LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS

EXCERPT FROM SMILEY’S DICE- DAD’S MERRYMAKING

January 29th, 2016

The day I was born, May 11, 1953 the headlines of the The Los Angeles Time read:

GANGSTERS INVADE SOUTHLAND CITIES.
Among gangsters and their hangers-on named were Abe (Longy) Zwillman, Frankie Carbo, Meyer Lansky, Allen Smiley, whose true name is Aaron Smehoff, Gerald Catena and William Bischoff.
When I met Daddy he had salty sea blue eyes and when my actions were worthy of laughter, his eyes retracted into a blur of skin. Dressed in perfectly matched shades of pink, silver and blue my child eyes rested cheerfully on his silk ties, a collage of jewel tones. The feel of his fabric was soft like blankets. He was very interesting to look at when I was a child and open to all this detail.
I clung to his neck in the back seat of his baby blue Cadillac. He sang songs and his hand fluttered about, catching me by surprise behind my head, and his laughter echoed in my ears. Sometimes we drove through the Paramount Studio Gates, and I was chauffeured in a cart to the Western Stage where we watched cowboys and musical dancers. I was too young to understand this was just a film; thus began my insatiable yearning to be a dancer.

Rory Calhoun was one of the stars Dad was close pals with. Just this week I dug into research about Rory Calhoun. I learned he died in 1999, and that he’d also been a ward in Preston Reformatory where Dad was sent at eighteen years old. Rory came a few years later.

We spent a lot of time with the Calhoun family. They had two girls the same age as me. Their exotic Spanish villa on Whittier Drive and Sunset enraptured my girlish senses. Inside it was like a movie set, with animal rugs, oil paintings of Spanish Troubadours and Moorish decorations. Rita, Rory’s wife, wore tiny stacked high heels and she clicked across the Spanish tiles like a flamenco dancer. The whole family was blessed with dreamy looks. I didn’t realize that I was surrounded with extraordinary beauty; everyone had these exceptional vogue looks. The importance placed on that kind of beauty was just as distorted as my examination.
Rita danced a stern feminine demeanor, extremely seductive but not without a battle. I learned my first lessons about temptation just by watching her. She fanned the room with perfume and laughter, and men just succumbed like drugged animals. I felt my first tingle of sexuality in the arms of Rory. He was a treasure of natural emotion, physically and orally. They both gambled, borrowed money from the other, and they bet on everything.
On Sunday we went to Beverly Park, a cherished amusement park across from where the whimsical Beverly Center shopping Mall is today. I was only two years old when Dad slung me over a big stinky pony, and insisted I ride around the ring so he could snap photographs.
Inside the Cadillac, insulated from the outside world by metal and glass, he drove without intention of destination, or so it seemed. Though I didn’t know it, he often changed directions to confuse a tailing federal agent. The places he took me became our secret. Sometimes he asked me to close my eyes and count to a hundred. It was a game; he wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I’d open my eyes and we’d be somewhere unfamiliar, a storefront, hotel room, or someone’s home.
When the Ringling Brothers Circus came to town, Dad took me every weekend and I met some of the performers. He was no less enthusiastic about the circus than I was. Now I understand as I’ve learned he traveled with Ringling Brothers for a year just after he landed in New York. He was in the wardrobe department! How suitable to his style. Everyone we knew was in some kind of act.

I remember places like Canters Deli on Fairfax. We always had the same waitress, the one with a big air-tight bee-hive.
“ What’ll it be today honey?”
“ I’ll have a hot dog.”
“ No. Last time you got sick. Honey, get her a turkey sandwich. I have to talk to some people outside–make sure she doesn’t leave. “
“Sure thing Mr. Smiley, you go ahead.”
“When are you coming back Daddy?”
“When you finish your lunch. Be a good girl.”
While I waited for the sandwich, I watched the waitresses very closely. They entertained me; their husky voices and swift mannerisms as they swooshed between tables, calling out orders, “ Matzo ball soup–chicken on the side, Russian on rye no mayonnaise.” Sometimes he left me long after the sandwich was gone. I’d turn and watch the door, to see if he’d come in, or ask the waitress.
“ Would you please tell my father I’m finished.”
“Finished already! What about dessert? How about a slice of cheesecake?” Even if I said no, she’d bring me dessert. Several times I was left so long that I got up and went outside looking for him. I noticed my father down the street talking with some other men. I ran back to the booth and waited. When he came back to the table, I asked him,
“Where were you Daddy?”
“I had to meet someone about business. You remember what I told you—Mommy doesn’t have to know about this.”
“I remember.” Why my outings with Dad remained fixated as birth marks is because they were filled with wonder, amusement, and mystery. My father mixed a little business with my pleasure, but it wasn’t obvious because no one had an office. His business associates worked out of shoe stores, cigar stands, hotels, barber shops; all sorts of fronts that camouflaged the booking of bets.

I bet too. That when I lose I never give up on the silver lining.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

WHO IS BUGSY?

January 25th, 2016

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LUCILLE CASEY SMILEY

All my life people have asked me the same questions:” What’s it like knowing your father is a gangster? How old were you when you found out? Aren’t you afraid of his friends? You know they kill people.”
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.

What seemed insignificant at the time was the diving board into my Dad’s history. I was watching a Bugsy Siegel documentary on my television in San Diego during 1993. It was the first one I’d seen. Three historians joined in on the violence Bugsy honored and esteemed. Half-way through the celebratory lynching of Bugsy and his pals, a reporter made the statement that ‘It’s obvious Allen Smiley was there to set Bugsy up for the hit.’ Andy Edmonds stated that Dad conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting. It wasn’t until a photograph of my dad appeared on the screen; a man with thick graying hair that I noticed an expression I’d never seen, horrifying misery. I moved closer to the television to see his face up close. A kaleidoscope of emotions rose to the surface: anger, shame, curiosity, and disbelief. I was forty years old.
The first time I’d seen those photographs of Ben Siegel slumped on that sofa; an eye bleeding down his face was a day back in 1966 at the age of thirteen. My best friend Dena lived in Brentwood with her divorced mother and siblings. We hooked in the unfamiliar and confusing imbalance of a broken home life. Dena was suffering depression after her parents divorced and I was dangling from my father’s fingertips hopelessly conflicted after my mother died. Dena wouldn’t let a day go by without calling me. ‘Are you all right?’ She didn’t like my father and her reasons were mature beyond her years, ‘Your father scares me.’ After school one afternoon we stopped in the Brentwood Pharmacy. Dena was looking at the book rack and I was following along.
“Lily, my mother told me your father is in a book, The
Green Felt Jungle. It’s about gangsters. Wanna see if they have it?” I agreed to look because Dena was interested, but it meant nothing to me. She twirled the book rack around as I stood behind her watching.
“That’s the book! Let me look first and see what it says,” she whispered. I could feel her arm tense up as I grasped it.
“Oh my God! There he is,” she said. We hunched over the book and read the description of my father, “Allen Smiley, one of Ben Siegel’s closest pals in those days, was seated at the other end of the sofa when Siegel was murdered.” Dena covered her mouth with one hand and kept reading silently.
“What does that mean? Who is Siegel?” I asked.
“Shush–not so loud. I’m afraid to tell you this. It’s awful.”
“What’s awful? Tell me.”
“Bugsy Siegel was a gangster in the Mafia. He killed people. Your father was his associate.”
“I don’t think I should see this.” I turned around abruptly to leave the drugstore. Dena followed me out.”
“Lily you can’t tell your father you saw this book. Please don’t tell him I told you.”
“Why not?”
“My mother told me not to tell you. Swear to me you won’t tell your father!”
“I won’t. Don’t you tell anyone either.”
A few days later after Dad left for the evening I opened the door to his guarded bedroom. I walked around the bed to a get a closer look at the photographs on the wall. It was the first time I could read the inscription.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

BOOM BOOM BOOM I’m DEAD

January 9th, 2016

READING FROM DAD’S FBI FILE SOMETIMES BRINGS LAUGHTER.

TO: DIRECTOR, FBI STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL- ALLEN SMILEY: WHITE SLAVE TRAFFIC, RACKETEERING, CRIME SURVEY LOS ANGELES, FALSELY CLAIMING CITIZENSHIP, PERJURY

TA-1 – (Means FBI agent one- There were twelve of them working the case.)

On February 25, 1948 Mickey Cohen invited Smiley and his girlfriend, Lucille Casey ( Mom) to the Cohen home for dinner. The invitation was accepted, and it is noted that this is one of the few times Smiley has visited the Cohen residence since the killing of Bugsy. During the Christmas holidays, Smiley refused to attend a dinner at Cohen’s stating he could not be seen with Cohen due to his own legal difficulties. On February 26, Smiley contacted ——-and stated he had been betting on Cohen’s stinking horses. Smiley expressed the idea that “it is going to blow up there any day.” Referring to Cohen’s place.” During the course of the conversation between Smiley and —- it was interesting to note that Smiley did not care to discuss any matters and at one time stated, “ Listen: if this room is miked, boom! boom! boom! And I’m dead.“ The attitude of Smiley toward the Bureau is reflected on page two of the attached letter. Smiley stated “This country ought to be at war, with the FBI, the Gestapo, that Hoover, who indicted me for picking my nose, with all those other elements here threatening to overthrow the government and this and that.” With reference to his arrest by three Agents, in a somewhat braggadocio manner Smiley informed one of his guests that “ I would be glad to strip to the waist and take each one of those three guys on, one at a time, even if it killed me.” He continued that in his opinion the FBI were a bunch of idiots and that he wished someone would drop an atom bomb on this country and he would take his chances on getting out alive just to get rid of the FBI.

That’s my Dad.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

EXCERPT FROM BOOK- SMILEY’S DICE

December 10th, 2015

In the summer of 1994, infuriated from a broken affair, another job displacement, and skimpy funds to support me, I found myself in Beverly Hills, walking along with half-hearted interest in seeking employment.

I stopped in the shops Dad frequented; Geary’s, Schwab’s, and Nate ‘n Al Delicatessen seeking a root to hang onto.
Beverly Hills has the most powerful effect on me. As soon as I hit Beverly Drive I want to shop, need to shop, must shop! A rise of envy turns into jealously and my attention to wealth fades as Rodney Dangerfield crosses the street, his face contorted by some agitation. I walked past Jack Taylor’s Men’s Haberdashery and hesitated a moment. I had not seen Jack in ten years. The last time was 1982, at my father’s memorial service. Jack was the only friend Dad trusted outside of the Mob.

“Hi Jack, I was in the neighborhood, I wanted to say hello?”
“Jesus Christ! What a surprise,” he said rushing over to kiss me.
“Come in and sit down. My God, where have you been-what have you been doing?” Jack’s attention toward me was exacting and unavoidable.
“I’m in transition right now. I’ve changed careers-well, several times. I was in real estate in San Diego for a long time.”
“I knew you were in real estate, your Dad told me. What are you doing now?” Are you married?”
“No, not married. I’m living here now, and looking for a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“Well, something where I can use my skills in marketing and…”
“Why not come work for me?” he said leaning closer.
“Here, in the store?”
“Yeah, why not? You’ll be great.” he beamed.
“But I’ve never sold men’s clothes before.”
“So what! I’ll teach you. I need someone–my girl just left. I want to get out and play golf. I’ve spent my whole life in this goddamn business. Forty years for Christ’s sake. I’m tired, you know, I’m not a young man anymore,” he said without sentiment.
I hope he’s not doing this because he feels sorry for me, was what I was thinking. I heard my Dad’s voice, and he said, ‘Be grateful he offered you a job! You’ll be in the centerfold of high rollers.’ Dad still managed to interface my life in admonishment and disapproval. He was not just in my head. He was in command of my choices. His disapproval was still the beam I ducked from. Sometimes I felt his presence; like you do when a cat enters a room silent as snow.
The next day I called Jack and told him I could start the following Monday. Jack is a legend in Beverly hills; he cut cloth for the Rat Pack, Jackie Gleason, Tony Martin, Cary Grant President Truman and Allen Smiley.

A custom suit starts at three-thousand dollars. I stood by the front windows folding the finest cotton shirts, cashmere sweaters, and ties. Jack jogged back and forth, from the tailor shop to the retail shop, to the telephone, juggling all their demands with explosive keenness and a lot of cussing. This was a stage I wasn’t prepared for; the illustrious display of wealth on the street. I’d forgotten people still have their own drivers, and valets open the shop doors, and limousines double park in the middle of the street. It just dazzled me into a sort of trance.
“Lily! You’re standing there like a lick of honey in a hive of rich bees. Want me to introduce you to one of them?”
“I’m not ready.”
“For crying out loud! What are you waiting for? Stop looking out the window for Christ’s Sake. Get them to look at you!” Jack escorted me to the women’s collection and yanked out a suit.
“Try this on. You’re a six right?”
“Yes, how’d you know?”
“Whatta’ you think I do in this shop? Weigh turkeys.”

The best time of the day was four o’clock in the afternoon. Jack fixed himself a high ball, turned up the volume on a Frank Sinatra CD, and took off his mask. He poured me a drink, placed a bowl of mixed nuts on the coffee table and stretched out on the leather sofa.

We both wanted to talk about Dad.
“I watched a documentary on Ben Siegel; they alluded that dad had something to do with Ben’s murder.” I said.
“You’re lucky your father will never hear you say that. Dad spent a lifetime in fear that they’d take him out too. He tried to stay away from the business, he wasn’t even allowed back in Vegas after one incident. You know about the Ryan business?”
“No. What was that?”
“Forget it.” He stood up and filled his glass again.
“Your father had a temper, but he was a rose petal compared to Siegel. Anyway, Dad couldn’t leave this goddamn town; he was afraid they wouldn’t let him come back.”
“But he got his citizenship in 1966. Why couldn’t he leave after that?”
“It was you— he was afraid something might happen. These other guys like Meyer and Costello–they were afraid of nothing.”
“I met Meyer.” I said.
“Yeah, so you know.”
“I don’t know. Meyer was very gentle.”
“You’re Al Smiley’s daughter! That’s different. He wasn’t always so gentle.” Jack shook his head, private thoughts stirred.
“Your Dad tried to stay low, but he couldn’t walk away from the thing,” he said shaking his head.
“What thing?” I persisted.
“For Christ’s sake, what are we talking about? You know, the Mafia.”
“My father wasn’t in the Mafia!”
“Sweetheart I’m just telling you what I know. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“But he couldn’t have been. I mean my mother wouldn’t have married him.” Jack threw his arms up in frustration.
“He was Siegel’s partner, and then Roselli’s right arm! When Johnny was murdered your father changed.” Jack shook his head regrettably and continued.
“How did he change?” I asked.
Just then the door swung open and a distinguished man in a suit and overcoat walked in.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

Excerpt from soon to be finished book, Smiley’s Dice

December 4th, 2015

THE SNOW SEDATED the choppy feeling in my stomach, the conjecture of discovering why my father was wired with anxiety. His whole life was a chase scene: arrest him, convict him, send him to Russia, and never pull the tap from his apartment, or the FBI guys from his tail.

Me, Diane Friedman and Cindy Frisch.

Now there is a wash over my interpretation of his obsessive, protective, paranoia, distrust, and interrogation of my friends. I wonder if those gals I grew up with knew about Dad from their parents’. I relied heavily on the open arms of my friend’s families. They’re remembered more than my teachers: The Blair’s, Bourne’s, Both Friedman’s, Frisch’s, Hoffman’s, Pindler’s, Saunders, Schwadel’s, Taubman’s, and the Tefkin’s. Hope I didn’t leave anyone out. I left out the Berman’s and the Crosby’s.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

LIGHTS ON SANTA FE

November 28th, 2015

A NATIVE AMERICAN LIGHT SHOW.

YOU CAN BECOME WHO YOU DREAMED OF, DO WHAT YOU DREAMED OF IN SANTA FE , because Santa Feans do not care.

I heard this slogan a lot when I first moved here seven years ago. My understanding was vague, unrealized, and I didn’t think much about it until this winter. I began to approach strangers, walk across the street to the spa in a robe, or leave my pajama top under my sweater because I like the texture of it.
I’ve given up the diving board of scrutiny and plunge into the dreamy, stony, outdated, simplistic extravagance, and unrealistic vibe of Santa Fe.

I keep dreaming, and preparing, with a face blotched red by cold, that THE LIGHTS, SHADOWS, MOON AND CHARACTERS ARE MY BROADWAY FOR NOW. NOT FOREVER. EVERYTHING CAN BE TEMPORARY IF WE TAKE ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

ANAIS NIN ON PARIS

November 21st, 2015

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THE DIARY OF ANAIS NIN VOLUME SIX 1955-1966

“All of Paris is caressable, La ville caresse, la ville caressante, with its outer life all grace and wit, at heart a mystic lover, a philosopher, a man of taste. In its ancient decor, it is always youthful because its source of life is inner, and always renewed. The past is so vivid that it fills the streets. It is full. the magic of its unity and harmony of colors and textures and styles. When there were contrasts, they were contrasts between medieval somberness and modern gaiety. “

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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 ART OF CONVERSATION – FRANCE VS THE USA

November 19th, 2015

SANTA FE, NM.

LAST NIGHT AT LA POSADA, the hotel across the street from where I live, I cushioned myself fireside to read the newspaper. The circle of conversation across from me was loud enough to hear and so I listened.

” The rental rates of vacation rentals has skyrocketed. We have a vacation rental in Colorado and it is always occupied. You know you can make a lot of money, it is very hard work.” It has taken many years to listen objectively rather than critically. I’m not underlining the narrative as much as why would they discuss finance in the midst of terrorist mayhem.

I sat there for at least forty-five minutes and the conversation thread did not waver from personal income. I’ve approached the subject of terrorism with friends and acquaintances since Friday the 13th. Only one couple who’ve just relocated here engaged. The gentleman was born in Belgium and he was eager to share his European opinions.

Over the last few days I’ve been watching Sky News. http://news.sky.com/watch-live. This is an international online station. The journalists report news, they do not debate, criticize, or condemn those they interview. During the program the scenes in Paris, London, and around the world capture the public’s activity, conversations, triumphs and tragedy. What this illustrates is that conversation in many US arenas must pass the political censorship exam.

I understand political discussions strike fiery bantering and this may cause a rouse and attract attention, and that is unacceptable in respectful society. Not so in France! For me, this truly illuminates the difference between our cultures. They are educated in the art of conversation, and in love with expression.

When I lived in Malibu last summer, most of the guests of the owner were Parisians. This artistic and talented group talked without pause from dusk to dark, drank bottles of wine and smoked, a mise- en- scene from the French salons of the thirties. They raised their voices, shouted, laughed in unison, teased and taunted without restraint. At the end of the evening cheeks are kissed, hands held, and appetites satisfied.

Discussion with the Queen of Conversation

Harriet Dautel Funk. San Diego Opera 2006

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

WHAT WE CAN DO

November 18th, 2015

Fans of England and France united to sing a defiant rendition of the French national anthem at Wembley four days after the Paris attacks.

Prince William and David Cameron were among 71,223 people in the stadium as La Marseillaise rang out ahead of a minute’s silence to remember the 129 people who died.

England fans held aloft a mosaic of the French flag during the anthem.

Armed police stood guard at the stadium throughout the day after three suicide bombers attacked areas outside the Stade de France during the French national team’s last game on Friday.

It is the first time armed police have patrolled an English football match.

Wembley

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

COME IN. DOORS OPEN

November 15th, 2015

My stories stem from the inner voice where all the gaps of expression are liberated.

As a child reared under the MAFIA CODE OF SILENCE, speaking was too terrifying. My diary became the root of my expression. So I write!

I’m self-taught so if you notice my syntax off you know why. My pen moves from Creative Nonfiction to poetry. Column writing is how I began; I love the 2000 word lifestyle story that rises from adventuress in livingness.

This year (after a seventeen-year crawl) I’ve finished a memoir: “CRADLE OF CRIME.”

THANK YOU FOR VISITING.

Luellen Smiley is a creative Nonfiction writer and award-winning newspaper columnist who writes a bi-monthly column “Odyssey of Love” and has been a regular contributor to MORE Magazine. Her “Growing Up With Gangsters” stories appeared in the New York Post and in Southern California.
Luellen has completed a memoir based on her life as the daughter of Hollywood racketeer, Allen Smiley, Benjamin Siegel’s partner and best friend. Her extensive research the past twenty-five years led to numerous TV and Radio interviews regarding her discovery and breaking the silence.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

PARIS WILL NOT PERISH

November 15th, 2015

I watched coverage today in Paris from an online British station. It is important to me. More important than writing or dressing or going out. The journalists were sympathetic, the interviews soulful, the images–silencing. I don’t believe prayers are enough. President Hollande declared war.

Last night I watched a French film, Lola, before I heard the news. This was a film of Paris as golden and grainy as autumn. I thought I must go to Paris. Today I still must go to Paris.

This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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 LISTS OF LIFE

September 12th, 2015

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 a Blackberry or posted on the calendar.

The long list is about cutting out, shocking the system and coming back unharmed. It is an exceptional adventure sensation 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 is 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 looking at me in the face. It is September, this is the month of change. It is going to be autumn, and if you live in a seasonal climate, it is going to land on your front porch. Before the fall is scooped up in garbage bags and placed by the dumpster, my next adventure is moving to the short list.

SARATOGA SPRINGS BATTLEFIELD 2010- OFF THE LONG LIST

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This is not a “How to Recognize Gaslighting” or a “Step-by-Step Guide to Gaslighting.” This is a true story, drawn from my experience.

First Paragraph: 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.

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.

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As a child reared under the MAFIA CODE OF SILENCE, speaking was too terrifying. My diary became the root of my expression. So I write!

I’m self-taught so if you notice my syntax off you know why. My pen moves from Creative Nonfiction to poetry. Column writing is how I began; I love the 2000 word lifestyle story that rises from adventuress in livingness.

This year (after a seventeen-year crawl) I’ve finished a memoir: “CRADLE OF CRIME.”

THANK YOU FOR VISITING.

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