MENTAL HEALTH, When will we take notice that THIS SICKNESS KILLS, I could rage in the streets right now. My eyes are filled with tears, my heart is too heavy to lift me up.
SANTA FE PLAZA
SIFTING THROUGH THE SNOW
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.
DON’T YOU DARE TAKE CHRISTMAS AWAY.
What is this nonsense? Am I really listening to a national complaint against,
Christmas? Who needs a job? Whoever you are that started this, dig yourself a hole in the ground and meditate for a month.
I’m half Jewish, half Catholic-all I know about my mother’s religion is the holidays. They remind me of her, and how the two weeks transformed our home, because she happy, really looking forward to seeing her mom, and sisters, and nieces and nephews….
Whoever you are, watch Hallmark television. We are saps for comfort.
Happy Birthday to Literary Lady Joan Didion
Happy birthday Teacher.
Love from your unknown student.
GALLERY LOULOU PHOTO, FILM, MUSIC SALON- VACATION RENTAL
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.
YOU’LL LOVE IT.
VOYAGES WITHIN & WITHOUT
I live in a temporary tide-pool, a lily floating against the current, weighted down by a suit of armor that shields me from the beauty, love and freedoms stirring in my bud.
The throw of the dice this week lands on a quote from the archives of my peculiarity-clipping folder. 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 JAMMED MY LUELLEN
AS MUCH AS I DIG INTO FORMER & FOREIGN DESIGNS, FILMS, BOOKS, AND ADVERTISEMENTS, I WAS BOUND TO FIND MY TRANSGRESSION LIFE. I LASTED FOR 9 SOLID MONTHS. ENOUGH TIME TO GIVE BIRTH TO ANOTHER REED.
CINEMA FAVORITES
MOVIES I LOVED
SON OF NO ONE
DETACHMENT
THE LEGEND OF LYLAH MARS
OLD MAN & THE SEA
DUST AT MY HEELS
WAGES OF FEAR
GLORIOUS 39
GANGSTER
THE TUNNEL
THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD
ANYTHING WITH YVES MONTAND
PLEASANTRIES OF YOUR LIFE
PLEASANTRIES OF YOUR LIFE
This is a short piece. I haven’t written anything besides the script for the last two months, and my head is empty of imagery and illumination. I got the script done as right as I could until such time as a more experienced screenwriter explains what I’ve missed. It’s like looking in the mirror and deflecting the flaws, until the big mirrored light swings over and all is revealed. .
Last Saturday after I printed the script out I went into a cocoon of pleasantries. Studying my home-nested wild birds, nudge the bird feeder, peck each other out of order, eat alongside the chipmunk, the doves, and the squirrel on the porch and Rick, the pavement glory of La Posada waving from across the street as he jogged to retrieve a guest’s car. I envied Loren on the porch, sunglasses and hat tipping slang narrating life as he sees it from a valet, go to guy, perspective, and watching Rudy on the roof pitching leaves, and listening to Ray Baretto. I drank up Gloria’s laughter at Geronimo when Sam Shepard sat next to me, and she nudged me to talk, talk talk. I watched the fireplace rising into flames and the sunlight at dusk in the melon room .I rose to morning air so fresh it numbed my tongue, my nose and eyes, and inside my San Francisco kimono, draping over my arms I could see the blossoms of color.
Lounging in lavender and lilac oil, soaps and salts in my claw foot tub listening to Nancy Wilson and then later with the TV on to TCM and my head on the pillow, I snuggled the pleasantry of a warm bed and heat rising through the vents.
If you write down the pleasantries
Surrounding your life
Your blessings rise up and
Give you comfort.
The sweet peace may vanish the next day, or be intercepted by the news, a wreck in the street, an unexpected phone call. The crossroads of everyday life comes and goes. Between all of these uncontrollable incidents we are writing our stories. Stories that some day will be told in conversation, or written in journals and books. The essence of our changing lives is worth telling, so you loyal readers write to me and tell me yours.
Remember your pleasantries, and the ones that swim through your days, with smiles and laughter, pats on the backs, jokes and tales. We all have clutter of the mind but we have the power to sift out the deranged deviations. I have come to believe the only will I want is the power to be a real good sifter.
COMFORT & GANGSTERS
Comfort….
From writing by hand at my tiny Eurasian desk facing the window to the west; framed by time and familiarity into the branches of JD’s pine tree, the black silky toned crows basking like prowesses on the branches, and waiting for La Posada to empty the day’s leftovers in the garbage cans. The silky drape of the winter sky sometimes adorned with lacy clouds, like today, softening the southwest blue to a faded jeans shade. From my desk, I write, without thoughts predefined, just a drain of emotional threads from my heart…
This year isn’t like last year, the absentee man, fussing with the fireplace, making me afternoon espresso, or drying dishes. It is not at all like last year, with Rudy and John intercepting my division of attention, laughing at the kitchen table, eating my blueberry pancakes.
I had the song of Judy Garland’s rainbow in my heart. It was a time I will never forget, or regret, because I was a very lucky lady for several years. Unabridged ecstasy poured out of body, and spread over my attitude, abundant spirit, mood, facial expressions, and my dreams were filled with amusement instead of nightmares.
That’s why now, is so different. The camp has closed, and I wander into these new woods unsteady, and steadier, juxtaposed between, acceptance and anger.
In the last few months, I’ve written my heart out, read Shepard, Colette, Durrell and my Creative nonfiction magazines. I’ve studied, and prepared for radio programs, and collected a bundle of columns to adapt into short stories. I started buying chocolates and jelly beans, so I treat myself, on breaks, when it’s too cold for my frail body to walk around town or up Palace Avenue to see the new for sale listings.
My steps inward resulted in accomplishments, break-troughs’ and a comedic sideshow trying to open boxes, make repairs, until Rudy shows up again, and rake the leaves, stuff that is mundane. More distant relations, and mafia threaded strangers knocked on my door, bolstering my faith in breaking the silence that ruled me, I let rule me. Stepping inside the truth I must face isn’t nearly as harmful as pretending.
Mob on television, in the news, (gross sales global figure of $850 billion) websites, and bloggers, movies and books. They’re all coming out of the closet to inform, turn themselves in, give advice, consult on their own films, sign on for pubic speaking at Library’s, documentaries, and advertisements-the world is all mobbed up and it’s time for some horrific homogenization of the gangsters who wouldn’t break the silence.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 