Luellen Smiley is a creative nonfiction writer, author, columnist, and historian whose writing is deeply rooted in a controversial personal history. She is the daughter of Allen Smiley, a close friend, associate, and business partner of notorious Las Vegas gangster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. Her father was sitting only feet from Siegel when Siegel was murdered in Beverly Hills on June 20, 1947.
That extraordinary childhood history became the foundation for Smiley’s first book, Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute, published in 2017. The memoir explores what it was like to grow up as the daughter of a man connected to organized crime while trying to reconcile her love for her father with the secrecy, fear, and criminal world surrounding him.
Smiley’s work has appeared in publications including the New York Post, MORE Magazine, Southern California newspapers, and Authorlink. She wrote the newspaper column Smiley’s Dice—Adventures in Livingness, which earned a Blue-Ribbon Award from the California Newspapers Association for her Growing Up With Gangsters columns.
Her interest in her father’s history also led her to become a researcher and commentator on organized crime history. She has participated in television, radio, and documentary interviews.
Smiley’s next book, Gaslighting Greta, will be published this year. A personal story that reads like fiction. Her own website describes the project as exploring a woman whose life is destabilized by gaslighting and psychological manipulation.
Her writing career reflects a recurring theme: using personal experience and research to uncover the truth behind complicated relationships and extraordinary lives. From the secretive world surrounding her father and Bugsy Siegel to the deeply personal territory of Gaslighting Greta, Smiley’s work transforms difficult experiences into stories of survival, discovery, and ultimately reclaiming one’s voice.
Luellen Smiley is an author whose life has given her an unusual perspective on secrecy, manipulation, family loyalty, betrayal, and survival—and she uses that perspective as the raw material for her nonfiction storytelling.
I‘ve been stalked by a sensation and image of Loulou, scrambled up in whistles blowing, each one commanding me in a different direction. The annoyance of conflicting orders robs me of my Aladdin ( magic moments),
sURREALISM 2 (Photo credit: Nesster)
AS I CLEAR OUT THE FEAR OF NEW FEELINGS . I feel like time is belted with interior stop lights, instructions, and preparation for a new passage to go through. What happens is subtle, but when so much time is placed in introspection, life looses it’s Aladdin. It is time to polish my gold lamp and follow an unknown light. Do you know what I mean?
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
The oaks and elm trees are almost naked; butterscotch leaves are face down, like half eaten lollipops. Lurching in the east; a mass of thick charcoal clouds without any wind to push them towards us. This outdoor stillness and the hum of my refrigerator are subtle signals of the approaching hand of winter. The silence is like a cooking pot cover that secures my spirit into acceptance. Listening to classical piano concerto’s, blue grass on Saturday, the blues on Sunday and rock & roll on Friday. Musicians are my guests, as much as the wild birds that pluck from my feeders.
Sometimes, solitude feels like a draft and no matter how many sweaters I put on, the seclusion tugs at my bones. There are a lot of us soloists that reside in Santa Fe. We are not questioned or scolded for our behavior, we are left alone! If I am drawn into an empty canvass of what seems my destiny, I draw the opposite silhouette. I am the light against the dark. The green light in my head reminds me that I have my teeth, my long legs, and some passion for almost everything that God and man created. I just can’t decide which passion to follow. Should I do a museum, gallery, lecture, drive to Taos, go to a concert, dance at El Farol, take Flamenco lessons, engage strangers in conversation, watch old movies, read more of the stacks of books on my bedside table. Should I interview the straggly teenagers in the park or hit up the high rollers? Should I write, submit or edit: clean the laundry room, make a thick chili stew, iron my clothes or pick up leaves. Living unstructured is a discipline that threads easily some days, and when it doesn’t, I have to control my passion for daydreaming.
My daydreams: to inhale ocean air, to bogey board, to hike, ride horses, go to Lincoln Center, the wine county, Prague, Sicily, and Russia. My passion to be around little children at Christmas and stare at their patent leather shoes, and to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast, to converse on philosophy, the arts, social trends, and the interior life. My passion for impulsive trips on the road to Kentucky and Tennessee, anywhere I’ve never been; I will go. The obstacle I place in front of me; I don’t want to travel alone. I’m plain afraid. I’m afraid to fly more than two hours, my sense of direction is worse than anyone I’ve ever met, and I pack too many clothes to carry, and end up with a raw neck and numb arm.
Once in Annecy, France, I walked for hours trying to find my hotel. I circled the square
twelve times. I’d not eaten a meal in several days because my coin satchel was half full . In a moment, I just fainted and swooped down to the ground. A Frenchman was kneeling beside me when I opened my eyes. We sat on a little iron bench, and he offered to take me to dinner. He was so kind, he kept bringing food to my hotel because he said I didn’t know how to travel.
The train of clouds are still in the east; fluffy white cream and silvery puffs of pastry. They too cannot decide whether to cry; or remain strong and commanding.
Dating is one passion I never had. Even when it was as organic as sharing a cup of coffee or taking a walk after dinner. Dating now is about business and getting connected. It’s selfish sex with a price. I hear men and women tell me these stories and my response freezes. ‘Oh yea, she wanted $250.00 for a few hours; without sex.’ For a woman she is expected to be complete; with independence and like total clarity about who she is and what she wants. ‘He told me I had too much baggage; who doesn’t over fifty?’ I think we are always in an evolution of personal understanding of our experiences. You can’t put people into cross word puzzles and expect them to stay there.
Now, hours later the clouds cried, and their tears pranced in a slight wind. I curled into my favorite club chair and watched a 1937 screw-ball comedy, ” We’re Rich Again.” Like my Dad used to say;’ You’re whole life can change overnight.’ My bed is warm. My friends are loyal. I allow myself to write everyday.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
5 BDR/3 BATHS. FORMAL DINING ROOM. PRIVATE GATED. GARDEN MOVIE THEATER
ACROSS THE STREET FROM LA POSADA RESORT & SPA.
HISTORIC EAST-SIDE OF SANTA FE, NM
2 BLOCKS TO DOWNTOWN PLAZA
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
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.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
We’re at 7200 ft, 33 degrees daytime, and wavering between sunshine and an O’Keeffe cloudy sky. Bring sunscreen for the slopes or trendspotting Santa Fe from our porch.
NEWS:
10,000 Waves renovation completed and worth a trip for hot tub, stars, and massage, before dinner.
Take advantage of great deals during Restaurant Week, when the city’s eateries offer special three course meals at discounted prices for eight days. This is a wonderful time to try new restaurants that you might have neglected because of expensive prices.
Many Santa Fe restaurants participate in this week, offering up new specials as well as signature dishes. This is a relatively new event to Santa Fe, but it has proved incredibly popular with locals and visitors alike.
FLAVOR SAVERS:Geronimo: Low season, you get that table you want, Il Piatto, New Menu-New Wines Chocolate Maven, Coyote Café Bar, Taberno for Tapas and Spanish guitar.
Morning flaky croissants at Chez Mammou on Palace Avenue.
Tia Sophia’s and Pasquels for Green Chili Breakfast Burrito
La Posada, Complimentary Wine & Cheese Wednesday, and Friday night Chef’s tasting.
If you need Valet airport pick-up, reservations, snow update, requested movies..etc, just you ask. Thanks for knocking on LouLou’s door!
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
The silky drape of the winter sky sometimes adorned with lacy clouds is blue as sea and has shaken the clouds all night so we have sixteen inches of snow at the Santa Fe ski basin. I’d rather be sailing. 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 insulated 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. 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.
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 Radio station on the headset, and writing. This is taking the moment out of frustration and into pleasantry.
My steps inward returned accomplishments: 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.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
SANTA FE, NM. VACATION HOME, GALLERY, AND MOVIE THEATER.
Gallery LouLou is a nationally recognized Historic Home. It was upgraded to allow for preservation to mix with modernism. The house is across the street from La Posada Resort and Spa, and is two stories with 2500 square feet. We are one and a half blocks from Downtown Plaza. visit our website at http://www.vrbo.com/345671
• The house is sandwiched between two outdoor living porches, one with BBQ overlooking the private garden. Daydream and smell the lavender.
• The garage is a renovated theater.. An overhead projector allows you to show DVD’s, plus turntable and 6 track CD player to create your own multimedia performance. Heated and furnished.
• The house is all hardwood floors, with French doors in the main living area connecting to the front porch.
• The kitchen is accessible to the porch and BBQ for dining Al fresco.
• There are FOUR unique private bedrooms and two baths.
• Two porches: One in front with garden of roses, and back yard garden is lush with herbs, pear and apple tree, roses, lavender, cherry blossom, and a string of lights for a really romantic night.
GALLERY LOULOU IS A PHOTOGRAPHY GALLERY AND HOME. OUR ICONIC ROCK & ROLL PHOTOGRAPHS BY JIM MARSHALL, BARON WOLMAN AND PHILIP TOWNSEND ARE FEATURTED THROUGHOUT THE HOME, AND ARE OFFERED TO GUESTS AT A DISCOUNT OF 15%.
We are two blocks from Canyon Road, which leads to art galleries, restaurants, and HIKERS AND BIKERS wilderness, Santa Fe Ski Valley and the Sangre de Christo Mountains.
Turkish Linens + Coverlets.
Three Queen Perfect Sleepers, one King Perfect Sleeper.
It’s fanciful, but unpretentious.
Writing Desk
Two televisions upstairs. Flat screen 52”
Indoor and outdoor music system.
Pantry.
Washer Dryer in basement.
Large eat-in, two sink, and island kitchen with pantry.
Jacuzzi Tub
Three outdoor dining areas.
Wi-Fi- purified water, and wood burning fireplace.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
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. I don’t know if this is branded in a writer’s 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. Being a clipper means that nothing in print is safe in our presence. 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. 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. Since I discovered a clipping several weeks ago I’ve been investigating the connection between clippings and destiny. 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. It was a personal essay and the line that beamed through me like a telekinetic force was , “Adventure. Voyage, there is nothing else! ” When I ripped it out I did not live, or ever imagined I‘d live in Santa Fe. That was the first time I had come across that article. I remembered it, and swore an oath to adventure ever since. I memorialized the quote and have continued to look for new places to adventure and voyage. Since 1982, I have called home behind 31 different doors, in only six different cities.
I realize Kenneth’s 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.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
posición en el baile flamenco. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The throw of the dice this week lands on the un-said and underscored vignettes that pass through us. Those moments which make us turn away from screens, cameras, and cell phones, to observe life around us. Writers do this habitually, like addicts. It is our drug to examine what we feel no one else is seeing, feeling or thinking. These were last week’s vignettes.
I am outdoors on the patio of La Posada Resort. The cotton wood leaves on the trees, are dancing in setting sun light. At the far end of the dining patio, the lawn is staged, and the grass is covered with folding chairs. On stage, under a white billowing tent, teenage Flamenco dancers’ switchblade their black and coral skirts, as the pillow soft breeze brushes my face. I’m smiling without envy, a massive leap, because for most of my life, when I see professional dancers, I’m scolding myself, for not following through with my passion for dancing. Tonight, it is gone. My joy erupts to the surface. The dancers are the same age I was when I began training.
Their painted cheeks and darkened eyes are highlighted by the sunlight; they look like paintings that have come to life. The music is burning through centuries of Spanish history, through blood and battles, and the eruption of their passion for dance.
We have a convention of insurance salesman, dressed in Eddie Bauer, and the ladies in Jones of New York, seated like birds with their wings clipped. The men are standing in huddles, roaring laughter at inside jokes. Three dancers break from tradition and are now dancing to Billy Jean, striking their poses and facing our table. the leader, whom the others bashfully imitate, plays to us, and I want to tell her, don’t stop dancing, don’t give it up.
Seated in front of me is a couple in their late sixties. Transparent by dress and manner, they look farm-bred Midwestern. He wears a hard-working no fluff or formality expression, and his wife, probably is his high-school sweetheart. She appears painfully restrained-but she covers this up with a contented smile. The husband is staring at me, his lips are scornful, his eyes like that of a disbelieving police officer, or judge. I’m behind sunglasses, absorbing them through my mental lens, as if we were having a conversation. I imagine him on a tractor, and his wife behind a white worn picket fence picking fruits and vegetables. We’re separated by the cultural divide, but I want to ask the farmer how his life has changed, how the economy impacted his crops, his dreams. What did he dream about when he was a boy? Maybe dreams were a luxury he could not afford.
Beneath a black lake of stars, the breeze whips my hair, Rudy smiles at me, without a word I know what he’s thinking. The evening volumnized when the band kicked into sixties soul, and the insurance salesman are now dancing with the insurance saleswoman, and their wings are unclipped.
We left, crossing through the festivities to our porch, where the music resonated. Rudy turned on the blue lights.
“Don’t turn them on; they attract the moths.”
“I tell you what I’ll do and what I won’t do.”
“They’ll eat your eyeballs when you’re sleeping.”
“What! Where did you come up with that?”
“Don’t know. Look whose coming out to complain about the music?” Then we see our neighbor, stomping across the lawn in his red T-Shirt and Beret. Professor J, demands to voice his rights at every opportunity. I’ve seen him argue with a Police Officer in the middle of the street, at one in the morning. “You have an obligation to police Santa Fe that is your job!” He shouted at the officer for thirty minutes.
The night closes, like a play from the summer of 2012. Doesn’t sound like the summer of 1971, when we met on the streets, and just hung out, listening to radios, and watching people. I think living next to a hotel, has kept me closer to street life. I could do without the delivery trucks at six in the morning and the crashing bottles in the dumpster. It’s not unbearable any longer because La Posada is nowLa Familia.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
![Small_Porch[1]IMP](https://odysseyofadventures.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/small_porch1imp.jpg)
