Writing somberly is parallel to writer’s block. It’s not a block, really, more like a resistance to engaging feelings. ย If I place all the options on a puzzle board, this leads to the center. A fractured life impacts emotional posture and is not unlike physical posture. We slump or stand tall. We love instead of neutralizing, we are inspired instead of stagnant, we romance our passions, and we live to love. My heart is at the starting gate to love again, but the racetrack is missing. I’m undercover! I watch Blacklist or some foreign film in the evening. Most weekdays, I’m circulating between finance, selling furnishings online, shoveling snow, and researching acronyms because the news uses them so often.
The vortex of discontent is a punctured life.The windows of my home reflect the splendor of nature that plays all day long in the winter. ย I’m spending more time watching sky stage plays: clouds still, clouds moving, colliding, changing colors, sculpted into aberrations of animals and faces, than cognitive thinking. My collection of records and CDs accompanies the scenery. When I’m sorrowful, I listen to Ennio Morricone; when I need a lift, Vivaldi, Sundays it isย Turandot or some other Opera. When I’m a go-go girl, Swing, Salsa, or The Stones, when I feel alone, Sarah Vaughn, Nancy Wilson, and Etta James, for writing inspiration Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Annie Lenox.ย
I don’t see any remedy commercials for a fractured heart. By tomorrow, the despair could vanish, like the rain that puddled us for the last two weeks.Everything Iโve experienced is good in the beginning. So, to begin, I will listen to Begin the Beguine.
“Begin the Beguine” is a popular song written by Cole Porter. Porter composed the song between Kalabahi, Indonesia, and Fiji during a 1935 Pacific cruise aboard Cunard’s ocean liner Franconia. In October 1935, it was introduced by June Knight in the Broadway musical Jubilee, produced at the Imperial Theater.
Henry miller writes in his book, โ Henry Miller on Writingโ โWhoever greatly suffers must be, I suppose a sublime combination of a sadist and masochist.โ I suppose that a few of my friends have aligned me as such, and now that I write this, as in all writing, answers blink at you, and then the soul receives them like a wafer of wonder.Perhaps I am, but where that evolved and manifested, I have no time to think about it because the sun is out. I must sit in my newly designed sunroom, a small book library alcove that receives the sun at noon. When I returned with my phone to snap a photograph, the sundisappeared like a footprint in the sky. Every moment needs attention. It’s twenty degrees outdoors. I am modestly adjusted and receive a thousand weekly warnings to get a flu shot. My doctor has tried persuading me to get a flu shot for three years. I responded that I’d never had the flu and that my last cold was in 2012. He chuckled and asked the next question.
In one of my books on writing, I read that most writers face the demon in the middle of the novel. The beginning is a gallop, and the end is a relief, but the middle wiggles in and out of your grasp. The middle of our lives reflects this same obscurity.ย ย ย
The middle of a life span reflects all we have accomplished and all we have left incomplete. This is what they call a mid-life crisis. I get it every year. ย Iโve finally accepted that my constant relocation, reinventing, and restlessness will not be solved. At the bottom of the restlessness is the fear of finding rest more enjoyable than movement. This flotation of comedy rotated around me last night while I stoodout on the porch observing the peacefulness. The scenery of this street is a comforting, historical beauty that comes from the harmony of architecture and nature. The flow of villagers downtown is along two main two-lane streets; all the shops, services, and restaurants are a patchwork, and all the business owners know each other. ย
I chose Sunday to shut down all communication with the mainland, take the longest bath I can stand, and write. I need a rest, like a chaise lounge on a spacious veranda with honeysuckle, wisteria, and lavender.ย If you are an artist, the limit is not the sky; it’s everywhere. Natureโs artistry is a full-time exhibition in the Northeast. The view now is of tumbling clouds rolling over; they move slowly, like dough, across the road, while squirrels dart about. ย Outdoors is where we see the best of life.
ย I ‘m thinking about Loren, one of the most original characters in my life. He developed a vernacular unlike anyone I’ve met. It came from growing up in the hood of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Later exclusive Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood, and then returning to Santa Fe. Joined the upper class clientele as a chauffeur. His vernacular was impressive as it collated honesty, and a wit sharp as a razors edge. Loren visits three times a week at least. Snow means silence and hermitizing. Iย can’t wait to open the door to Luxury Limo Loren and make him brunch.ย We harmonize for hours; on tones of fretful fear, wicked secrets, confessions and laughter. The delicious crust of survival and our similarities.
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.
Uncertainty We traverse our heart’s discourse Shooting for dreams of undiscovered lands More weightless plans I donโt know if I can see ahead My steps, like pebbles,follow the rush in the river On the edge of aquiver
Skipping towards freedom In summer, rays of light Like a leaf, I break free from the branch
The long list is what you started as a youth or maybe later. It represents one of those adventures you must do before you die.ย The list you started without even knowing you were making plans for your future. This list does not have to be in writing, keyed in a smartphone, or posted in Outlook. The long list is about shocking the sensibilities: habits, norms, routines, and coming back unharmed. It is an exceptional journey, and we visualize it while waiting for a flight at the airport, waiting in line for a new driverโs license, or the light turning green.ย All of the things that we monitor in our lives, like the need to have a cavity filled, updating your platform, passwords, or checking the coolant level, are multiplying, and that short list is so long that we rarely have time to consider the long list.ย If at random I selected ten long list entries theyโd read like this:ย Safari, Lombardi Italy, Greece, a cruise on the Cunard, a gallery of my own, a husband, a dog and cat, and a place that is quiet, like a ranch.ย The short list, fix the broken window in my bedroom, fix the roof and ceiling in the guest room, get the three non-working electrcial outlets fixed, the dishwasher, garbage disposal, stage the attic and basement cleaned out, and relocating to a place Iโve not named.ย The short list is a big obstacle in the way of the long list.ย
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 desired.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Waiting too long to start an adventure on the long list is what happened to me two weeks ago.ย I waited twenty years.ย The journal entry was written in 1986 after visiting Santa Fe, New Mexico, for the first time. It was the weekend of the Burning of Zozobra. I read about it in the visitor guide and saw pictures of the paper Mache statue standing thirty feet tall.ย The mystical ritual of the burning of Zozobra is intended to wash away all our grief and sorrow that builds up each year, and so they call him Old Man Gloom.ย I missed the event that first time, and I made the following dozen visits for business and pleasure. Some years, I was within days of seeing Zozobra, but I left because someone was expecting me, or I ran out of money. After twenty years, Zozobra became a symbolic representation of what I must control.ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย This September of 2006, nothing would stop me from seeing Zozobra.ย Dodger and I drove down from Taos to Santa Fe late on the afternoon of September 8, and checked into the La Fonda Hotel. This is where I stayed on my first visit to Santa Fe.ย ย The anchor of the Plaza and all that happens outside eventually flows inside and settles beneath the cathedral viega ceilings of the hotel lobby.ย As we arrived on Fiesta weekend, the traditional celebration culminated in a juxtaposition of historical events, cultural exhibitions, parades, handshaking, hugging and margaritaโs tipping from arms air born. La Fonda opened its doors to the entire population of New Mexico. .
You can sit on an old Spanish colonial leather chair , sip a tangy margarita and watch the fiesta kick off right in the lobby. The procession of costumed soldiers replicating the Spanish conquistadors marched through the lobby while Dodger and I were checking in. From here, I wandered over to the Concierge Desk and shouted, over the roaring and singing, about dinner reservations. Nancy, the concierge, made reservations, handed me maps and numbers, and turned us loose. That first night we stood under an umbrella in a downpour and watched the Opening Ceremonies in the Plaza, and later hopped in a Pedi cab to Ristra, where we dined on appetizers at the bar and I watched the activity with my notebook stare. I love being inside a strange room full of people, to me it is like starting a new book. I make up stories about the people, or if I am feeling brave, invade someoneโs privacy to find what they are about. The diners were too removed, so we left and returned to the Plaza. In a few hours, I would be descending the far side of town to meet Zozobra. Twenty years had passed, and the moment was finally here. I was wearing my new cowboy boots and seated on the Palace Patio, looking into the sheets of rain that soaked all the out-door booths.
โ Are you ready to trek in the rain little mama?โ
โ Yes, finally, trust me this time, you will love it. Do you have your earplugs?โ Dodger has tinnitus and is implacable about loud noise.
โ Yep. Hope itโs better than trekking in the rain to see Funny Cide race.โ
โ You hated it didnโt you?
โ I hated carrying that thirty-pound tote with all your junk.โ
We walked about a half-mile in the rain, Dodger moved in stern choreographed steps to avoid the mud. โDamn, these are brand new boots. Iโm going back to the hotel and changeโ
โ Cowboy boots are supposed to be worn looking. You can go to Lucchese tomorrow and have them polished.โ
โ No, I just paid five hundred dollars woman, f Iโll bring you another pair in your closet.โ
โ We wonโt get the same place and youโll never find me, I wander. So, just suck it up tough rugged warrior of earth, land and sea?โ
โ Oh, all right, but Iโm not happy.โ
โ Look, thereโs Zozobra!โ Dodger stood in stillness, eyes wide as marbles.
My head was soaked cause Iโd forgotten the umbrella and Dodger harmonized a lot of cuss words as we reached the front gates. Gangs and families, children, old timers in costume, scurried to reach the eventโs standing front row. As we trudged through the rain, I noticed a crescent of anticipation that united everyone on the path. When we reached the arena, we looked down at the muddy slope as teenagers, mothers and strollers, slid down the hill to the front gates. I envied their loyalty to Zozobra. I was within a hundred feet of the stage, I could not remove myself from the unified adulation for Zozobra. As a ritual to burning the curses of life, people bring letters, photos, rejected elements of a personal tragedy and place them in the circle before the fire light. The crowd had expanded into a gyrating crush of participants, swaying back and forth, cheering the appearance of Zozobra, as he rocked back and forth in flames of fire. A convergence of strange mystical wailing, and an encore of audience howls ignite the lighting of firecrackers that set Zozobra in flames.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย What I saw was the burning to the ground and the howls from the musicians that accompanied his death. That happens if you let the long list precede the short one. Dodger stopped grumbling when we returned to the hotel and exclaimed to guests, โWe saw Zozobra!โ
SUN, a goose-bumpy joy and celebration. Thatโs what I love about my education here: the first class you must take is weather management. Iโve destroyed dozens of artistic bric a brac by leaving them on the farm table on the porch, forgot to shop for groceries when a storm was approaching, and ran out of salt. I drove through town, taking photos at the red lights; the scenery is like Little Women, dressed differently but still rather swarthy in their determination to survive. Now some men, probably like the fourth or tenth generation, bear the strength by wearing a T-shirt or shorts. The other day, after a snowstorm, I noticed a man crossing the street in shorts, a long white beard, and working boots. Thatโs an EXACT badass around here.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Beguine the Beguine is on the record player, and Iโm swinging around the music room, elated with the energy that forced me to dance, turn off the mind entirely.ย Total bliss.ย Dance has been with me since as far back as I can remember, the answer to a mood change, without drugs or alcohol. ย
In a current of unexpected life moves, I floated towards the Pacific Ocean and landed along the fragile, factious Santa Monica Mountains to Malibu.
The salty seaweed smell of the ocean streams through my car, driving down the Pacific Coast highway on my way to buy groceries.Vintage Marketis new to Malibu, and clerks are giddy about their jobs. They may be aspiring actors or former actors.
I walk in and get a phone call that Iโd been waiting for so, I set my cart down on a shelf and took the call. During the half-hour conversation, my eyes were fluttering through the scene: tanned surfers, affluent college students, and diamond-rich men and women of age that donโt check their bank balances. Because of this, expressions are chilled as fine wines, and smiles are sublime or radiating. They are a mostly content population of 13,000. The median home price is $901,000, and the median income household is $127,000. Here in Malibu every thing looks different from Santa Fe: The staging of โwas in the business, am in the business, or want to be in the business,โ surfaces and dominates the scenery.
They are beautiful-the young teenagers who surf and paddle are true blondes, the blue eyes scintillating pools of water, young women are saddled onto 6โ platforms, and then there are the stand-out power people, who will not acknowledge anyone, and expect everyone to acknowledge them. Tucked in the mountains, are extraordinary artists who live off the grid the way most people prefer to live in Santa Fe. I am learning slowly and still hiding out at Chantalโs, where I am living, two miles up from PCH off Malibu Canyon Road, behind a gate. Bohemians, artists, home-office screenwriters, producers, and famous heirs of recognizable movie stars live there.
In the last hour, I walked down the road in the hands of sloping hillsides, horse ranches, and signature homes behind walls as high as the palm trees, built to withstand the typhoons of nature and mankind. In thedaylight a swirl of rain and clouds, it was as if I was in Ireland, walking along a road in Kilkenny. I roped in my imagination and returned to the mountains, which will teach me how far to go, how to duck a racing motorcycle car, or confront a coyote or a snake. A full transcendental moon dipped into the black-out mountain evening, and has cured me of interior turmoil for the time being. This is part of adventures in livingness in what locals call the bu. Chantal’s artistic compound of eight cottages and seventeen acres burned to chips in the Woolsey Fire. One night with Chantal and Neighbors.
Today, as the Bu, Palisades, and five other fires demolish humanity’s lives, I am grateful I was able to return to my childhood memories in Malibu for one summer in 2017.My family home burned in the Bel Air fire in 1961… No WATER.SAVE THEM THIS TIME, LA, AND DON’T LIE TO THEM.
I shot this today with impetuous acceptance of more snow. I swept the stairs, removed branches, listened to music, and smiled. It will be my last winter in this quixotic, charming, historic village that taught me not to complain, instead to make it understandable.
Sunday thinking: future, plan, prepare, implement. What if I go West, East, North, or South? One at a time. I use it a lot; itโs my mascot, mental disability. If I got over it, I would delete it from wherever it rose.
It reminds me of Rudyard Kipling’s If Poem. I am fearless one day and fearful the next, a collage of paradoxical thoughts. Emotions are my yellow brick road and also the vouchers of the victim. Iโve never been an A student of defensive tools; my acquiescence serves my need to be approved, which is so annoying.
I am not going back to childhood experiences; that cathartic tunnel has been examined, and approval and cherishing is the pillow of my contentment.
The leaves, I noticed when I drove out of the driveway a wispy wind and a few leaves blew past my windshield. I don’t think they want to die or hibernate; I don’t want to hibernate; that’s what you do if you are in upstate New York. Even this summer, the porches are empty, and the owners only come out to garden or empty trash. I’m the only one who sits on the wrap-around porch, head perched up to the sky to see what drama she’ll bring.
Where did we go this summer? Where did you go or do? One friend went to Croatia, another to Finland, and another to Sonoma. I prefer to travel in September, with my crowd cowardice and fear of flying; I’m waiting. Of course, I cannot leave because I am showing the house to prospective buyers. They are all very similar, rave and applause for the house, and their offer is two lines above insulting. Or maybe I am still in my delusional dream that Follies House is worth what I priced her. It is a voyage into the Twilight Zone; I see one house, and they see another.
Back to the leaves, the fall’s language, movements, and tasks will turn inside out. Soon, the blowers and street cleaners move all those beautifully colored leaves. I leave mine out until my gardener orders me, sweetly, LouLou, it’s time for fall clean up, or you won’t have grass next summer.” I won’t be here next summer, but I don’t say that because we’ve become pals, and he likes to manicure my lawns; I always greet him and George, his helper, and listen to their grievances.
Beyond the seasonal altercation, like a dress that needs hemming, emotions stop boiling over and seem to simmer. I am still determining where that originates, but I experience it every year as September approaches. Autumn is about awe. I read that somewhere. We slip into the interior chambers of thoughtful reflection, crunching the leaves of our souls for answers to questions.
I called my pal Jerry because it had been a few weeks since I had spoken to him. We have been friends for many years, but we have absolutely nothing in common. He’s famous for his photographs and films, that’s all I can say. I didn’t ask for his approval as I write this.
” Hello,” He sounded drowsy.
” Jerry! Did I wake you?”
” Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll call tomorrow.”
What for I’m awake now. I take naps because I can’t sleep through the night; I close my eyes, think for maybe an hour, fall asleep, and wake again five times in the night. What’s happening with you?”
” You are cerebral, so turning off your head would take a bulldozer or something.
“That’s a little drastic.”What’s happening with the house?”
” Showings, repairs, and a few offers that were insulting. I have a question.”
“Oh no.”
“What do you do when you don’t know what to do>”
“I call my attorney.”
” For life questions?”
” I don’t have any more questions at ninety-six.”
” That sounds peaceful.”
, We sidetracked an upcoming appointment with his doctor about sleep medication.” It’s tomorrow, I don’t feel like going,
” So don’t go. I had an appointment this week for a mammogram. That morning, I woke up trembling, panicked, wobbly, and so I called and canceled. When I told the representative I was having a severe panic attack, she laughed and said, I hear that all the time.“
“What’s the mammogram, is that for breast cancer?“
” Yes.”
” What do they do?
Oh, it’s weird. The nurse takes hold of your breasts, places them between two clamps, and then tells you not to breathe or move while they take an X-ray.
“What if your breasts are too small?”
“Ah hah, mine used to be, so they’d tug at them, and it was more painful than the clamps. When I turned seventy-one this year, suddenly they inflated, and I can fill my B cup to the rim.” He was laughing, imagining he had some visual, and that was good. We have better dreams when we sleep with pillow joy.
“I’m going to go to sleep now>”
” I hope you do. I’ll think of more breast stories tomorrow.
Good job getting through all that. Technology and corporate BS are crazymaking. XO Sent from AT&T Yahoo Mail for iPhone
You survived the storm and did very, very well. Perhaps thatโs how our souls mature?
Excellent! So true. XO Sarah Z. SleeperExecutive Director, Library Guild of Rancho Santa FeAuthor,ย Walloon Lakeย (2026),ย Gaijinย (2020)858-357-7877 https://sarahzsleeper.com/
Saturday, a heavy clog of humidity tries to zap my energy. I slept six hours, so I fight, do laundry, do a bit of weight lifting, go up and down the twenty stairs twelve times, and wander in my mind. I answer the first phone call of the day.
” Hi, how are you? ?”I pause to answerwith some amusing honesty.
” I’m cleaning my brain?
” How do you do that? You’re funny.”
” “I sweep away all the repetitive scary thoughts.”
” What about you? My friend sighed and then zigzagged into her struggles, taking care of her ninety-six-year-old mother, who does not speak English; my friend is Armenian. She works full-time as a court translator, has two children, a husband, and about fifty friends she continually connects to.
“You are four people in one. I don’t know how you do it?” Is your Mom still living with you?”
“ Yes, she can’t walk. She sleeps in the living room because the bedrooms are upstairs. It’s difficult. I have to feed her as she’s now refusing to eat.”
” Please try and get a nurse’s aide to come in and help you.”
“She won’t let anyone touch her but me.”
“I find that selfish, not to be critical, but you will wear yourself down.”
” She’s always been like that; in my culture, you never abandon a parent, no matter what. Her mind is sharp, so that is good.“
” Heaven isn’t good enough for you,” she chuckled. I often improvise to be amusing because her laughter is boisterous, and we all need more injections of humor.
” Have you decided where to move when it sells?”She asked again.
” Yes, I was looking at my book on Italy, all the different regions, and I think Anacapri is a good choice.”
” Oh, Greta… that is so expensive; what are you thinking?”
“I’m not thinking I’m daydreaming.”
” I have an idea for you. There is a new trend, something like Boomermates, a group of people who share a house, and you don’t have to sign a lease. Go look in San Diego and find something.
“Roommates, strangers, you mean?”
“Yes, why not?”
” Would you do that?”
” Probably not. A studio anywhere in San Diego is two thousand at least, and don’t use the proceeds from the house.
“Now you’re daydreaming. I’ll have to use some without the rental income until I find employment. Are you home now?”
“No, I’m driving to San Diego for a court appointment
“It’s what, six in the morning?“
“Yes, I wake up at five.”
” Every time I come here, I think of you. You were a great leasing agent. You leased about fifty of my units. You can get a job leasing in a nice project. Oh, you should have bought that unit. I remember G4 when we converted to condominiums.“
“Yes, you’ve told me that a hundred times.”
” I made the same mistake. What can you do?”
” Complain and then accept what you can’t accept. Like selling my home.”I went through my steamer trunk and found my marketing portfolio when I opened Follies as an artist retreat. It was nonstop theatrics. One time, I hosted a theater group of six young actors; they were so much fun. Ah, memories.
” You will make it; look what you accomplished, winning a foreclosure, Greta; that is something big.”
” So is my glass of wine.”
“I’d be doing the same in your situation.”
” Another showing, a really nice family. They’ll make an offer. They commented that the exterior paint is their issue, so did I tell you already? I found a marvelous painter from Albania, and he’s given me a very reasonable price to paint the entrance, balisters, and overhang. You know that curb appeal is critical.”
” You shouldn’t spend your money, Greta, how much?”
” Three thousand, and it’s a lot of scraping and ladder work. It’s the right decision if I may disagree with my real estate guru.”
” That is reasonable. Keep me posted. I’m in San Diego now, so I will speak to you soon.”
” Heaven isn’t good enough for you.”And I’m leaving Follies in the best I can because she was so good to me.
My Favorite home must be sold. After twenty-four years, Letting go is going slow, packing, and viewing my possessions and antiques. Today, I found a matchbook in perfect condition from the Stork Club, playbills, and musical sheets. I wish I hadn’t opened my steamer trunk; it’s like looking at another woman.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 
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