FATHER’S DAY AFTER HIS DEATH

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Overlapping Father’s Day is a mirage of life experiences tucked into memory prescriptions you take on a stormy day. A relic of my history rises and reminds me of the fear I once broke through.

It was 1983, and I was poised on a terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Venice Beach. It was March, the month my father died, and I stared at the horizon at dusk, imagining my freedom taking flight. Where would I go? Without his presence in Los Angeles, and my sister, who had already moved to New York, I was terribly alone. The replacement came in summer flings, with men who had crossed my path; a photographer, a New Jersey computer technician with a brassy voice and Joe Pesci humor, and every few days, Kenny, a former boyfriend, dropped by to smoke his pipe of philosophy and blow long-winded ideas on where I should move.

“I really want to move to Canada,” I said.

“For what? To go ice-skating?” He said between puffs.

“I have family in Vancouver.”

“What family? You’re an orphan now.”

“I am not. I have cousins in Vancouver. My father’s nephews.”

“Oh, yeah. When was the last time you saw them?”

“When I was twelve.”

“Terrific! That’s a solid-ass plan. So what will you do in Canada?”

“Get a job in real estate.”

“Lue! Wake up. You can’t get work in Canada unless you’re a citizen. Forget that idea. You’re better off staying here; look where you are: Santa Monica, the beach at your feet. Are you crazy?”

“I don’t belong here any longer.”

“You don’t belong to anywhere; what you need is to stop trying to be a big shot like your father.”

“I am not!”

“When was the last time you left the country? When you were eighteen? Go to Rio, you’ll have the time of your life, or Italy, or Greece–it doesn’t matter. Just take the chance and see how you land on your feet. You’re a dreamer; it’s about time you made one of your dreams come true.”

In the next few weeks, I met with Larry, my boss, who was liquidating his real estate portfolio to retire at 45. Larry wasn’t just an investment visionary; he was passionate about social, political, medical, scientific, and human interests. He was a genius.

“You can stay here another year–I’ll find something for you to do, but you’ll be bored,” Larry told me.

“Larry, I don’t know where to go.” I wiped a tear. He ignored it.

“You have to get out of LA. You’ll never meet anyone here. You think you’ll be introduced to someone riding up and down the elevator in Century City. I’ve spent a lot of time in Del Mar and Rancho Santa Fe. They’re nice people. You have a chance there; go down, spend a few days, and tell me what you think. I’ll help you. Now, stop crying. “

I drove down in Dad’s black El Dorado, and parked at Del Mar Beach right next to the lifeguard station at the Poseidon Restaurant. I opened my suitcase, took out a bathing suit, and went into the beach bathroom. The tile was wet and smelled of seaweed and salt. I walked barefoot down to the beach. It was early spring, and the sand was unmarked. A few surfers jogged past me, blonde and bronzed like the Beach Boys. I followed them down to the seashore. In every direction, there was this untouched canvas of light and color; even the beach houses retained their natural sandy simplicity.

After I swam in the ocean, I went back to the bathroom, changed into dry clothes, and walked into town. A man with a beard rode past me on a horse and waved. I picked up a Reader and read the rental advertisements on the patio of Carlos and Charlie’s, the corner café. A roommate advertisement caught my eye: “Roommate Wanted to Share large two-bedroom overlooking Torrey Pines Reserve.” I called, and a man who went by the name of Smokey answered the phone. He invited me to come by for a look. His voice was predominantly ranch-friendly, so I took a drive over. It did occur to me on the drive that I was taking that chance Ken was blowing in my ear, and I was listening to Larry, who told me that people in San Diego were different.

“Hi, I’m Smokey. Come in—would you like something to drink? Too early for cocktails, unless you want one.”

“No thanks. How long have you lived here?”

His eyes were animal-alert, his face tanned, and his hair cut short but made to look long. His smile was unfiltered with hidden motives, and he was bull-legged.

”I moved from Pittsburgh; I’ll never go back except to see my folks. This is paradise. Don’t you think? I’ve lived here for two years. I rent out one room, because I hate full-time work. I’m more entrepreneurial. You don’t have to worry about my motives. I have a girlfriend, and I’m in love with her. She doesn’t stay here. I go to her house. You’ll have your space, and if you need a friend, I’m here. Come out on the balcony.”

I followed Smokey, and we stood on the terrace overlooking the lagoon and marshlands of the reserve. To the west, the ocean and the stump of Torrey Pines Mountain.

“Wait till sunset; you’ll never want to leave. Come look at your room. I can help you move if you want.”

The room was downstairs, his upstairs, and a stairway of trust in between.

“I’ll take it. When can I move in?”

“Whenever you wish.”

WRITING FOR TRUTH LIKE DRILLING FOR OIL

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A momentary connection occurred to me last night after watching, “There Will Be Blood” about drilling for oil. The oil derrick is the outline, or the notes scribbled in a journal. Then the pipes are set in place, like words in a sentence, then paragraphs. Our characters come into view some muscular and brazen like the drillers, welders, rig workers and mud loggers. Once those elements are configured in the oil field or in sensory perception the story begins. The paragraphs build into pages and the pages build a story.

The writer digs for substance for soulful spiritual contemplation and he builds on it. Sometimes it comes like a gush of oil. Other times it bubbles at the surface and goes nowhere. When the bubbles recede, we move on to another location internally and externally and we begin to dig for a new well story.

These ruminations came to me after watching the film, especially poignant to me as my father at the age of fifty left a life of gambling and mafia assorted activities and learned to be an oil producer. He was introduced to Howard Hughes through Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello and Howard introduced Dad to a wildcatter in Houston named Lenoir Josey. My mother and father moved to Houston from Los Angeles in 1949 and into the Shamrock Hotel, that being the hotel used in the film Giant, and Edna Ferber’s book, about Glenn McCarthy, played brilliantly by James Dean. He built the Shamrock, and it opened on St Patrick’s Day 1949 (the pool was so large you could water ski across) Glenn became close friends with my father. I met him once in Los Angeles at a lunch with Dad. He was broken, by his loss of fortune. and friends. I recall a face withered by disappointments.

Josey as my father referred to him took my father under his wing and tutored him in the business of oil engineering and oil production It was a gamble and my father a life long gambler on everything loved being in the oil business. I didn’t intend to wave my father’s story into this but intentions in writing as many things in life surprise us.

If J. Edgar Hoover hadn’t refused my father’s request to reside in Houston to continue the oil business I would have been born in Texas. My father was forced to move back to Los Angeles and as Hoover predicted he went back to gambling. During his time with Josey, he amassed twelve oil leases in states across the Southwest and Midwest and when he died that part of his life was handed down to his children in royalty leasehold interests. That was when oil was $17 a barrel. But Josey had passed and his son no longer honored the handshake agreement between his father and mine and forced us to sell our leasehold interests for a shameful amount.

To be continued

LIVING AS A LONER.MINIMAL MAYHEM LIFESTYLE-OCEAN, SKY, SUNLIGHT WONDER.

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FEEL, THINK, AND REACT. Tumbling through all the transitory advice forces me to examine more closely whom to believe. I’ve never been a leader, nor a follower, I walk in between, trying to pave a pathway to peace of mind. Maybe that is unattainable as I am in a cultural, political, medical, financial, and socially reimagined world. It reminds me of being a teenager when life was questionable, and confusion was like a stinging bee we couldn’t swap away. So, in my senior year in high school I started writing in a notepad. Gradually, almost supernaturally I withdrew from my gang, and spent the weekends in a Cafe with adults, or in the library. The loner label pleated my pants.

Loners were portrayed in film, books, and art as mysterious, untouchable icons. They even became romanticized as people of superior cerebral awareness. I’ve met and gained friendships with several over the last few decades. It may be that loners have thin skin, they absorb the ethereal and reality, so in many situations the absorption is too weighty and the loner cuts loose before the party is over, cancels at the last minute, and doesn’t answer the phone. Talking, engaging, evaporating into another person feels herculean for me sometimes.

Does isolation relate to the intensification of rancorous physical assaults in streets and shops, which is my pestering pursuit today. Are all these perpetrators unloving, and live amongst the unloved? People are shot because their hamburger wasn’t properly served on time, or they have a different opinion. I was living in Los Angeles in 2018, and one day driving down Pico Blvd I noticed a sign, “Walk in Anger Management.” Maybe we need to convert a few drive-thru food diners to Anger Management centers. It sounds amusing. If I was financially able, I’d open one in every major city.

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THIS CULTURE is unimaginable for a woman who grew up in the Love and Peace generation, or even into the eighties and nineties. We didn’t shoot one another, maybe a fist fight, or a shouting match, but not murder in cold blood. Could this macabre movement be abated by friends who love you more when you are gentle and kind? It cannot be that simple, or could it? When I used to rage about some occurrence that tattered me personally, Dodger would come to me and say,

‘Greta put your guns down,’ that always made me laugh, and then we’d talk out what triggered my fury.

THE COMFORT OF EXHIBITING life on paper. It is not the act of writing with pen and paper moving along at a steady rhythm; it’s the activation of the heart and mind, collaborating to unravel the relevant from the irrelevant. To reach this state of matrimony, a writer doesn’t need a Tuscan Villa or an English Castle, but experiences that flake off the skin and shake out relevance. What I’ve rediscovered is that without a lot of stuff to organize, the mind is free to think, more time to create and effect essential decisions. Narcissism is sacrificed and replaced with more visceral makeup. Minimalist living has erased my past, and that is as transforming as day to night.

PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are puzzled by too much solitude, or not enough. There is an inner exploration happening, unfolding like spreading new sheets on my bed, that solitude has befriended me all my life, in the best of times and the tedious. I have to find the frolic and follies in the world that I created. I have to laugh alone, so I watch screwball comedies, seek humor in my irregularities; wearing a sweater inside out, pouring coffee into a wine glass for a cocktail, and chuckling when I keep forgetting where I left my phone. Laughing at myself is a funnel that leads to writing.

MINIMAL MAYHEM LIFESTYLE PART TWO-

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The first gallery opening I attended. Smashing art by Hunt Slonem, photography by Tim Hardy. Conversation, champagne, and what we all need, social engagement. Unlike a concert, or theater performance where you are seated next to someone you know, art galleries are a sensory of interaction with the artwork, the guests, and the elan of the space. Madison gallery was a warehouse, exposed twenty-foot ceilings, enormity of space, and minimalism in furnishings. It feels like an indoor park.

Once a gallery lover, then a gallery owner, and now seeking a job in a gallery. I joined the mailing list of a dozen galleries, realizing resumes are sifted through by AI and not the owner.

My love of photography began at a museum observing the work of Edward Weston. I used this line when selling my photography in Santa Fe” Photography are stories on the wall., not just the photo, the photographer. Of course you can say the same about a painter, but for me, catching a moment in time, that will never be repeated is poetic.

One guest that visited my gallery said this to me, ” Photography isn’t art.” He was famous, not as an artist but the son of John Huston. I cannot recall his explanation, but I have heard this statement several times and that is why there are so few photography galleries. I’d open one again when the if’s are removed.

One of my favorites by Jim Marshall. Jim caught Bob in a private moment, and let him publish it. An early concert, 1963, with already famous Joan Baez. Fuzziness is my fault.

Daughter of mob boss reveals insight into infamous unsolved murder

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https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.dailymail.com/crime-desk/article-15678303/amp/allen-smiley-bugsy-siegel-mob-murder-unsolved-daughter.html

THE NEW YORK DAILY NEWS INTERVIEW PUBLISHED TODAY. ELIOT FORCE HAS THE FORCE AND FINESSE TO WRITE A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INTERVIEW. THANK YOU ELIOT!!

ADVENTURES IN MISADVENTURES

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SPINNING THROUGH TECHNOLOGY &

TRICKERY

In the last few weeks, adventures in livingness were spent troubleshooting a new laptop. The fourteen-year-old HP frame separated from the screen, the keyboard frame had a crack, copy and paste didn’t work, and something else I can’t recall.

As a born stubborn ( I think it thickened like my midriff) I continued to manage working and watching films with a screen at a 30 degree angle. I was in the middle of a film when the screen suddenly mutated into abstract forms with Chinese text scrawled, moving along.

The next day I chose an HP with a smaller screen (rationing dollars). When it arrived, I discovered the screen was too small, the speakers were muffled, and the text was overlapping when searching.

Back to browsing for a replacement. You’ve figured out that I am not an alpha beast, more like a bee buzzing around all the choices, reading reviews comparing Ram and something new called Razen.

The replacement arrived the next day. Yes, big screen for a writer, and sensitive eyeballs.

Four hours setting up 2-step verification, passwords, scanning codes, and formatting. I called my tech helper, and he walked me through a few steps,

” I can’t find my docs on the desktop.”

” What are the other choices in the drop-down?”

” Personal folder, home, gallery, and PC.”

” Look in personal folder,”

” There they are, all of them! How does that even happen?”

” Technology, now, if you want, I can email a link and get into your laptop, and we can go through the programs you’re not familiar with.”

” Evan, my eyes are bleeding. I need a break.”

” Of course, there is a lot to manage, that’s fine. Why don’t you navigate some on your own, and when you hit a wall, make a list of your questions. How does that sound?”

” Perfect. We also have to delete everything

from the HP I bought and am returning.”

“I can do that.”

“You’re better than the HP!”

Tech Tranquillity

248-429-9144

After a recess, I sat down and spent another four hours pushing through all the windows to see what was behind. What threw me is it did not come with MS Word! A writer without Word is like a musician without an instrument.

Obstacles seem to follow me from one task to another. The last few weeks were with PODS. My furniture, and all that other stuff, is in NY waiting for an address. Now I have one, so I started the process to transport. PODS added $850.00 to my originally agreed price because the drop-off point is eight miles from the original, and without prior notification, they charged my account. Over the past two weeks, I sent four emails. Then I recieved a response that they would honor the original agreed price. Another week passed, no credit. I sent a message to Corporate Headquarters, and today, I received an email that PODs would credit my account for the overage.

I remembered what I learned and took legal action against the mortgage servicer on my home in NY for mortgage misconduct. After three years of legal research, consulting every NY financial agency and mortgage consultants, I retained an expensive attorney, and two years later, it paid off.

Trickery is sneaking into every window in our lives. Put up your defensive drapes and fight it out.

JOCKEYS’ WEAR NIKES TOO

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L. Smiley

After spending several summers at Saratoga Race Track, I discovered I loved thoroughbred horseracing. All my life, I’ve been a spectator of the performing arts. I never watch any sports on television, and I only attend baseball games when my father needs a companion. The art of performance is what led me to experience the racetrack as live theatre.

The racetrack is the stage, the jockeys’ are the actors, and the men and women who fill the bleachers, picnic grounds, Turf Club, and private boxes are the audience. The racehorse is the star celebrity.

The admission tickets, like any show, are based on your seating. You can walk through the gates for $3.00, or you can buy a Box for $100,000 a year. The collage of human emotions, drama, suspense, and danger, are key components to good theater.

Gambling personifies the Shakespearean twist of the racetrack. High rollers and drugstore cowboys wager to win. Some men walk out with a grocery cart of recycled cans, some walk out with enough money to buy a racehorse. They leave by the same gate, and the next day, they come back for more. But why, I ask, is thoroughbred racing not considered an all-around American sport? Why don’t jockeys get athletic respect? These two spheres of lightning truth struck me while I trampled through the mud, one rainy August day at Saratoga Racetrack.

I asked around for opinions. The Governor’s bodyguard remarked that it was a good question. He did not think gambling was the reason, because people bet on sports all the time. He thought maybe that it was because as kids we don’t learn to race horses, like baseball and football. “The public is naïve about Jockeys, because they have never raced.” Another answer I heard was that 200,000 fans fill a ballgame on any given day, and that those numbers don’t compare with horseracing.

I’m not a bettor, and I don’t ride very well, but I am a drama whore. I took my notebook to the Jockeys’ room to ask the Jockeys’ what they thought about this irregularity in sports. Jose Santos had a few minutes to spare.

“Jose, do you feel like America thinks of you as an athlete?”

“We don’t get the respect that we should. I think it’s the gambling. This is the greatest racetrack in America, and there is gambling in every sport, but when you come to the track, you see it right there, and people cannot avoid it. Pound for pound, we are more fit than most athletes.”

I asked Jose what he does aside from riding. He jogs three miles every day, and walks for a mile. He reminded me that if he goes down with the horse, his strength is what gets him back up again. Another misconception is that jockeys only ride for 2 minutes. Well, the race is 2 minutes, but they ride every day of the year. They do not take breaks.

“How does the public perceive you?” I asked.

“In Europe they are treated like movie stars, over here the Jockey is just another person, and in sports, the Jockey is low. I wish we had more respect, but we don’t get the publicity.”

This feels like the guts of the truth; our little minds like to align with other like minds. The leaders of the pack go to football and baseball, and the media follows behind.

Jose remarked that the only time he felt real enthusiasm and support was when he won the Triple Crown. Otherwise, they get a little column in the paper with the results. “The Racing Form is 100 pages, and nothing is written about us.”

“What if there was a Jockey Magazine?”

“Well, that would be great, then the companies would be interested, and we’d get sponsors. When I go out to the park and run, I wear Nikes.” He chuckled, and I lowered my head in shame. My bet is that this can, should, and will change.

EDITING OUR PATHS

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There are reasons to quit and more reasons not to. The one reason that hovers above all is that everything we do in life needs revision. We are never through evolving into more thoughtful, loving, or wise human beings. Every day, there is an opportunity to revise your valor and conviction.

Revising the position you walk, talk, judge, form opinions, contribute to your home, friends, and partners. Discovering what you’ve learned, dreamed, and mastered is your novel. Just as writing a new chapter when the knot tightens, and you are trapped by decisions that are outdated. Antiquities of a former persona.

Changes in life are like undeveloped photographic images, blurred. Mentally, the angles don’t fit, like schedules, routines, and commitments. Returning to former lifestyles and looking at old photographs, what I see is someone else.

This week, I walked into Scripps Clinic for laboratory testing. The last time was 2012, when I was with a former boyfriend. J was all encompassing, all consuming, generous, intelligent, outgoing, and he had to be near me like a new pet. I lasted a year, the obsession of closeness suffocated my spirit and my writing.

After the appointment, I looked across the street at Torrey Pines Science & Research Park, where I was appointed Marketing and Leasing Director in 1986 over 150,000 square feet of vacant space. I visualized myself taking clients, Qualcomm, and the Jonas Salk Institute through the newly built office buildings. My confidence was slightly off when scientists asked questions about the mechanics and cable routes, but I loved that job. My boss was the most intelligent developer I’d met; he carved me into a broad thinker, allowed my off-the-chart ideas and proposals to progress. Tears welled because the memory was enflamed by my long-distance running days up Torrey Pines hillside. I doubt I’d be running today, maybe scuffling. Life is a runway that we have to steer for ourselves. If we allow others to take the wheel, we are not authentic. No one is steering my wheel, and I have hit a lot of potholes and assholes along the way.

The puzzle is how to live, where to live, and for whom. It is the same with manuscripts; they improve with each revision.

RAVELING THOUGHTS ON DEL MAR HOTEL LIFE, EMPLOYMENT, AND MEMORIES.

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AS I AM ABOUT TO ENTER THE ELEVATOR, the guests inside bounce out, SOME SAY EXCUSE ME, SOME DON’T. DO I EXPECT TOO MUCH? YES. I live in a culture of me before you. One woman, as we stood waiting for the elevator, looked at me, ” Oh these elevators are so slow, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but what irks me is the guests outside don’t wait for the ones inside to come out.. they bulldoze.

” This happens all the time, and you’re the first guest who said that.” I was thinking that too! Well, I don’t think people are very happy here, not friendly at all,” she said, relieved. Like it was bottled up and needed a cork to let her speak.

“So it’s not just me!”

” No! I used to live here many years ago, I moved to the Midwest and I love it, ” smiling as if just thinking about going home.

‘ I understand completely. I lived here years ago; it was like living with smiling children who suddenly reformed into I’m first – adults. So serious.”

” Yes! I’m glad I’m only here for a few days. I can’t wait to get home,” she said earnestly.

We parted, and the assurance of my senses was validated. Adapt, now as a Junior Senior, as I am still ready to be playful and honest, but not here. My attention is not to the guests, it is to the staff. Sabrina, Frank, Lorenzo, Jeremy, Nicholas, Trevor, Adam, Jazmin, and a few others. I listen to their stories, feel their pressing preparation to greet guests with jovial expressions, and patience. And checking into a hotel is no hands-on, swipe, scan, and off you go.

I chose a bench, just beyond the entrance, beside the pond and fountain, enveloped in Birds of Paradise, and plants I cannot name. That is my place for coffee and sunrise, and sunset, and a glass of wine. I can see the distant trees over Del Mar, the silhouette of rooftops, and the clouds. And, I see myself forty-three years ago, like Christopher Columbus, when I discovered Del Mar. A vignette of beachcombers, surfers, and a few scientific geniuses, celebrities, and, of course, Dinty Moore’s, and the former just horses racetrack. I was most content with Del Mar since leaving Westwood Village.

Some say wherever you live, all that you possess psychologically goes with you, in a suitcase full of dreams. Mine did, and it has been a month, to fold up those memories, wrap them gently, and go away, not far, just enough to drain what was once.

Employment search is like this: click the link, upload, and then a text, no phone calls, no in-person interviews. The qualifications are two full pages, mostly in acronyms I’ve never heard of, overtime, weekends, and, for that, a trailblazing blessing to be part of the innovators, driven to success, on the cusp of revolutionizing the algorithm-interpersonal technology. Paraphasing one sample description for a Marketing Director. It is more than a Brave New World, it’s All in for ALGORITHMS: a data-tracking system in which an individual’s internet search history and browsing habits are used to.. JOIN, PURCHASE, SELL.

And AI: Machine Learning: This involves training algorithms on data sets to create models that can perform tasks such as making recommendations, identifying patterns, and predicting outcomes.

Deep Learning: A subset of machine learning that uses neural networks with many layers (hence “deep”) to analyze various factors of data.

Natural Language Processing (NLP): This enables machines to understand and respond to human language. TO WRITE YOUR NEXT BOOK?

NEW BOOK REVIEW

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CRADLE OF CRIME : A Daughter’s Tribute

Weaving together events witnessed personally and those gleaned from friends, associates, historians, FOIPA, INS and archives of the Department of Justice, author Luellen Smiley’s memoir is a brief, heartfelt genuine reconstruction of family’s relationships of the past that neither dwells on nor dramatizes the true image of her father Allen Smiley, his allegiance to Benjamin ‘Bugsy’ Siegel and the criminal world.

Author Luellen Smiley details her childhood and growing up days as a gangsters daughter- elusive as it may be by immersing her readers through intriguing happenings of everyday and events of the bygone years that justify her fathers masked behavior and restrictions for his adored daughter.

Definitely ‘Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute’ is a straight forward homage to a father and a triumphant tale of a daughter who broke barriers of secrets to reach the hardcore reality through her hardship and research. A not-to-be missed 5 star read ‘Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute’ is a book for those who care for family morals and values and are willing to accept poignant twists in one setting. Highly recommended.

THE LEGEND LADY OF PALACE AVE

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The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness; one day at a time. People with terminal illness, suffering from a shattered romance, a death of a friend, a natural disaster, always say the same thing; One day at a time.

Walking up Palace Avenue on a day spread with sunlight, and a continuum of power walkers, bikers and runners, passing by in whiffs of urgency, I took my time. I didn’t feel like flexing, just evaporating into the shadows, and the moving clouds. I walked by a little adobe, that once was a dump site for empty bottles, cartons, worn out furniture, and piles of wood. A year later, the yard is almost condominium clean. Just as I was passing the driveway, the little woman whom I’d seen walking up Palace with her bag of groceries, appeared like a gust of history in the driveway of her adobe casita. She wore her heavy blanket like coat and a bandanna on her head. Regardless of weather, she’s bundled up in the same woven Indian coat and long wool skirt. I stood next to her, a foot or so taller, and she unraveled history, without my prompting. She told me about the Martinez family, the Montoyas, and the Abeytas, all families she knew, all with streets named after them. Estelle asked me my name, and then took my hand in her weathered unyielding grip, ‘Oh I had an Aunt named Lucero, and we called her LouLou.’ She didn’t let go of my hand, and then she told me that the families, some names I’ve forgotten, bought homes on Palace in 1988 for $50,000, She shook her finger to demonstrate her point. ‘You know how many houses the Garcias bought? Five! Then they fixed them up and sold them.’

I could have stood there in the gravel driveway listening to Estelle all afternoon. She owns the oral history I love to record; but it is difficult to understand her, she talks with the speed of a southwest wind. We parted and I thought about the times in my life when the smallest of interactions elevates my spirit. In older people, who are not addicted to gadgets and distant intimacy, I’m reminded of how speed socializing has diminished the opportunity for a sidewalk chat.

WRITING TRUTH

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I’m one of you. Adrift, without a direction, waiting on the shore for a wave to break and include us. It is not ho ho ho for us, it is whoa whoa whoa. I’ve learned my lesson; I will not repeat the dissonance, selfishness, and fear that prevent me from engagement with life. My cradle of friends is my family. They want everything to work out. For their patience and comfort, I will not let them down!

How much stronger must I be? Isn’t five years of punishment enough? My smile is feigned, my heart is sliced in two, and my spirit is spoiled. Today, the darkness outside and within shatters what could be a day different. I could be outdoors, and brave the cold, work out in the gym, window shop on a whim, and fill someone’s frown with smiles.

I have the hours to transform; it is eleven am, but I haven’t slept a night through in a week or more. I live a melodramatic life in my dreams; they are symbolic messages of my vulnerability, fragility, mistakes, and unrealistic expectations. My former self lived with all I wanted and needed. I woke with enthusiasm, direction, confidence, and exhilaration. I loved and was loved in return. You ask what happened? Betrayal, and then gaslighting, using callous actions, of destruction, emotionally, psychologically, and financially. What I cherished in him vanished, and a ghostly evil power, within another woman, chained him and locked me out.

Now I wait for the final curtain to close so that he will be a memory instead of a menace. Almost there, but will that liberation convert my stagnation into stimulation?

Hope, prayer, discipline, and forgiveness are the weights that build my strength. And of course writing. If I didn’t have this way of expression, I couldn’t have made it this far. My writing is my wand of magic, for me and I hope for you out there. I’m one of you, an outsider, an introverted extrovert, a dreamer, a risk taker, and at the starting gate of my triple crown. To be continued.