ADVENTURES WITH THE TIDE OF THE THINKER

October 29, 2014October 29, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

Audrey. Photograph By Edward Quinn

I asked the sky to send the Thinker. Then it rained in southwest furry, small white knots of hail and dark feuding winds. The thinker heard and whistled to me. It was a sweet flutist tone, and he appeared in black and grey, the silver lining of his head like a crown of light. Flashing the boyish grin, he opened his wrestling toned-warm fins to my goose bumpy arms, and I swam along side tentatively. Even though it was my chime, I was unsteady, unwilling to climb on his back, so we swam on our toes, around my house, and the Plaza. We battled sharks from Beverly Hills, whose fins were frozen from love and kindness; we faced one of our own school, who would not lend a dollar on good faith and loyalty for their Merlot Cabernet fish oil, and we strung pearls around each other necks, with a clasp that is easily unhooked. The current drove us through three more days of rowing backward, sleeping quietly without intertwinement, and meeting as friends instead of lovers.
The absence of touch, struck like a lightning storm. I didn’t see it coming, and I may be wrong. To read the Thinker is to understand his language; a circumcision of predictability, logic, or reasoning. Like a tsunami, uncharitable waves of enlightenment he doesn’t even understand drown his soul.
I understood that he airbrushed my appearance, and dropped deep into my eyes as they widened for him. I blushed before he engulfed me, and pressed my undertow.
If tonight was the last swim because of a storm I didn’t see coming, or understand. It is because my eyes blurred by his presence.
The tide goes out, but it always come back. Sometimes it touches where we left off.

SEASONAL BEHAVIOR & ROSH HASHANAH

October 4, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in contemplation. Before the day begins to intersect with my solitude, I sit at my desk in a pre-dawn crystal of clarity. Only the light from a candle shines on a journal of hand written notes. I walked outside to asses the damage of a devilish storm that ravished the night. Leaves dropped from trees and the street is slick with the residue of the storm. Autumn is rising from dormancy; she is painting the leaves pumpkin and cranberry, while impregnating the atmosphere with the perfume of seasonal change. The inversion seeps into my pores.
While shopping at Whole Foods last week, for my first stockpile of chicken tortilla soup, I noticed expressions of contemplation on faces. Not in the choice of their groceries, but a characteristic of preparation for winter. Pumpkins, firewood and potted mums have replaced the outdoor display of flower baskets and lavender. The silence will blanket time beyond the hours of sleep. This is when contemplation is given the freedom to spread over my thoughts and feelings. September marks the disrobing of summer; as if the float of festivities, parties, and outdoor markets were moved into storage.
Last week was the beginning of the new Year on the Jewish Calendar, Rosh Hashanah. Unlike New Years for the traditional American, is a time of contemplation and reckoning of ones faults. We are asked to examine our behavior and plant new seeds of integrity from within.
“Another popular practice of the holiday is Tashlikh (“casting off”). We walk to flowing water, such as a creek or river, on the afternoon of the first day and empty our pockets into the river, symbolically casting off our sins. Small pieces of bread are commonly put in the pocket to cast off. This practice is not discussed in the Bible, but is a long-standing custom.” Excerpt from Wikipedia.
What I do is to take my emotional and physical wardrobe, and move it from the closet in my casita, to the upstairs storage closet. The skimpy and sexy finery are replaced with turtlenecks, leggings and wool. The emotional wardrobe, is pressed down to the fibers, so it can be studied. In this examination, the reflection of myself is not as important as it has been, the stubble of age has bitten me but not in a bitter way. It has burned down my childish selfishness, insistence of acknowledgment, intolerance of behavior unfamiliar to me, and detached me from the wayward choices made by our government. I used to work with the news turned on and the volume down.

This summer, beginning just after my adventure in Malibu with my friend Chantel, my grip on aloofness towards Santa Fe, frustrations associated with publication, and narcissism dissipated. It is possible that one month in the company of Chantal, her vibrancy and generosity softened my reserve. In the last four months, I’ve at last given up tightening against the unmanageable forces that intersect with me, and meet the pleasures of humanity in nakedness. I stood in my doorway, shaded by trees and shrubbery, naked – simply to feel the sensation. In return for this placation of behavior, I was invited by my vacation rental guests into their gatherings and parties; a wedding couple and their twenty-five guests included me in their after party. We cajoled, roused, sang and danced until my neighbor, JD, shamed our festivity and ordered me to shut the party down. It was one-thirty in the morning. I wrapped my arm around his neck, and whispered, ‘Oh, you are so right; I will take care of it. Don’t worry.’ JD, a man with twenty- three civil complaints for noise ordinance disruption against the La Posada Resort across the street, replied ‘Well LouLou, if you don’t, I’ll have to call the police.’ I hugged him tighter, and said. “Of course you will, and you have every right.’ This is not the behavior that guided me last year. I returned to the party and made the announcement to the guests, who were by now leaning against the walls, drinking shots of whisky in bowls, and I said:
‘ Party to dawn kids, but keep your voices down.’ The lights went out at four-thirty in the morning. When I left the house, empty bottles, uneaten meals, flowers, shoes, and scarfs scattered everywhere. This disruption of my polished tidy home would have erupted me into a silent rage a year ago. After they checked-out, my new pal and assistant Marc, entered the house. Stepping over pillows, popcorn, sticky wood floors, and into a kitchen of stained counters and food crumbs; a counterfeit of my dear old hollering father shouted; ‘ This is outrageous. They’ll pay for this!’
“ Stop. We were part of it. It was a wedding party. What did you expect?”

“What the heck is that? Marc said pointing to a clump of food stuck to the wall.
“ Looks like salsa and chips.” I said with a sponge in my hand. By the time we reached the rooms upstairs, I too was chuckling. Two days later the house converted from slipshod to spotless.
The spell of silence has now been broken. The sidewalk blowers stir the leaves, doors open, the clatter of buffet trays wheeling down the street from the kitchen at La Posada pushed by employees in white jackets, swipe greetings, and converse in Spanish. My birds are screeching for more seeds, and the candle is just about burned out. The unknown outcome of our state of affairs in government and society has padded me with extra elasticity, tolerance, and love. Maybe our collective kindness will intercede with the poisonous bitterness and vengeance that titillates through the news.

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COMPASSION RELIEVES THE SUFFERING

September 5, 2014November 7, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 6 Comments

Woody Allen commented on depression in all his films; the one I remember most went something like this; ‘I get depressed if one person is suffering in Africa.’

Remember those days; when all we had to concern ourselves with was: Africa, a bit of Russia, and powerfully silent Cuba and China. The Europeans loved us back then; we gave them something to laugh about.

I turn on the news intermittently during the day; and whatever activity had occupied me suddenly dissipated into bothersome dust. Murder, beheadings, shootings, corruption, deception, fear and helplessness swept away the dust, and my consciousness wept.

Whether it is the unfathomable death of a woman who seemed immortal, the young journalist beheaded on television, the left and right parties swinging obscenities at each other, all soliciting a reality show of our government. My choice of sorrows is mounting.

Today is a cabaret of: weather, activity, and excitement as Fiesta Week begins in Santa Fe.
The city will converge on the Plaza for the performing arts, parades, musical improvisations, dance and Northern New Mexico chow. Policeman will be stationed alongside the booths to protect us. They look grouchy and irritable; but in my experience, the friendliest cops I’ve ever met. Try talking to a cop in Los Angeles.

The butter on the tortilla of Santa Fe, is that our community events, processions, and traditional religious enactments are safe havens for Spaniards, Native Americans, the mixed, the foreign and us Anglos. I can ask to be invited into any assemblage and chances are they will accept my presence.

The safety and care of people depends on all of us. If I recognize a stoned drunk stumbling; I should take his hand to shelter. If an old woman needs help crossing the street: I should lead her. If insults and arguments draw my attention; I should keep my eye on the situation. This is where my consciousness rises from dust and sorrow; to a strong wind of humanity.

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LADY JOAN RIVERS

August 31, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

My prayers are with you Joan. Since I was a teenager I watched your show with my Dad who laughed so hard he had

choking attacks. You brought global understanding to the humor of the Jewish faith. Everything you said rang the

Synagogue bells, and blew out the candles of the Menorah. In moments of family tension the conversation turned to you; and everyone would

recite a joke and gather in laughter. Your unique talent to sabotage prejudice with humor, sliced silent moments of awkwardness.

You have me in your prayers to raise up in your bed and shout? Where’s my goddamn shoes?

Love to you Melissa, the daughter any one of us looks up to as the eternal light in her mother’s life.

CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN

August 3, 2014August 4, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 3 Comments

ADVENTURES IN MALIBU DINING.

The fog today has brushed the mountains with a thick white mist almost like a snow mass; yet the temperature is warm. What I found most entertaining in a writers way, was the night Chantel and I visited NOBU; “No One Beats Us.”

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF UNTAMED, UNDRESSED WILDERNESS are the unhurried pocket full of cash residents, or resident visitors, that line up in waxed sports cars and convertibles at the entrance of NOBU. I wonder if they have summer and winter cars as I watch them slouching on the terrace sofas: women in latex tight jeans, bottoms-up mini skirts, and men in tight V-Neck T’s and designer jeans.

“ Oh Chantel this is going to be so fun.”
“ You think so?”

We sat down on the terrace sofas and ordered drinks. As a thirty-year old
this sort of stylish trendy expensive dining was all I cared about and I can’t tell you why because I never got inside the groups that I followed. Thirty years later my sense of belonging is unimportant; it is the observation deck of a group that is
capable of supreme prating, joking, excessive drinking and charismatic behavior.

I spotted two men dressed in musicians gear, top hats, and dancing lace up boots swaying towards us.
“ Hello girls, do you mind if we join you.” I didn’t look at Chantel until they swayed a bit more indiscreetly, and realized they were hammered.
“You guys rock n roll musicians.” I asked
“What? How’d you know?”
“The British accent, two bottles of beer in one hand and the hat.
They bent over at the waist in laughter and collapsed on a sofa across from us.
Thirties, with squinted red eyes, and big smiles; they laughed at everything I said.
“ I like that you call us girls; but we really are. Aren’t we Chantel?”.
She smiled and when they asked her what kind of music she liked she said
‘ All kinds.”
What about you?” The less than stupid drunk one asked me.
“ Mick Jagger.”
He spread his arms out wide and then slapped the table.
“The guy is unbelievable. No truly the best man today, still. I can’t believe the guy.”
Common ground in music stroked our conversation, until the stupid drunk one
tipped over one of his beers, while trying to stand. They drifted off to their crowd and I remained fixated to the garden of youth circulating the terrace.

The indoors were crammed with shiny female legs, and beautiful male arms. There was no identification of loners or singles; just one large crowd hip to hip. No one place I’ve been to can beat the sizzling sexuality, liberation of theatrics, and prices. Two pieces of tuna are $8.00 and Sashimi is $25.00.
I left my phone that night and when I returned the next day at noon there were twenty people waiting to get in. Thinly disguised in hat, ankle length bathing suit wrap, and glasses, I did not look like I belonged and I liked that feeling. It was a star-spangled banner sort of celebration that I really don’t mind being on the outskirts. I am staying in Malibu; but I am not a Malibu moneyed account.

The next evening outing I stopped at Geoffrey’s Restaurant; in my southwest dirty 2002 Discovery. The valet was directing traffic as if he was a pilot commanding a landing of private jets.
“ You are very good with those signals.”
He nodded. No time to talk.

I tried to walk in without looking at the floor; as if I’d been there before.
The bar was half full; and the dining room tables were all taken. The backdrop was cinematic; a glorious china-blue sea, with seagulls and surfers marked through floor to ceiling spotless glass. There was so much reflection and light; the groomed and jeweled diners looked like actors on a movie set. That makes me a little uncomfortable; to be so transparent. I noticed a spot on my shoe, a tiny one that turned brownish the more I stared.

The bartendress breezed over,’ Hi. May I start you with some sparkling water’ one I’d never heard of.
“ A wine list please and the appetizer menu.” She gleamed at that.

My journal was my partner; so I scribbled away casually and felt inducted into Geoffrey’s. I ordered the crab cakes appetizer, wafer size but so delicious I would order them again. As soon as the gloaming hour arrived it was time to leave. I had not mastered the swerving mountain roads to Chantel’s in the dark.

” Check please.” I said.

What a sensational feeling to sign the slip and know there is more than enough in my bank account.

” Your card didn’t go through.”

” Try it again please. There should be no problem.”

” Sorry. The card is — not accepted.”

Not enough cash to pay a thirty-five dollar bill was more than humiliating; so I pulled an Allen Smiley.

” I’ve never heard of such a thing. Wells Fargo will hear about this!” I called Wells Fargo and followed all the instructions and then waited. By this time the owner, thirties and as pretty as the Blue Boy, appeared.

I signaled him to wait a moment just as Wells Fargo disconnected me.

Then I pitched up my voice melodramatically to the owner and talked up my frustration. As I am explaining that I am visiting and that all my ready cash was spent in one day in Malibu and I was so sorry; I went swimming in his almost Paul Newman eyes.

” It’s no problem. It’s okay. I”ll run the hand written receipt tomorrow.” He said with suave charming lips and teeth.

Then he left. I turned to the Bartendress and asked if this ever happens at Geoffrey’s. She smiled and said, ‘ No, but it used to happen in a bar I worked at.’

I left in a roundabout reminder that I should stop galloping around without cash; especially on a vacation.

The next day I walked into Wells Fargo at Trancas Canyon. Three employees welcomed me: coffee, water, how can we help, all in sync. After I explained the story to a college age man behind a walnut desk, he called someone at Wells Fargo and then I learned the trick to traveling.

” If you go out of state you need to let us know so we won’t block your account.”

” For thirty-five dollars? Don’t tell me you do that when Cher leaves town.” She didn’t laugh.

” The block is removed. Is there anything else we can do?’

” I hope not.”

The suntanned jolly man at the desk began a conversation: where do you live, how long you’re in Malibu, have you been to Trancas Beach and then he asked why I didn’t have a savings account. I leaned in real close and whispered, I don’t have that much money.

‘” I see we just sent you a platinum credit card.”

” I never received a platinum credit card.” He leaned back in his leather executive chair that really didn’t suit him at all and said, ” You probably thought it was an advertisement and threw it away.”

” Do you know what the limit is?” I asked.

He tapped on his computer and I watched in anticipation.

” Three thousand dollars.”

” Really?”

” Yes. Now let’s talk about you opening up a savings account. You have to have one.'”

I wanted to stand up and hug him. Instead I asked him if he surfed.

” Yea, but I’m not that good really.”

” It doesn’t always matter that you’re good; some things are just about doing it.”

To be continued.

PART TWO CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN

July 17, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

ADVENTURES IN LIVINGESS-MALIBU

The next morning Chantal was not in her transparently privatized bedroom with a gauzy drape. From the kitchen I’d poured a cup of black as beans espresso from Chantal’s Turkish coffee maker and dozily slumped into a swinging love seat on the lanai. Still in my pajamas, listless as a floating cotton willow; the grounding I’d felt the day before had evaporated. Looking and listening to birds, rooster, and distant horses, all within a misty silhouette that filled in the hips of the mountains. Beyond the sea, the imagery of my reclusive life in Santa Fe manifested. The skin I wore in Santa Fe; unreasoningly introverted with a coating of protection flaked off and a news skin surfaced.
Just as the image is crystallizing, I sense Chantal crossing the garden towards me.
“ LouLou—are you okay?”
“ I’m not living right at all, ” I uttered without a smile.
She sat down beside me, placed her cell phone behind her, rested her elbows on her knees and leaned toward me to look in my eyes.
“ Oh why? You are not happy in Santa Fe?”
“ Not anymore-I see things differently now.”
“ Yes, this is what happens when we take vacation. If you’re life is not full then you must change it. It’s not always the place that matters, but how you live. You know some people like to suffer, this is not you. I know– believe me. I meet people from all over the world. I traveled with Carl everywhere.”
“Well I’m full now– but I’ve been in a cage.”
“ This is not good! I will tell you that since Carl died I too wanted to live in my bedroom and not even get out of our bed. So I worked day and night to keep his legacy going, and to manage the vacation rentals. I made myself so busy just to get through the pain. I was a mess; many times I didn’t think I’d get through it. But you see–I am okay now. I still think of him everyday and some days are rough; but this is life. We don’t know what will happen. You have to live now. When you die no one remembers you; they go on living. “She opened her mouth and her smile asked me to smile with her.
“ We will have a lot of fun you and I. You know I feel like we’ve known each other. You feel that too?”
“ Yes! I think my choice to come here was to meet you.”
“ Oooh lala-then we begin to enjoy. You hungry? I make some breakfast and then we go to Trader Joes. I make a party tonight. How’s that?”
“ I’d like that.”
“ You want some eggs–how do you like them?”
“ I’m so full of joy I have no appetite.”
She threw her head back, and laughed.
“ What time is it Chantal?”
“ It’s eleven o’clock. You sleep very late.”
“ No. I never sleep this late.”

I followed Chantal into the kitchen where she was leaning against the stove frying eggs; she was on her cell phone. ‘Cheri, you come tonight for dinner and meet my new friend LouLou.’ Then another call and another. To observe Chantal is to see the openness of a human being without hesitation, restraint or obsession. I followed her around for the rest of the day just like Kou-Koui; her little Habanese dog. Chantal’s enthusiasm for the approaching party was seamless. As we shopped at Trader Joes, she chatted with customers, the grocery clerk, and the cell phone that rings continuously.

“ LouLou, is that you?”
I was passing her bedroom as she called me in and patted the bed for me to sit.
“Have you had a shower? I will take one after you. I marinated the chicken and meat, so all we have now is the salad.”

In the kitchen she is dressed in a skirt, neck-less blouse, and a magenta flower behind one ear. As she demonstrates how to cut the cucumbers, tomatoes, and avocado, she darts from one skillet to another. The music is ruminating through the house; a French wave of seduction and rhythm that entices us to dance around the kitchen island. I feel like a young girl learning to be a woman. She is only a few years older than me; yet her human connection of livingness is unbridged and unchained.

I intended to write a travel story about Malibu; as you see the travel story is Chantal.

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CANDLES OF THE MOUTAIN PART TWO

July 14, 2014October 8, 2017 ~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNENESS

“There is more enterprise in walking naked (in the Yeatsian sense) and being tough enough to survive such intensity of caring and such openness, between a driving need to share experience and the need for time to experience and that means solitude, a balance between the need to become oneself and to give of oneself…and of course they are closely related.” May Sarton.

The Journal of Solitude.

This book was one of the first of ten that injected my veins with the thirst to write. It was
1992, and while I scanned a bookshelf in Capistrano Beach, this book seemed to say, read me. Several months ago I ordered it online and began reading it after I wrote my segments on the Puzzle of Solitude. How curious that this is book I brought to read in Malibu; as I may teetering between this excerpt every moment of the day.

I landed on Pacific Coast Highway on the fourth of July and zipped up the curves of the road squinting to read the signs. This highway that was once my weekend adventure in a packed mustang filled with high school friends was now mine alone. Inhaling the salty sea breeze, and listening to Tom Petty sing, Free Fall, my heart opened to what I was about to experience. The doubt had vanished and as I crossed the lanes to turn up Encinal Canyon road, I broke out laughing.
Only a few days ago I was sobbing as my doubt and confidence were inflamed with childless fear. Just past Malibu colony the scenery seemed to sigh with relief from blaring radios in convertible Mercedes, motorcycles, and a river of beachcombers flip-flopping down to the shoreline. The terrain rises into a rugged enclave of sand crusted
boulders, as I passed the perfectly seamed and shaved lawn of Pepperdine College.

Chantal’s directions were exact as I pulled into the dirt and rock driveway and parked in front of the house. She has an alert buzzer on the gate so she was already on the flagstone steps when I got out of the car. Even before she welcomed me in words, a radiant warm aura illumined my response.
“You are LouLou, I am Chantal. Come, I will show you around.” Her effortless smile and fluid swaying hips led me through a garden of birds of paradise, palm trees, elm, succulents, pepper trees, cactus, and so many varieties of flowers that my first impression was already sealed, I was in Shangri-La. 20140712_182731

“This is the main house, where you come and go as you please,” and then she continued through the open rooms sheltered in wood and glass into the living museum of the legacy of her deceased husband, Carl Gillberg: chest- high clay pots, bronze and cherry wood sculptures, masks, paintings, and photographs.

In the kitchen she announced, “Here, you see this shelf is for you, and here is your vegetable bin to put things, and you take what you want. Just because I bought it doesn’t mean you can’t take it. You see, we are very open and relaxed here. You just be at home; like it is your home.”
I followed her through a gate; to an open garden. Here is where we shower, you like it?” She looked into my eyes and her mouth widened with anticipatory pleasure. I glanced at the claw foot tub, expansive banana plant, and shower head.
“Does anyone else share the shower?
No no, just you and me. You close the curtain see?” and demonstrated the act.
“You will love it,” and as she parted the corrugated sliding door to my room and I looked inside, the chime of change rang.
“What is your nationality?” she asked placing her hands on her hips.
“Russian Irish.”
“Oooh la la; very strong.”
“And you?”
“I am French Haitian. I left Haiti when I was very young and went to France. I will tell you more. Now, where is your luggage?”
“I’ll get it.”
“You need some help eh?”
“No, I loaded it in so I can load it out”
She chuckled.
Her cell phone rang. “ Oui, Cheri—it has been a long time since we talked. What has happened in your life?” Her fluid intoxicating French conversation sent me skipping off the flagstone steps to my car.

I was hopelessly impressed. The majestic mountains, slopping hillsides, and crusted canyons open to the faded-jean blue sea. The spring of joy rose like an orgasm as my eyes blinked with every turn of the head to capture another slice of the Santa Monica Mountains.

When I returned, she was preparing espresso?
“You like a cup of coffee?”
“I love it.”
“Good. We sit on the veranda and you tell me your story. You like my house LouLou?”
“ Chantal, this is Shangrai-la.”
She threw here head back and her birch brown curls took flight. 20140707_194504

Over the next week my life was an interpretation of the beginning except from May Sarton. To be continued.

WRITERS ROOM FOR WORDPRESS BLOGGERS

May 26, 2014May 31, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

I cannot believe it took me this long to figure out that I HAVE A WRITERS ROOM TO RENT and I didn’t post it on lililespen. I am still adapting, reluctantly to understanding IT language, programs, choices, and SOCIAL MARKETING. Since all of you are writers; let me tell you about GALLERY LOULOU ROCK n ROLL VACATION MANOR.

I rent a Historic (1907) culturally significant Commercial Residence that is brick and stone, hard wood floors, chandeliers, and

sixteen windows! Two of the rooms have writing desks, my former desks. There is an extensive library of fiction and non-fiction, vinyl records, and CD’s. In the Garden Movie theater you project films on a wall and have a 6 track CD player so you can mix it up. Silent films I don’t leave out have but I’ve tried them with my music and it’s kool aid~!

My vacation rental is next door to my Casita;sealed off thick and I have my garden and entrance.

The house and porches, driveway, theater etc are exclusively for you the tenant. The house is TWO BLOCKS FROM THE PLAZA DOWNTOWN, AND Palace Avenue is peppered with bistros, galleries, jewelry shops, gift shops, and antiques.

La Posada Resort and Spa, a Luxury Collection of Starwood Hotels, is across the street. My guests are welcome to use the Spa at no cost, pending the managers rules that particular day, so you can indulge in spa, pool, and gym. La Po is my other home; because I can walk across the street and make the staff laugh, have a drink at the Staab House with Raul and Stephanie; the best bartenders in town. There’s an outdoor patio and two indoor restaurants serving New Mexican cuisine and luscious cocktails.

As you are all writers; I’ve decided to make an exception and rent out one of the writing rooms. Some of my readers are from India,

Australia, Venezuela, Russia, Mexico and the USA. It would be a thrill to meet anyone of you! As you see, I go by a saying from the film???

” If you want to know if you can trust someone, trust them.” I will remember it; I’m sure it was a gangster flick.

My websites rates are based on the four bedroom house. The rate for the writers room would be $100.00 night. You would have use of the downstairs kitchen if the house was not occupied.

http://www.vrbo.com/345671, http://www.galleryloulouvacationsantafenm.com/wordpress, http://www.historicstay.com

LOOK FORWARD TO EXPLORING THIS IDEA MORE!

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SOCIAL MEDIA SPARKS MY EMOTIONS

May 24, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

Our society has led us to the path of non-involvement. FB did that,
Email did that, cell phones did that. Yea, I love em’ for the
thing they knew we’d love them for; a delete button.

We, I mean most of us that don’t control millions of political decisions, cannot handle much more. But we could save ourselves from a real famine, a civil war , or war on our country. Who would come to our aid? I really wonder. I bet on us; the ones who’ve always struggled.
We are not involved with each other anymore; it’s like having a manicure to break out of a relationship, and if you lose your job you won’t have enough money for a manicure. So you don’t lose your job; you work eighteen hours a day and get paid less than your staff. But nobody cares; not unless you go viral or if you have a million Blog stats. Social media. Then you will go somewhere; you will have a job. Artists, are digital: writers, photographers; musicians. Who knows whose who anymore. I think Theater is the only venue left of our physical involvement. Theater is life; and no one walks out without having something to say. I also include: dance, concerts, opera, poetry readings, performance artist, and comedians. I prefer to see it live!

BREACH OF SILENCE

May 9, 2014May 10, 2014 ~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

Screenplay based on a true story.
By: Luellen Smiley
LOGLINE:

Luellen (Lily) is the daughter of Allen Smiley, Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel’s best friend, and business partner. Smiley, seated next to Bugsy the night of his murder, marked by historians and the media as the set-up man. Lily rips herself from comfort and innocence into confronting her father’s nefarious criminal life. When she breaks the mafia code of silence ten years after her father’s death; she faces an unexpected opponent.

Does this procure your interest?

ALLEN SMILEY IN COURT

If so tell me.

Thank you readers!

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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.