PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE PART TWO

April 4, 2014November 2, 2022 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

THE PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are puzzled by too much solitude, or not enough.

December and January. I fought what seemed endless solitude with my Irish Russian temper; bashing and short-tempered with customer service, world news, and mindless tasks. Then in February, it seemed that the fire dulled, and consciousness triumphed. It was a long wait; sometimes I have convinced my basement of survival would sink. It did not. There was an adventure that I did not know was happening until now, three months later.
I learned how to make friends with myself, and find the frolic and follies in the world that I created. I had to laugh alone and so I watched screwball comedies and recognized the humor of my irregularities; wearing a sweater inside out, pouring coffee into a wine glass for a cocktail, and chuckling up and down the staircase, because I kept forgetting where I left my phone. My head was elsewhere-daydreaming.
I learned how to repair house calamities; screw and unscrew doors and windows, seal up cracks, and paint. I rejuvenated 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! ‘I needed to see a transformation, and at the time, my direction was to convert this house into the museum of cool. Then I would get a swell of vacation rental bookings from Trip advisor, VRBO, and Homeaway, and drive west, north, and south; lifting up the curtain on a new and more exhilarating act.
A surprise from the weather channel, we were basking in the sunlight in March. The winter was milder than I had ever experienced here; and how could I complain when half of the USA was sliding, sinking, or snowbound without a way out. The ease of adaptation was preserved by the horrific scenes in the Midwest and East. In the kitchen; my heart simmered while stirring my weekly slumguillion gumbo, stew, and casseroles, chopping away while listening to Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and Frank Sinatra.
Winter has in the past been a funnel that leads to writing. Not this winter; my last column was in November. The activity of pushing forward became important, and the results were compelling. If I was not able to write it was because the material was not dry. TOO

LET A MAN BE A MAN LET A WOMAN BE A WOMAN

January 16, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

Dress for them, cook for them, touch for them, and give them a chance to love you.

December 7, 2013December 7, 2013 ~ LouLou

Snowflakes, and charcoal sketched clouds soufflé the sky.

“Darling! Please shovel the front porch,” I say to no one as my hand lazily grips
the handle, carelessly moving the shovel.

I watch the street. There are suits
and skirts straddling terrorist chic back packs, and tiny children dressed in
wool coats with tied hats prance behind Mums, on their Saturday shop day.

SOME musicians are playing on
one corner on the other side of the street is the Symphony Hall, squared between a paste
up pattern of colorful ancient theaters, opening doors to restaurant windows lit with
candles, perfumed air, and smoky pubs pack and push blokes and chicks.
I
am in London.
In my home; in Santa Fe, New
Mexico a muscle of winter has squeezed the
noise of street life.
I chose between ribbons and bows sipping and sliding down Palace Avenue,
to eat Chocolate pumpkin cream in zippered toes, on the rug, next to the
fireplace.

Huggin and kissin the Prancers and Dancers of my gang

ITS HOLIDAY SEASON SO SWING, SING, ROCK, WAVE,
SMILE, GIVE
BAKE, READ, CREATE,
KISS CHRISTMAS.

OUR LIFE WAITS TILL WE CAN

December 4, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

WAKE UP in the morning and be thinking of someone else.

Photo from 1991 as I launched

the Jammers; aspiring Afro Cuban, HipHop

and Jazz Funk dance Combo.

That was just as satisfying YES, as falling in love! Wake up to another voice or voices that need you.

SURREALISM OR MOVEMENT

December 3, 2013December 3, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

I‘ve been stalked by a sensation and image of Loulou, scrambled up in whistles blowing, each one commanding me in a different direction. The annoyance of conflicting orders robs me of my Aladdin ( magic moments),

AS I CLEAR OUT THE FEAR OF NEW FEELINGS . I feel like time is belted with interior stop lights, instructions, and preparation for a new passage to go through. What happens is subtle, but when so much time is placed in introspection, life looses it’s Aladdin. It is time to polish my gold lamp and follow an unknown light. Do you know what I mean?

SAN ANTONIO LOVE AFFAIR

November 22, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

It was the robins egg blue sky

Blowing the whiteness of kitten clouds that caressed the windshield

Etched on a notepad bouncing on my lap

Ink leaking in states unfamiliar.

San Antonio!

Spritzed under the canopy of a Germanic facade

We almost bought a bookstore

With an apartment upstairs

And a laundry room

The highway asphalt burned my soles

The sky dropped lower; like a collapsed ceiling

He was driving into his dreams

Suitcases left open for impulse stops

Riverwalk; in wet steam that clouded my head

Touched by the exotic aroma of jasmine

Slouching on a rib of wealth

And then it was over

Collected in memoirs

Old clothes and postcards

San Antonio; slipped away on a lily pad in the river

THE PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE

November 17, 2013November 17, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

The oaks and elm trees are almost naked; butterscotch leaves are face down, like half eaten lollipops. Lurching in the east; a mass of thick charcoal clouds without any wind to push them towards us. This outdoor stillness and the hum of my refrigerator are subtle signals of the approaching hand of winter. The silence is like a cooking pot cover that secures my spirit into acceptance. Listening to classical piano concerto’s, blue grass on Saturday, the blues on Sunday and rock & roll on Friday. Musicians are my guests, as much as the wild birds that pluck from my feeders.

Sometimes, solitude feels like a draft and no matter how many sweaters I put on, the seclusion tugs at my bones. There are a lot of us soloists that reside in Santa Fe. We are not questioned or scolded for our behavior, we are left alone! If I am drawn into an empty canvass 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 my teeth, my long legs, and 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, drive to Taos, go to a concert, dance at El Farol, take Flamenco lessons, engage strangers in conversation, watch old movies, 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 thick chili stew, iron my clothes or pick up leaves. Living unstructured is a discipline that threads easily some days, and when it doesn’t, I have to control my passion for daydreaming.

My daydreams: to inhale ocean air, to bogey board, to hike, ride horses, go to Lincoln Center, the wine county, Prague, Sicily, and Russia. My passion to be around little children at Christmas and stare at their patent leather shoes, and to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast, to converse on philosophy, the arts, social trends, and the interior life. My passion for impulsive trips on the road to Kentucky and Tennessee, anywhere I’ve never been; I will go. The obstacle I place in front of me; I don’t want to travel alone. I’m plain afraid. I’m afraid to fly more than two hours, my sense of direction is worse than anyone I’ve ever met, and I pack too many clothes to carry, and end up with a raw neck and numb arm.

Once in Annecy, France, I walked for hours trying to find my hotel. I circled the square

twelve times. I’d not eaten a meal in several days because my coin satchel was half full . In a moment, I just fainted and swooped down to the ground. A Frenchman was kneeling beside me when I opened my eyes. We sat on a little iron bench, and he offered to take me to dinner. He was so kind, he kept bringing food to my hotel because he said I didn’t know how to travel.

The train of clouds are still in the east; fluffy white cream and silvery puffs of pastry. They too cannot decide whether to cry; or remain strong and commanding.

Dating is one passion I never had. Even when it was as organic as sharing a cup of coffee or taking a walk after dinner. Dating now is about business and getting connected. It’s selfish sex with a price. I hear men and women tell me these stories and my response freezes. ‘Oh yea, she wanted $250.00 for a few hours; without sex.’ For a woman she is expected to be complete; with independence and like total clarity about who she is and what she wants. ‘He told me I had too much baggage; who doesn’t over fifty?’ I think we are always in an evolution of personal understanding of our experiences. You can’t put people into cross word puzzles and expect them to stay there.

Now, hours later the clouds cried, and their tears pranced in a slight wind. I curled into my favorite club chair and watched a 1937 screw-ball comedy, ” We’re Rich Again.” Like my Dad used to say;’ You’re whole life can change overnight.’ My bed is warm. My friends are loyal. I allow myself to write everyday.

SHEPARD & DARK

November 15, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

SHEPARD & DARK.

CATCH THE ART IN SANTA FE PART ONE

November 2, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

Portrait of Eugenia Huici (Eugenia Errázuriz) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

CATCH THE ART WAVE OF SANTA FE

Living in Santa Fe is a fertile landscape of more than sage, lavender, mud and ancient dwellings. It is where art branches out in new directions of livingness.

Along the path of adventures in the arts, I attended “AT HOME WITH FASHION, presented by ShowHouse Santa Fe in collaboration with Artgraze; a league of interior designers, artists, and galleries to embellish our homes with, “the art of living with art.” They patterned classic and chic Fashion Design on Interiors selected by ShowHouse Santa Fe founders, David Naylor and Jennifer Ashton. The Santa Fe Interior Designers set up shop in a quintessential Santa Fe home and opened the doors to the public to eat, drink, dance, get lost, or be discovered. Along the interior paths of the home, artists, designers, home buyers, and sponsors conversed while behind the scenes; funds were dispersed from a generous monarchy to support the Community Foundation of Dollars4Schools. The designers worked for eight weeks, to transform a modest décor, into a stage setting of flamboyance, élan, and their secret design techniques. The designers; Jennifer Ashton, Jackie Butler, Gloria Devan, Pam Duncan, Emily Henry, Edy Keeler, David Naylor Annie O’Carroll, Lisa Samuels, Paul Rochford and Michael Violante. They schlepped all the furnishings, and accessories, including wardrobe accents, and art work to the home and coutured the house as if it was a model. The epervescese of this lively group spread outdoors, onto a glittering garden patio designed by Catherine Clemens where the best Barbeque chicken I ever tasted permeated the painted postcard silhouette of sunset on the mesa. Who was there? A man in yellow rubber suit, fashion models, filmmakers, photographers, art collectors, and Antique Activists. In the crowd I noticed a distinctive gathering of men and women stylists bearing: squash necklaces, Concha belts, O’Keefing hair styles, and jewelry to stop traffic at Paseo Peralta and Cerrillos Road. The 4747 square foot Las Campanas Estate is listed with Ashley Margetson of Sotheby International Real Estate.

SHEPARD & DARK

October 30, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

Ralphie I served 1966–78 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

THE SCREEN IN SANTA FE scheduled three showings of this Docudrama.

Huh? Sam ol boy lives in Santa Fe. I’ve had bar chats with him, everyone has, and he’s our mascot for independence, accessibility, and still a flush hand of rugged classic looks. Like he should be Ralph Lauren‘s model, not Ralphie.

I figured the theater would be packed so I brought earplugs. I take my films too seriously, and refuse to be interrupted with slurping and munching. Into the first scene; my concentration was so acute I would have protested if anyone said a word. Beginning with the footage; unbelievable home-made movies and photographs. You will see Sam as a youngster on the ranch where he grew up in Central California, Sam leaving home and working his way through puberty. Then we see that chiseled frame of masculine sensitivity as a young playwright in Greenwich Village where you meet Johnny Dark. The dialog between the two men and the dramatization of their feelings about the collected letters they exchanged over a forty-year period is something beyond a reality show.

It is as honest and genuine a continuum of conversation between two men that you’ve ever witnessed. The subjects: their father’s, destiny, fate, women, writing, dogs, tragedy, and loss. Just to name a few. So if you wrap the cinematography around the humor, philosophy and ending that left me in tears, you have a masterpiece of film for the audience.

Yes, there is a dusting of emotions on Jessica Lange.

I walked away feeling as if my life had not even begun. So much life squeezed into one man lead me to question my limits on adventuring. Several lines I recall in particular, to paraphrase Sam;

We can change our lives, our work, our wardrobes, our women, but we never really change. Our essence remains constant. I’ve always felt outside the whole thing, sometimes more than others. As a writer you have to be selfish with your time. I’m always moving, going on the road, I didn’t know that was how my life was going to turn out, but it did.

That kind of admission for a floundering but dedicated writer will last me a while. On documentaries; they don’t get enough attention. I hope this film tears that fence down and let’s the HONEST-REAL-BULLS come through.

HA HA SANTA FE

October 27, 2013October 27, 2013 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

IN THE GALLERY- EVO GALLERY SANTA FE, NM

The panel of experts on appropriation and copyright of

images covered the recent case, Cariou vs Prince. I knew nothing about the case; but it

was a participation of audience and panel that really worked. The humor on the panel did not

overcome, the man in the third row who was knitting. Richard Prince, "Graduation" (2008) was widely cited throughout this case, and was one of the five pieces the Court withheld judgment on today (image via Fordham's IPLJ)

Today I saw a woman in her fifties walking past my house with a dog. She was wearing her apron.

Last week, my phone called Sam Shepard three times, instead of calling Stefanie.

I’M NOT LIEING

October 12, 2013June 10, 2019 ~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

Photo credit to: LOREN TUPLER aka White Wolf.

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness; friendships.

The subject pierced me yesterday morning, and came by way of Anais Nin, a passage in her diary.
“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934 Today, the first in several months that the atmosphere is ripe with thought, and has brought me back to the writing of the moment. The delivery trucks have not opened their doors and dropped their ramps, the garbage trucks have already passed, and the traffic is so slight it feels like Sunday.

Fall is brushing nature with a varnish of sunshine all day, the sky is swimming pool blue, and so I sit in the garden on the lounge chair, shaded by the droopy elm tree. I hear some cheerful shouting on the sidewalk, a horn breaks the sanctuary, and then a dove lands on the wooden lattice and we watch each other. I breathe deep, close my eyes, and feel my noon time tuna sandwich thumping in my belly.

The stream of consciousness is threaded to the deeper blanket of anxiousness. I am going in circles, not physically like I have been moving from one bedroom to another, one closet to another to accommodate, the vacation rental guests. I am in the circle of chaos that seeps into every day activities. Tempers are flaring, combative street encounters rouse the hum of music on my porch, authoritarian behavior is exhuming from Managers and Owners, employees are jumping ship everywhere. People are relocating, selling possessions, or using succulent lips and breasts to lease men for financial support. We are all a bit edgy.

Just as we adapt to one highland of composure we lose another. On Yom Kippur I attended synagogue in Santa Fe. There were only a few empty seats, so I took one and opened my prayer-book. I tried to read the portion I missed but the two women behind me were chatting. The expectation of searching your soul does not come easy when two women are talking. The same annoyance follows me everywhere; I always end up seated next to the talkers. Whether it’s in on an airplane, a restaurant, or a movie theater, the talkers seem to trail me. The passages from Yom Kippur service remind us of: sensitivity, tolerance, love of thy neighbor, selflessness, jealously, and trust. There I sat, silently scolding the two women who continued to chatter and laugh. Rather than deter my soul-searching, I changed seats, and asked forgiveness for my intolerance. Above all my flaws and quirks, the altar of shame lies in the hiss of distrust. It is a hiss that rises from my gut, and enters my brain. It wasn’t always a malignancy; as a young adult I trusted everyone, unless they asked me questions about my Dad. In recent years, the tumor of trust has splintered friendships. The Rabbi chose the subject of trust as his closing narrative. He said that a person who suffers from lack of trust, runs the risk of becoming paranoid. I sank lower on my inner backbone. Yes, that seepage of paranoia has invaded my trusting heart. When I got home Rudy was painting the new double pane door to my room.

“How was the service? Hand me that screw will you?” He asked

“Guess what the Rabbi talked about?” I said and handed him the screw.

“Israel.”

“Well of course that’s embedded in the Torah. But his personal message was about trust.”

Rudy continued to insert the door into the archway with his screw-gun. “You inherited distrust from your father, I don’t know if you can rid yourself of it.”

“I have to!”

“Good. I’m so hurt when you don’t trust me, I mean after thirty years.”

“You still lie.”

“They’re not lies; they’re white lies, so people don’t get hurt.”

“But I know when you’re lying.”

“I know you do.”

“And the lies really hurt.”

“Well then we’re both guilty.”

“You still don’t get it.”

“Yes, I do. You’re not listening to me.”

“You’re right. I’m about feeling, and you’re about telling. ”

Why do we lie; is it to protect the other person’s feelings or

is it because we use deceit and dishonesty to get what we want, If we could change a single human gene; it would be the fib factor. Just imagine how different our life would be.