Luellen Smiley is a creative nonfiction writer, author, columnist, and historian whose writing is deeply rooted in a controversial personal history. She is the daughter of Allen Smiley, a close friend, associate, and business partner of notorious Las Vegas gangster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. Her father was sitting only feet from Siegel when Siegel was murdered in Beverly Hills on June 20, 1947.
That extraordinary childhood history became the foundation for Smiley’s first book, Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute, published in 2017. The memoir explores what it was like to grow up as the daughter of a man connected to organized crime while trying to reconcile her love for her father with the secrecy, fear, and criminal world surrounding him.
Smiley’s work has appeared in publications including the New York Post, MORE Magazine, Southern California newspapers, and Authorlink. She wrote the newspaper column Smiley’s Dice—Adventures in Livingness, which earned a Blue-Ribbon Award from the California Newspapers Association for her Growing Up With Gangsters columns.
Her interest in her father’s history also led her to become a researcher and commentator on organized crime history. She has participated in television, radio, and documentary interviews.
Smiley’s next book, Gaslighting Greta, will be published this year. A personal story that reads like fiction. Her own website describes the project as exploring a woman whose life is destabilized by gaslighting and psychological manipulation.
Her writing career reflects a recurring theme: using personal experience and research to uncover the truth behind complicated relationships and extraordinary lives. From the secretive world surrounding her father and Bugsy Siegel to the deeply personal territory of Gaslighting Greta, Smiley’s work transforms difficult experiences into stories of survival, discovery, and ultimately reclaiming one’s voice.
Luellen Smiley is an author whose life has given her an unusual perspective on secrecy, manipulation, family loyalty, betrayal, and survival—and she uses that perspective as the raw material for her nonfiction storytelling.
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 don’t 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. 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 I’d met; he carved me into a broad thinker, allowed my off-the-chart ideas and proposals to progress. Tears welled because the memory was enflamed by my long-distance running days up Torrey Pines hillside. I doubt I’d be running today, maybe scuffling. 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. It is the same with manuscripts; they improve with each revision.
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.
WHAT ARE THESE LISTS... 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. 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!
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.
“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.
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.
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!
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.
White Wolf introduced himself to me when he worked Valet at La Posada Resort. He was the kool one with enough style and manners to attract attention. I learned he also provided private airport transportation and luxury limo service. A trip to Albany, New York was on my schedule, so I asked White Wolf if he’d drive me to the Albuquerque Airport. When I told him my flight left at 6:30 AM, he didn’t flinch, ‘I’ll be at your house at 4:00 AM with Starbucks-what’s your drink?’
He showed up, loaded the car, asked me to select my own music, and off we went. I felt like I was riding with James Bond; smooth shifts, minor breaks, all the time engaging me in conversation. The combination relieved my pre-boarding stress and woke me up. From then on, I chose White Wolf’sairport service. When he picked me up from Albuquerque, he had Fiji water, Travel & Leisure Magazine, chewing gum, and he played Vic Damone. ‘Chill, sit back, tell me all about the trip.’
At my kitchen counter, on a twenty-below morning, White Wolf leaned back against a bar stool too petite for a swarthy 6’ 4” man. His Johnson & Johnson silky blond hair is swept back, and I want to touch it, but we don’t play with physical affections. White Wolf’s forty, looks thirty, and thinks like he served an attitude and values apprenticeship under a wise guru. He’s on a break; from plowing snow at Albertsons, the Yoga Center, and private homes. This is before he reports for work at Geronimo Restaurant, where he not only parks the cars, but walks the ladies indoors, keeps the Zapata’s outdoors, and directs traffic on Canyon Road until midnight. He’s wearing a sheet white Polo turtleneck and black slacks, his day look, and I’m about to serve pesto, prosciutto and feta cheese frittata for late breakfast.
White Wolf is sipping a sixteen-once Chai and unwinding his broad shoulders in a circular motion as he considers current consciousness of Santa Fe.
“It’s a different kind of materialism. You really want it but you can’t have it. The most simple things; a toaster, a new phone, pinion wood–cause we’re cold–it’s so cold! The guy in front of the Homeless Shelter was near frozen when I drove by to drop off a bundle of clothes. Why is it so cold? Even the valet has to wear BMW beanies. These are some funny times.”
“What’s so funny about not having money?” I smirked.
White Wolf breaks into a full-body laughing recess. His sailor-blue eyes are just slightly turned up when he laughs. This transmits his effortless, humorous pitch on life.
“It’s different,” I said. ” I mean everything feels unfamiliar.”
“Yeah, it’s okay to feel,” White Wolf said. “Things are rattling around. That’s why the Gorge Bridge felt so stable the day I drove up to Taos. I think it’s the most stable thing in my life right now! Hah.”
I had placed the frittata in front of White Wolf, but he hadn’t touched it yet. Even when he’s starved; he lets the food sit there and cool off. I’ve never seen a man not eat when food is placed in front of him. I was already biting into the frittata; relishing a real meal.
I found a momentary silent inlet and asked him if the food was cool enough. White Wolf looked down, touched it with his index finger, and then his appetite fired off. After a few pensive moments, as if he were saying grace, he took a proper bite. He takes the food seriously, intensely. He’ll make a remarkable husband for some woman. He talks a lot about marriage, and the songs he’ll sing to his bride’s mother the day of the wedding. He confides in me uninhibitedly, as if we were two teenagers, cutting class. I feel youthful when he’s in the house; the absence of masks, emotional camouflage, and exaggeration is how I remember adolescence.
“What’d you say Wednesday was–on your new schedule?” he asked.
“Wednesday… I forgot since you showed up. I know! It’s Gallery LouLou marketing.”
“We have to give out two cards a week. I want you to pass out two every day.”
I nodded my head, ” I will, 2013 is just not the year to buy art in a vacation rental during the winter.”
“Geronimo has been slow, no A-list celebrity types, no mothers and daughters; cause the daughters don’t want to come here anymore.”
“Neither do single men, I interrupted. And if they do, they’re from Los Alamos. Can you see me with a scientist or an engineer? I’d make them crazy.”
“Listen–someone asks you out for an Ecco latte, don’t be a bitch. Just do it! You reverse sweat it. If he’s a jerk, Deebo him.” Deebo is the guy who shows up late, and should have been on time. His quip is unabashed, and he handles himself like Sean Penn; smoking and all smiles while he reverses blame.
“Can we change the subject?” I said.
“No! I want to know why you’re not even trying to hook up?”
“Because I’m convinced the man I want isn’t in Santa Fe. The ones I’ve met are looking for a caretaker, a fly-fishing partner, or a biker. Look, there are two types of men: one loves a woman because she’s not a man, and the other one seeks a mother who he can bash around.”
“I want to rat those guys out–like the ones that pinch and don’t tip. Give a name to that.”
“ Listen to this; the newly coined slogan for New Mexico is Truth.” I said.
“ Truth. About what?”
“ Exactly! What truth are they referring to? How bout’ the naked truth? Picture a Native American woman out in the arroyo in a leather crop top, her black hair elevated in strands by the wind, dust on her cheekbones. New Mexico is naked, isn’t it?” I asked.
“It’s isolated. If you can afford to come to Santa Fe and not blow your brains out, or go broke, you deserve to be here. Right?” He is smiling. Even the painful truths, are reformed as tests of endurance rather than complaints. He developed his own poetic rap dialogue that I suppose comes from growing up in two cultures: one in the hood, and the other in the wealthiest homes in Santa Fe.
“ Then it’s a good place for you. Like your friend that takes her poodle to Hospice. I really respect her for that. That’s what she’s doing with Santa Fe.” He said.
“What do you do with Santa Fe?” I asked.
“I’m the union organizer for luxury limo drivers. Like, iron your shirt and shine your shoes, have CD’s in the car, and water. You know–like this is New Mexico but we can spell Burberry. On the weekends I’m the ladies traffic controller!”
“ What is that?”
“At the clubs. Some of the guys are okay, all suited up, hoping for a dance, but some are like, I’ll buy you acocktail if I can follow you home. Someone has to protect them. Ladies can’t drive home cause they’ve cocktailed all night, or they can’t find their car keys, or they want to impress their friends with the Viking chauffeur. It’s chill; they’re good girls during the day.”
The morning turned into afternoon, and I was cleaning dishes, and watching the birds from the kitchen window. Every hour or so I stop responding to White Wolf, and let him talk. I can feel the rush of his life; how he sprints from limo driver, to Geronimo valet, then to Albuquerque, the gym, and his family. People who live intensely engaged in a variety of relationships; stir their surroundings like a human wind. Every time White Wolf leaves, I’m bouncing through the living room and dancing.
When I tuned into the conversation he was recounting his day in ardent animation. His laughter echoes, almost like he’s singing a song, and it lasts a long time.
“I don’t mind giving back to our greedy city tax roll. I feed the meters at the Lensic; that quarter made a difference. Huh?”… more laughter and he repeats, ‘we’re down to quarters.’
“Those meter guys were writing tickets like, here take that, and then on to the next car. Don’t bother coming back to Santa Fe, and it’s the weekend! That’s the barometer of my city—-hurry hurry write that ticket. Once it’s done it’s done.” Suddenly he stands, positioning his legs a few feet apart, he leans over, picks up his keys, and his phone.
“Come on let’s go for a quick creep.”
“A what?”
“Cruise the plaza, get you outdoors, come on it’ll make you feel better.”
“I’m not dressed for outdoors..”
“Put on a pair of low brow boots, and a jacket. Not fashioning this afternoon. You won’t even get out of the car. Come on.”
I listened because White Wolf is definitive in decisions. He doesn’t waver back and forth or want to argue. I rushed upstairs, zipped up my boots and grabbed a down jacket. He was standing by the window.
“We have twenty-minutes.” He said pointing to his watch.
We hopped into his silver VW GTI and he told me to pick a CD. I shuffled through the stack, while he backed out. Just then I noticed a car pull out across Palace Avenue.
“Wolf! Watch out!”
“I got it.” He leaned back, shot eyeball calmness to me and asked what CD I wanted to hear. He didn’t scold me for my alarm and doubt. After that I knew my caution was unnecessary. You learn a lot about a man by his driving. It’s a graph of his responsiveness, confidence, and how he handles sudden movement. White Wolf cruised over the icy asphalt and into the empty Plaza, all white and brown like a two envelopes sitting side by side. He was now slouching back, one hand on the wheel, messing with something in the open compartment, and driving 15 mph. There weren’t a lot of cars, but I had the feeling White Wolf didn’t care if there was someone behind us. We drove past Santa Fe Dry Goods, and he stopped, “Empty– that’s sad. No one buying fuzzy boots or hats.”
He drove by every shop and looked in, as if he was monitoring shopping trends. His eyes swept the streets, the alleyways, and I mimicked him, because I knew this was for me. We went slow as a couple of tired horses, so the eyes could bring in the unknown: a homeless man on a corner, the Indian woman selling jewelry, the Mideastern jewelers smoking cigarettes, and a few locals trotting back to work from a break. I looked up to the sky and found a patch of blue, and pointed it out to White Wolf,” and he turned to me and said, “I’m happy you noticed.”
“It’s two o’clock already,” I said.
“How’d it get to be two o’clock?” White Wolf kept the engine at crawl speed all the way back to the house. “You have to go to Santa Fe Spa–at least go see people! And go after six.” I nodded my head as I got out of the car, went inside, turned on the Rolling Stones, and danced.
Gallery Hendrix film concert in the garage for his exhibition.
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.
My emotional tail is wagging; curled up in my desk chair, I feel almost as if I were born in this chair. It’s cushioned me through a cyclone of adventures in livingness. Solitude will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are perplexed by toomuch solitude or not enough. The editor I used before submitting to a publisher asked me, “Why do you keep switching between past and present tense?” I told her I don’t control that until I’m in the final editing stage. My control over my writing is identical to how I live—acting on impulse, expanding the mundane into a musical, feasting on all the emotions, and fabricating thorny Walter Mitty encounters. I don’t think of applying proven methods; I make up new ones.
Back to this plateau of solitude. Love what you have, and especially yourself, with all your flaws and regrets. Honor is more critical; be proud not just for yourself but because someone out there needs you.
Sometimes, solitude feels like a draft no matter how many sweaters I wear. There are not many soloists residing in the village, primarily second and third-generation families with dozens of members. Living unstructured is a discipline that threads some days easily; when it doesn’t, I must rein in my passion for daydreaming. Today, it is the island of Capri. A friend is there posting photographs, so maybe I need to stop watching other people live their dreams. Yes, that’s it-take a reprieve from FB.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
Photo by u041au0430u0440u0438u043du0430 u041au0430u0440u0436u0430u0432u0438u043du0430 on Pexels.com
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.
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.
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.
Aside from her legal phantazmorphia, the house has critical repairs, so she is meeting with contractors, plumbers, electricians, and masonry companies to tend to one thing after another. As she reflects on all these repairs and sees her savings account drop by fifty percent, her demeanor is not as she expected; she feels a sense of reward for taking responsibility for the house and hertenants.
“ I decided to eliminate debt by consolidating outstanding balances into one low-interest payment; I didn’t use the air-conditioner, buy favorite foods, go to my favorite tavern, or purchase anything that didn’t get categorized as home repair. I even quibbled with my Physician about an in-person visit and asked for a Telemed visit.”‘
‘No, there would be no frivolous spending. This new style of surviving she called Anorexic Finance. When she relayed this to me, I high-fived her because I’ve never been in that position and thought it was commendable.
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 used to sit on the stoop in front of my Los Angeles studio. The dog walkers, gardeners, and residents formed the stage, with a backdrop of high-rise, two-million-dollar condominiums and vacant concrete terraces. From that, thoughts randomly tapped: I wish I owned that, wish I had that car, wish I had that garden. It is amusing how one’s view can determine one’s thoughts.
In Ballston Spa,where I lived the last six years, homes are two-hundred years old, or newly built to emulate the Victorian era. The automobile is sturdy, practical, and unwaxed. The way of this wonderment brings simplicity into my life. There’s no need to dress up and fit in; it’s the opposite here, dress down to fit in, or, like me, a combination. I am omitted, observed, and questioned, because, well, I never learned the answer to that, until this moment. Locals love locals, and I have never been one.
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.
