ALONG THE ROAD OF LIFE

SELF DISCIPLINE – Either you have it, or you don’t. There is no gray, no aperture, no gaps, and I am learning this as I sit here writing instead of what I need to do, is walk.

I’m in the arena of a relentless athletic tribe. Yesterday I walked for an hour and noticed the runners, bikers, and power walkers along the path, muscles skin-tight, tanned, and seemingly detached from the backed-up traffic along the boulevard. The breeze felt like cotton balls, the sky a perennial perfect blue, and seventy-eight degrees.

Today, the same summer-like atmosphere, and with my windows open, and the crowds missing from the pool, I am wandering in between, like a bird that is unsure if the branch is better than taking flight.

Weekends, I take a recess from the tedium of seeking employment with AI leading the way. Am I just entering the 21^st Century? It feels so inhuman, so robotic, that I counterattack, enter the sensibility of irritation, shout at no one, grind my jaw, and resort to a stroll around the lobby to converse with humans.

Without music, writing, and conversation, my world would crumble like sand. I’d spend hours staring at the sky, imagining figures in the cloud formations, and listening to the birds.

As the war in the Middle East casts a shadow over contentment, security, and joy, I realize the subject is too hyperbolic to even mention. I haven’t hidden my Star of David necklace, and one person noticed. When my Uber driver pulled up, I struggled to open the door of a Tesla. She immediately stepped out of the car.

“No problem, here, see the button, just press down”.

“I haven’t been in a new Tesla, it’s a beautiful car.”

The dashboard supported a Ipad, with a map, and she navigated with her index finger to my destination.” Her accent was unfamiliar.

“ May I ask where you are from?”

“ Yes, why not? I am from Uruguay. I’ve been here for eleven years, in San Diego, the most beautiful, don’t you think?” I noticed she was viewing me in her mirror. She was in her forties, I think, with short brown hair and an air of total confidence as she maneuvered onto the freeway.

“Yes, it is, a lot more crowded than my last time year, in 2012.”

“Everyone want to be here, so where are we headed?”

“To look at an apartment.”

“It’s difficult, isn’t it? The cost, so expensive. I have a big house in Chula Vista, a very nice neighborhood.”

The conversation soared from why I’m here, to her family, her struggles, her children, my shock at the office developments we passed, and where I once hiked.

“I see you are wearing a Star of David, are you Jewish?”

“Yes, I am.” She turned her head around and gleefully declared, “So am I!”

After a failed attempt to open the lock box at the unit, Judith and I returned.

“ Here is my cell phone number, you call me, I’ll take you, maybe you find more places, we go to each one, okay?”

“ Thank you, yes, I will. Thank you.”

SPIN OFF OF HUMANITY?

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The Earth spins at 1, 040 miles per hour from the equator according to Co-Pilot. Humans spin: ‘The average walking speed for humans is about 3 to 4 miles per hour’ in different directions. Our rotator, the interior speed dial in our futuristic culture, reminds me of chasing a speeding car. We accelerate one day, and a day later, we are behind. Why catch up with a runaway virtual speedometer? Because if we don’t, we lose something: opportunity if you are unemployed, confusion in conversation with digitally conscious youth, and skills to navigate your finances, health, and services. I’m about to search the speed at which an average person speaks, but I can’t believe I am doing this. I’ve observed a lot of conversations in this hotel, no pausing to think before speaking, the words leap like the answers and questions were premeditated, a script?

While I am sitting with a banker at Wells Fargo, thirty years younger, offering basic finance choices, projections, and a few new rules in banking. I offered my phone to demonstrate, some quirk,

” I can’t touch your phone,” he said.

” What? Why is that?”

“A customer handed one of our bankers their phone to check their account, and the banker swindled the customer out of thousands.” I gaped at him, and then he pulled up my account on his computer.

” Can I see what you’re doing?”

” I can’t show you my screen.”

” Would it be okay if I uncrossed my legs?” He leaned back in his executive chair and laughed out loud. Joseph was one in a million. I told him so, and he bowed his head. He understood.

The next adventure in livingness is looking for a new home, an apartment. Like seeking employment, managers and agents do not answer the phone. I have to fill out a questionnaire before even viewing the apartment. Once those algorithms observe my search, a dozen more websites hit my email with availability. In one day, I may receive two dozen invitations to view their listings. Half are not updated or deceptive, so it is like combing through a library for the one book you want to read. One building that I liked and requested a tour answered this way. ” Hi, I’m Ella, your AI leasing agent. How can I help?” I didn’t hang up. I love first-time experiences.

” I’m looking for a studio in the building.”

We have a one-bedroom, let me send you the link.”

” I don’t want a link. I want a studio.”

” I understand.”

” No, you don’t.” I hung up.”

On to the next, a beautiful one-bedroom, at the price of a studio. I emailed for a tour, a self-guided tour. Six emails later, after I filled out the pre-qualification document, uploaded a current government ID, and set the appointment. The next step was creating an account, a password, an identity verification text, and another confirmation. I cancelled the appointment because the closing of the Olympics was gazing at me from the corner of my eye, and I succumbed to the majesty of organic humanity.

”

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

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

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

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

“So it’s not just me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PAST AND PRESENT

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Nineteen years ago, I left this enclave, the zeitgeist of beaches, lagoons, reserves, affordable homes and rentals, and the Torrey Pines. While I was away, the dirt metastasized into gated communities, high-rise apartments with more amenities than a full page, renovated mom-and-pop grocery stores, reimagined as gourmet, branded boutiques, and salons that offer the ultimate experience in beauty. It’s landed in every resort, not just Del Mar. As my friend Jerry Schatzberg said at ninety-nine years old,: Adapt or shoot yourself.’

Freeways, not so free anymore, I hear and see canned traffic on the Interstate 5 all day and night, and off the freeway, in Del Mar, hit it, buster, or I honk.

The trajectory is, I wake up with a sunrise at mild sixty degrees and a sunset at the same. My former home in Saratoga Springs is digging out of snow and ice, and that is not nice. Your back is whacked, and your hands freeze. I did it, I know. After two weeks, I am still in culture shock, not just the beauty and soft breezes, but what was once casual, impromptu, conversational, and friendly is now on the phone or iPad.

What hasn’t dispersed is the polished palm trees in sunlight, early morning fog that resembles my state of mind, the seafood at the Fishmarket, the Del Mar Track, The Plaza in Del Mar and surfboards everywhere! Del Mar Beach, the wide and sandy, clean shore, is waiting for swimmers and surfers to be doused in euphoria. I’ve lived most of my adult life connecting my dream with reality. To be continued.

TRAVELING TRUTH & TREES

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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.”

From my journal. Wecannot unlock our mysteries when surrounded by extroverted behavior. Over the years, the intensity of seeking solitude increased; shy in conversation, I turned to writing when I didn’t dare speak. I’m waiting for some release and joy so I can change course and find a studio (In an undisclosed location for personal reasons). It is not happening. Life feels like a package I cannot unwrap.

That was only two hours ago, and instead of ruminating on impatience, my pattern transformed. I took a walk in a wind that blew the orange leaves in a choreographed dance, and watched.

OUT OF CONTROL

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Bohemian living was always in my dreams, having been raised in a perfectly pressed pinafore and seated on velvet and satin furniture. I am not really very gypsy like when it comes to home. Once upon a time, I lived out of one suitcase, but I have since been corrupted by the joy of controlling what comes into the house and finding a place for it. Loss of control. Once faced with this alarming epiphany, I vowed to give up control and accept the disorder and disruption.

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 for more visceral makeup. Losing control is a replenishment of youthful spirit. It’s free and painless.

NEW BOOK REVIEW

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CRADLE OF CRIME : A Daughter’s Tribute

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

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

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

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.

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.

INTO DEL MAR OCEAN

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The sea is like rolled oil, and the breaking waves are the size of lake ripples. At this momentary recess of chaotic beach activity, all the heaviness of life rolls out with the waves. Observing the elan of beach life carousing, suntanning bodies already tanned leather, joggers and runners, bicyclists, fishermen, volleyball players, and the surfers.

That’s my garden of grace and glory. They are like ballet dancers, some of them, some seem to think they’re driving a car or motorcycle, but the longboarders, old school aged surfers, skim waves athletically and spiritually, one with the board like a musician with an instrument.

And the fisherman, the other clan, is worth watching because they are interlopers in Del Mar. They come alone, dressed in rubber boots, floppy, stained hats, and pocket vests, like longshoremen or train conductors, an aura antiquated in Del Mar history, when fishermen were in greater numbers than joggers, lifeguards, and beach parties.

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.