MENTAL HEALTH, When will we take notice that THIS SICKNESS KILLS, I could rage in the streets right now. My eyes are filled with tears, my heart is too heavy to lift me up.
SANTA FE PLAZA
Category: LIFESTYLE
DON’T YOU DARE TAKE CHRISTMAS AWAY.
What is this nonsense? Am I really listening to a national complaint against,
Christmas? Who needs a job? Whoever you are that started this, dig yourself a hole in the ground and meditate for a month.
I’m half Jewish, half Catholic-all I know about my mother’s religion is the holidays. They remind me of her, and how the two weeks transformed our home, because she happy, really looking forward to seeing her mom, and sisters, and nieces and nephews….
Whoever you are, watch Hallmark television. We are saps for comfort.
Happy Birthday to Literary Lady Joan Didion
Happy birthday Teacher.
Love from your unknown student.
VOYAGES WITHIN & WITHOUT
I live in a temporary tide-pool, a lily floating against the current, weighted down by a suit of armor that shields me from the beauty, love and freedoms stirring in my bud.
The throw of the dice this week lands on a quote from the archives of my peculiarity-clipping folder.ย ย I donโt know if this is branded in a writerโs genes, or simply another trivial pursuit to aid us in remembering things, that at the time we feel we need to remember, but we are not sure why.ย Being a clipper means that nothing in print is safe in our presence.ย We cannot resist the impulse to possess particular images and words, and usually without any logical reason. Once we have retrieved the clipping, we file it in a folder or notebook. The clippings do not age well and after 10 years, they are yellowed with torn, frayed edges.ย They are rarely plucked from their binding burials and given present day meaning because they live in the bottom of trunks, or in storage units, and are difficult to get our hands on.ย ย Since I discovered a clipping several weeks ago Iโve been investigating the connection between clippings and destiny.ย I stopped being a savage clipper in 2002.
I opened up this one journal from 1988, and reading the pages, I came across the quote that propelled me into adventures in livingness. It came from Theater Critic, Kenneth Tynan, from a magazine article he wrote.ย It was a personal essay and the line that beamed through me like a telekinetic force was ,ย ย โAdventure. Voyage, there is nothing else! โ When I ripped it out I did not live, or ever imagined Iโd live in Santa Fe.ย ย That was the first time I had come across that article. I remembered it, and swore an oath to adventure ever since.ย ย I memorialized the quote and have continued to look for new places to adventure and voyage.ย ย ย Since 1982, I have called home behind 31 different doors, in only six different cities.
I realize Kennethโs voyage metaphor was not about relocating, though moving has a definite adventure inside it, but more of an internal adventure, opening your own doors to unconventional, unacceptable, and unrealistic measures in the hopes that you discover real newness of vision.ย
PLEASANTRIES OF YOUR LIFE
PLEASANTRIES OF YOUR LIFE
This is a short piece. ย I havenโt written anything besides the script for the last two months, and my head is empty of imagery and illumination. ย I got the script done as right as I could until such time as a more experienced screenwriter explains what Iโve missed. Itโs like looking in the mirror and deflecting the flaws, until the big mirrored light swings over and all is revealed. .
Last Saturday after I printed the script out I went into a cocoon of pleasantries.ย Studying my home-nested wild birds, nudge the bird feeder, peck each other out of order, eat alongside the chipmunk, the doves, and the squirrel on the porch and Rick, the pavement glory of La Posada waving from across the street as he jogged to retrieve a guestโs car. ย ย I envied Loren on the porch, sunglasses and hat tipping slang narrating life as he sees it from a valet, go to guy,ย perspective, and watching Rudy on the roof pitching leaves, and listening to Ray Baretto.ย ย I drank up Gloriaโs laughter at Geronimo when Sam Shepard sat next to me, and she nudged me to talk, talk talk. I watched the fireplace rising into flames and the sunlight at dusk in the melon room .I rose to morning air so fresh it numbed my tongue, my nose and eyes, and inside my San Francisco kimono, draping over my arms I could see the blossoms of color.
Lounging in lavender and lilac oil, soaps and salts in my claw foot tub listening to Nancy Wilson and then later with the TV on to TCM and my head on the pillow, I snuggled the pleasantry of a warm bed and heat rising through the vents.
If you write down the pleasantries
Surrounding your life
Your blessings rise up and
Give you 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 our stories. Stories that some day will be told in conversation, or written in journals and books. The essence of our changing lives is worth telling, so you loyal readersย write to me and tell me yours.
Remember your pleasantries, and the ones that swim through your days, with smiles and laughter, pats on the backs, jokes and tales. We all have clutter of the mind but we have the power to sift out the deranged deviations. I have come to believe the only will I want is the power to be a real good sifter.
COMFORT & GANGSTERS
Comfort….
From writing by hand at my tiny Eurasian desk facing the window to the west; framed by time and familiarity into the branches of JDโs pine tree, the black silky toned crows basking like prowesses on the branches, and waiting for La Posada to empty the dayโs leftovers in the garbage cans. The silky drape of the winter sky sometimes adorned with lacy clouds, like today, softening the southwest blue to a faded jeans shade. From my desk, I write, without thoughts predefined, just a drain of emotional threads from my heart…
This year isnโt like last year, the absentee man, fussing with the fireplace, making me afternoon espresso, or drying dishes. It is not at all like last year, with Rudy and John intercepting my division of attention, laughing at the kitchen table, eating my blueberry pancakes.
I had the song of Judy Garlandโs rainbow in my heart. It was a time I will never forget, or regret, because I was a very lucky lady 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.
Thatโs why now, is so different. The camp has closed, and I wander into these new woods unsteady, and steadier, juxtaposed between, acceptance and anger.
In the last few months, Iโve written my heart out, read Shepard, Colette, Durrell and my Creative nonfiction magazines. Iโve studied, and prepared for radio programs, and collected a bundle of columns to adapt into short stories. I started buying chocolates and jelly beans, so I treat myself, on breaks, when itโs too cold for my frail body to walk around town or up Palace Avenue to see the new for sale listings.
My steps inward resulted in accomplishments, break-troughsโ and a comedic sideshow trying to open boxes, make repairs, until Rudy shows up again, and rake the leaves, stuff that is mundane. More distant relations, and mafia threaded strangers knocked on my door, bolstering my faith in breaking the silence that ruled me, I let rule me.ย Stepping inside the truth I must face isnโt nearly as harmful as pretending.
Mob on television, in the news, (gross sales global figure of $850 billion) websites, and bloggers, movies and books. Theyโre all coming out of the closet to inform, turn themselves in, give advice, consult on their own films, sign on for pubic speaking at Libraryโs, documentaries, and advertisements-the world is all mobbed up and itโs time for some horrific homogenization of the gangsters who wouldn’t break the silence.
When you text the person who shares your home, it could be a sign of diminishing emotions, or detachment. If a relationship is developed through text or email, it will shatter like cheap glass when tested.
SACRIFICE
Locked up in the imaginary world of writing. It’s not always so accessible, so effortless, and when it is lock yourself in and give it your life.
The fall drapery from the window teases me with specks of sunlight, and leaves dropping like snowflakes. My spirit is drawn outdoors.
to walk, hike, run in its splendor. Sacrifice is how we finish our plays, canvas, book, song, and poem.
PLEA FOR CLOTHES – NEWARK
I sent out a box of sweaters and jeans. It cost less than $10.00 priority. I then stopped by Ooh La La
consignment, and commented she would have gotten more from me, but they went to the Hurricane Relief.
” Where can I send clothes? I’ve got a ton.” She said. So I will pass on the address I have posted.
On the way home it struck me that thousands of families will go without Thanksgiving this year.
Newark is part of my roots, my mother being born there, and my roots are hurting for all of those people.
HELP FOR SANDY VICTIMS READ MORE
There’s another storm coming. Temperatures are dropping. Things are getting colder and even scarier. I am writing to you to ask for your help in clothing the displaced, homeless, under-dressed skaters in our community and their families…If you have anything warm (socks, sweatshirts, jackets, beanies, gloves, shoes, tees, ANYTHING) doesn’t matter if it’s 5 seasons ago…there are many in need from very young to very big XXL. Anything you can spare to help people stay warm will be appreciated.
Please send whatever you’re able to (and there’s no box too small) to our New Brunswick shop:
NJ TWO 29-B Easton Ave
New Brunswick, NJ 08901
Label the box HURRICANE RELIEF
LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 