GERMANY READERSHIP RISING THANK YOU GERMANY


I posted a column on Sunday, The Mind Hike. When I checked my stats, it was rising like a new sun, and hit a record-breaking 127 views! That has not happened since I published my book in 2017. I did not optimize the column or take any steps to increase readership. Today it is up to 126. Whomever you are, thank you so very much for reading my columns.

THE MIND HIKE


ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS IS ON A HIKE. Not the physical kind that was once a weekly episode in New Mexico, these days I hike in my head, it’s as wobbly, uneven, rocky, and dangerous as a hike down the Gorge in Taos, NM.

The path I’m hiking is set off by relocation, once the house sells, which is on the fingernail of being sold. Each morning as I wake to my dreamy bedroom, I am deranged by the thought of leaving twenty-five hundred square feet of Victorian victorious comfort.I will be downsizing to a six-hundred-square-foot studio. I used to love studios, but this house has drained that love, and now reality is staring me in the face, a word I despise as an admitted non-realist and dreamer. The path that follows this is where I am relocating to? Relocation is a trend, according to some minor research. Boomers move closer to their children. If you donโ€™t have children or a partner to bring out the compass and use a methodical ruler to figure this equation out, it comes down to finance. Thatโ€™s the ticker that keeps bringing me back to reality. I should not have left Del Mar, CA. Have you ever said that? Itโ€™s the inkblot on decisions when I thought everything I did would work out until it didnโ€™t. And Iโ€™d turn the steering wheel back to where I belong.ย  I do not belong here, and thatโ€™s not because of aversion or harsh judgment. Itโ€™s a marvel if you like three courses of simple conversation, activity, and entertainment. ย ย The weather and I do not get along, the summer is sticky, humid, and last week we were in double digits, one hundred. I spent a few days next to a non-effective window air conditioner with an ice washcloth on my head. In the winter, Iโ€™m in battle gear with four sweaters and shawls and all of that, not to mention the ice and snow that kept me frosty for months. You can take a girl out of Southern California, but sheโ€™ll come back.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 Borrowing from a post on FB, you spend the first thirty years of your life gathering possessions, and the next thirty years eliminating. Iโ€™m eliminating, sort of, I cruise by my ten boxes of books, and every day itโ€™s on the list to tape them closed. Then there are all the antique figurines, gambling paraphernalia, dรฉcor from the vacation rental days, and I think at last count, fifty hanging prints. I donโ€™t need to measure anything, this will not fit in a studio. Plus, I still have a storage unit in Santa Fe, filled with items I cannot remember. Is there such a thing as relocation therapy?

FILM NOIR MESSENGER


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I watch film noir with an admitted addiction. The grainy black and white stillness, the music scores, the cinematography satisfies more than current cinema . The message comes through, live gracious, selfless, forgiving, brave, and passionate? As I feel these thoughts streaming along, the one that stabs like a knife is passion. That visceral sensibility has driven me throughout my life: about men, mystery, adventure, accomplishment, art, music, dancing, unfamiliar places and faces, and cafรฉ society rendezvous. A temporary grasp of glee. And when it ends, it goes like this.ย ย 

Unprepared, who knows where
The leaves will fall
They donโ€™t plan
Where to land

Undisclosed strangers will walk in our paths.
Cross our hearts and
Tread on our minds ย 

Uncertainly
We traverse our heart’s discourse
Shooting for dreams of undiscovered lands
More weightless plans
I donโ€™t know if I can see ahead

My steps, like pebbles, follow the rush in the river
On the edge of the quiver

Skipping towards freedom
In summer, rays of light
Like a leaf, I break free from the branch,

To land a launch.

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In 2024, antisemitic incidents in the U.S. rose for the fourth consecutive year, reaching 9,354 total incidents. Behind these alarming statistics are real people. Hear about the antisemitism they faced.

MOODY BLUES TUESDAY


           MATISSE

Writing somberly is parallel to writer’s block. It’s not a block, really, more like a resistance to engaging feelings. ย If I place all the options on a puzzle board, this leads to the center. A fractured life impacts emotional posture and is not unlike physical posture. We slump or stand tall. We love instead of neutralizing, we are inspired instead of stagnant, we romance our passions, and we live to love. My heart is at the starting gate to love again, but the racetrack is missing. I’m undercover! I watch Blacklist or some foreign film in the evening. Most weekdays, I’m circulating between finance, selling furnishings online, shoveling snow, and researching acronyms because the news uses them so often.

The vortex of discontent is a punctured life. The windows of my home reflect the splendor of nature that plays all day long in the winter. ย I’m spending more time watching sky stage plays: clouds still, clouds moving, colliding, changing colors, sculpted into aberrations of animals and faces, than cognitive thinking. My collection of records and CDs accompanies the scenery. When I’m sorrowful, I listen to Ennio Morricone; when I need a lift, Vivaldi, Sundays it isย Turandot or some other Opera. When I’m a go-go girl, Swing, Salsa, or The Stones, when I feel alone, Sarah Vaughn, Nancy Wilson, and Etta James, for writing inspiration Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Annie Lenox.ย 

      I don’t see any remedy commercials for a fractured heart. By tomorrow, the despair could vanish, like the rain that puddled us for the last two weeks. Everything Iโ€™ve experienced is good in the beginning. So, to begin, I will listen to Begin the Beguine. 

“Begin the Beguine” is a popular song written by Cole Porter. Porter composed the song between Kalabahi, Indonesia, and Fiji during a 1935 Pacific cruise aboard Cunard’s ocean liner Franconia. In October 1935, it was introduced by June Knight in the Broadway musical Jubilee, produced at the Imperial Theater.  

    Henry miller writes in his book, โ€œ Henry Miller on Writingโ€ โ€œWhoever greatly suffers must be, I suppose a sublime combination of a sadist and masochist.โ€™  I suppose that a few of my friends have aligned me as such, and now that I write this, as in all writing, answers blink at you, and then the soul receives them like a wafer of wonder. Perhaps I am, but where that evolved and manifested, I have no time to think about it because the sun is out. I must sit in my newly designed sunroom, a small book library alcove that receives the sun at noon.  When I returned with my phone to snap a photograph, the sun disappeared like a footprint in the sky. Every moment needs attention. It’s twenty degrees outdoors. I am modestly adjusted and receive a thousand weekly warnings to get a flu shot. My doctor has tried persuading me to get a flu shot for three years.  I responded that I’d never had the flu and that my last cold was in 2012. He chuckled and asked the next question. 

WRITING WITH NATURE


In one of my books on writing, I read that most writers face the demon in the middle of the novel. The beginning is a gallop, and the end is a relief, but the middle wiggles in and out of your grasp. The middle of our lives reflects this same obscurity.ย  ย ย 

The middle of a life span reflects all we have accomplished and all we have left incomplete. This is what they call a mid-life crisis. I get it every year. ย Iโ€™ve finally accepted that my constant relocation, reinventing, and restlessness will not be solved. At the bottom of the restlessness is the fear of finding rest more enjoyable than movement. This flotation of comedy rotated around me last night while I stood out on the porch observing the peacefulness. The scenery of this street is a comforting, historical beauty that comes from the harmony of architecture and nature. The flow of villagers downtown is along two main two-lane streets; all the shops, services, and restaurants are a patchwork, and all the business owners know each other. ย 

I chose Sunday to shut down all communication with the mainland, take the longest bath I can stand, and write. I need a rest, like a chaise lounge on a spacious veranda with honeysuckle, wisteria, and lavender.ย  If you are an artist, the limit is not the sky; it’s everywhere. Natureโ€™s artistry is a full-time exhibition in the Northeast. The view now is of tumbling clouds rolling over; they move slowly, like dough, across the road, while squirrels dart about. ย Outdoors is where we see the best of life.

Bookviral


Our review……

A candid and enthralling memoir, CRADLE OF CRIME – A Daughter’s Tribute is the debut release from Luellen Smiley and it proves one of the most gripping and powerful books in its genre. Certainly no mean feat, given the swelling number of similarly themed offerings but Smiley does well to distinguish hers with painstaking research, a broad narrative sweep and intellectual grip to deliver a fascinating and revealing read, for the events it covers.

The storytelling isn’t redemptive with much of the most compelling material in this book being intensely personal but it is a very human story that dispels hype and myth and gives us a telling glimpse of a remarkable life. Weaving together several stories it makes a vivid and notable contribution to the mafia debate which invariably swings between the codes of honor and family values so often portrayed on the silver screen to a brutal criminal organization focused only on the accumulation of wealth. In contrast, Luellen finds a far more equitable balance in her reflections, and it makes for a genuine page-turner.

Extremely well written, fans of this ever popular genre will find CRADLE OF CRIME – A Daughter’s Tribute a fascinating read and it is recommended without reservation.

http://www.bookviral.com/cradle-of-crime-a…/4594052167

A BookViral review of CRADLE OF CRIME-A Daughter’s Tribute by Luellen Smiley


MOTHER’S DAY REMEMBRANCE

MY BEST FRIEND, Lucille Casey was a woman who threw the dice all her life. She gambled on her instincts as if they were already tested and approved. She never told me much about herself. When I learned of her struggles as a young woman and her chosen life, she became more real than when Iโ€™d known her. During the years we were friends, she handed out selected stories, abbreviated and censored.  Being the inquisitive character I am, the shallowness of her stories bated me.  I had to pry the truth out from other people who had known her.  

            Caseyโ€™s first gamble was at sixteen years old. She sent in a photograph of herself for the Redbook Magazine modeling contest. If sheโ€™d won, the Powers Modeling Agency in New York City would grant her an audition as a model.  Casey was living in East Orange, New Jersey with her mother and sister. Her father had died suddenly, leaving the family without a financier. Casey’s mother was lost without her husband and unsuited to join the workplace. Casey didn’t tell her mother about the contest until she received the letter of congratulations.

            John Robert Powers met Casey in his office on East 56th Street and signed her as a Powers Girl. She was stunning to look at, photographed like a movie star, and was modest. John Powers did not look for aggressive, pouty-lipped fearlessness. The Powers Girls were captioned “Long Stemmed American Beauties” because they were wholesome, beautiful, tasteful, courteous, and virtuous. They were so far from the runway models of today that it is almost a reversal of the industry.  

The models of the thirties were ordained to set the highest example of classic good breeding and education. John not only schooled them in fashion, and individual taste, he instructed them in moral integrity, independence, and community service. Casey went to school at John Robert Powers and became one of the top ten models in New York.  

            She was a blue-black-haired Irish beauty, with emerald green eyes and perfect teeth. She stood only 5โ€™ 7″  in those days that was fairly standard. When I knew her, she was still thin and beautiful but she did not fuss about herself or spend a lot of time at her vanity. As a Powers model, Casey had a long line of gentlemen callers. Powers Girls were invited to all the nightclub and dinner show openings, sporting events, community galas, and fund-raisers.  Social engagements were part of her job. Casey was not a woman of idle chat, in fact, a lot of people thought of her as restrained and unfriendly, maybe even snobbish. I think it was more secrecy. People were always prying into her life because it looked glamorous. There was another side to that glamour she didn’t want to put in the mirror.  

            One evening Casey had a dancing engagement at the Copacabana nightclub in New York City. She was on stage with some other dancers when a certain gentleman noticed her. The next chapter of Caseyโ€™s life began that night. At twenty-two years old, she fell in love with a man thirteen years older, of the Jewish faith, who lived in Hollywood. The consequences of her love forced her to change and adapt to a new lifestyle and different people.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  She did not bury or rescind her love after she learned he was Bugsy Siegel’s partner and best friend and that Allen was a part of the Jewish Mafia. She asked him to reform his criminal activities. He agreed, provided she would marry him. We all know at twenty-two a woman believes she can change a man, and a man lets her think she can. ย Without that dream, many lovers would not have found their mates.

ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย  Casey did marry her love and spent her life trying to keep her children from harm and Allen from going to prison. ย I met her husband just after he tried to reform, and was beaten down by the FBI. I called him Daddy. ย 

A LADY LIKE AUDREY


EGO WORK OUT AT EQUINOX. 2018


    I walked into Century City Club Equinox, almost inserting myself into the spotless transparent glass door. Three young women at the counter, beaming youth in front of black walls that seem to suck me in. 

โ€œIโ€™m here for the tour.โ€   A suited man in a large, rather luxurious office greets me with so much reserve and robotic gestures that I feel like running out.   I was led through a scintillating voluminous space, enveloped in floor-to-ceiling glass, streamed with sunlight and views of Westwood.   The members,  women attired in matching voluptuous outfits and personal trainers, lean as lions tossing funny equipment to the client, fastidious housekeepers, sterilizing and vacuuming in trendy uniforms. It was as if  I were watching a film production. 

The treadmill cycle area was a bit crowded, and not one person didnโ€™t have a headset on, staring at the screen of choice.  The bathrooms were hotel accessorized, and even pumps were filled with Kiehl products. There was a steam room, make-up area, showers, all the necessities, and a few women were blowing their hair, all beautiful. 

More rooms, a snack bar, shopping, pulsating music, and a closer look at the guests.

โ€œ This is as upscale as you can get; youโ€™ll love it, and you’ll meet important people, Iโ€™m sure.โ€

I listened to his closing argument and watched the bodies bend like pretzels as personal trainers raised and stretched their heads, arms, and legs.  Bodies bounced, climbed ropes, did flips, and hung upside down, like a circus act. After the close, a condescending smirk, that I read as, join, or go hang out with the losers at 24-hour fitness. 

 He handed me the contract, and I read it over.  The cost was more than Iโ€™ve ever spent. The way I looked at it was a place to work out and meet new people, although my instinct was that these were not my people.  I signed and walked out feeling dizzy again.  I stopped in a shoe store to look at what women were wearing.   The salesgirl kept complimenting me, and showing me shoes that she loved, and before I knew it, she sold me what I didnโ€™t come in to buy, high-top lace-up pink workout sneakers.  Leaving the Century City Satellite, beyond the construction and traffic, I raced home to recuperate. Whatโ€™s happened to me after living in a village in New Mexico, is that too much stimulation is now exasperating.

I walked to Equinox for my first workout, hopped on the treadmill with weights, and tried to look perfectly comfortable, but I wasnโ€™t.ย  The vibe and everything about this ballroom of a gym seemed rehearsed. Maybe Iโ€™m too observant, trying too hard to fit in. I noticed so much in that hour. The workout is also a sort of performance, just a shade of competition between men and their weights, women straddling rubber balls, yoga mats, bench presses, and only a handful look like they need it. Men and women occupy the treadmill room; without expressions, they seem to live inside themselves.
There is no conversation; it feels more like a convent. There is no hi, hey, or smile. I asked a trainer, โ€œItโ€™s not very social here. Why is that?โ€
โ€œ These are the highest paid executives, lawyers, agents, actors, and they donโ€™t come in to socialize–they are only here to do the work-out.โ€
Great move, Greta. Iโ€™m paying three hundred a month to be invisible.

THE POWER OF TRUTH


I was walking the streets, and the descriptive details had since evaporated. I mentally pluck myself out of this moment and open the shades to thought and memory, where all writers meet on some psychic level, the place of imagination and creation, an abnormality of reality.

A passage from Anais Nin’s diary says, โ€œBe 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.โ€

CHANGE IS COMING


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Some of us are not rushing to wave the I made it flag. Some favor holding back until the other elements of our character life are solid; ย our fear, pettiness, falsity, greed, so many steps to climb. I have to trust in the pattern of our lives; the invisible thread that taunts us, teases us, and even torments us. I am discovering the shame and greed, the absolute indifference to my security, and finances.

Gravity has dropped, and so has my sense of structure, health, and self-discipline. Making a bed was too tedious, and grocery shopping was needless because I didnโ€™t care about food; I like tuna sandwiches with avocado and bananas for breakfast. The comfort comes from writing, cloud watching, and phone calls with friends. ย ย 

The loss of direction and ambiguity lurking in the future is a place any person can find themselves in, especially those sensitive and artistic, without a map, familiar signs, and a plan. You have to ride it all the way to a new horizon.

It is a day later; the sky is unchanged, and the cloud cover is still nailed to the sky.ย  In random conversations, I have heard of peopleโ€™s hardships, sacrifices, and compromises. ย I tell myself not to be too sentimental , but it’s a useless force, I am sentiment. Donโ€™tย open those links to real estate values, how much money you need to retire. Openย the link to redesign my interior life using new colors, textures, and backgrounds.