My possessions in Saratoga Springs now appear as decorations ย ย 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.ย 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, โwhen are you bringing your furniture here?’ I canโt 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.ย 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. ย
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. Iโve always been impressed with people who truly live in the present, canโt figure that one out, maybe Iโm just a past time girl.
My first experience with antisemitism was at twenty years old. I was working for a Bank in Beverly Hills in the loan department. One day my supervisor gathered us around and told a joke. I cannot remember it exactly, I do remember that he compared Pizza in the oven to Jews in the Holocaust gas chambers. I told my father. He ordered me to call the President of Gibraltar S & L and repeat the comment. The president was Jewish. I did so. I was assigned a new supervisor, and the supervisor was not fired. .
When I moved to San Diego in 1983, I witnessed derogatory comments about Jews, I don’t look what is the stereotype Jewish female, so people assume I am not. My father had passed and wasn’t there to advise me. If I was in a social or business situation, and offensive Jewish comments were made, I remained silent and never went back to whatever event I had joined. I was more interested in what people thought, then reprimanding them.
That all changed over the years, and I am emboldened to announce my Jewish heritage. I still hear that vapid response, ” I have a really good friend who is Jewish.” Or “You don’t look Jewish.”
I am not prepared for what has mobilized into a national campaign promise from some politicians, antisemitism. What? Are we in Germany? Who started this and who will end it? Are Jews protesting? I don’t see it. How many non-Jews celebrated the return of the hostages, or the end of the Gaza War? Why hasn’t a film been made about this historical event. I hope and pray I’m wrong, but antisemitism is in vogue. And who follows trends, the youth.
Overlapping Fatherโs Day is a mirage of life experiences tucked into memory prescriptions you take on a stormy day. A relic of my history rises and reminds me of the fear I once broke through.
It was 1983, and I was poised on a terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Venice Beach. It was March, the month my father died, and I stared at the horizon at dusk, imagining my freedom taking flight. Where would I go? Without his presence in Los Angeles, and my sister, who had already moved to New York, I was terribly alone. The replacement came in summer flings, with men who had crossed my path; a photographer, a New Jersey computer technician with a brassy voice and Joe Pesci humor, and every few days, Kenny, a former boyfriend, dropped by to smoke his pipe of philosophy and blow long-winded ideas on where I should move.
โI really want to move to Canada,โ I said.
โFor what? To go ice-skating?โ He said between puffs.
โI have family in Vancouver.โ
โWhat family? Youโre an orphan now.โ
โI am not. I have cousins in Vancouver. My fatherโs nephews.โ
โOh, yeah. When was the last time you saw them?โ
โWhen I was twelve.โ
โTerrific! Thatโs a solid-ass plan. So what will you do in Canada?โ
โGet a job in real estate.โ
โLue! Wake up. You canโt get work in Canada unless youโre a citizen. Forget that idea. Youโre better off staying here; look where you are: Santa Monica, the beach at your feet. Are you crazy?โ
โI donโt belong here any longer.โ
โYou donโt belong to anywhere; what you need is to stop trying to be a big shot like your father.โ
โI am not!โ
โWhen was the last time you left the country? When you were eighteen? Go to Rio, youโll have the time of your life, or Italy, or Greece–it doesnโt matter. Just take the chance and see how you land on your feet. Youโre a dreamer; itโs about time you made one of your dreams come true.โ
In the next few weeks, I met with Larry, my boss, who was liquidating his real estate portfolio to retire at 45. Larry wasnโt just an investment visionary; he was passionate about social, political, medical, scientific, and human interests. He was a genius.
โYou can stay here another year–Iโll find something for you to do, but youโll be bored,โ Larry told me.
โLarry, I donโt know where to go.โ I wiped a tear. He ignored it.
โYou have to get out of LA. Youโll never meet anyone here. You think youโll be introduced to someone riding up and down the elevator in Century City. Iโve spent a lot of time in Del Mar and Rancho Santa Fe. Theyโre nice people. You have a chance there; go down, spend a few days, and tell me what you think. Iโll help you. Now, stop crying. โ
I drove down in Dadโs black El Dorado, and parked at Del Mar Beach right next to the lifeguard station at the Poseidon Restaurant. I opened my suitcase, took out a bathing suit, and went into the beach bathroom. The tile was wet and smelled of seaweed and salt. I walked barefoot down to the beach. It was early spring, and the sand was unmarked. A few surfers jogged past me, blonde and bronzed like the Beach Boys. I followed them down to the seashore. In every direction, there was this untouched canvas of light and color; even the beach houses retained their natural sandy simplicity.
After I swam in the ocean, I went back to the bathroom, changed into dry clothes, and walked into town. A man with a beard rode past me on a horse and waved. I picked up a Reader and read the rental advertisements on the patio of Carlos and Charlieโs, the corner cafรฉ. A roommate advertisement caught my eye: โRoommate Wanted to Share large two-bedroom overlooking Torrey Pines Reserve.โ I called, and a man who went by the name of Smokey answered the phone. He invited me to come by for a look. His voice was predominantly ranch-friendly, so I took a drive over. It did occur to me on the drive that I was taking that chance Ken was blowing in my ear, and I was listening to Larry, who told me that people in San Diego were different.
โHi, Iโm Smokey. Come inโwould you like something to drink? Too early for cocktails, unless you want one.โ
โNo thanks. How long have you lived here?โ
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His eyes were animal-alert, his face tanned, and his hair cut short but made to look long. His smile was unfiltered with hidden motives, and he was bull-legged.
โI moved from Pittsburgh; Iโll never go back except to see my folks. This is paradise. Donโt you think? Iโve lived here for two years. I rent out one room, because I hate full-time work. Iโm more entrepreneurial. You donโt have to worry about my motives. I have a girlfriend, and Iโm in love with her. She doesnโt stay here. I go to her house. Youโll have your space, and if you need a friend, Iโm here. Come out on the balcony.โ
I followed Smokey, and we stood on the terrace overlooking the lagoon and marshlands of the reserve. To the west, the ocean and the stump of Torrey Pines Mountain.
โWait till sunset; youโll never want to leave. Come look at your room. I can help you move if you want.โ
The room was downstairs, his upstairs, and a stairway of trust in between.
A momentary connection occurred to me last night after watching, โThere Will Be Bloodโ about drilling for oil. The oil derrick is the outline, or the notes scribbled in a journal. Then the pipes are set in place, like words in a sentence, then paragraphs. Our characters come into view some muscular and brazen like the drillers, welders, rig workers and mud loggers. Once those elements are configured in the oil field or in sensory perception the story begins. The paragraphs build into pages and the pages build a story.
The writer digs for substance for soulful spiritual contemplation and he builds on it. Sometimes it comes like a gush of oil. Other times it bubbles at the surface and goes nowhere. When the bubbles recede, we move on to another location internally and externally and we begin to dig for a new well story.
These ruminations came to me after watching the film, especially poignant to me as my father at the age of fifty left a life of gambling and mafia assorted activities and learned to be an oil producer. He was introduced to Howard Hughes through Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello and Howard introduced Dad to a wildcatter in Houston named Lenoir Josey. My mother and father moved to Houston from Los Angeles in 1949 and into the Shamrock Hotel, that being the hotel used in the film Giant, and Edna Ferber’s book, about Glenn McCarthy, played brilliantly by James Dean. He built the Shamrock, and it opened on St Patrick’s Day 1949 (the pool was so large you could water ski across) Glenn became close friends with my father. I met him once in Los Angeles at a lunch with Dad. He was broken, by his loss of fortune. and friends. I recall a face withered by disappointments.
Josey as my father referred to him took my father under his wing and tutored him in the business of oil engineering and oil production It was a gamble and my father a life long gambler on everything loved being in the oil business. I didnโt intend to wave my fatherโs story into this but intentions in writing as many things in life surprise us.
If J. Edgar Hoover hadn’t refused my fatherโs request to reside in Houston to continue the oil business I would have been born in Texas. My father was forced to move back to Los Angeles and as Hoover predicted he went back to gambling. During his time with Josey, he amassed twelve oil leases in states across the Southwest and Midwest and when he died that part of his life was handed down to his children in royalty leasehold interests. That was when oil was $17 a barrel. But Josey had passed and his son no longer honored the handshake agreement between his father and mine and forced us to sell our leasehold interests for a shameful amount.
My pal since 2007 when I asked him to exhibit in my gallery. He advises, humors, and inspires me on every phone call. Today he is still exhibiting his photographs worldwide.Photographer and filmmaker Jerry Schatzberg, almost 99 years old, looks back at Edie Sedgwick in a new show at the Ki SmithGallery.
According to AI Self-confidence refers to an individualโs 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.”
After spending several summers at Saratoga Race Track, I discovered I loved thoroughbred horseracing. All my life, Iโve been a spectator of the performing arts. I never watch any sports on television, and I only attend baseball games when my father needs a companion. The art of performance is what led me to experience the racetrack as live theatre.
ย ย ย ย ย ย The racetrack is the stage, the jockeys’ are the actors, and the men and women who fill the bleachers, picnic grounds, Turf Club, and private boxes are the audience. The racehorse is the star celebrity.
The admission tickets, like any show, are based on your seating. You can walk through the gates for $3.00, or you can buy a Box for $100,000 a year. The collage of human emotions, drama, suspense, and danger, are key components to good theater.
Gambling personifies the Shakespearean twist of the racetrack. High rollers and drugstore cowboys wager to win. Some men walk out with a grocery cart of recycled cans, some walk out with enough money to buy a racehorse. They leave by the same gate, and the next day, they come back for more. But why, I ask, is thoroughbred racing not considered an all-around American sport? Why donโt jockeys get athletic respect? These two spheres of lightning truth struck me while I trampled through the mud, one rainy August day at Saratoga Racetrack.
I asked around for opinions. The Governorโs bodyguard remarked that it was a good question. He did not think gambling was the reason, because people bet on sports all the time. He thought maybe that it was because as kids we donโt learn to race horses, like baseball and football. “The public is naรฏve about Jockeys, because they have never raced.” Another answer I heard was that 200,000 fans fill a ballgame on any given day, and that those numbers donโt compare with horseracing.
ย Iโm not a bettor, and I donโt ride very well, but I am a drama whore. I took my notebook to the Jockeys’ room to ask the Jockeys’ what they thought about this irregularity in sports. Jose Santos had a few minutes to spare.
โJose, do you feel like America thinks of you as an athlete?โ
โWe donโt get the respect that we should. I think itโs the gambling. This is the greatest racetrack in America, and there is gambling in every sport, but when you come to the track, you see it right there, and people cannot avoid it. Pound for pound, we are more fit than most athletes.โ
I asked Jose what he does aside from riding. He jogs three miles every day, and walks for a mile. He reminded me that if he goes down with the horse, his strength is what gets him back up again. Another misconception is that jockeys only ride for 2 minutes. Well, the race is 2 minutes, but they ride every day of the year. They do not take breaks.
“How does the public perceive you?โ I asked.
โIn Europe they are treated like movie stars, over here the Jockey is just another person, and in sports, the Jockey is low. I wish we had more respect, but we donโt get the publicity.โ
This feels like the guts of the truth; our little minds like to align with other like minds. The leaders of the pack go to football and baseball, and the media follows behind.
Jose remarked that the only time he felt real enthusiasm and support was when he won the Triple Crown. Otherwise, they get a little column in the paper with the results. โThe Racing Form is 100 pages, and nothing is written about us.โ
โWhat if there was a Jockey Magazine?โ
โWell, that would be great, then the companies would be interested, and weโd get sponsors. When I go out to the park and run, I wear Nikes.โ He chuckled, and I lowered my head in shame. My bet is that this can, should, and will change.
There are reasons to quit and more reasons not to. The one reason that hovers above all is that everything we do in life needs revision. We are never through evolving into more thoughtful, loving, or wise human beings. Every day, there is an opportunity torevise your valor and conviction.
Revising the position you walk, talk, judge, form opinions, contribute to your home, friends, and partners. Discovering what you’ve learned, dreamed, and mastered is your novel. Just as writing a new chapter when the knot tightens, and you are trapped by decisions that are outdated. Antiquities of a former persona.
Changes in life are like undeveloped photographic images, blurred. Mentally, the angles donโt fit, like schedules, routines, and commitments. Returning to former lifestyles and looking at old photographs, what I see is someone else.
This week, I walked into Scripps Clinic for laboratory testing. The last time was 2012, when I was with a former boyfriend. J was all encompassing, all consuming, generous, intelligent, outgoing, and he had to be near me like a new pet. ย I lasted a year, the obsession of closeness suffocated my spirit and my writing.
After the appointment, I looked across the street at Torrey Pines Science & Research Park, where I was appointed Marketing and Leasing Director in 1986 over 150,000 square feet of vacant space. I visualized myself taking clients, Qualcomm, and the Jonas Salk Institute through the newly built office buildings. My confidence was slightly off when scientists asked questions about the mechanics and cable routes, but I loved that job. My boss was the most intelligent developer Iโd met; he carved me into a broad thinker, allowed my off-the-chart ideas and proposals to progress. ย Tears welled because the memory was enflamed by my long-distance running days up Torrey Pines hillside. I doubt Iโd be running today, maybe scuffling. ย Life is a runway that we have to steer for ourselves. If we allow others to take the wheel, we are not authentic. No one is steering my wheel, and I have hit a lot of potholes and assholes along the way.
The puzzle is how to live, where to live, and for whom. ย It is the same with manuscripts; they improve with each revision.
WHAT ARE THESE LISTS...ย the long list is the list you started as a youth, without even knowing you were making plans for your future. This is the list that does not have to be in writing, keyed in on a phone, Outlook, or posted on the calendar.
The long list is about cutting out, shocking the system, and coming back unharmed. It is an exceptional sensation of adventure we visualize while waiting for a flight at the airport, for the neighbor to turn off the leaf blower, for the light to turn green.
All of the things we monitor in our lives, like the need to have a cavity filled or checking the coolant level, are multiplying, and that short list is so long we rarely have time to consider the long list.ย None of those items will make any difference in ten years, not one.
The short list is a big obstacle in the way of the long list. By the time we get to the long list, we may be crippled by fear, turned into a sofa shouting grumpy cynic or, worse than all the above, we may have forgotten what we wanted.
Waiting too long to start an adventure on the long list is staring me in the face. Then I realize, I’m in it!ย ย
“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.
TANNED AND LEAN BARE-CHESTED surfers, taking off their wet-suits and I cross over one in my path.
” Sorry about the mess, ” he says.
” What are you surfers, sidewalk strippers?”
” He chuckled for a minute and looked at me with sea blue eyes and a smile.
“ I’ve been watching you since I was five years old.”
” Where was that?”
” Santa Monica, Malibu.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for the support.”
” Thanks for the entertainment.”
Back on concrete and the traffic crossing, at a four-way intersection, it is like the running of the bulls. As soon as I step off to the green light for pedestrians, a car on the left almost cuts me off, and the gleam of the cars, as if they were just driven off the lot, I think of my car, when it arrives, will be the dirtiest car in Del Mar.
Several days later, I Ubered into the village to look at a few apartments. The first one, designed in brick and stone, absolutely matched my taste, and was open. A man was sitting at a tiled table in the courtyard.
” I’ve been trying to reach the Manager. I’m interested in a studio.”
“ He turned around. ” That’s mine, take a look.”
” Thank you.”
I walked into a room the size of a woman’s mid-sized closet, and the closet was large enough to hold six hangers.”
” I lived here a year and a half; it’s a cool place.”
” Yes, very cool, but too compact for me. Thank you for showing me. You look like a surfer, am I right?”
” I am, that’s why I stayed here, the beach is next door.”
” Second surfer I met today, I really admire your sport.”
” Nice to hear that, it really is.”
I departed and walked a few blocks to the second apartment. The agent, in creased slacks and a plaid shirt, walked me into an apartment about the size of the previous one.
” It’s listed as four hundred square feet. Does that include the bathroom and kitchen?”
” Yes, we have off-street parking and of course, the location, you can’t beat it right?”
” Right, thank you for showing me. I have a few more to look at.”
” I’ll give you an application, he started to the door and recited the amenities, the view the landscape, and the terrific tenants.
” My furnishings and clothes won’t fit, and I am already fully downsized .”
” We have a one-bedroom available.”
” How much is that?”
“Thirty-nine fifty.”
” That’s above my pay grade, but thank you.”
” Good luck,” which sounded more like, no luck at all.
Back to my hotel, and as I passed the valet, he said,
” How’s it going?”
” It’s going, but it’s not taking me along.”
He bent over laughing, not because it was that funny, but he related!
LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 