RELOCATION REALITY


“Young woman sitting on the books and typing, toned image”

The world we are living is not familiar; everyday it erupts with an inconceivable corruption, acts of violence, and viciousness against humanity. It’s not the Italian roast coffee that wakes me up, itโ€™s world news.ย  I feel less and less a part of humanity and more like a wild creature chewing on an old bone. ย My outlook on social clubs, synagogue and church congregations, membership clubs, group classes, and letโ€™s meet up organizing makes a lot of sense now. Especially if you donโ€™t have children or a life mate. The temptation to retreat into a decorous world of fantasy is irresistible. ย Experience taught me that losing it, giving up, hugging the pillow with film noir on the screen will revive me. It may take two days or more, permitting freedom to indulge in the abstract absurdity, tragedy, and comedy of life available to me. Two days are up: six noir films: Sleeping Tiger, Dangerous Crossing, Ruthless, Finger of Guilt, Wicked, and Cast a Dark Shadow. All suspenseful meandering around themes of greed, deception, romance, uneven love, and forgiveness.

Itโ€™s a great big wide wide world if you leave the doors open. Now that the house has sold, I am fortunate that all those years studying real estate and proving myself by placing money in the boss’s pocket, trickled into my life. The first triplex I bought was in 2002, the one that sold, The Follies House. The rent provided income and paid the mortgage. ย For my Gen X and Millennial pals, I say this: buy a duplex somewhere you want to live.

Iโ€™m feeling overwhelmed as I go through this four-story unit and decide what to keep, give away, and sell. Perplexed as I go through boxes of journals dating back to 1996. I assume I won’t live to preview them for new stories, but I sill feel a sense of belonging to them. I have learned after selling a dozen furnishings that once they are gone, it takes about a week to stop lamenting the loss.

WRITING FROM YAHOO TO BOO HOO


ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS FALLS ON. An unusual time to be writing at four in the afternoon. The clouds drew me up to my writing desk, where layers of clouds forms teased me into believing it wasnโ€™t hot and humid outside.ย  I decided to write the column.

I knew I shouldnโ€™t write on my laptop because it is deconstructing. I can’t part with this laptop until I outline my next book. The sky drew me to the desk, and so I worked around internet outages.

I only had a few paragraphs from the afternoon, and when I returned to the column after dinner, the whole piece took another course, and I was writing not what I intended, but it was like sailing on a perfect course.   It was writing without the editor, meaning the inner editor that sometimes swoops down and cuts your nails off. I was writing about many things that happened. When I finished, I went to save the document and the laptop responded negatively. It vanished.  I thought about trying to recapture the column, trying to reinvent the stream of consciousness that seemed to be marathoning through my soul.

There were so many voices speaking all at once. I had to figure out how to connect the moment the leaves reminded me of Saratoga Springs,  and how we must place our print on the tablet, on the screen, and dismiss the reader who judges where writing takes us. Sometimes,  a reader knows me from the halcyon days, when my light was neon and my spirit a flame. They don’t want to see me now, draped in muted gray and hardship hardened. “Nobody loves you when you’re down and out.” Jimmy Cox 

 

THE MIND HIKE


ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS IS ON A HIKE. Not the physical kind that was once a weekly episode in New Mexico, these days I hike in my head, it’s as wobbly, uneven, rocky, and dangerous as a hike down the Gorge in Taos, NM.

The path I’m hiking is set off by relocation, once the house sells, which is on the fingernail of being sold. Each morning as I wake to my dreamy bedroom, I am deranged by the thought of leaving twenty-five hundred square feet of Victorian victorious comfort.I will be downsizing to a six-hundred-square-foot studio. I used to love studios, but this house has drained that love, and now reality is staring me in the face, a word I despise as an admitted non-realist and dreamer. The path that follows this is where I am relocating to? Relocation is a trend, according to some minor research. Boomers move closer to their children. If you donโ€™t have children or a partner to bring out the compass and use a methodical ruler to figure this equation out, it comes down to finance. Thatโ€™s the ticker that keeps bringing me back to reality. I should not have left Del Mar, CA. Have you ever said that? Itโ€™s the inkblot on decisions when I thought everything I did would work out until it didnโ€™t. And Iโ€™d turn the steering wheel back to where I belong.ย  I do not belong here, and thatโ€™s not because of aversion or harsh judgment. Itโ€™s a marvel if you like three courses of simple conversation, activity, and entertainment. ย ย The weather and I do not get along, the summer is sticky, humid, and last week we were in double digits, one hundred. I spent a few days next to a non-effective window air conditioner with an ice washcloth on my head. In the winter, Iโ€™m in battle gear with four sweaters and shawls and all of that, not to mention the ice and snow that kept me frosty for months. You can take a girl out of Southern California, but sheโ€™ll come back.

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 Borrowing from a post on FB, you spend the first thirty years of your life gathering possessions, and the next thirty years eliminating. Iโ€™m eliminating, sort of, I cruise by my ten boxes of books, and every day itโ€™s on the list to tape them closed. Then there are all the antique figurines, gambling paraphernalia, dรฉcor from the vacation rental days, and I think at last count, fifty hanging prints. I donโ€™t need to measure anything, this will not fit in a studio. Plus, I still have a storage unit in Santa Fe, filled with items I cannot remember. Is there such a thing as relocation therapy?

MOODY BLUES TUESDAY


           MATISSE

Writing somberly is parallel to writer’s block. It’s not a block, really, more like a resistance to engaging feelings. ย If I place all the options on a puzzle board, this leads to the center. 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 stagnant, we romance our passions, and we live to love. My heart is at the starting gate to love again, but the racetrack is missing. I’m undercover! I watch Blacklist or some foreign film in the evening. Most weekdays, I’m circulating between finance, selling furnishings online, shoveling snow, and researching acronyms because the news uses them so often.

The vortex of discontent is a punctured life. The windows of my home reflect the splendor of nature that plays all day long in the winter. ย I’m spending more time watching sky stage plays: clouds still, clouds moving, colliding, changing colors, sculpted into aberrations of animals and faces, than cognitive thinking. My collection of records and CDs accompanies the scenery. When I’m sorrowful, I listen to Ennio Morricone; when I need a lift, Vivaldi, Sundays it isย Turandot or some other Opera. When I’m a go-go girl, Swing, Salsa, or The Stones, when I feel alone, Sarah Vaughn, Nancy Wilson, and Etta James, for writing inspiration Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Annie Lenox.ย 

      I don’t see any remedy commercials for a fractured heart. By tomorrow, the despair could vanish, like the rain that puddled us for the last two weeks. Everything Iโ€™ve experienced is good in the beginning. So, to begin, I will listen to Begin the Beguine. 

“Begin the Beguine” is a popular song written by Cole Porter. Porter composed the song between Kalabahi, Indonesia, and Fiji during a 1935 Pacific cruise aboard Cunard’s ocean liner Franconia. In October 1935, it was introduced by June Knight in the Broadway musical Jubilee, produced at the Imperial Theater.  

    Henry miller writes in his book, โ€œ Henry Miller on Writingโ€ โ€œWhoever greatly suffers must be, I suppose a sublime combination of a sadist and masochist.โ€™  I suppose that a few of my friends have aligned me as such, and now that I write this, as in all writing, answers blink at you, and then the soul receives them like a wafer of wonder. Perhaps I am, but where that evolved and manifested, I have no time to think about it because the sun is out. I must sit in my newly designed sunroom, a small book library alcove that receives the sun at noon.  When I returned with my phone to snap a photograph, the sun disappeared like a footprint in the sky. Every moment needs attention. It’s twenty degrees outdoors. I am modestly adjusted and receive a thousand weekly warnings 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. 


MOTHER’S DAY REMEMBRANCE

MY BEST FRIEND, Lucille Casey was a woman who threw the dice all her life. She gambled on her instincts as if they were already tested and approved. She never told me much about herself. When I learned of her struggles as a young woman and her chosen life, she became more real than when Iโ€™d known her. During the years we were friends, she handed out selected stories, abbreviated and censored.  Being the inquisitive character I am, the shallowness of her stories bated me.  I had to pry the truth out from other people who had known her.  

            Caseyโ€™s first gamble was at sixteen years old. She sent in a photograph of herself for the Redbook Magazine modeling contest. If sheโ€™d won, the Powers Modeling Agency in New York City would grant her an audition as a model.  Casey was living in East Orange, New Jersey with her mother and sister. Her father had died suddenly, leaving the family without a financier. Casey’s mother was lost without her husband and unsuited to join the workplace. Casey didn’t tell her mother about the contest until she received the letter of congratulations.

            John Robert Powers met Casey in his office on East 56th Street and signed her as a Powers Girl. She was stunning to look at, photographed like a movie star, and was modest. John Powers did not look for aggressive, pouty-lipped fearlessness. The Powers Girls were captioned “Long Stemmed American Beauties” because they were wholesome, beautiful, tasteful, courteous, and virtuous. They were so far from the runway models of today that it is almost a reversal of the industry.  

The models of the thirties were ordained to set the highest example of classic good breeding and education. John not only schooled them in fashion, and individual taste, he instructed them in moral integrity, independence, and community service. Casey went to school at John Robert Powers and became one of the top ten models in New York.  

            She was a blue-black-haired Irish beauty, with emerald green eyes and perfect teeth. She stood only 5โ€™ 7″  in those days that was fairly standard. When I knew her, she was still thin and beautiful but she did not fuss about herself or spend a lot of time at her vanity. As a Powers model, Casey had a long line of gentlemen callers. Powers Girls were invited to all the nightclub and dinner show openings, sporting events, community galas, and fund-raisers.  Social engagements were part of her job. Casey was not a woman of idle chat, in fact, a lot of people thought of her as restrained and unfriendly, maybe even snobbish. I think it was more secrecy. People were always prying into her life because it looked glamorous. There was another side to that glamour she didn’t want to put in the mirror.  

            One evening Casey had a dancing engagement at the Copacabana nightclub in New York City. She was on stage with some other dancers when a certain gentleman noticed her. The next chapter of Caseyโ€™s life began that night. At twenty-two years old, she fell in love with a man thirteen years older, of the Jewish faith, who lived in Hollywood. The consequences of her love forced her to change and adapt to a new lifestyle and different people.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  She did not bury or rescind her love after she learned he was Bugsy Siegel’s partner and best friend and that Allen was a part of the Jewish Mafia. She asked him to reform his criminal activities. He agreed, provided she would marry him. We all know at twenty-two a woman believes she can change a man, and a man lets her think she can. ย Without that dream, many lovers would not have found their mates.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Casey did marry her love and spent her life trying to keep her children from harm and Allen from going to prison. ย I met her husband just after he tried to reform, and was beaten down by the FBI. I called him Daddy. ย 

UNCERTAINTY


Unprepared, who knows where
The leaves will fall
They donโ€™t plan
Where to land

Undisclosed strangers will walk in our paths.
Cross our hearts and
Tread our minds  

Evil intercepts, betrayal, intimidation, abandonment, financial sabotage.

Uncertainty
We traverse our heart’s discourse
Shooting for dreams of undiscovered lands
More weightless plans
I donโ€™t know if I can see ahead
My steps, like pebbles,
follow the rush in the river
On the edge of a
quiver

Skipping towards freedom
In summer, rays of light
Like a leaf, I break free from the branch

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To land a launch.


ICE, SNOW, AND RAIN… MIX THOROUGHLY AND SERVE CHILLED

WINTER 2025 … BYE BYE

Winter in the Northeast is a door to the interior, not just physically living indoors; itโ€™s a mental withdrawal from outdoor activity. Yes, some have adapted. I’ve seen men in shorts on a snowy day and women runners passing by my window on icy sidewalks. For many of us, I believe the winter is the time to ski in your head. Take a word puzzle section of all your experiences and ski down your mistakes, misjudgments, and behavior in all its rights and wrongs. A sort of sabbatical for the soul.

My car was stuck in the snow, and my eggplant pasta was stuck in cheese.

WINTER’S SERMON ON SOLITUDE


SOLITUDE will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are mystified by either too much or not enough solitude.

ย I contest what seems endless solitude with my Irish Russian temper, condemning irritants like: street noise, absence of friends, short-tempered customer service reps, world news, and mindless tasks. The fever dulled after the first ice, rain, and snow, and mindfulness triumphed. I imagined my basement of survival would sink. It did not. 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 of my irregularities; wearing a sweater inside out, pouring coffee into a wine glass for a cocktail, and chuckling up and down the staircase, because I keep forgetting where I left my phone. My head is elsewhere daydreaming.
Iโ€™ve learned how to repair house calamities; unscrew windows, seal up cracks, fix clogged drains, replace air vents, read the meters, and rejuvenate every wood board, handle, chair, and table with Old English Oil. As one pal commented on a visit to the house, ‘ It’s a perfect day for Old English! The winter forecast is blizzardy and full of warnings I havenโ€™t experienced here; and how can I complain when half of Upstate New York is buried in ten feet of snow. The end of the day pleasure comes in the kitchen; my heart and spirit melt while stirring my weekly gumbo, stew, or casserole while listening to Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and swing music.
Winter is a funnel that strips the trees and branches and lets us see through the forest and ourselves.

POP-UP POEM


He pushed her on a swing, so high she touched the sky, viewed the world through his eyes, lived for a time without lies, then as mystically as he appeared, he let go of the swing, and she fell on her wing, broken but with the will to begin again. A broken heart hasnโ€™t stopped her from loving him.

For ten days, just thinking of her spoken words, how they made their way to his ears and returned the sounds she so wanted to hear. When he stopped contacting her, she wiped her tears as some people find love at the core of their fears.

DANCE and, MUSIC AGAINST THE NORDIC BLAST OF WINTER


FROM THE JOURNAL 2025

SUN, a goose-bumpy joy and celebration. Thatโ€™s what I love about my education here: the first class you must take is weather management. Iโ€™ve destroyed dozens of artistic bric a brac by leaving them on the farm table on the porch, forgot to shop for groceries when a storm was approaching, and ran out of salt.   I drove through town, taking photos at the red lights; the scenery is like Little Women, dressed differently but still rather swarthy in their determination to survive. Now some men, probably like the fourth or tenth generation, bear the strength by wearing a T-shirt or shorts.  The other day, after a snowstorm, I noticed a man crossing the street in shorts, a long white beard, and working boots.  Thatโ€™s an EXACT badass around here.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Beguine the Beguine is on the record player, and Iโ€™m swinging around the music room, elated with the energy that forced me to dance, turn off the mind entirely.ย  Total bliss.ย  Dance has been with me since as far back as I can remember, the answer to a mood change, without drugs or alcohol. ย 

MALIBU PARADISE BLUES


In a current of unexpected life moves, I floated towards the Pacific Ocean and landed along the fragile, factious Santa Monica Mountains to Malibu.

The salty seaweed smell of the ocean streams through my car, driving down the Pacific Coast highway on my way to buy groceries. Vintage Market is new to Malibu, and clerks are giddy about their jobs. They may be aspiring actors or former actors.

I walk in and get a phone call that Iโ€™d been waiting for so, I set my cart down on a shelf and took the call. During the half-hour conversation, my eyes were fluttering through the scene: tanned surfers, affluent college students, and diamond-rich men and women of age that donโ€™t check their bank balances. Because of this, expressions are chilled as fine wines, and smiles are sublime or radiating. They are a mostly content population of 13,000. The median home price is $901,000, and the median income household is $127,000. Here in Malibu every thing looks different from Santa Fe: The staging of โ€˜was in the business, am in the business, or want to be in the business,โ€™ surfaces and dominates the scenery.

They are beautiful-the young teenagers who surf and paddle are true blondes, the blue eyes scintillating pools of water, young women are saddled onto 6โ€ platforms, and then there are the stand-out power people, who will not acknowledge anyone, and expect everyone to acknowledge them. Tucked in the mountains, are extraordinary artists who live off the grid the way most people prefer to live in Santa Fe.
I am learning slowly and still hiding out at Chantalโ€™s, where I am living, two miles up from PCH off Malibu Canyon Road, behind a gate. Bohemians, artists, home-office screenwriters, producers, and famous heirs of recognizable movie stars live there.

In the last hour, I walked down the road in the hands of sloping hillsides, horse ranches, and signature homes behind walls as high as the palm trees, built to withstand the typhoons of nature and mankind. In the daylight a swirl of rain and clouds, it was as if I was in Ireland, walking along a road in Kilkenny. I roped in my imagination and returned to the mountains, which will teach me how far to go, how to duck a racing motorcycle car, or confront a coyote or a snake.
A full transcendental moon dipped into the black-out mountain evening, and has cured me of interior turmoil for the time being. This is part of adventures in livingness in what locals call the bu. Chantal’s artistic compound of eight cottages and seventeen acres burned to chips in the Woolsey Fire. One night with Chantal and Neighbors.

Today, as the Bu, Palisades, and five other fires demolish humanity’s lives, I am grateful I was able to return to my childhood memories in Malibu for one summer in 2017. My family home burned in the Bel Air fire in 1961… No WATER. SAVE THEM THIS TIME, LA, AND DON’T LIE TO THEM.

TRIBUTE TO LA POSADA DE SANTA FE, SANTA FE, NM


CHRISTMAS 2013 AT LA POSADA

MAY 2017

It is the Kentucky Derby and Cinco De Mayo weekend at La Posada.  Kristen from the hotel said I should go; it would be fun. Sheโ€™s a feisty young woman with clear, penetrating blue eyes and silky brown hair. Youth dances in her expressions; other times, it wilts from being locked down to an indoor job.  Sheโ€™s an adventurer who camps out in Belize and South America. Now, sheโ€™s talking about Antigua.  

I walked out to the courtyard to see what was going on.  The tables werenโ€™t set up yet, but the Donkey stood idly and annoyed at the other end of the yard. I donโ€™t know why they bring him, maybe for the kids.  In the bar, a few guests were watching the Derby. The elan of race anticipation is shining like a light. I ordered a Mint Julep, and the guys were all watching as Dude whipped it up with finesse.

โ€œ How is it?โ€ Dude asked without needing any approval. 

โ€œ Magical.  Who are you betting on? Greta asked.

โ€œI want a Titty Tut, something nasty.โ€

โ€œ Oh, stop that. You do it too much.โ€ She replied.

โ€œ Not nearly enough! Okay, hereโ€™s my horseโ€”Promises Fulfilled. Oh yes, thatโ€™s mine.โ€

โ€œ Everything you say is a metaphor for sex.โ€

โ€œ You bet it is.โ€ Whoโ€™s your pick?โ€

โ€œ My prick is Justify.โ€

โ€œHah, see, now you get it.โ€

I sipped my drink and wandered around the lobby, stopping to greet Jackie, Monserrat, and Danielle.  They donโ€™t know what their smiles and caring comments do for me. I must tell them more often. 

โ€œ I donโ€™t know what Iโ€™d do without all of you.โ€ To be continued.