ADVENTURES IN LEAVING LIVINGNESS

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YES, I AM LEAVING. SIX YEARS LATER. I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE 1 YEAR, BUT WHAT WE PLAN GOES INTO THE CIRCUMSTANCE BLENDER, AND I, MAYBE YOU, COME OUT SHREDDED, UNTIL WE LEARN HOW TO REMIX OUR CONDIMENTS FOR THE FUTURE. The year the village adopted my slogan, Village of Friends

Six years ago, this week, I left my studio on Devon Ave, a shrink-wrapped space that forged me outdoors. I landed in Ballston Spa, NY, to save my home from foreclosure. I felt a contrast within and without. The without were the winters. I’d not lived here since 2003, youthful adaptation overwhelmed the bitterness of winter. The within, my mind, heart, and spirit went through a seasonal transformation. Winters, the snowplowing season when I am on duty to ensure tenants and nieghbors can walk on my sidewalk(owners are reponsible in the village) without breaking a leg and then suing me. Writing is the dominant activity, between, cooking, checking the sump pumps, talking on the phone with friends three thousand miles away, and managing tenants. Once I learned the house was two months behind on the mortgage, turmoil, the servicers bounced me around with false information, misconduct and refused the full balance when I offered. Covid postponed the payments for a year, and so did the New York financial agency. I filed the complaint against PHH, and they pressured PPH to abort the foreclosure for another year. Almost all my income went to restoring the house, replacing mechanical parts, painting, and repairs.

One day in February of 2020, a man knocked on my door and handed me the foreclosure documents. So began six years of legal research, interviewing attorneys, and defending myself against the predator, who sought to destroy my life, every angle of it. I can’t name this person; I’m in writing witness protection. Seriously.

It’s Christmas day, and the lobby of the hotel is empty. I think there are seven guests, and most of the cheerful staff are off. The sun broke through, so I’ll wander around the property. It’s 28 degrees, I adapted physically but not emotionally.

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.

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DAYDREAMING TRAVEL

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When I listen to Antonio Carlos Jobim, I dream of Brazil and of riding on a float at Mardi Gras, just once, in a feather hat, dressed like Rita Hayworth. Music evokes a writing mood, like jazz or blues writing; they are similar. When I listen to Sarah Vaughn or Nancy Wilson, it feels like a close female friend confiding in me and knowing I understand heartbreak.

When I sit at my desk and look at my mother’s photograph, I dream of the first lunch we had at Bullock’s Garden Room, watching the fashion show and discovering style. When I shovel snow, I dream of the coastal beaches: Del Mar, La Jolla, Santa Barbara, and Carmel. Commercials about travel dominate and fuel my craving for a flight. As my responsibilities here are unfinished, I will wait and daydream about the next voyage.

Daydreaming, unlike night dreaming, where we are flying, conquering, or battling some inner masked trauma, illuminates where we want to be, who we want to be, and if we take it seriously, how to get there. The medicine of daydreaming is unmatched by books, healthy food, vitamins, yoga, religion, or mind-altering experiences; it is the essence of who we are.

LEFT OVER LOVE

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She closed the shutters to his wanting eyes and alchemized from a cocoon to a butterfly beneath a circle of friends in tune. She removed the photos, gifts, and letters and put them in a box to reminisce later. Talking out loud, “She takes just like a woman,” but she will not break like a little girl. “No more hours fanning the past; on this day, my view spans.” She sat peacefully by the fire into the night and let her broken wing sing as she watched the wood turn to gold.

GIVING THANKS TO FOLLOWERS AND FRIENDS WHO READ ADVENTURES IN SINGLENESS!

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ON THE HOTEL ROAD OF TRAVEL

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“I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger than reason.” ANAIS NIN

When I see a crippled person, a struggling Senior with a walker, or when I read the stories of the hostages, my blessings are embellished, and I remind myself of this. Maybe this entire episodic journey is to teach me to get outside myself. Joy is not power, wealth, or attention; that is plainly human. Genuine joy interrupts someone’s suffering and transforms their mood and sensibilities.

All the success that opened doors in my life paddled in from friends, strangers, and just incidental connections. We can’t do it alone, as much as I foolishly try to carry my wheelbarrow without direction and sound advice, this is where it took me. I identify with the outsiders who peddle the steps of solitude and sometimes don’t reckon with their culture, people, or conformities.

ON THE HOTEL ROAD WITH MOTHER NATURE & MANUSCRIPT

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Winter announced! First ladylike snow because I can still wear my loafers and jeans.

I say this as politely as possible: Government stay away from my Genie. The annoyance of conflicting orders robs me of my Aladdin (magic moments). Mental sedation is needed while I edit my next book. I’ve been advised to delete 40,000 words from the 141,780 manuscript. Over three days I deleted 2300 words. My new friend Rose, says, ‘Chop chop, you can do it!”

I feel like time is stained with interior stoplights, obstructions, and restrictions, within and without. What happens is subtle, but when so much time is spent on soulless activities, life loses its Aladdin. Even if you’re sitting on the beach at Turk and Caicos, dining al fresco with perfectly agreeable friends, and swirling in jets of aromatic succulents, I think our souls ache for simple genuine, honesty.

ON THE HOTEL ROAD OF TRAVEL THOUGHTS

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The course we choose to study doesn’t begin in school; it begins the moment we recognize that life is our teacher. I chose the course of love between a man and a woman. Yet all I’ve learned from Anais Nin, Joan Didion, and Lawrence Durrell about love isn’t guiding me. I have to start over and develop wisdom from my own experiences.

I checked into the third hotel, the previous one was tedious and murky. This morning in a larger room, on a crisp as iceberg lettuce, a day of clarity and stillness surrounds me. Outside my hotel room, the light is intermittent, a peak a boo stage window, the light illuminates portions of the crispy autumn leaves just before they drop. On my side of the glass, there are shadows and dissonance. What events take place this week will be instrumental in my future and as piercing as the southwest sun when it shone in my eyes.

This hotel’s staff is exceptionally friendly, conversant, and engaged in their jobs. Every time I pass by the guest check-in, Rose stops what she’s doing.

“ How’s it going?”

“Too early to tell.” I’ve been here a week, and I unzipped my lawsuit story, so she is in the know. She is knowledgeable about the law, and living through times that are more threatening than usual.

“ Okay. What are you doing today?’

“ Researching moving companies. Critical thinking and planning. When I moved from Santa Fe to Los Angeles, I hired a broker, thinking it was the actual company. When the van arrived, half of my things were broken, boxes were opened, and some were stolen. So this time, no mistakes.

“ Mistakes are all about learning.”

“ Yes, and I learned!”

“ What did you do last night?” She said with a curious smile.

“ I was at the bar, Lizzie was there rousing all of us up with puzzles, a brouhaha like the old days, you know, not one of us looked at our phones.”

“ Please, don’t even start. So annoying when you’re talking to someone and they are staring down at their phones.”

“ When I was living in LA, at huge four-way intersections in the middle of traffic, pedestrians crossed without even looking up. It was the same everywhere, restaurants, shops, it struck me as a way of looking very significant.”

“ You’re so right!”

“ That reminds me, I need to go write a column.”

“ Write about your lawsuit.”

“ No! I’m in witness protection writing.”

“ They may read it right?”

“ You New Yorkers are always on the right key.”

“ Gotta be, it’s New York.”

” I’m California”.

” That’s okay, I still love you, and your day is coming, and so is a new man.”

”

ON THE HOTEL ROAD OF TRAVEL

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THE GYPSY CHRONICLES – Thursday, October 23, 2025

“ You have to be out today by 11 am. ” I gasped and looked at the time, 10 am.

“ Scooter told me he extended it until Sunday the 26th.”

“ He didn’t call us. He has to call us. We need the room for the monster ball. Get a hold of him.

I was shaken. I had one hour to reach Scooter. I called in a panic from the lobby and left a message. Then upstairs, I desperately looked for a hotel to take me in, in case Scooter didn’t call. They were booked tonight, but could take me tomorrow. The hotel was a two-star, no Mortons, no restaurant, no gardens, but it looked clean and was only a mile away.

At 11:00, Scooter texted, “I called, you have until Saturday. Is that okay?”

“ Yes, fantastic, thank you!” Scooter has an arrangement with the hotel that earns him points, and he has gifted me many of them!

I returned to the other conundrum of the day —my lawsuit —with very unexpected news. Tammy, the Top Drawer Housekeeping Manager, stopped me in the hallway.

“ What’s wrong, Loulou. She leaned against the cart and listened attentively.

I updated her on the event, and she tilted her head to one side.

“ Bastard! Take a break today, let the process begin, and tomorrow you’ll regain your strength.”

“ It’ll take a few tomorrows, I’m emotionally fragile.”

“ I know you are, I’m the same!”

She patted me on the shoulder, and just that little gesture, of care, was a band-aid to the wound.

Walking into the next hotel was a pinch of pathos I was not prepared for until the front-desk gent helped me with my five suitcases.

“ You’re from Santa Fe? He said, eyeing my license plate.

“ Was, for eleven years.”

“ I moved recently from Ranchos de Taos.”

“You’re kidding! That’s where I lived for several years. I had a gallery there!”

“ That’s crazy. I’ve never met anyone here who knows Ranchos or even New Mexico.” I laughed, cause a lot of people think it’s in Mexico.

He opened my door, and I feigned disappointment and thanked him.

Okay, here it is, a bland room without the flair or fancy, but the price is right. I opened the suitcases and did not unpack. The sun was out like a neon sign, beckoning me to go outdoors.

No elevator, on the first floor, I passed the laundry room—a lot of conversation and a sort of cheerful vibe. I walked outside, sat in a chair facing the sun, let my arms droop, and closed my eyes. I heard someone walking and then sitting next to me.

“ Hello, did you just check in?”

“ Yes, the sun is marvelous, isn’t it?”

“You bet it is. I’m Loulou.”

“ What! My name is Loulou, a nickname.”

She moved around, crossed her legs, lit a cigarette, and her long white hair was halfway clipped, and the rest fell on her shoulders. I could see she was once beautiful.

“ Isn’t that something else. How long are you here for?”

“ Not sure yet.”

“ I’ve been there. Not knowing.

“ People don’t understand, they feel I’m unstable or something. I can feel it, and see it in their eyes.”

“ Screw that, just ignore those people. I do.”

“ You’re right, too much to handle without that.”

“ Everything is upside down, and no accountability. “

“ So true”, and then she dropped her head, and I could see her emotions rise as if she had been led somewhere else.

“ My grandson was killed in a motorcycle accident, hit, and then died right there. I didn’t get to say goodbye. It was by an illegal immigrant.” Then she cried uncontrollably, and I just about got up and hugged her.

“ Oh, sweetie, I am so very sorry for you.” This was all genuine, and she was sober and all of that, so I listened.

“ I wrote to all of them, Bondi, Patel, Trump, Noem, nothing.” Something like this doesn’t happen in a five-star hotel, only in a two-star. We sat there awhile, and I tried to console her or offer some options, like a news alert to the stations and local media.

She was on the cliff of catastrophe, and my minutiae of disappointment disappeared.

TO BE CONTINUED.

ONCE IN TIME

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He’s digging my grave
For the dragon he pays
With our nest, now shaved
Tumbling into the shade
I visit the velvet robes of the past
The ones that didn’t last

The will to relive what was comes at night

And must be excluded by daylight.

DEATH AND LIBERATION COLLIDE

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It was her widespread, unrestrained, and contagious smile that I see when I think of her. Her expressive hand gestures seemed like separate limbs from her straight, head-held-high posture. Frankness, unpreparedness, and ebullience made her the embodiment of who I wish I were.

I was on the phone with a friend when the news alert filled the screen, and a photo of her signature smile.

“ Oh my God!”

“What?” he asked.

In a voice trembling with shock, I replied, “Diane Keaton died.”

“ Whoa, how old was she?”

“ Seventy-nine. She was the only contemporary actress I related to. I watched Baby Boom last week, so Keaton. It was like watching me if I had the same experiences. “

“ She was great in The Godfather, not a lot of people would agree with that, but that’s my opinion.”

“ I never thought of that. I watch it once a year. She was in an interview years ago, and the host asked,” Why didn’t you ever get married?”

With her arms opening like a double door, she exclaimed, “ No one ever asked me!”

Her last post on Instagram is worth reading.”

And in the same weekend, I think of this. We can’t feel another person’s sickness, or what it’s like to sing if we don’t sing, or fly like a pilot unless we’ve been one. We cannot imagine what it is like to be a hostage of Hamas.

I wandered about yesterday, in the gym, the veranda, and the lobby, and later, had appetizers in the restaurant. Two flat screens, football, the rest couples except the man next to me. I couldn’t help but notice that he was three inches from me at the bar. A shrimp cocktail showed up, he ate voraciously, then a steak and a large flat potato sort of tortilla, a side of vegetables, and he ate enthusiastically, then a lobster plate, with more vegetables, and he ate, and then dessert. I left before it arrived, so I wouldn’t swipe it from him.

I wanted to say to someone, “The hostages are coming home!” I didn’t. Diane Keaton would have! She lived with squamous cell cancer or many years. That explains the hats and turtlenecks.