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.
“Today is postcard perfection, even now, with sunlight too harsh to look at, the trees with tongues hanging for water, and the dead plants in the garden. I think of the ocean, the look of the sea from watery suntanned eyes, in Malibu and Santa Monica or Del Mar beach, the splashing of waves around my shoulders as I sink beneath the surface.I’m going home to the flowered gardens and avenues of palm trees of Del Mar to see where and if I belong. I spend the days interviewing movers, making last-minute appointments, separating wardrobes, rummaging through my storage unit, and staring into an unknown future for the first time in thirty-five years without my partner.
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’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.
A year ago, I bought a crate of flowers to plant in Follies House flower bed. After setting the plant to rest, I had a vivid recollection of Nana; my mother’s mother. Nana was a petite woman, with long graying hair she pinned into a perfect French twist, a cute Irish nose, and a giggling smile. When I was growing up she lived with her second husband, we called Poppop, in a spacious California ranch house in Sherman Oaks, also known as San Fernando Valley. We visited her weekly, staying over one or two nights. Nana was always waiting for us to arrive. She greeted us at the door, she had something cooking, fresh candy in crystal dishes, and in the morning, she fried bacon and the aroma woke me and got me running downstairs. She scrambled eggs with lots of butter and served it with Irish soda bread. It never occurred to me that these weekly trips were the cultural mix-up of my Russian Irish heritage. This was Nana’s only opportunity to spoon-feed us our Irish roots. At home with father, bacon and butter were prohibited, and bread came in the form of a bagel. The food was only one part of the adventure. Nana’s home was filled with antiques, family treasures, and her garden was a masterful collection of east and west coast varieties. After Nana had all her errands and household chores finished, she changed into slacks, flat shoes, and a straw hat and went outside to the garden. I would follow Nana while my Mother remained indoors; most likely talking on the phone with some degree of privacy. In the garden, Nana would trim, cut, and arrange her flowers. I kneeled down beside her and watched, while she talked. Nana had the gift of gab, and her thoughts poured out without my interruption. Between sentences, she would insert a self-effacing joke, regarding her silly hat, or her short legs. Her hands were swollen from arthritis, and she rubbed them from time to time, but she did not complain. As I planted my garden, these visions of Nana remained and grew more studied and complete. I had a memory of being assigned a school project to plant something in the garden. By this time, my Mother had moved us to an apartment and we didn’t have our own garden. I went to Nana’s and she helped me plant some variety of flowers I cannot recall. Each week I’d return to see how my plant was doing. Sometime after the assignment ended and we were walking in the yard, I looked to see how my plant was surviving. It had been replaced. I asked Nana what happened. “Oh honey I hope you won’t be mad at me, but the little flower died, so I planted a new one. It’s my fault; I didn’t look after it properly.” Nana taught me the things my mother didn’t have the time to teach; like cooking, cutting flowers and arranging them, making coffee, and setting the table. She made all these chores enjoyable, and I loved to follow her around the house and watch her change the beds, and prop up pillows, and fold the guest towels. It never occurred to me until now, that I adopted her domesticity; the sublime gratification of adorning a home for the comfort of family and friends. The plants did not blossom, the jasmine, roses, and other varieties all wilted and turned brown. I buy silk flowers.
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.
When and why does privacy replace honesty. Do we have more lies to hide? I find conversations starched, and drafty. When I go out to socialize, I’ll bring a book, one that speaks truth and stage it for attention.
My problems are cornflakes compared to what is in the news: racism, sexual allegations infiltrating the most unimaginable perpetrators, suicides, corruption, mass murder rampages and the politics are so degenerative I fear we have lost all civility. Our souls are at risk, and our consciousness is poisoned because the message is this: if you apologize, you can be exonerated. In a way, the news reminds me that I have very little problems in that zone, as I’m incapable of crime and racial prejudice. I am guilty of gullibility, raffish behavior and selfishness… that’s not the full list!
After checking emails, I searched for something, you know the feeling, one track goes in a dozen directions with popups, andI landed on this page. It’s Yellow Advertiser. Wrong name for Today in History, but I love this! Early morning history honking.
10BC: Birth of Claudius. 30BC: Marc Antony (Marcus Antonius) commits suicide aged 53. 10BC: Birth of Emperor Claudius (Tberius Claudius Caesar AugustusRead more
306: Constantine I is proclaimed Roman Emperor by his troops. 1261: Constantinople recaptured by Nicaean forces under Alexios Strategopoulos forRead more
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.
If you’ve read my columns about minimalistic living: adapting to Solana Beach health, wealth and wardrobe conformity (female: leggings, workout bra, or at night show it or stow it. Male, bare-chested or T-shirt with their business logo on the back.) I add this confession, if the community residents were any happier than what I’ve observed I’d get therapy.
This week I became LEGITIMATE.
My New Mexico driver’s license expired in Sept 2024. I was living in my home in Saratoga, and attempted to gather the fourteen documents to show proof of residence, and get a NY driver’s license. I loved my turquoise NM license plates, and did not think I’d be there longer than a year, so I didn’t renew. I drove sparingly, as the village was in walking distance and I had Amazon delivery.
In January 2026 I moved into a hotel in Del Mar, CA and my car was transported by an auto moving company. I spent about thirty hours reviewing the documents I needed to get a CA license moving from out of state. I managed to get registration through my CA insurance agent, and CA auto insurance but DMV wanted proof of residence, (hotels not accepted) so I used Uber. I finally found my studio in May, and used all my time furnishing, and avoided the DMV. Friends offered to drive me there, and they or I got sidetracked.
Finally, a friend here said,
“ Loulou you’ve got to get it done. We’ll go Monday, this week.” I bought the cheat sheet, (out of staters have to take the written test) and studied it all weekend. Andrew, my friend, we met at five years old, called and said,
“ Did you get an appointment?”
“There’s a line of twenty-five, and besides the dice didn’t roll to seven.”
“Loulou, forget the dice and the line, they go fast.”
“ I’ll be over at ten o clock.”
I panicked and reviewed my folder of documents the online DMV said I needed: Birth certificate, certificate of sale, insurance, registration, social security card, proof of residence , passport, and DMV security code.
My phone maps app was taken over by google so I couldn’t access directions, I kept getting an error. So, I handwrote them on a page and met Andrew.
“ You have the directions on GPS, I don’t know where San Marcos is exactly, do you?”
“Not to make this more complex, I couldn’t access the app so I wrote them down.”
“ That’s good, you have all your documents?”
“ Everything but height and weight,” He laughed and we took off on the freeway. Andrew is a conversant man and because we grew up in the same class through high school we can speak, uninhibited.Childhood friends shared innocence, and the rarity of calculated devious behavior. Our trust is dependable and accountable.
“Do you know why I wore all pink?”
“Cause you … I have no idea.”
“ Men and women love pink, so if I get a male clerk, he’ll like it and so will a female.”
“ Where’d you get that tidbit?”
“Me, people like pink, and a search, pink evokes love and compassion.” Our conversation leaped from old friends to our parent’s, to tech complaints, going canoeing on a lake we passed, diet, aging, politics, antisemitism (we’re both Jewish) and then…
“ Do we turn here?”
“ Yes, we go east and then turn on San Marcos Boulevard for one mile and then Rancheros for three miles, and then..
“Okay, two directions at a time.”
After five miles of driving through residential neighborhoods, I knew we were lost. Andrew listened when I suggested we turn back, and we finally arrived at the DMV.
“My ex wouldn’t listen to my directions for thirty-five years. Thank you for listening! You know men are famous forrefusing driving directions.”
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 was walking the streets, and the descriptive details had since evaporated. I mentally pluck myself out of this moment and open the shades to thought and memory, where all writers meet on some psychic level, the place of imagination and creation, an abnormality of reality.
A passage from Anais Nin’s diary says, “Be careful not to enter the world with any need to seduce, charm, conquer what you do not want, only for the sake of approval. This is what causes the frozen moment before people and cuts all naturalness and trust. The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truth is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.”
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.
To write, to study, read, edit, I sacrificed: family, marriage, children, security, finances, and peace of mind. I am a columnist, and author, that lives with a constant source of material by those sacrifices. They have become my vortex of adventures in livingness to gain material. At times, like now, I question that path–and the answer is, I didn’t choose the path, it chose me.
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 