I met one of my mentors; Joyce Maynard. Her book, โAt Home in the World,โ is on my beside table. Joyce was published in the New York Times when she was sixteen years old. JD Salinger read the piece and invited her to live with him. Joyceโs story will send you back to reading Nine Stories.
As I progressed through the circle holding my pitch stick, the fear and apprehension subsided just a tiny bit. Three agents responded; โsend me your manuscript.โ Naturally when I returned home, my hands were tied to editing. I rushed through, did not employ someone to copy-edit, and then ran about announcing my almost to be signed contract. Three months later I recovered from the rejections and began another rewrite and another until today, when I am on my fifth manuscript. This one feels right because I am not rushing through it expectant of publication; this time I know it will be published.
EXCERPT FROM BOOK- SMILEY’S DICE
In the summer of 1994, infuriated from a broken affair, another job displacement, and skimpy funds to support me, I found myself in Beverly Hills, walking along with half-hearted interest in seeking employment.
I stopped in the shops Dad frequented; Gearyโs, Schwabโs, and Nate ‘nย Al Delicatessenย seeking a root to hang onto.
Beverly Hills has the most powerful effect on me. As soon as I hit Beverly Drive I want to shop, need to shop, must shop! A rise of envy turns into jealously and my attention to wealth fades as Rodney Dangerfield crosses the street, his face contorted by some agitation.ย I walked past Jack Taylorโs Menโs Haberdashery and hesitated a moment. I had not seen Jack in ten years. The last time was 1982, at my fatherโs memorial service. Jack was the only friend Dad trusted outside of the Mob.
โHi Jack, I was in the neighborhood, I wanted to say hello?โ
โJesus Christ! What a surprise,โ he said rushing over to kiss me.
โCome in and sit down. My God, where have you been-what have you been doing?โ Jackโs attention toward me was exacting and unavoidable.
โIโm in transition right now. Iโve changed careers-well, several times. I was in real estate in San Diego for a long time.โ
โI knew you were in real estate, your Dad told me. What are you doing now?โ Are you married?โ
โNo, not married. Iโm living here now, and looking for a job.โ
โWhat kind of job?โ
โWell, something where I can use my skills in marketing andโฆโ
โWhy not come work for me?โ he said leaning closer.
โHere, in the store?โ
โYeah, why not? Youโll be great.โ he beamed.
โBut Iโve never sold menโs clothes before.โ
โSo what! Iโll teach you. I need someone–my girl just left. I want to get out and play golf. Iโve spent my whole life in this goddamn business. Forty years for Christโs sake. Iโm tired, you know, Iโm not a young man anymore,โ he said without sentiment.
I hope heโs not doing this because he feels sorry for me, was what I was thinking. I heard my Dadโs voice, and he said, โBe grateful he offered you a job! Youโll be in the centerfold of high rollers.โ Dad still managed to interface my life in admonishment and disapproval. He was not just in my head. He was in command of my choices. His disapproval was still the beam I ducked from. Sometimes I felt his presence; like you do when a cat enters a room silent as snow.
The next day I called Jack and told him I could start the following Monday. Jack is a legend in Beverly hills; he cut cloth for the Rat Pack, Jackie Gleason, Tony Martin, Cary Grant President Truman and Allen Smiley.
A custom suit starts at three-thousand dollars. I stood by the front windows folding the finest cotton shirts, cashmere sweaters, and ties. Jack jogged back and forth, from the tailor shop to the retail shop, to the telephone, juggling all their demands with explosive keenness and a lot of cussing. This was a stage I wasnโt prepared for; the illustrious display of wealth on the street. Iโd forgotten people still have their own drivers, and valets open the shop doors, and limousines double park in the middle of the street. It just dazzled me into a sort of trance.
โLily! Youโre standing there like a lick of honey in a hive of rich bees. Want me to introduce you to one of them?โ
โIโm not ready.โ
โFor crying out loud! What are you waiting for? Stop looking out the window for Christโs Sake. Get them to look at you!โ Jack escorted me to the womenโs collection and yanked out a suit.
โTry this on. Youโre a six right?โ
โYes, howโd you know?โ
โWhatta’ you think I do in this shop? Weigh turkeys.โ
The best time of the day was four oโclock in the afternoon. Jack fixed himself a high ball, turned up the volume on a Frank Sinatra CD, and took off his mask. He poured me a drink, placed a bowl of mixed nuts on the coffee table and stretched out on the leather sofa.
We both wanted to talk about Dad.
โI watched a documentary on Ben Siegel; they alluded that dad had something to do with Benโs murder.โ I said.
โYouโre lucky your father will never hear you say that.ย Dad spent a lifetime in fear that theyโd take him out too. He tried to stay away from the business, he wasnโt even allowed back in Vegas after one incident. You know about the Ryan business?โ
โNo. What was that?โ
โForget it.โ He stood up and filled his glass again.
โYour father had a temper, but he was a rose petal compared to Siegel. Anyway, Dad couldnโt leave this goddamn town; he was afraid they wouldnโt let him come back.โ
โBut he got his citizenship in 1966. Why couldnโt he leave after that?โ
โIt was youโ he was afraid something might happen. These other guys like Meyer and Costello–they were afraid of nothing.โ
โI met Meyer.โ I said.
โYeah, so you know.โ
โI donโt know. Meyer was very gentle.โ
โYouโre Al Smileyโs daughter! Thatโs different. He wasnโt always so gentle.โ Jack shook his head, private thoughts stirred.
โYour Dad tried to stay low, but he couldnโt walk away from the thing,โ he said shaking his head.
โWhat thing?โ I persisted.
โFor Christโs sake, what are we talking about? You know, the Mafia.โ
โMy father wasnโt in the Mafia!โ
โSweetheart Iโm just telling you what I know. Maybe Iโm wrong.โ
โBut he couldnโt have been. I mean my mother wouldnโt have married him.โ Jack threw his arms up in frustration.
โHe was Siegelโs partner, and then Roselliโs right arm! When Johnny was murdered your father changed.โ Jack shook his head regrettably and continued.
โHow did he change?โ I asked.
Just then the door swung open and a distinguished man in a suit and overcoat walked in.
Excerpt from soon to be finished book, Smiley’s Dice
THE SNOW SEDATED the choppy feeling in my stomach, the conjecture ofย discovering why my father was wired with anxiety. His whole life was a chase scene: arrest him, convict him, send him to Russia, and never pull the tap from his apartment, or the FBI guys from his tail.
Me,ย Diane Friedman and Cindy Frisch.
Now there is a wash over my interpretation of his obsessive, protective, paranoia, distrust, and interrogation of my friends. I wonder if those gals I grew up with knew about Dad from their parentsโ. I relied heavily on the open arms of my friend’s families. They’re remembered more than my teachers: The Blair’s, Bourneโs, Both Friedmanโs, Frischโs, Hoffmanโs, Pindler’s, Saunders, Schwadelโs,ย Taubmanโs, and the Tefkin’s.ย Hope I didn’t leave anyone out.ย I left out the Berman’s and the Crosby’s.
THE LISTS OF LIFE
WHAT ARE THESE LISTS...ย the long list is the list you started as a youth without even knowing you were making plans for your future. This is the list that does not have to be in writing, keyed in a Blackberry or posted on the calendar.
The long list is about cutting out, shocking the system and coming back unharmed. It is an exceptional adventure sensation we visualize while waiting for a flight at the airport, for the neighbor to turn off the leaf blower, for the light to turn green.
All of the things we monitor in our lives, like the need to have a cavity filled or checking the coolant level is multiplying and that short list is so long we rarely have time to consider the long list.ย None of those items will make any difference in tenย years, not one.
The short list is a big obstacle in the way of the long list. By the time we get to the long list, we may be crippled by fear, turned into a sofa shouting grumpy cynic or, worse than all the above, we may have forgotten what we wanted.
Waiting too long to start an adventure on the long list is looking at me in the face. It isย September, t
his is the month of change. Itย is going to be autumn, and if you live in a seasonal climate, it is going to land on your front porch.ย Before the fall is scooped up in garbage bags and placed by the dumpster, my nextย adventure is moving to the short list.
SARATOGA SPRINGSย BATTLEFIELD 2010- OFF THE LONG LIST
SINGULAR DAYDREAMING
DAYDREAMING
When I watch my wild birds, I daydream of their freedom.
When I listen to Wes Montgomery I dream of Brazil, and riding on a float at Mardi Gras, just once, with a feather hat, and dressed like Rita Hayworth.
When I sit at my desk and look at my motherโs photograph, I dream of the lunch we never had, and the lunch we did have, inย Bullockโs Garden Room, watching the fashion show and discovering tuna salads.
When I lie in bed at night I dream of him, whomever he is, wherever he is, and his strong shoulder cupped around my head, watching an old Cagney movie.
When I shovel snow I dream of California, of old Del Mar and running along the shore barefoot.ย When I walk along Palace Avenue in Santa Fe,ย I dream of walking in Brooklyn, or 5th Avenue at about 6 pm, when everyone pours into the street, a fountain of limbs and accessories.
Daydreaming unlike night dreaming where we are flying, conquering, or battling some inner masked trauma, illuminates where we want to be, and who we want to be, and if you take it seriously, how to get there. The medicine of daydreaming is unmatched by books, health food, vitamins, yoga, religion, mind altering experiences, it’s the essence of who we are, it defines our reality.
Mostly these days, I daydream
m of finishing the longest work-in progress book and as my pal Blair says, finish and move on with your life. For those of you who know me, when the time comes for a diligent writing routine, the act is outwardly selfish. Engagements canceled,ย phone is not answered, and my email correspondence drops off.ย If a trauma settles in my mind while Iโm writing, the rhythm dissipates. Avoidance of the temptations that can draw me away from the work; men, my gal pals problems, Rudy falling off the ladder, and a vacant income.
As I assemble my columns, government transcripts, book excerpts, and emotions into a page of writing what is different this time is I know what belongs and what doesnโt. The worst part of writing for me is vacillating, that mind twist of indecision. It is like the indecision of moving, or breaking up, or taking a different outlook, one youโve never even considered before.
The world we are living is not familiar; everyday it erupts with an inconceivable corruption, act of violence, and viciousness against humanity. It’s not the Italian roast coffee that wakes me up, itโs world news.ย I feel less and less a part of the humanity and more like a wild creature that is fighting for the past. My outlook on social clubs, synagogue and church congregations, group classes, and all that letโs meet up organizing makes a lot of sense now. Especially if you donโt have children, or a life mate the temptation to retreat into your own world of fantasy is irresistible. My next thread will be on the single life, I can claim expertise in that!
Last night a stranger in a sports jacket, silver hair, and polished shoes sat beside me at the Staub House. He struck a conversation and within fifteen minutes he said, ” I’m going to the Chamber Music Concert series tonightย and next week I go to three operas. ” My interior dialogue is assessing him; he’s very presentable, wears glasses well, and loves the arts. Maybe he will invite me. We continue chatting and then suddenly he switches tenses; it is no longer I, now it is we don’t live in Colorado in the winter, we have a house in Tuscon.
After a few travel stories he says,” I have an extra ticket for tonight. Would you like to go? I’m meeting some friends afterward at the Compound.”ย A second of hesitation on my part, as this is the temptation I was talking about.
” I’d have to change and you’re running late.”
”ย I guess you’re right. Will you be here tomorrow night?”
” Maybe.”
What’s interesting today looking back, is that he didn’t even lie about being married or involved long-term.ย Men use to lie about that didn’t they?ย I mean what’s so unusual about having a tryst with a married man today? Daydreaming is not indecisive or dishonest. Maybe one of the most genuine of vices.
http://www.positivelypresent.com
SUMMER IN SANTA FE
All I SEE AT THIS HOUR IS
dinner for most of the USA. Imagine all those people, dining in separate uniqueness. The walls of imagination merge with internal images, from the media, personal experience, and true life stories. What I think of at dinner time is never the same at ten oโ clock in the morning. The labyrinth of safety, family, friends, security ALL colliding with the unknown, seems to be the most innocent of emotions. It is also a time that springs bright-eyed realizations, recognition, and a time when our mirrors move toward us. Who we surround us with is who we are.
The wind is sullen as it has gone from the spruce tree outside my window.
I want to get up and take a long walk, listening to the sound of my own steps on the brick walkway. I walk outdoors onto my steps and sit on a pillow watching the birds flock to a fresh pour of seeds. The silence is like a mirror to me. This un-sound so clear and virgin in Santa Fe, brings me back to my adolescent years in Hollywood. The nights my father went out, allowing me the freedom to explore outside. I would run down Doheny Drive to Santa Monica Boulevard and just keep running. It was on those windy Santa Ana nights that Iโd run the longest. I was running because the need to express something was bulging through my soul. This night is like that, only I donโt feel like running, I am listening to the sounds of silence. Watching the shadows that look like ghosts, and the clouds that appear to have messages, and how everything is different when you are alone.
July is expectant there is expectancy everywhere you look. The blossoms on the tree limbs are blooming, the birds have evacuated their nests and begin singing early in the morning, and insects eject themselves from their hidden corners. I donโt know what summer is like for a man, Iโve never asked any man, but I am going to tell you what summer is like for one woman.
The essence is sensuous, and for a woman, it is an overture.
We strip down the layers of clothing; replacing socks with sandals, and sweaters with t-shirts. When I hear birds and watch them in the trees, I think of babies and innocence. There are flowers shooting through the heavy clasp of winter dormancy, and when they do, the colors remind me to replace all the black pants and turtlenecks with pastel shades of coral and blue.
The sunlight radiates through my skin and warms everything. My heart feels like it has has been through a tune-up. My body wants to dose in sea water, eat less, run up Canyon Road, listen to music, dine al fresco, and get pedicures. All of this preparation is to tune up the romantic notes and to get YOUR ATTENTION. It is time to bring you out of the garage, or wherever you go in spring, and to notice that we are blooming.
Surprise us with flowers, a new hat, or a picnic on the banks of the Rio Grande. Our attention is on our surroundings; we will want to buy flowers, and baskets and new cushions for the patio furniture. We change our lipstick color, comb our hair different, and we look for new ways of expressing how good we feel.
If you live in Santa Fe then you understand when I say slow down summer do not leave us.
โIs there any feeling in a woman stronger than curiosity? What would a woman not do for that? Once a womanโs eager curiosity is aroused, she will be guilty of any folly, commit any imprudence, venture upon anything, and recoil from nothing.โ
Excerpt from Guy De Maupassant, โAn Adventure in Paris.โ
SHEETS OF LIFE AND DEATH
SPREADING THE SHEETS ON THE BED, IN THE SHY MORNING SUNLIGHT,ย THE TASTE OF TURKISH COFFEE ON MY TONGUE,ย THE CONVERSATIONAL RHYTHM OF NEW MEXICANSย andย SPANIARDS SALTED BY YEARS OF CONFLICT AND CONQUESTย SOUNDING MORE LIKE BIRDS.ย I TOOK A CORNER OF THE SHEET ANDย SWEPT OUT THE WRINKLES.ย MAKE LOVE ON SHEETS, MAKE BABIES, SLEEP.
EVERY ACT OFย LIFE IS CAPABLE OF IMAGINATION AND EDUCATING US.
THERE MUSTย BE SOME REWARD FOR THOSE WHO MAKE A GREATER EFFORT
AT BEING AND BECOMING,ย ANAIS NIN DIARYย
MY HEAD IS RICH WITH OBSERVATIONS, SCINTILLATIONS AND SENSORY STIMULATION
THE RICHNESS OF THE ATMOSPHERE IN UNTAMED GARDENS,PATHWAYS, TREES, AND THE BABES OF NEW MEXICO.
TAOS, GORGE BRIDGE ย 
THE RATTLER
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SOMETIMES I GET MY PRIMITIVE MOOD, which unfortunately gets easier and easier as time goes. I pack my little belt sack with water and a bag if Frito’s (and i love my freakin Fritos) and off to the desert i go, just to see my little friends that scurry around out there in a World that time forgot. One day i was up on the Mesa, before dropping down into the desert and i looked down into this ravine far below meโ and saw a rather sandy looking area with 3 poles sticking up. It was to far to make out exactly what it was, but looked like it needed to be explored. So i climb down this rocky hillside past all those beautiful desert plants and cactus in bloom and follow the waterfall area down as i made my way to those posts.
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As i rounded a turn, there in front of me were the posts i had seen. All in a row, extremely weathered and about 5 feet tall. One had a metal sign on it from the State saying that proceeding past that point could be hazardous to your health and to not proceed as it was against the law. The next post over, someone had stuck the full headed mask of a gorilla on it, all weathered and cracked with the fake hair a burnt red…..the next post had nothing.
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You probably already know that nothing inspires me more to proceed that a sign that says, KEEP OUT. Especially one that has the word DANGER on it. That, and the Gorilla mask said, this could be a very exciting hike. So off i go, rounding the posts and alternately climbing down boulders, waterfalls and along sandy washes as i made way down to the desert floor. I came across an oasis with Palm trees and reeds with some water and i kept going. Just a beautiful day. ย The wind I could hear as it brushed past the fronds. Continuing on for another mile or so, i came across a small stream that meandered along a beachy type area with sand that spread out for almost 20 feet. In the sand by the stream i could see the little feet prints of the creatures that come for water. It was surreal down in there. No trace of civilization. As I’m walking along, just as i stumble on a rock protruding up from the sand i hear that familiar rattling noise that I’ve heard before.ย At that point, i was already loosing my balance and falling over and there was nothing i could do, but put out my arms to brace the impact on the ground. I had no idea where the snake was…..all I knew was that it was way to close and i was just hopping i didn’t land on top of it. So I hit the ground and i don’t hear the rattle anymore and I’m thinking I must have been hearing things. I slowly lift myself up and peek over this small boulder and there it was, right freaking next to me, all coiled up and ready to strike, eye level, but oddly enough, not rattling. So i stand up and we both just checked each other out. Then i made my way back up the wash and waterfalls and back to my car. I was thinking later, that maybe that empty 3rd post had some type of meaning…………………..
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A RATTLER OR A PAL
A full transcendental moon dipped into the black-out mountain evening, has cured me of interior turmoil for the time being. This is part of adventures in livingness what locals call the bu. TO BE CONTINUED
I WALKED ALONG THE BLUFF OF DECKER CANYONย overlooking the Santa Monica mountains and listened to the breeze stream through palm and eucalyptus trees.ย Medication from nature loosened the wires in my guarded nervous system.ย ย A new current of suspicion, tension and distrust entered the zone between Madam C.ย 
As a woman who beholds her best gal pals, and runs into the arms of women who send out invitations for friendship, Iโm susceptible and gullible to hidden motivations.
After the rain walk, doused in mist and droplets I scurried up the hill to my shack. The room I rented from Madam C smelled musty after the rain.ย It is linked to her boudoir by an open patio where we shower. ย During the day, our paths cross a dozen times in the kitchen, in the hallway, and in my room.
โ LouLou, are you there? LouLou, let me see what you are wearing, I love those earrings, where did you get them? LouLou we are going to Westlake tonight. There are a lot of very rich men there. Is my hair color okay? Yes you look beautiful. Loulou did you lock the door? Did you close the gate? You left your clothes in the dryer. Where is Lily, (the cat) Will you watch Koui, (her furry partner) for me tonight?ย ย Yes, yes yes.
As I entered my room, rain water was dripping in bold droplets on the rock floor. Madamย stuck her head in to speak.
“Oh my god, what is this? Oh I canโt believe it. Her hands massaged her forehead, and her face twisted into a vaccination of anguish.
โ Itโs not that bad, ” I assuredly replied. I meant it too.
โ Oh the money I will have to spend! Juan, (her runaround helper) is called and ordered to come at once.”
โ Look Juan! What are we going to do?โ
Juanย mumbled something I canโt recall and we all stared at the rain coming down.
โ You will have to move, you canโt stay there. I will put you in the Artists Studio. Itโs more money. Thatโs all I can doโ
โ How much more?”
โ Two hundred.โ
โ Eck.โ
โOr you can leave?โ
I turned away to hide my alarm.
That night I watched over Koui in C’s living room and played with the remote mostly because the screen wasnโt taking effect on my disposition. I felt a bit unwelcome, as if I pulled the rain from the sky.
In the morning, she greeted me courteously, โ Are you ready to move.. Juanย and I moved my suitcases, bedding, photos and twelve pairsย of shoes to the studio. It was lovely, a high-pitched ceiling, aquamarine walls, and private patio with shower, bathroom and kitchen.
โ Well, you like it?โ
โ I love it!โ
โ Well then show it. You should be happy all the time. Life is not easy, I know my dear.ย Adjustments are necessary. You donโt have a mama and papa to look after you. Itโs up to you.
โ But C I am happy?โ
Later on she sent me a text. She invited her neighbor Andrew to dine with us, โ I am doing this for you. He is a producer, Maybe he can help you.โ
I prepared dinner in my new studio, listening to Ray Charles, dancing in a celebratory mood.
โ LouLou, Andrew is here, C breezed into the patio, draped in scarf, and a exotic maxi dress. I waved them in.
Andrew handed me a lemon frosted cake and a bottle of red wine.โ We all chatted at once. then C blurted out,ย “Why didnโt you use my kitchen?”
I am making dinner and cleaning up. You just sit and enjoy.
Dinner rocked along with intensity;ย C and Andrew discussing water rights, neighbors, and her vacation rentals. After dinner Andrew stood up, 6โ3โ and whispered , ‘ can we go into your area?’ C must have heard, because she spun away.
We drank wine and Andrew unbuttoned his witty humor, on-setย stories, and compliments. I immediately caressed his presence and we ended up at his quarters;ย an unruly wedge of land so blackened we could not see anything but the stars.ย Behind us was his lodge; a spit and glue log cabin covered in palm frowns.ย I found his eccentricity appealing as his smile. He really didn’t give any thought to conventionality.
โ What kind of movies do you make?” I asked.
โ Rotten ones, I mean really bad. The last one I didnโt even see. B sci-fi flicks, reality shows, that I canโt stand to watch, and documentaries.โ
โ Documentaries have turned into dramas, I love them.โ
“Yea, theyโre good. I filmed Sundance and Cannes.ย Listen, Iโm not a devotee of the business, I donโt kiss ass, and I donโt go to star parties, or read about them. I got fired off a film because I addressed Reese Witherspoon without knowing who she was.”
โWhat?โ
โ Yea, thereโs a hierarchy to the business you have to deal with. Are you cold? Youโre shivering. Here put my jacket on. โ
Andrew walked me down the uneven dirt road with a flashlight and a steady arm. His size in height and bulk denotes power, but it is his effortless mannerisms, laughter and shuffling footsteps that remind me of a comfortable sitting chair.
โ Do you like museums?โ
โYes!โ
โYou want to go tomorrow? You been to LCMCA?โ
I wasnโt even sure which one he meant but I said yes!
We took off the next morning in my Rover, so I would adjust to driving in Los Angeles again. We stopped at Dukeโs for breakfast, sat on the patio under a canopy of bougainvillaea.
โ Iย am having a panic attack.”
โ Why?โ
โ Iโm so happy!โ Life was so spectacular at that moment; to lean back and set my heart into the sea, sky, and eat a fish sandwich.
Andrew threw his head back and laughed.
โ Could we make one stop first at Saks. I have some jewelry they have to send out?”
โ Do you know how to get there?” He asked.ย Andrew moved from Manhattan four years ago.ย โ “Are you kidding? Saks Beverly Hills is my Tiffanyโs.โ
To be continued
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 