Hello Readers:

This isn’t one of my reflective, daydreaming thinking, observation posts, it’s more like sharing my bank account which none of us do after we start making money, or in my case when you’ve lost it all. Abasing as it is, I’m posting my video, and for the first time you’ll see me live, well, I don’t appear too lively, but I’m an amateur as you will see.   

I’d love to hear your comments!!  Good, bad, honest.  

Thank you for staying with Adventuresinlivingness.  



Intertitle from the HBO television program Boa...

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” The History of the Jewish gangster is as ambiguous as a shadow; and this is reflected
in the thinly drawn characters of Benjamin Siegel and Meyer Lansky on Boardwalk Empire.”


Best of the Dragon, Vol. 1

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Two worlds in opposition: nature and neurosis. The external world, the salon, the garden, the mirrors, and the reflections of them in the mirror. The sense of unreality in the neurotic comes when he is looking at the reflections of his life, when he is not at one with it.

   Anais Nin-Volume Four  1944-1947
The morning began with an ardent rose pink sunrise, threaded into a pale solemn blue sky, (even the sky has emotions) and a Chaplin breakfast, as I dutifully spooned  coffee into the filter, closed it shut, pressed start, and returned to find the pot in the sink, and coffee splashed everywhere.   As the first attempt to write since the Dragon series, I am unwinding with you, not at you, because you’re all closer to me than you think.
I begin late on Friday, looking out to Palace Avenue, half- lit with descending sunlight, the other bathed in asphalt gray,  the solid remains of Tuesday’s snowfall. It is the hour before gallery openings, and free food at the Museum Christmas party, and the first Marcy Street Art Walk, and a wedding at La Posada.  The city is drowsily, awaiting Christmas festivities, redeemed coupons at Albertsons, invitations to parties,  unwanted and wanted guests from back home, the end of the year profits, what there are of them, and the ringing of the Church Bells on Christmas Eve at the St Francis Church.
My bedroom window is sketched with a cloudless blurry blue sky, and a pine tree, that drops buckets of needles onto my driveway. I am zipped into my down jacket and still have my boots on from a short walk, up Palace and down Alameda, passing by withdrawn sour tails, who looked as downtrodden as me.
It was a month ago, just after reading an email from Rudy, where, in paraphrase, I was ordered out of my home, and out of his life, that I got this idea.  John and I were in the kitchen, beginning or ending dinner, and I felt pressed to seek escape,  The idea blossomed over some Cabernet, and we lingered there in the kitchen, while I cooked up this idea, of cruising the seas writing about subjects I choose from a long list, and develop it into a documentary, and a book.
            “You’re thinking too small. You get the History Channel or the Travel Channel to finance it. You could ride all over; assuming you could live in one of those rooms,” John said.
             “Of course I can. I lived in 99 square feet for a year and half, with ……what’s his name. ”
Then, in the blinding morning light of reality, I realized how much effort it would take to launch, and live this idea that was born in the kitchen over a bottle of cab.
Imagine,  descending into an unfamiliar city, hopping from one place to another, and writing in cafes and adventuring. The illusion became real, like a dream that represents reality. I do see myself on such an adventure!   This is what I consumed, day and night, to cross over from the Dragon, to the mouth of recovery.
My life as I knew it has been dismantled, in the way the stage is after the play has finished its run. My run with Rudy ended, and so I must sculpt new routines, learn how to do the things he used to do, avoid reading his retired loving emails, make decisions without his opinion, blink twice when I look at the furnishings, gifts, and Southern comfort that erupt into a vivid memory.
After John left; the stage was mine to decorate so that every object and corner would ooze with a stroke of serenity that my inner wrath needed.  I filled the candy dishes with chocolate, and the vase with poppies and lilies, lit aromatic candles that promise to smell like the French countryside, light a fire, and keep the Christmas lights burning all day. These pacifiers have proven to lighten the burden of a malfunctioning life, but they do not sedate my wrath.  The Dragon and the Bird, have marched  into my soul, and are scratching at the core of my goodness.   When we are tested for resilience and self examination,  then we get know who we are. I don’t like who I’ve become; she is as discontented and repellant as a young woman on the verge of puberty.
My reference is the last two years, with John,  and our blossoming patch of love, that drew out the most luscious and talented gifts I possess. He has remained in the corner, my trainer, wiping the sweat and blood from my face, urging me to stand up, to fight, to dream, to rewrite the ending.  But the  Dragons fire lit a flame of destruction that gives rise to wasteful protests, that if one of our beams fall, our foundation cracks.  The final admission howls;  how can a best friend turn into an enemy? I hear the chorus; ‘it happens everyday, it’s common, that’s why we have divorce,’ and so on.
As the  moon fades into a rising Sunday morning, I am perched in between, clinging to the wisdom of my posse, whom I call on for solace, for answers, for encouragement,and you readers, who keep me adventuring in writing.


SMILEY’S DICE   Adventures in Livingness

Adventures in beginnings, starting over, and rewriting a story you’ve lived many years is the same as re-writing a story. It takes the same blind courage.

Behavior change (James)About half between forty and fifty years old, you hear people say, “It’s too late to start over,”  It’s not true. I hope it never feels like that when I wake up. Just thinking about it makes me run in circles. Behavioral change is essential to living a full life. In the middle of the night I woke up as if it was morning.  When I looked out the window, the moon was white as a  laundered tablecloth, staring back at me. It said get up and write.

I retreated to my corner of the world, a tiny room bathed a blush pink and gold, and wrote from beneath the goose down comforter. The moon watched.   Now that the lights and decorations are placed in the cartons, the wrapping and ribbon tossed away, a landfill of disturbing, distressing, and terrifying global news is dumped on us.  I do not understand the external world of political and international power, wealth, and motivation.

I fled that world a long time ago when I learned that men who controlled the paths of others were dangerously self-serving.  I recall my father sitting on that green velvet sofa, holding the remote in one hand and watching a news program. He turned it off and said to me, “Luellen, everything that goes on is fixed; you cannot hide your head in the sand and think otherwise.” I nodded my head in understanding, while internally I thought my father was suffering from his usual psychosis.  Eventually I crossed over, and forfeited my interest in politics. The forces of evil have shattered that glass of indemnity.

This year is not about vapid resolutions catering to our comfort, it is about survival. It’s about transforming behavior and habits, excesses and denial. Doing it in a group, makes us feel less traumatized. Imagine, all the thousands of people paddling the same current; forcing back the mortgage lender, relinquishing precious possessions, driving a car with a shattered windshield, wearing coats without any down feathers left, and wondering when the pink slip will arrive. Alienation and neurosis are at the root of people’s aggression and discontent. It can lead to unexpected violence, and then to massacre and war. It is a collection neurosis that grows worse every year.

The inner world, where each of us faces a truth no one else knows, is ruptured. All I can think of is bringing a little bit of light to someone you know is in darkness.