UNTITLED MANUSCRIPT SYNOPSIS

Gaslighting: Psychological intimidation, maliciousness, an attempt to make (someone) believe that he or she is going insane (as by subjecting that person to a series of experiences that have no rational explanation).”

Without a partner, lover, or relative nearby during our feared and festive flights of life, our ribs cave. You cannot eat cake alone on your birthday, attend a funeral without a shoulder next to you, or celebrate a finished project without your best friend.

Greta exposes the mutilation, gaslighting, and abuse that is inflicted on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.

Eve, a manipulative predator, employs gaslighting to destroy a trusting and intimate relationship of thirty-five years between Greta and Dodger. When Dodger met Eve, she found her suitor, sponsor, butler, and honey-do mate. She wields fierce control over him. Dodger obliges her menacing, mystifying, irrational gaslighting methods to incite Greta’s self-doubt, mental decline, and financial depletion. The real estate investments Greta and Dodger own are facing foreclosure, as he collects rent to cover Dragon’s consumption and vacations, leaving the mortgages in default. Dodger is forbidden to communicate with Greta, ensuring her emotional decline exacerbates.

While Dodger occupies a home with Greta, he engages in repetitive attacks, stalking, frightening, and psychotic behavior to destabilize Greta. Two of their properties are in foreclosure. The remaining investment is at risk, forcing Greta to relocate to New York to salvage their home. Hospital visits, medication, and a desire to die battle against her will to survive. Greta’s story serves as a testament to the power of friendship—not in solving her problems, but in safeguarding her from being renounced.

Last Page.

Closing Paragraph: I’ve lived without a partner, lover, or relative nearby; my ribs did not cave. I ate cake alone on my birthday, cried at a friend’s funeral without a shoulder next to me, and celebrated the liberation from Dragon and Dodger.

MY NEIGHBORHOOD-MY LIFE

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As a child I understood in a subliminal fashion that my father was unlike other neighborhood fathers who left each day to go to the office. My father worked from our home in Bel Air, California, and hotels: The Beverly Wilshire Hotel, the Bel Air Hotel, The old Beverly Glen Terrace, and restaurants: La Dolca Vita, Matteos, Copa de Ora, Scandia, La Scala, Purinos, Chasens, and building lobbies, parking lots, telephone booths, and race tracks. Sometimes he talked about a really big deal he was working on, and other times he said he was returning favors. The exchange of favors between mafia associates was written about way before I came along, by Damon Runyon and Mark Hellinger.

Deals and favors are what I understood as my father’s business. This kind of business made him available to me during the day, while other father’s had left their homes to go to an office. From the outside looking in, we were a stylish Westside family, with colorful friends, members of Sinai Temple, and frequently seen in the company of established doctors, Oilmen, and attorneys. My mother went door-to-door as a Red Cross Volunteer, and my father’s charity supported the United Jewish Federation Fund.

Our next-door neighbors were movie actors: John Forsythe, Burt Lancaster, James Garner, and Peter Morton, the legendary founder of the Hard Rock Café. Peter was a few years older than I, and I loved his mess of tousled curly brown hair, and his gentle birch brown eyes, slanted into the curve of sadness. I waited for him on some mornings to walk me to the bus stop. I remember he looked after his little sister, and maybe I needed looking after too. The memory of his kindness is sealed. Most of the families in the circle had children, and it was only natural that we played together. When Dad’s name was inked in the Los Angeles Times for Mafia activities, all the kids quit meeting at my house, and many friends at Bellagio Elementary quit coming to our house.

In the foyer of our home, there was a wall mirror and a wall-mounted table. That is where my father kept his grey fedora and trench coat. I remember the times he dashed out of the house with the coat and hat.

“Daddy, why are you wearing your coat and hat today; it’s not raining?”

“I have to be ready for anything, little sweetheart. Daddy never knows what the weather will be like out there.” The answer was a riddle, like almost everything my father taught me. A simplistic statement on the surface, and a double-down meaning hidden inside. That is how he communicated with me, and it had a purpose like everything else.

When I was five years old, my father took me out driving in his powder blue Cadillac. He made regular stops to meet a guy about something, had the car serviced and washed, visited a friend, stopped in telephone booths, and Schwab’s to see if there was any action. He loved to sing in the car, with all the windows rolled down, and his arm wrapped around the back of the leather seat. He was as relaxed driving his car as he was lounging at home on the sofa. He drove with one hand while he sang,

“Que sera sera.” When I asked him what it meant, he said,

“Whatever will be will be, the future is not ours to see, Oue sera sera–that’s the song of life, sweetheart.” He didn’t pay attention to stop signs, signals, or fellow drivers; he perceived them as second in line. Once a policeman stopped us as we were driving out of Thurston Circle, and my father opened the car door, got out, and moaned, “Oh my God, Oh God, I’m having a heart attack!” I watched him and yelled out, “Daddy, Daddy–what’s wrong?” but he kept howling. The policeman didn’t take notice at all. “I’m having a heart attack, let me go officer, I can’t breathe you SOB. You’re going to kill me!” By this time, I was crying and making a lot of noise in the front seat. The policeman then approached my father and handed him a ticket while my father continued to wail, “HEART ATTACK.” After the policeman drove away, my father got in the car, steely-eyed and swearing. “Stop crying. Stop that right now! Can’t you see I’m all right? Daddy just pretended to have an attack. That stinking cop is always hanging around here. He should be ashamed of himself. Policemen have better things to do than give tickets.”

“ You’re not sick?” I mumbled.

“ No, of course not. Don’t tell your mother about this, sweetheart; she doesn’t understand these things. Remember now what I told you, when I say something, you listen, and don’t question it. I have reasons for the way I do things. ”

Adults try to deceive children with whispers, false identities, and lies, but a child has a superior emotional vision. From that day on, I was always watching my father closely to see if he was acting or playing it straight. The memory is like a sealed stamp; even the narrative is almost exactly as I’ve written.

The outings gave me a chance to meet dozens of men and women who exaggerated their feelings for me with overt gestures that I sometimes recognized as acts. Picking out genuine friends developed into a sense I couldn’t necessarily ignore. It got in the way of my comfort around many of my father’s associates later on in life. Nothing seemed to please him more than to present me to his friends, and wait for their praise, “You’re lucky to have such a beautiful little girl, and so well behaved.” I remember this line because it is the same line I heard throughout adolescence. My behavior was conditional on my father’s mood. If I misbehaved, spoiled my dress, or broke something, it would ruin everything. My father would blame my mother, she would retreat from the living room, and I would be left alone. This was the second of the lessons, I learned very young, not to make any mistakes. ‘One error can ruin your whole life’, he told me on all the occasions that I erred.

Today, it’s not too surprising that I am ready to sit in the front seat with a man of choice, while he drives around and shows off his driving and leadership skills. It’s not that I just don’t get excited about driving myself, it is one of those childhood activities that evolved into a life long course of pleasure.

When now, I have finished this personal essay I began two years ago, I went looking for images. A photo of the house I grew up in at 11508 Thurston Circle popped up. Our home burned in the Bel Air fire in 1961, so I viewed the photos of the house built on the lot after Dad sold it. All postmodern, nothing like ours, except this photograph I chose, the swimming pool he built, another childhood activity that evolved into a life pleasure. The house is listed for sale at $2,075,000. Dad bought our home for $50,000 in 1955. Not one place I’ve lived compares to the idyllic life in Bel Air, and that is why I keep moving from city to city, and home to home, like a rolling stone.

THE LISTS OF LIFE

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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!

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ON MY OWN TRAVELS

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“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.

THE PAST AND PRESENT

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Nineteen years ago, I left this enclave, the zeitgeist of beaches, lagoons, reserves, affordable homes and rentals, and the Torrey Pines. While I was away, the dirt metastasized into gated communities, high-rise apartments with more amenities than a full page, renovated mom-and-pop grocery stores, reimagined as gourmet, branded boutiques, and salons that offer the ultimate experience in beauty. It’s landed in every resort, not just Del Mar. As my friend Jerry Schatzberg said at ninety-nine years old,: Adapt or shoot yourself.’

Freeways, not so free anymore, I hear and see canned traffic on the Interstate 5 all day and night, and off the freeway, in Del Mar, hit it, buster, or I honk.

The trajectory is, I wake up with a sunrise at mild sixty degrees and a sunset at the same. My former home in Saratoga Springs is digging out of snow and ice, and that is not nice. Your back is whacked, and your hands freeze. I did it, I know. After two weeks, I am still in culture shock, not just the beauty and soft breezes, but what was once casual, impromptu, conversational, and friendly is now on the phone or iPad.

What hasn’t dispersed is the polished palm trees in sunlight, early morning fog that resembles my state of mind, the seafood at the Fishmarket, the Del Mar Track, The Plaza in Del Mar and surfboards everywhere! Del Mar Beach, the wide and sandy, clean shore, is waiting for swimmers and surfers to be doused in euphoria. I’ve lived most of my adult life connecting my dream with reality. To be continued.

KITCHEN TABLE TALK IN SANTA FE NEW MEXICO-2013

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SMILEY’S DICE-ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS

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 a cocktail 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.

SOLITUDE & IRREGULAR IMPULSES

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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 too much 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.

TRAVELING TRUTH & TREES

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A passage from Anais Nin’s diary says, “Be careful not to enter the world with any need to seduce, charm, conquer what you do not want, only for the sake of approval. This is what causes the frozen moment before people and cuts all naturalness and trust. The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truth is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.”

From my journal. Wecannot unlock our mysteries when surrounded by extroverted behavior. Over the years, the intensity of seeking solitude increased; shy in conversation, I turned to writing when I didn’t dare speak. I’m waiting for some release and joy so I can change course and find a studio (In an undisclosed location for personal reasons). It is not happening. Life feels like a package I cannot unwrap.

That was only two hours ago, and instead of ruminating on impatience, my pattern transformed. I took a walk in a wind that blew the orange leaves in a choreographed dance, and watched.

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.

LEFT OVER LOVE

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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.

EXCERT FROM MANUSCRIPT

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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 her tenants.

“ 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.