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.

WRITING TRUTH

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I’m one of you. Adrift, without a direction, waiting on the shore for a wave to break and include us. It is not ho ho ho for us, it is whoa whoa whoa. I’ve learned my lesson; I will not repeat the dissonance, selfishness, and fear that prevent me from engagement with life. My cradle of friends is my family. They want everything to work out. For their patience and comfort, I will not let them down!

How much stronger must I be? Isn’t five years of punishment enough? My smile is feigned, my heart is sliced in two, and my spirit is spoiled. Today, the darkness outside and within shatters what could be a day different. I could be outdoors, and brave the cold, work out in the gym, window shop on a whim, and fill someone’s frown with smiles.

I have the hours to transform; it is eleven am, but I haven’t slept a night through in a week or more. I live a melodramatic life in my dreams; they are symbolic messages of my vulnerability, fragility, mistakes, and unrealistic expectations. My former self lived with all I wanted and needed. I woke with enthusiasm, direction, confidence, and exhilaration. I loved and was loved in return. You ask what happened? Betrayal, and then gaslighting, using callous actions, of destruction, emotionally, psychologically, and financially. What I cherished in him vanished, and a ghostly evil power, within another woman, chained him and locked me out.

Now I wait for the final curtain to close so that he will be a memory instead of a menace. Almost there, but will that liberation convert my stagnation into stimulation?

Hope, prayer, discipline, and forgiveness are the weights that build my strength. And of course writing. If I didn’t have this way of expression, I couldn’t have made it this far. My writing is my wand of magic, for me and I hope for you out there. I’m one of you, an outsider, an introverted extrovert, a dreamer, a risk taker, and at the starting gate of my triple crown. To be continued.

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DAYDREAMING TRAVEL

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

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

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

HOTEL WRITING- FROM THE WEST TO THE EAST IS LIKE …

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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.

ON THE HOTEL ROAD WITH MOTHER NATURE & MANUSCRIPT

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

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

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

ON THE HOTEL ROAD OF TRAVEL

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THE GYPSY CHRONICLES – Thursday, October 23, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ I know you are, I’m the same!”

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

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

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

“ Was, for eleven years.”

“ I moved recently from Ranchos de Taos.”

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

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

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

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

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

“ Hello, did you just check in?”

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

“You bet it is. I’m Loulou.”

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

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

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

“ Not sure yet.”

“ I’ve been there. Not knowing.

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

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

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

“ Everything is upside down, and no accountability. “

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED.

ADVENTURES IN TRAVEL

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I’ve been staying in a hotel during a short interim while I decide where to move.

While I am in the hotel observing guests, their mannerisms, conversations, and facial expressions, I have come to the conclusion that we are not only on a fiscal cliff, we are on a sinking shore of wet sand. I see guests who’ve come for gambling, visiting relatives, exploring Upstate NY, and lapping up a vacation as if it were their first. They are thirsty for living the essence of comfort, congeniality, and the aspirations of autumn. Shed the withered and welcome the wild. I see giddy faces and sluggish bodies weighted down by heavy tote bags. Some seem to shuffle like the very old or weak, from the pathway to the lobby. I was not excluded; by the time I checked into the hotel, my body was withered from having to move out of my home of twenty-five years. All I wanted to do was sink into a bed and hang the Do Not Disturb notice on the door. Several guests are annoyed by too much information, too many alerts, too many scandals, and too much uncertainty. The adventure of livingness has a trajectory marked by misadventures.

In reading the WordPress posts, I’ve discovered the Travel blogs are the ones that revive my interest in the world I haven’t seen. These are the ones I read because they spark my passion for travel, rather than comfort and complacency. The Mediterranean has been stirring in my imagination ever since I researched the coastal splendor of all those portside villages. Thanks to you, travel bloggers, I made the decision. This is the year for Italy. Now that it’s written, I must follow my word.

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TRUTH & TALK

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Writing feels rusty today. I plow deliberately through the blank mental soil to find a blade of substance in a week of tragedy and cultural chaos. In conversations with men and women about our fractured culture.

” It was never like this when I was growing up,” that is from a fifty-year-old,

” I won’t get on a plane, no way?” from a forty-year-old.

” I don’t talk about my views with anyone at work or out of work, except my family and friends.”

I replied, “Yes, we have to talk niceties, bland boring conversation. “

When I was growing up, there was more joking, laughter, and confessional conversation. I was thinking about my high school years; we talked a lot about emotions, our parents, our dreams, and our fears. I don’t recall restraining what was on my mind. Perhaps that is why the majority of the younger generation prefers social media friends, as they can be easily deleted or blocked. On my FB page and feed, not one follower or friend reveals their political views, including myself. Isn’t that so contrary to humanity? And political violence, I keep hearing we won’t tolerate that on the news, but we are tolerating it. Do we all need drones over our homes for security? An optimist would say, We can do better, and we will; a pessimist might say, I think it’s going to get worse, and a nihilist would say, Life isn’t worth fixing; it’s just worthless.

I canceled my utubetv cable account, because on most days anxiety is at full tank without the news. In this new state of freedom from home; maintenance, repairs, showings and tenants, time is on another clock.The one that ticks as a writer in progress who is dusting off the least truest of thoughts.

FREESTYLING SINGLE

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THE GYPSY CHRONICLES – Day 10.

Scintillating in luxury and comfort is therapeutic if mastered with moderation. So, my second week here in the hotel, I opened the thruway to discerning tasks: a deep dive into publishing my book, rewriting the ending so art isn’t imitating life, but the other way around, searching for part-time employment, a seriously pragmatic approach to where to move, and writing my pop-up columns.

It is tremendously easy to write from this hotel room, without those damn barking dogs next to my home, the constant vibration and noise of mowers, blowers, and city works.

On my desk is Henry Miller’s book, On Writing, and every page moves the mental nerves in some way. “The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds: he takes the path in order eventually to become the path itself.” From living in isolation in my home, my tenants are cordial but reserved; I am now swept like a surfboard into a wave of public swells. It is their stories that come out of this experience.

I begin with the Casino, attached to the hotel lobby, and open at 11 am. Arrivals begin: gamblers shuffle inside, some in wheelchairs, younger men with speedy strides, couples, single women, a plethora of humanity in common, with one mission: to win. I take a seat at the bar, and eye wonder at the slot machines. I haven’t counted them, but the room for walking is limited. There is one machine with the motif of a bull, and when someone sits, the bull grumbles loudly, so I pull out my earplugs. I watched one man win, and after he left, other players who heard the winning clang took his seat. It is a popular machine.

The casino looks to be around eight thousand square feet, with seventeen hundred gambling options. The path to get back to the hotel, I have to navigate around and around. The first time, of course, I went in circles as my sense of direction is like a butterfly’s.

“ Excuse me, can you tell me the most direct way back to the hotel?”

“ Lost are you? Follow this carpet pattern, the one in the middle, and it will take you back.”

Off I trot, staring at the paisley pattern, through six different arenas to the hotel. I went outside and took a seat on the bench. A woman passed by and stopped, “ How are you?’

“Adapting, I’ve not been here but a few days.”

“ Oh, we’re just checking out. I can’t wait to get home to my Pomeranians. I have two. I rescued them, and they are my babies,” she continued, talking about the dogs. As she spoke, I noticed how immensely liberated she was in conversation, and how her hair matched her outfit. She smiled while talking.

“ I’ve seen you before. I noticed your style; you were wearing such a pretty outfit”, she said earnestly.

“ Well, thank you, and so are you.”

“ Are you alone? I think you are, but don’t let that get you down.”

“ I wasn’t ready for a very long time. I’m crossing over that mountain, only I’m not like you. I can’t approach people the way you just did.”

“ I used to be like that! Now I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either. God loves you, we are all his children, and we need to love each other.”

I let her go on and thought any minute she might bring out a bible or a cross and start praying for me.

“ I bet my husband is looking for me; he’ll be mad, not really, he’s used to it. We’ve been together forty-five years.

“ Remarkable. What’s your secret?”

“ Love, respect, and compromise, it’s really very simple. You’ll meet your honey, I feel it, you want that, don’t you?”

“Yes, when a man tells me everything is going to be okay, I settle down. I’m emotionally overweight.”

“You’re funny, see that is another quality that gets you through life.”

“ I see a man approaching, and she introduces her husband. He is tall, and emulates a calmness and contentment as he hedges into the conversation about going to Lake Placid.”

“ Have you been there?” he asked.

“ Years ago. It’s beautiful.”

“ I turned towards his wife. I didn’t get your name.”

“ Donetica, Italian, my friends call me Dee.”

“I’m Loulou, and thank you for stopping by my bench.”

She giggled, blew a kiss, and said in parting, “ I love you.”

As she left, a woman exited the hotel in a state of exhilaration.

“ It looks like you had a good day,” I said

“ Yes! I won eight hundred dollars. She swung her purse and skipped off.

Hmm, I wouldn’t mind winning at all, but I’m in enough ambiguity to play against those odds. To be continued.

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FROM ORDINARY TO EXTRAORDINARY

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With every turn, right, left, or center, I observe novelty, unfamiliar faces, facades, and finery. The conversations that linger over the opulent surround sound lobby release a fusion of shouting and laughter. New Yorkers are not whisperers, and my annoying sensitivity to sound, forces me to go in and outside a dozen times a day. That is when I meet the guests, perched on benches and rocking chairs. In the six days I’ve been, here I’ve accumulated dozens of conversations, not just niceties but life stories expressed in thirty-minutes.

The first day of arrival began with a dining hallabaloo organized by the best broker, Scott Varley, who sold my home. At the table, Scott and his friends, who knew the bartender’s, waitress, restaurant manager, and a few guests at the bar, so our table became a Musso Frank sort of mise en scene. I, as usual, was punctuated with awe, as this is a new kind of adventure in livingness after Ballston Spa. Drinks arrived with the speed of a remote, and as we all filed in for the liberated moment, when we exhumed our true selves. Lynn, the woman next to me, was a beautiful, statuesque, stylish woman whose poised and confident aura emanated from her.

“ I hear Scott sold your home. Is that a good thing for you? It’s not always.”

“ Yes, a few days ago. Well, a paradox, I loved the home, a Victorian, but it was also most of my income.

“ What will you do now?”

“ About what?” She laughed and tilted her head back.

“ Where are you moving?”

“ I don’t know yet.” Her eyes widened, and she responded flatly.

“ You don’t know? You have to have some idea.”

“ It depends on the proceeds, an ex is involved, it’s too complicated over a martini, and all this talk. I can barely hear you. “

“ An ex is always involved. How long are you staying at the hotel?”

“ You’ll love this..

“ Don’t tell me, you don’t know. You’re adorable.”

“ Thank you, and I sense you are very strong.”

“ You bet I am.! She punctuated that with a fist to the table. “

The night zigzagged, with Lynn and Scott scurrying into the casino, while I remained, as casinos mean, the genes of my father may flare up. The bar was baritone loud and after what seemed four hours, I returned to my room, quite comfort, marvelous pillows unlike I’ve ever felt, “ I can’t fucking believe this.” To be continued

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Five mass shootings in one week, and all I hear is prayers. Please forgive me, but I am enraged with the absence of humanity, accountability, and chat all day about how to be famous and healthy. IT IS CALLED MENTAL HEALTH.

RELOCATION REALITY

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“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, it’s world news. I feel less and less a part of humanity and more like a wild creature chewing on an old bone. My outlook on social clubs, synagogue and church congregations, membership clubs, group classes, and let’s meet up organizing makes a lot of sense now. Especially if you don’t have children or a life mate. The temptation to retreat into a decorous world of fantasy is irresistible. 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.

It’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. For my Gen X and Millennial pals, I say this: buy a duplex somewhere you want to live.

I’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.