I think that the hospitalized would love to see you there. Try! They would love to
see you. Please go.
mark Walberg and matt Damon
Category: LIFESTYLE
SINGLE, UNMARRIED
WHY WRITE
Dad used to say, the only thing I have to show for my life, is you.
Just cause I write doesn’t mean that I have something to say,
that isn’t already known. I write for everyone that feels something different, and no one wants to listen. 
It’s my life.
Dad in Beverly Hills Court. On a charge for not registering as a criminal. He moved to Bel Air.
MIDDLE CLASS, MIDDLE-AGE MAP TO WHERE??
I rolled the dice this morning; got seven. This always lifts me UN-proportionately to
the triumph. What is a seven going to do? Nothing. The dice don’t do it; what happens Is
I believe it’s a lucky day; like the wind won’t knock down my outdoor writing arrangement,
and I’ll be able to write for hours, and not be interrupted by registered letters, construction noise coming
from the new Drury Hotel, or tenant complaints.
What we all treasure and wish we could stack up in a treasure chest is piles of peace from whatever our lives do to make us nervous, edgy, and cuffed. Or we stop the behavior which I think is more difficult.
If you’re a middle class, middle-aged person who expected to be retired in Costa Rica by now with a book and a bottle, then you have to rearrange the internal map. 
I ‘ll never retire from writing; I hope one day I can live in my home again.
THE LEGEND LADY OF PALACE AVE
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 $50,000, She shook her finger to demonstrate her point. ‘You know how many houses the Garcias bought? Five! Then they fixed them up and sold them.’
I could have stood there in the gravel driveway listening to Estelle all afternoon. She owns the oral history I love to record; but it is difficult to understand her, she talks with the speed of a southwest wind. We parted and I thought about the times in my life when the smallest of interactions elevates my spirit. In older people, who are not addicted to gadgets and distant intimacy, I’m reminded of how speed socializing has diminished the opportunity for a sidewalk chat.
TWO PATHS SAME END
There are two kinds of happiness. One ensures promise of financial
comfort, family, and children. The other kind ensures nothing. It is always adventures in livingness. In the end, both kinds deliver who you are, and what you never knew about happiness. 
A WISH FOR THE academy awards
” Who are you really excited about seeing tonight?”
Oh I am not excited in the way you ask. I am excited to
escape to tinsel tipsy two-liner Hollywood and just listen
to those speed talking talking ladies chirp, and then I am
a serious film follower. So the films are what it’s all about. I wish there were more in-dept discussions about the FILM MAKERS STORY, THE ACTORS STORY, AND HOW THE STORY GOT TO SCREEN , FROM THE SCREEN WRITERS AND PRODUCERS.
The behind the movie story has it’s own merit in this turbulent financial fiscal
%&*(%$#$%^ era.
PAIN OR PLEASANTRY- SHOVELING SNOW IN SANTA FE
WRITING BY HAND at my tiny Eurasian desk facing the window to the west; framed by time and familiarity into the branches of JD’s pine tree, today ward-robed in bacon colored leaves. The black silky toned crows are still basking like prowesses on the branches, and waiting for the crumbs that fall out of the garbage cans at the hotel across the street. My bird family has already eaten through a full day’s feeding, and is fleecing each other to first place at the table. The silky drape of the winter sky sometimes adorned with lacy clouds is blue as sea and has shaken the clouds all night. N
O SNOW. I am selfishly opposed to snow because I don’t happen to get snow shoveling without gut-wrenching lower back pain. How do you shovel snow?
I’m wearing one cotton camisole, one shapeless thermo turtle neck, a down vest, and when I go outside I wear a down jacket. I’m so bundled up it feels like my limbs are bound in masking tape. My teeth look whiter and my hair is flat instead of frizzy. Snow changes everything. From my desk, I write, without thoughts predefined, just a drain of emotional threads from my heart, listening to Zap Mama as she takes me to the wild, naked, warm region of Africa.
This year isn’t like last year. The absentee man, fussing with the fireplace, making me afternoon espresso, kissing me when I cook, hugging me when I pull a folly, has excused himself from my adventures in livingess. It is not at all like last year. Long time friend Rudy is in San Diego and so I am not interpreting the division of attention, between two men laughing at the kitchen table, and eating my blueberry pancakes, as they did last year.
I had the song of Judy Garland’s rainbow in my heart. It was a time I will never forget, or regret, because I was satisfied for several years. Unabridged ecstasy poured out of body, and spread over my attitude, abundant spirit, mood, facial expressions, and my dreams were filled with amusement instead of nightmares. I wander into unfamiliar snowy woods unsteady, juxtaposed between, acceptance and self anger for being so so… whatever it is that I pump into myself. If I was judged by my adventures and not my accomplishments I would be a contender.
Growing up with gangsters teaches you to live with risk, to invite challenge, and not complain if you loose. It’s wrong but it’s right. Nothing is worthless; not one moment should be wasted because there is always that window of escape. Our minds are there to take us away. I’m escaping now, Zap Mama Pandora station on the headset, and writing. This is taking the moment out of frustration and into pleasantry.
My steps inward reply with emotional break-troughs, mundane tasks accomplished, solo ventures, match.com dates (another story) and a comedic sideshow as I wrestle with sealed boxes, make repairs, and toggle in my patent leather too stylish boots to actually be called snow shoes. In these moments, I assure myself that evolving is never ending, and we do not ever know what to expect from ourselves. If I write down the pleasantries surrounding my life, the blessings rise up and give me a softened comfort. The sweet peace may vanish the next day, or be intercepted by the news, a wreck in the street, an unexpected phone call. The crossroads of everyday life comes and goes. Between all of these uncontrollable incidents we are writing stories that some day will be told in conversation, or written in journals and books. The essence of our changing lives is universal. Why am I doing this now, why am I feeling this now? Etc.
Remember your pleasantries, and bring them closer. A few of my snow cold freezing feet remedies: Kneipps Herbal Lavender Bath: Do not apply to the face!
Ralph Lauren Candles: I paid too much, but the scent is like having a man around the house.
Homeland. Sunday nights Showtime. Clare Danes has replaced my empty strong female lead on television. I mean, this is one to Watch! ( season ended. Vegas on Tuesday’s is the other one to watch)
My friend Loren visits three times a week at least: Snow means, silence, and hermitizing, so I can’t wait to open the door to Luxury Limo Loren, and make him brunch. We harmonize for hours; on tones of fretful fear, wicked secrets, sex, laughter, Santa Fe, immigration, buy American, and the crust of survival that is stale and must be reheated.
Treats: Snicker bars, Vodka and snacks that I can nibble on while indoors more than I’d like to be.
Bar Bells: For those combative moments on hold with Comcast, SWA or Verizon.
Books: Time for Virginia Wolf and Jack London.
Movies- Zorba the Greek, Auntie Mame, U-Turn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and Once Upon a Time in America.
I AM PACKED FOR THE BEACH, JUST IN CASE.
DELETION OF THE VOICE
Are you noticing that people are so drained from the economy, wars, murders, and mayhem that they have turned insulting, rude and detached? Facebook, twitter, blogging, match, and the next one to come, have eliminated the risk of humanizing, in the park, cafe, bar, fountain, ocean, path, rock, shop or restaurant.
Hey, checker at Kuanne’s smiles, likes my perfume. A few days later the bartender at La Posada, brings me down in front of bar, LouLou you’re reading too many novels.” “Dude I don’t read novels I read non-fiction.”
Stand up for yourself- don’t let rude dude get by.
ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY
- http://www.ew.com
- Ben Affleck wins Directors Guild Award
- ‘House of Cards’: Netflix has two aces
- Jennifer Lawrence sets talk-show bar high
- ‘Warm Bodies’ is No. 1 on Friday: $8.7M
- ‘Survivor’: Two who said ‘No’ to ‘Caramoan’
- Frank Ocean: No charges vs. Chris Brown
- ‘HIMYM’: Kyle MacLachlan to return
- ‘Do No Harm’ premieres with ratings thud
- ‘One Life to Live,’ ‘GH’ to share actors?
- Amy Poehler: I wish I’d pitched this!
- ‘Hunger Games’: Nominated for…nothing?!
- Music on TV: What’s THAT song?
- 16 movie stars’ moves in TV
- 23 guys who rage past age 50
- ‘HIMYM’ to end after season 9
I didn’t subscribe to this weekly trade rag, and I’m not in the entertainment business. Still they pile up on the island counter in the kitchen, because it’s what’s happening baby. So I opened one last night. My younger than I look paradigm dissolved, as I viewed musicians, celebrities, TV, film/ trends that were as unfamiliar to me as I would be to them. Should I develop an interest in what they are pitching? I kept reading about bands I never heard of,
books, new killer thriller suspense series that will make my blood curdle, single women who make love to themselves, murderers to fall in love with, and ten pages on the OSCARS.
I’m grateful for those artists of mercy that I have been turned on to in my life. Those are the ones I’ll cherish. That first Stones concert, first performance artist, exhibits at Mass Moca, an Afro-Cuban dance performance, Baryshnikov, Miles Davis, Cab Calloway, Tito Puente, the movie Women In Love, and Thirty Something.
Cowboy Poet Rudy Funk
There once was a wild one,
given for nuthin,
all alone in the saddle
he journeyed for days.
Once when he went where
he wasn’t supposed to,
up on a mountain,
his horse left to graze.
There he just sat there
his back on a boulder
his face was facing the sun
till late day.
The thoughts turned to no one
he never knew only,
only that someone
was with him that day.
The cowboy was faithful
yet wasn’t so graceful,
on the dance floor he failed
to get even one.
of those long legged beauties
that moved like the wind,
his thoughts returned
to that day in the sun.
Back to his horse
and away in his saddle,
he rode away
to the far setting sun.
That’s when he saw her,
by her garden as she watered,
writing a poem
with her roses for none.
But were these roses,
tended too softly,
were those roses,
really grown for someone?
She straightened herself
and with confidence and poise,
said, “cowboy, quiet down,
you make to much noise.”
It’s peaceful here stranger
you’re welcome to stay,
mind yourself now,
go sleep in the hay.
Well later that night,
when the moon shown above,
and the coyotes all howled
and fearful of none.
That’s when he went
where he wasn’t supposed to,
that’s when he came up,
facing her gun.
He said, “I can’t dance
I can’t talk and can’t sing,
but baby I love you,
and that’s a sure thing.”
She put down the gun,
with a few chosen words,
He smiled, then he told her,
the poem you just heard.
WHAT DO YOU GUYS KNOW ABOUT THE MOB
Dead Don’s, shopkeepers, policeman, government employees, drivers, wives, and sons are slaughtered every week. You won’t know unless you study it, like I do. They are in Calgary, Montreal, Sicily, Rome, the UK, Russia, India, Asia, Macao, …. You have no idea how different organized crime is compared to the founders. Read about Arnold Rothstein, and ask people who knew Benny, what kind of man he was.
ROAMING TO THE UNKNOWN
When I look beyond the quarry of my own chains and tough rowing as a writer, to that glorious painting that transforms every day, as if the sky was a Puccini scarf; of fuchsia, tangerine and turquoise, my soul is nourished.
Santa Fe is star power, and can shower your life with photographic moments on the half-hour. Like any city, village, or town you have some culture to conform to, or else you won’t be taken seriously.
In Los Angeles, I learned you have to be able to put on slapstick phoniness to get a conversation going with a stranger. Here in Santa Fe, amongst us Anglos, the advantages come if you are believably bohemian, liberal, quietly subsidized comfortably retired and artistic.
I don’t score well, and my direction is following Lawrence Durrell, Spirit of the Place, and living where you would never expect to live. I wish I could control my impractical, impulsive and annoying spirit of adventure. I think about cities of high rises and Jewish deli’s, at least five movie theaters built in the early 30’s, and neighborhoods of discovery. I just can’t give up the comfort of cocooning with humanity.
I long for the city, just as when I was thirty, all I ever talked about was SANTA FE. I lead a confusing life.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 