I am leaning into naturalness more than the keyboard, screen and far from the madding crowd.
You hear a chime the moment it responds to a breeze. The sound is beautiful, like rain on a metal rooftop and wind in the trees. The chime improvises its sounds and movements. This abstraction reminds me of sensitivity. It can be soft and gentle, nurturing the souls of those who are less peaceful.Or it can be like pounding surf on a frail body.
Back at the desk, sensitivity reigns me in when I am stunned by these acronyms. What does DMing mean so I asked and it is this, Dungeon Mastering, or are they referring to Direct Messaging?Then came IRL, what could that be? IN REAL LIFE!
I’m going outdoors right now, this is crawling up my back like a slimy snake. We have to identify real life?
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I’m breaking and entering the past. I wrote this 4/26/2016 and didn’t publish it. I’m sweeping out documents to ease reviewing my folders and documents.
It is five in the morning on a Sunday in Santa Fe, New Mexico. This is the time when silence is my symphony. The Aspen tree leaves on the other side of the street are turning the shade of pumpkin. It may be a very early fall. I prefer to write in the morning, very early before even the farolitos’ lights go out across the street. When I write at night self-reckoning secrets seem to seep out like drops of water from a faulty faucet. At three in the morning, there is an old heartbreaking movie on the television, and a draft of solitude in my room and in my soul. These moviesalways make me feel better. They allow me to cry; as I shift my melancholy to the heroine of the movie: Betty Davis, Norma Shearer, or Susan Hayward.
I look over the rooftops through the living room window. Are there writers and artists stalking the rooms in the middle of winter night? Stationed beside the heater or kiva, in thick wool socks and heavy robes? Are they drinking tea to settle their thoughts or coffee to stir them up? I imagine there is another woman far away from the plains of the Southwest, in Russia, Europe or Asia who is also at a desk and writing down all that she cannot say during the day. It would be magical to know another writer awake at the same exact moment, is thinking something similar, something you save for yourself.
One woman is thinking of a different man than the one she faces each morning. Another woman is thinking how she could never survive without the one she has. I am thinking of the continuing discovery of self. Our needs change; with season, age, and exposure to contrasting, confrontational and complex situations.
I met several women this past week, well-heeled international travelers, on the road with enterprising spirit. They’ve lived abroad, met an assortment of celebrities, and made enough money to finance their leisure sprees. For a moment I imagined myself, with a large Prada tote bag, sitting in first class of Jet Blue keying in appointments with my Blackberry. Then the image evaporated. It’s like the daydream of another person, not who I am, My voyage would be an expeditionary life of someone like travel guru Bruce Chatwin.
There are moments of regret. The most pressing is that I refuse to settle down. This home is temporary. I know the feeling; it has been part of my baggage most of my life. I cannot trade it in for a new brand, its mine, and it gives me enormous drama, change, and adventure. It infuriates my friends; who continually must erase and insert new numbers and new zip codes next to my name.
The secret of what’s ahead in the journey. Wouldn’t you like to peek into ten years from now and see where you landed? There is still a dot of danger to my passions. Not the danger that comes with racing cars or extreme sports. My danger is in the incurable obsession to combine all the things I love in one package, place them all in close proximity, and live happy bold and free.
I’d have a mid-century black bottomed swimming pool and not far from the patio a grove of avocado trees. The tree house studio would be my private writing room. On the branches of the tree, wild colorful birds would flutter, and I’d watch them with joy. In the main house I’d have a library with a thousand, and one books, an outdoor dining table with plenty of dinner parties for twelve, a basement filled with rare wine, and an assortment of animals. There would be a little village in walking distance with a fresh produce market, a bakery, a jazz club, and a French bistro. After reading this a day later the house I described is similar to my family home, the one that burned down in the Bel Air fire. Realization! I’m still looking for home.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
JOURNAL 12/6/2022ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS FALLS ONEXCERPT FROM NEXT BOOK.
A fractured life impacts emotional posture and is not unlike physical posture. We slump or stand tall. We love; instead of neutralizing, we are inspired; instead of being stagnant, we romance; and we live to love. My heart is at the starting gate to love again, but the racetrack is missing. I’m undercover! The vortex of discontent is a punctured life.I spend more time watching sky stage plays, my favorite window tree, sculpted into aberrations of animals and faces than on cognitive thinking.
What I think of at three in the morning spirals into realizations and recognitions, and a time when my mirrors move toward me.The insomnia of separation from a man’s shoulder bowed to my head, tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when driving adventurely maps our journey safely. The voice that encourages and applauds my success rather than swaying with jealousy or preoccupation. How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion. The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him. Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression. The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles and packages with a dull spoon and figure out electronics. How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, nightmares, cancer, and falling down the slippery wooden stairs. The man whose balance evens my wrinkles, lets light into my eyes, and opens my shell with wonder and shelter.
Henry Miller writes in his book, “ Henry Miller on Writing,” “Whoever greatly suffers must be, I suppose, a sublime combination of a sadist and masochist.’I think he’s looking at me.
Every moment needs attention. It’s twenty degrees outdoors. I am modestly adjusted, and receive a thousand warnings a week to get a flu shot. My doctor has tried persuading me to get a flu shot for three years. I responded that I’d never had the flu and that my last cold was in 2012. He chuckled and asked the next question.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I had it today, unlike other days that the truth is mettled or opaque or I am distracted. It reminds me of one of the wisdoms my father passed on to me: ” You can fool the whole world little sweetheart, but you can’t fool yourself.” I was a teen, when he passed on this mantra of living, now, today on a sunny Solana Beach go to the beach or racetrack day, I sit here and contemplate who I was fooling and why.
At some point in my thirties, I decided to outperform convention: marriage, children, my career, and lead without warnings, without proven methods, I thought experimentation was my path. I changed careers, moved to multiple locations, and threw the dice on finances. I can’t truly say no regrets, adventures in livingness brings growth, but the bank account needs growth too!My gang, assures me I’ll get back on the track, thank God for friends that believe in us, right! I don’t need five million followers, just my five fly over me forever friends.
On the track, earlier this week I had a conversation about the Del Mar Horseraces. The race track at Del Mar is on and my friend goes several days a week,
” It‘s really a lot of fun. Why don’t you come sometime and get away from editing?”
” I’ve told you, haven’t I? My dad gambled on everything: horses, sports, the academy awards, and at lunch, if the fly would go out the open window. If I win, I know, I’ll get addicted.”
” Oh, yes, I forgot you mentioned that.”
So, the dice throwing is in remission, going forward: manage impulse, unconventional living, be sensible, pragmatic and use proven methods.
Solana Beach massesare at the beach or the track, and I’m editing. ( deleted 25 pages today because people don’t read 400 page books) You know why I can do it? Because I spent my glorified years going to the beach, the track, partying, parading, and popping.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
Friends are bookends that bind our stories; some are novellas, some are poems, some are cinematic, and each friend serves as a bookend to our personal history. When I’ve lost my way and need direction my friends motorize me, and when I fly without wings, they ring the bell to come down to earth. At times, arguments arise and my friendships stray, but true-life friends never leave you behind. Sometimes, years may pass, and then one day you receive a call or an email, or send one yourself, and the memory of that particular squabble in history fades away. You can start anew; at the same time, it is not.
The essence of friendship never burns out; it is our galaxy, a kind of celestial agility. Are you experiencing a startling outpouring from friends who’ve left your life only to suddenly show up on your social media or a personal email? Are your friends calling and writing more often? I’m always examining some unfamiliar events in life, a new trend, a cultural change. Seems like every topic can be mixed with politics, sometimes the mixture is explosive. I’ve halted the political discussions, and so have my friends, as they are more important to my livingness than politics. With one exception, antisemitism, those are excluded!
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
My possessions in Saratoga Springs now appear as decorations from a former celebration, like side dishes of over 20 years of mixing and matching prints, drapes, sofas, chairs, tables, vases, and artwork. Now they’ve been removed from my experimental minimalistic living. A former lifecycle that began twenty-five years ago, and are boxed up in a big POD storage. And I refuse to meet them in the present. Friends ask me, ‘when are you bringing your furniture here?’ I can’t answer in words, it must crystallize like it has this past week, when I missed my wardrobe and art hangings. Within the admired art, clothes, and sixty-two boxes, (I looked at my inventory) are a haunting of memories tied in see thru knots of Dodger, my x. As a confirmed refuser of goodbyes, in any relationship, this one has to be nurtured with precision, and that means, no reminders.
The stark white walls and Amazon assembled furnishing are stationed without emotion, memory or love. Functional, practical and unfamiliar. Ive created a new palette, like my first studio in Los Angeles in 1976. Then the others, studios over the years, small, compact, easy to maneuver and clean. Internally, the walls and shelves are cluttered with decisions. The edits on my book from the publisher, when will I find employment? How to engage in new friendships, clubs, gyms, meetups.
Singleness in a city, that was once my home for twenty years, evolved through generations, adding new policies, laws, regulations, real estate development, customs, and an impressionable celebration of the arts and culture. It has no resemblance to the San Diego I met in 1983, except for the ocean and the bordering cliffs and seawalls. That is where a continuous rolling of memory waves sear my view, and I see my youthful delight in San Diego. I’ve always been impressed with people who truly live in the present, can’t figure that one out, maybe I’m just a past time girl.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
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 feelsherculean 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 EXHIBITINGlife 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.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
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.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
SPACIAL dimensions define a lifestyle. I walked into a room of four hundred and fifty square feet, and begin designing a new nest, where I could rest, write, and regain a root. I brought two suitcases, a box of paperwork, and my laptop. In a tote bag: one coffee cup, a fork, knife, spoon, one bowl one plate, a wine opener, a razor knife, and two scissors.
That was one week ago, today I have a room of Amazon: a, bistro table, two chairs, one bedside table, one dresser, and a free-standing shelf for the bathroom. I’ve never seen a bathroom without a hook, a shelf, a few rods, it’s like a prison bathroom. All of this is what I’ve named experimental living. I have a 16ft POD in a lot in Saratoga Springs, and to transport twenty years of collections and spend months separating, what goes to storage and what I can use made no sense one sleepless night. I’ll leave it there until I am positively positive I’m staying here. I know you are out there, the gypsy wanderers, the unsettled, the ones whose address changes like the seasons.
Choosing to buy furnishings online is cost-effective. If I go into a consignment shop or furniture store, I’ll pull out the credit cards that I’ve sworn off like I have going out in the sun without SPF seventy. This is all the first layer of experimenting with a lifestyle that I lived when I was hey nineteen not seventy-three. Am I proving something to myself? Probably, I deny convention, and ultra comfort because then I wouldn’t think, I’d lay around and be satisfied.
Bedroom, living room, dining room and entry
” The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds, he takes the path in order eventually to become that path itself.” Henry Miller.
I am digging into something unknown, it’s as if someone has taken charge over my decisions and I just met her. Fragments of who I was in Santa Fe, or Saratoga, pop up in the annoying half wall mirror that invades my privacy. I intend to buy a lovely Asian or Moroccan divider to hide myself. I wish there was a mirror to my emotions, so I know what I am hiding, and refusing to face off with. I made a note yesterday in my journal,
‘ I’ve always been a misfit.’ Where I am now, is a succession of experimenting with the unknown, at an age when my peers are in the known.
Just took another walk outdoors, one of ten to twelve every day, to remove the scenery of too heavy unopened boxes, that Simon, my assembler will turn into furniture Friday. He is Russian, and was one of the lucky ones to leave, two weeks before the war began. He can assemble twenty-five pieces in a NY minute.
The outdoors, familiar from twenty years ago, with a whipping gentle wind, sun, joggers, walkers, skateboarders, and surfers pass along, and I feel a newly planted root.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
ED CARAEFF PHOTOGRAPHER- He came out for the opening, a really nice guy. We played Hendrix every day for 6 months.
PHILIP TOWNSEND AT HIS EXHIBITION IN SANTA FE, NM. A PRINCE OF A MAN. WE SOLD ALL HIS STONES, BUT 4 THAT I KEPT.
JIM MARSHALL-Only he could get Dylan to smile. Jim, the legend rocked the gallery, the most eccentric man I ever met.
JIM MARSHALL.
BARON WOLMAN. The man who ignited Gallery Loulou with his introductions and faith in my passion.
LEFT TO RIGHT. MAN, unknown, my pal Blair Sabol, Jim Marshall, Ali McGraw. I get chills looking at this adventure. OPENING NIGHT IN TAOS, NM.2007
JERRY SCHATZBERG, ICONIC PHOTOGRAPHER AND FILM MAKER WHO DID MORE THAN PUSH THE ENVELOPE. HE PUNCHED IT. I JUST SPOKE WITH HIM, 99 YEARS OLD, CLEVER, HUMOROUS, ALL THERE.He exhibited in the gallery and we became confidants.
AND OF COURSE FAYE. WHOM HE ADORED AND TOOK HER TO HIS CAMERA.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
According to AI Self-confidence refers to an individual’s trust in their abilities and judgment, allowing them to face daily challenges with resilience and optimism. Unlike self-efficacy, which is task-specific, self-confidence is a broader and more stable trait that reflects overall perceptions of capability. It is closely linked to self-esteem and self-worth, but while self-esteem focuses on how much you value yourself, self-confidence emphasizes your belief in your ability to succeed in various situations.
Raise your hand if have it. Speak out if you have some of it, keep reading if you’re like me, missing it now, but once you had it.
So where, why and what happened? I’ll go first: My last accomplishment was saving my home from foreclosure and selling it in 2025. What have I done lately? Packed up a home, moved to Southern California, found an apartment, and began searching for employment.
Full stop. After seventy-five resume submissions in six different categories, and recruiting websites, I listened to my nagging annoyance and said enough. I’ve been validated by articles about AI interfering with companies even seeing my resume, outdated job postings, and fraudsters.
Without a project, or employment, I can’t find my confidence. Rejection letters, unanswered emails, or no response at all is about as harmful as I can tolerate.
I took the next approach. I met a gentleman with a gallery. I looked up his gallery, and was impressed. The next time I met him, I said I was looking for a gallery I’m passionate about, and I would like to work for you, in sales and marketing.
He said, “Okay, you bring me buyers, I pay high commissions.”
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
“Don’t you love being on your own?” I thought, how to answer? This woman appeared to want the truth.
“No, not after years of this experience. I learned, adapted, and now it’s time to take the next chapter with someone. I love dimples; if he has dimples, I’m swayed. Sounds silly–well, I like silly in a culture, from my observation, overly rehearsed, where’s the improvisational madness?”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong place, you sound like you belong in Barcelona or Mcyanos.”
“Oh yes. I have thought of that, dreamt it. Under the Tuscan Sun, DH Lawrence’s book, ” Lorenzo, In search of the Sun”-the euphoria of escape, but besides your wardrobe and possessions, your bag carries your personality, and mine goes interior.
“But you are so outgoing, I’ve seen you in social situations, I don’t think you know yourself.”
I laughed, the remark was so bullseye.
“Do you know yourself?“
“Hah, you got me? I think I do, only because my life is somewhat structured; unlike you, I know what I have to do every day.”
“So structure defines you? Hmm, that doesn’t titlt who I see in front of me, a plower of curiosity and human behavior.”
“My husband is here, let me introduce you.” I noticed him right away; he had dimples.
” I loved our conversation, and I hope to run into you again, somewhere, maybe in Barcelona.” She winked.
When we find a conversation, like a unique shell in the fallout of a wave, we pick it up, we wander in it, and sometimes it talks us through our own shell.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 