ALONG THE ROAD OF LIFE

SELF DISCIPLINE – Either you have it, or you don’t. There is no gray, no aperture, no gaps, and I am learning this as I sit here writing instead of what I need to do, is walk.

I’m in the arena of a relentless athletic tribe. Yesterday I walked for an hour and noticed the runners, bikers, and power walkers along the path, muscles skin-tight, tanned, and seemingly detached from the backed-up traffic along the boulevard. The breeze felt like cotton balls, the sky a perennial perfect blue, and seventy-eight degrees.

Today, the same summer-like atmosphere, and with my windows open, and the crowds missing from the pool, I am wandering in between, like a bird that is unsure if the branch is better than taking flight.

Weekends, I take a recess from the tedium of seeking employment with AI leading the way. Am I just entering the 21^st Century? It feels so inhuman, so robotic, that I counterattack, enter the sensibility of irritation, shout at no one, grind my jaw, and resort to a stroll around the lobby to converse with humans.

Without music, writing, and conversation, my world would crumble like sand. I’d spend hours staring at the sky, imagining figures in the cloud formations, and listening to the birds.

As the war in the Middle East casts a shadow over contentment, security, and joy, I realize the subject is too hyperbolic to even mention. I haven’t hidden my Star of David necklace, and one person noticed. When my Uber driver pulled up, I struggled to open the door of a Tesla. She immediately stepped out of the car.

“No problem, here, see the button, just press down”.

“I haven’t been in a new Tesla, it’s a beautiful car.”

The dashboard supported a Ipad, with a map, and she navigated with her index finger to my destination.” Her accent was unfamiliar.

“ May I ask where you are from?”

“ Yes, why not? I am from Uruguay. I’ve been here for eleven years, in San Diego, the most beautiful, don’t you think?” I noticed she was viewing me in her mirror. She was in her forties, I think, with short brown hair and an air of total confidence as she maneuvered onto the freeway.

“Yes, it is, a lot more crowded than my last time year, in 2012.”

“Everyone want to be here, so where are we headed?”

“To look at an apartment.”

“It’s difficult, isn’t it? The cost, so expensive. I have a big house in Chula Vista, a very nice neighborhood.”

The conversation soared from why I’m here, to her family, her struggles, her children, my shock at the office developments we passed, and where I once hiked.

“I see you are wearing a Star of David, are you Jewish?”

“Yes, I am.” She turned her head around and gleefully declared, “So am I!”

After a failed attempt to open the lock box at the unit, Judith and I returned.

“ Here is my cell phone number, you call me, I’ll take you, maybe you find more places, we go to each one, okay?”

“ Thank you, yes, I will. Thank you.”

SPIN OFF OF HUMANITY?

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The Earth spins at 1, 040 miles per hour from the equator according to Co-Pilot. Humans spin: ‘The average walking speed for humans is about 3 to 4 miles per hour’ in different directions. Our rotator, the interior speed dial in our futuristic culture, reminds me of chasing a speeding car. We accelerate one day, and a day later, we are behind. Why catch up with a runaway virtual speedometer? Because if we don’t, we lose something: opportunity if you are unemployed, confusion in conversation with digitally conscious youth, and skills to navigate your finances, health, and services. I’m about to search the speed at which an average person speaks, but I can’t believe I am doing this. I’ve observed a lot of conversations in this hotel, no pausing to think before speaking, the words leap like the answers and questions were premeditated, a script?

While I am sitting with a banker at Wells Fargo, thirty years younger, offering basic finance choices, projections, and a few new rules in banking. I offered my phone to demonstrate, some quirk,

” I can’t touch your phone,” he said.

” What? Why is that?”

“A customer handed one of our bankers their phone to check their account, and the banker swindled the customer out of thousands.” I gaped at him, and then he pulled up my account on his computer.

” Can I see what you’re doing?”

” I can’t show you my screen.”

” Would it be okay if I uncrossed my legs?” He leaned back in his executive chair and laughed out loud. Joseph was one in a million. I told him so, and he bowed his head. He understood.

The next adventure in livingness is looking for a new home, an apartment. Like seeking employment, managers and agents do not answer the phone. I have to fill out a questionnaire before even viewing the apartment. Once those algorithms observe my search, a dozen more websites hit my email with availability. In one day, I may receive two dozen invitations to view their listings. Half are not updated or deceptive, so it is like combing through a library for the one book you want to read. One building that I liked and requested a tour answered this way. ” Hi, I’m Ella, your AI leasing agent. How can I help?” I didn’t hang up. I love first-time experiences.

” I’m looking for a studio in the building.”

We have a one-bedroom, let me send you the link.”

” I don’t want a link. I want a studio.”

” I understand.”

” No, you don’t.” I hung up.”

On to the next, a beautiful one-bedroom, at the price of a studio. I emailed for a tour, a self-guided tour. Six emails later, after I filled out the pre-qualification document, uploaded a current government ID, and set the appointment. The next step was creating an account, a password, an identity verification text, and another confirmation. I cancelled the appointment because the closing of the Olympics was gazing at me from the corner of my eye, and I succumbed to the majesty of organic humanity.

”

RAVELING THOUGHTS ON DEL MAR HOTEL LIFE, EMPLOYMENT, AND MEMORIES.

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AS I AM ABOUT TO ENTER THE ELEVATOR, the guests inside bounce out, SOME SAY EXCUSE ME, SOME DON’T. DO I EXPECT TOO MUCH? YES. I live in a culture of me before you. One woman, as we stood waiting for the elevator, looked at me, ” Oh these elevators are so slow, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but what irks me is the guests outside don’t wait for the ones inside to come out.. they bulldoze.

” This happens all the time, and you’re the first guest who said that.” I was thinking that too! Well, I don’t think people are very happy here, not friendly at all,” she said, relieved. Like it was bottled up and needed a cork to let her speak.

“So it’s not just me!”

” No! I used to live here many years ago, I moved to the Midwest and I love it, ” smiling as if just thinking about going home.

‘ I understand completely. I lived here years ago; it was like living with smiling children who suddenly reformed into I’m first – adults. So serious.”

” Yes! I’m glad I’m only here for a few days. I can’t wait to get home,” she said earnestly.

We parted, and the assurance of my senses was validated. Adapt, now as a Junior Senior, as I am still ready to be playful and honest, but not here. My attention is not to the guests, it is to the staff. Sabrina, Frank, Lorenzo, Jeremy, Nicholas, Trevor, Adam, Jazmin, and a few others. I listen to their stories, feel their pressing preparation to greet guests with jovial expressions, and patience. And checking into a hotel is no hands-on, swipe, scan, and off you go.

I chose a bench, just beyond the entrance, beside the pond and fountain, enveloped in Birds of Paradise, and plants I cannot name. That is my place for coffee and sunrise, and sunset, and a glass of wine. I can see the distant trees over Del Mar, the silhouette of rooftops, and the clouds. And, I see myself forty-three years ago, like Christopher Columbus, when I discovered Del Mar. A vignette of beachcombers, surfers, and a few scientific geniuses, celebrities, and, of course, Dinty Moore’s, and the former just horses racetrack. I was most content with Del Mar since leaving Westwood Village.

Some say wherever you live, all that you possess psychologically goes with you, in a suitcase full of dreams. Mine did, and it has been a month, to fold up those memories, wrap them gently, and go away, not far, just enough to drain what was once.

Employment search is like this: click the link, upload, and then a text, no phone calls, no in-person interviews. The qualifications are two full pages, mostly in acronyms I’ve never heard of, overtime, weekends, and, for that, a trailblazing blessing to be part of the innovators, driven to success, on the cusp of revolutionizing the algorithm-interpersonal technology. Paraphasing one sample description for a Marketing Director. It is more than a Brave New World, it’s All in for ALGORITHMS: a data-tracking system in which an individual’s internet search history and browsing habits are used to.. JOIN, PURCHASE, SELL.

And AI: Machine Learning: This involves training algorithms on data sets to create models that can perform tasks such as making recommendations, identifying patterns, and predicting outcomes.

Deep Learning: A subset of machine learning that uses neural networks with many layers (hence “deep”) to analyze various factors of data.

Natural Language Processing (NLP): This enables machines to understand and respond to human language. TO WRITE YOUR NEXT BOOK?

KITCHEN TABLE TALK IN SANTA FE NEW MEXICO-2013

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SMILEY’S DICE-ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS

White Wolf introduced himself to me when he worked Valet at La Posada Resort. He was the kool one with enough style and manners to attract attention. I learned he also provided private airport transportation and luxury limo service. A trip to Albany, New York was on my schedule, so I asked White Wolf if he’d drive me to the Albuquerque Airport. When I told him my flight left at 6:30 AM, he didn’t flinch, ‘I’ll be at your house at 4:00 AM with Starbucks-what’s your drink?’

He showed up, loaded the car, asked me to select my own music, and off we went. I felt like I was riding with James Bond; smooth shifts, minor breaks, all the time engaging me in conversation. The combination relieved my pre-boarding stress and woke me up. From then on, I chose White Wolf’sairport service. When he picked me up from Albuquerque, he had Fiji water, Travel & Leisure Magazine, chewing gum, and he played Vic Damone. ‘Chill, sit back, tell me all about the trip.’

At my kitchen counter, on a twenty-below morning, White Wolf leaned back against a bar stool too petite for a swarthy 6’ 4” man. His Johnson & Johnson silky blond hair is swept back, and I want to touch it, but we don’t play with physical affections. White Wolf’s forty, looks thirty, and thinks like he served an attitude and values apprenticeship under a wise guru. He’s on a break; from plowing snow at Albertsons, the Yoga Center, and private homes. This is before he reports for work at Geronimo Restaurant, where he not only parks the cars, but walks the ladies indoors, keeps the Zapata’s outdoors, and directs traffic on Canyon Road until midnight. He’s wearing a sheet white Polo turtleneck and black slacks, his day look, and I’m about to serve pesto, prosciutto and feta cheese frittata for late breakfast.

White Wolf is sipping a sixteen-once Chai and unwinding his broad shoulders in a circular motion as he considers current consciousness of Santa Fe.

“It’s a different kind of materialism. You really want it but you can’t have it. The most simple things; a toaster, a new phone, pinion wood–cause we’re cold–it’s so cold! The guy in front of the Homeless Shelter was near frozen when I drove by to drop off a bundle of clothes. Why is it so cold? Even the valet has to wear BMW beanies. These are some funny times.”

“What’s so funny about not having money?” I smirked.

White Wolf breaks into a full-body laughing recess. His sailor-blue eyes are just slightly turned up when he laughs. This transmits his effortless, humorous pitch on life.

“It’s different,” I said. ” I mean everything feels unfamiliar.”

“Yeah, it’s okay to feel,” White Wolf said. “Things are rattling around. That’s why the Gorge Bridge felt so stable the day I drove up to Taos. I think it’s the most stable thing in my life right now! Hah.”

I had placed the frittata in front of White Wolf, but he hadn’t touched it yet. Even when he’s starved; he lets the food sit there and cool off. I’ve never seen a man not eat when food is placed in front of him. I was already biting into the frittata; relishing a real meal.

I found a momentary silent inlet and asked him if the food was cool enough. White Wolf looked down, touched it with his index finger, and then his appetite fired off. After a few pensive moments, as if he were saying grace, he took a proper bite. He takes the food seriously, intensely. He’ll make a remarkable husband for some woman. He talks a lot about marriage, and the songs he’ll sing to his bride’s mother the day of the wedding. He confides in me uninhibitedly, as if we were two teenagers, cutting class. I feel youthful when he’s in the house; the absence of masks, emotional camouflage, and exaggeration is how I remember adolescence.

“What’d you say Wednesday was–on your new schedule?” he asked.

“Wednesday… I forgot since you showed up. I know! It’s Gallery LouLou marketing.”

“We have to give out two cards a week. I want you to pass out two every day.”

I nodded my head, ” I will, 2013 is just not the year to buy art in a vacation rental during the winter.”

“Geronimo has been slow, no A-list celebrity types, no mothers and daughters; cause the daughters don’t want to come here anymore.”

“Neither do single men, I interrupted. And if they do, they’re from Los Alamos. Can you see me with a scientist or an engineer? I’d make them crazy.”

“Listen–someone asks you out for an Ecco latte, don’t be a bitch. Just do it! You reverse sweat it. If he’s a jerk, Deebo him.” Deebo is the guy who shows up late, and should have been on time. His quip is unabashed, and he handles himself like Sean Penn; smoking and all smiles while he reverses blame.

“Can we change the subject?” I said.

“No! I want to know why you’re not even trying to hook up?”

“Because I’m convinced the man I want isn’t in Santa Fe. The ones I’ve met are looking for a caretaker, a fly-fishing partner, or a biker. Look, there are two types of men: one loves a woman because she’s not a man, and the other one seeks a mother who he can bash around.”

“I want to rat those guys out–like the ones that pinch and don’t tip. Give a name to that.”

“ Listen to this; the newly coined slogan for New Mexico is Truth.” I said.

“ Truth. About what?”

“ Exactly! What truth are they referring to? How bout’ the naked truth? Picture a Native American woman out in the arroyo in a leather crop top, her black hair elevated in strands by the wind, dust on her cheekbones. New Mexico is naked, isn’t it?” I asked.

“It’s isolated. If you can afford to come to Santa Fe and not blow your brains out, or go broke, you deserve to be here. Right?” He is smiling. Even the painful truths, are reformed as tests of endurance rather than complaints. He developed his own poetic rap dialogue that I suppose comes from growing up in two cultures: one in the hood, and the other in the wealthiest homes in Santa Fe.

“ Then it’s a good place for you. Like your friend that takes her poodle to Hospice. I really respect her for that. That’s what she’s doing with Santa Fe.” He said.

“What do you do with Santa Fe?” I asked.

“I’m the union organizer for luxury limo drivers. Like, iron your shirt and shine your shoes, have CD’s in the car, and water. You know–like this is New Mexico but we can spell Burberry. On the weekends I’m the ladies traffic controller!”

“ What is that?”

“At the clubs. Some of the guys are okay, all suited up, hoping for a dance, but some are like, I’ll buy you a cocktail if I can follow you home. Someone has to protect them. Ladies can’t drive home cause they’ve cocktailed all night, or they can’t find their car keys, or they want to impress their friends with the Viking chauffeur. It’s chill; they’re good girls during the day.”

The morning turned into afternoon, and I was cleaning dishes, and watching the birds from the kitchen window. Every hour or so I stop responding to White Wolf, and let him talk. I can feel the rush of his life; how he sprints from limo driver, to Geronimo valet, then to Albuquerque, the gym, and his family. People who live intensely engaged in a variety of relationships; stir their surroundings like a human wind. Every time White Wolf leaves, I’m bouncing through the living room and dancing.

When I tuned into the conversation he was recounting his day in ardent animation. His laughter echoes, almost like he’s singing a song, and it lasts a long time.

“I don’t mind giving back to our greedy city tax roll. I feed the meters at the Lensic; that quarter made a difference. Huh?”… more laughter and he repeats, ‘we’re down to quarters.’

“Those meter guys were writing tickets like, here take that, and then on to the next car. Don’t bother coming back to Santa Fe, and it’s the weekend! That’s the barometer of my city—-hurry hurry write that ticket. Once it’s done it’s done.” Suddenly he stands, positioning his legs a few feet apart, he leans over, picks up his keys, and his phone.

“Come on let’s go for a quick creep.”

“A what?”

“Cruise the plaza, get you outdoors, come on it’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not dressed for outdoors..”

“Put on a pair of low brow boots, and a jacket. Not fashioning this afternoon. You won’t even get out of the car. Come on.”

I listened because White Wolf is definitive in decisions. He doesn’t waver back and forth or want to argue. I rushed upstairs, zipped up my boots and grabbed a down jacket. He was standing by the window.

“We have twenty-minutes.” He said pointing to his watch.

We hopped into his silver VW GTI and he told me to pick a CD. I shuffled through the stack, while he backed out. Just then I noticed a car pull out across Palace Avenue.

“Wolf! Watch out!”

“I got it.” He leaned back, shot eyeball calmness to me and asked what CD I wanted to hear. He didn’t scold me for my alarm and doubt. After that I knew my caution was unnecessary. You learn a lot about a man by his driving. It’s a graph of his responsiveness, confidence, and how he handles sudden movement. White Wolf cruised over the icy asphalt and into the empty Plaza, all white and brown like a two envelopes sitting side by side. He was now slouching back, one hand on the wheel, messing with something in the open compartment, and driving 15 mph. There weren’t a lot of cars, but I had the feeling White Wolf didn’t care if there was someone behind us. We drove past Santa Fe Dry Goods, and he stopped, “Empty– that’s sad. No one buying fuzzy boots or hats.”

He drove by every shop and looked in, as if he was monitoring shopping trends. His eyes swept the streets, the alleyways, and I mimicked him, because I knew this was for me. We went slow as a couple of tired horses, so the eyes could bring in the unknown: a homeless man on a corner, the Indian woman selling jewelry, the Mideastern jewelers smoking cigarettes, and a few locals trotting back to work from a break. I looked up to the sky and found a patch of blue, and pointed it out to White Wolf,” and he turned to me and said, “I’m happy you noticed.”

“It’s two o’clock already,” I said.

“How’d it get to be two o’clock?” White Wolf kept the engine at crawl speed all the way back to the house. “You have to go to Santa Fe Spa–at least go see people! And go after six.” I nodded my head as I got out of the car, went inside, turned on the Rolling Stones, and danced.

Gallery Hendrix film concert in the garage for his exhibition.

ADVENTURES IN LEAVING LIVINGNESS

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YES, I AM LEAVING. SIX YEARS LATER. I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE 1 YEAR, BUT WHAT WE PLAN GOES INTO THE CIRCUMSTANCE BLENDER, AND I, MAYBE YOU, COME OUT SHREDDED, UNTIL WE LEARN HOW TO REMIX OUR CONDIMENTS FOR THE FUTURE. The year the village adopted my slogan, Village of Friends

Six years ago, this week, I left my studio on Devon Ave, a shrink-wrapped space that forged me outdoors. I landed in Ballston Spa, NY, to save my home from foreclosure. I felt a contrast within and without. The without were the winters. I’d not lived here since 2003, youthful adaptation overwhelmed the bitterness of winter. The within, my mind, heart, and spirit went through a seasonal transformation. Winters, the snowplowing season when I am on duty to ensure tenants and nieghbors can walk on my sidewalk(owners are reponsible in the village) without breaking a leg and then suing me. Writing is the dominant activity, between, cooking, checking the sump pumps, talking on the phone with friends three thousand miles away, and managing tenants. Once I learned the house was two months behind on the mortgage, turmoil, the servicers bounced me around with false information, misconduct and refused the full balance when I offered. Covid postponed the payments for a year, and so did the New York financial agency. I filed the complaint against PHH, and they pressured PPH to abort the foreclosure for another year. Almost all my income went to restoring the house, replacing mechanical parts, painting, and repairs.

One day in February of 2020, a man knocked on my door and handed me the foreclosure documents. So began six years of legal research, interviewing attorneys, and defending myself against the predator, who sought to destroy my life, every angle of it. I can’t name this person; I’m in writing witness protection. Seriously.

It’s Christmas day, and the lobby of the hotel is empty. I think there are seven guests, and most of the cheerful staff are off. The sun broke through, so I’ll wander around the property. It’s 28 degrees, I adapted physically but not emotionally.

THE LEGEND LADY OF PALACE AVE

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The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness; one day at a time. People with terminal illness, suffering from a shattered romance, a death of a friend, a natural disaster, always say the same thing; One day at a time.

Walking up Palace Avenue on a day spread with sunlight, and a continuum of power walkers, bikers and runners, passing by in whiffs of urgency, I took my time. I didn’t feel like flexing, just evaporating into the shadows, and the moving clouds. I walked by a little adobe, that once was a dump site for empty bottles, cartons, worn out furniture, and piles of wood. A year later, the yard is almost condominium clean. Just as I was passing the driveway, the little woman whom I’d seen walking up Palace with her bag of groceries, appeared like a gust of history in the driveway of her adobe casita. She wore her heavy blanket like coat and a bandanna on her head. Regardless of weather, she’s bundled up in the same woven Indian coat and long wool skirt. I stood next to her, a foot or so taller, and she unraveled history, without my prompting. She told me about the Martinez family, the Montoyas, and the Abeytas, all families she knew, all with streets named after them. Estelle asked me my name, and then took my hand in her weathered unyielding grip, ‘Oh I had an Aunt named Lucero, and we called her LouLou.’ She didn’t let go of my hand, and then she told me that the families, some names I’ve forgotten, bought homes on Palace in 1988 for $50,000, She shook her finger to demonstrate her point. ‘You know how many houses the Garcias bought? Five! Then they fixed them up and sold them.’

I could have stood there in the gravel driveway listening to Estelle all afternoon. She owns the oral history I love to record; but it is difficult to understand her, she talks with the speed of a southwest wind. We parted and I thought about the times in my life when the smallest of interactions elevates my spirit. In older people, who are not addicted to gadgets and distant intimacy, I’m reminded of how speed socializing has diminished the opportunity for a sidewalk chat.

TRAVELING LOVE TO THE END

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The four-letter word that we all seek to survive, Love. The four-letter word that debases love. Obvious. Just as there are limitless expressions and levels of love, how do we know if our way of loving is evident? Mine, I questioned, after my partner of thirty-five years erased me. For years, I drew in my mind diagrams of my actions, my words, and my overall behavior, and I discovered what I had missed. Simply said, self-importance came before his needs. It started in 2006. Funny, I don’t remember the argument, what I remember is the thunderous shouting match. We were in Taos, New Mexico, in the winter, and x is a surfer. We agreed in screams that we were no longer lovers. A few days passed, and we went hiking. We never spoke of it again and remained platonic soulmates until 2016. He chose a woman, and they clicked, except for one non-negotiable demand: I cannot communicate on any device or in person with X. The complication to that arrangement you cannot imagine.

Now, it’s been seven years since I last saw him. Over the first five years, I texted him, first weepy apologies for my part and then brash, harsh rage for abandoning our friendship. We had solid rebellious tendencies, a masterful comedic skit we played out alone or for a group. One time he came out of the bathroom, with mounds of popcorn glued to his face, and he just looked at me, deadpan. Another time, we were sitting at La Posada bar in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and he had his work shirt on. I think it was washed-out linen, and he began shredding and darning the sleeves and neckline, and the bartender and guests stared first, then the laughter. Santa Feans are bohemian, and nothing much shocks them. Outlandish and artistic antics are appreciated.

Many of my friends in those first few years appeased my sorrow, ” He’ll be back, after she spends all his money, that’s when she will stage a breakup.” They are still together, somewhere. He didn’t block my phone; he just never answers. No matter how many times I’m instructed gently and forcefully advised to stop thinking about him. I respond, ” I’m trying, I am, but I’m living in our home with all our possessions, it’s like walking into a theater set of our life, every antique, print, vase, etc, we chose together.

I sold the house, packed up twenty-five years of impulsive collections, the marque of a former nightclub, a handcrafted Roulette table, and a casino chandelier. I can’t go on. Four months later, tonight, I recieved notice that the lawsuit over our home sale has been settled. I am free. If I use what I have learned, how to be totally responsible for my decisions, without x, now I will boogie.

WRITING TRUTH

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I’m one of you. Adrift, without a direction, waiting on the shore for a wave to break and include us. It is not ho ho ho for us, it is whoa whoa whoa. I’ve learned my lesson; I will not repeat the dissonance, selfishness, and fear that prevent me from engagement with life. My cradle of friends is my family. They want everything to work out. For their patience and comfort, I will not let them down!

How much stronger must I be? Isn’t five years of punishment enough? My smile is feigned, my heart is sliced in two, and my spirit is spoiled. Today, the darkness outside and within shatters what could be a day different. I could be outdoors, and brave the cold, work out in the gym, window shop on a whim, and fill someone’s frown with smiles.

I have the hours to transform; it is eleven am, but I haven’t slept a night through in a week or more. I live a melodramatic life in my dreams; they are symbolic messages of my vulnerability, fragility, mistakes, and unrealistic expectations. My former self lived with all I wanted and needed. I woke with enthusiasm, direction, confidence, and exhilaration. I loved and was loved in return. You ask what happened? Betrayal, and then gaslighting, using callous actions, of destruction, emotionally, psychologically, and financially. What I cherished in him vanished, and a ghostly evil power, within another woman, chained him and locked me out.

Now I wait for the final curtain to close so that he will be a memory instead of a menace. Almost there, but will that liberation convert my stagnation into stimulation?

Hope, prayer, discipline, and forgiveness are the weights that build my strength. And of course writing. If I didn’t have this way of expression, I couldn’t have made it this far. My writing is my wand of magic, for me and I hope for you out there. I’m one of you, an outsider, an introverted extrovert, a dreamer, a risk taker, and at the starting gate of my triple crown. To be continued.

Photo by u041au0430u0440u0438u043du0430 u041au0430u0440u0436u0430u0432u0438u043du0430 on Pexels.com

ON THE HOTEL ROAD OF TRAVEL THOUGHTS

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The course we choose to study doesn’t begin in school; it begins the moment we recognize that life is our teacher. I chose the course of love between a man and a woman. Yet all I’ve learned from Anais Nin, Joan Didion, and Lawrence Durrell about love isn’t guiding me. I have to start over and develop wisdom from my own experiences.

I checked into the third hotel, the previous one was tedious and murky. This morning in a larger room, on a crisp as iceberg lettuce, a day of clarity and stillness surrounds me. Outside my hotel room, the light is intermittent, a peak a boo stage window, the light illuminates portions of the crispy autumn leaves just before they drop. On my side of the glass, there are shadows and dissonance. What events take place this week will be instrumental in my future and as piercing as the southwest sun when it shone in my eyes.

This hotel’s staff is exceptionally friendly, conversant, and engaged in their jobs. Every time I pass by the guest check-in, Rose stops what she’s doing.

“ How’s it going?”

“Too early to tell.” I’ve been here a week, and I unzipped my lawsuit story, so she is in the know. She is knowledgeable about the law, and living through times that are more threatening than usual.

“ Okay. What are you doing today?’

“ Researching moving companies. Critical thinking and planning. When I moved from Santa Fe to Los Angeles, I hired a broker, thinking it was the actual company. When the van arrived, half of my things were broken, boxes were opened, and some were stolen. So this time, no mistakes.

“ Mistakes are all about learning.”

“ Yes, and I learned!”

“ What did you do last night?” She said with a curious smile.

“ I was at the bar, Lizzie was there rousing all of us up with puzzles, a brouhaha like the old days, you know, not one of us looked at our phones.”

“ Please, don’t even start. So annoying when you’re talking to someone and they are staring down at their phones.”

“ When I was living in LA, at huge four-way intersections in the middle of traffic, pedestrians crossed without even looking up. It was the same everywhere, restaurants, shops, it struck me as a way of looking very significant.”

“ You’re so right!”

“ That reminds me, I need to go write a column.”

“ Write about your lawsuit.”

“ No! I’m in witness protection writing.”

“ They may read it right?”

“ You New Yorkers are always on the right key.”

“ Gotta be, it’s New York.”

” I’m California”.

” That’s okay, I still love you, and your day is coming, and so is a new man.”

”

DEATH AND LIBERATION COLLIDE

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It was her widespread, unrestrained, and contagious smile that I see when I think of her. Her expressive hand gestures seemed like separate limbs from her straight, head-held-high posture. Frankness, unpreparedness, and ebullience made her the embodiment of who I wish I were.

I was on the phone with a friend when the news alert filled the screen, and a photo of her signature smile.

“ Oh my God!”

“What?” he asked.

In a voice trembling with shock, I replied, “Diane Keaton died.”

“ Whoa, how old was she?”

“ Seventy-nine. She was the only contemporary actress I related to. I watched Baby Boom last week, so Keaton. It was like watching me if I had the same experiences. “

“ She was great in The Godfather, not a lot of people would agree with that, but that’s my opinion.”

“ I never thought of that. I watch it once a year. She was in an interview years ago, and the host asked,” Why didn’t you ever get married?”

With her arms opening like a double door, she exclaimed, “ No one ever asked me!”

Her last post on Instagram is worth reading.”

And in the same weekend, I think of this. We can’t feel another person’s sickness, or what it’s like to sing if we don’t sing, or fly like a pilot unless we’ve been one. We cannot imagine what it is like to be a hostage of Hamas.

I wandered about yesterday, in the gym, the veranda, and the lobby, and later, had appetizers in the restaurant. Two flat screens, football, the rest couples except the man next to me. I couldn’t help but notice that he was three inches from me at the bar. A shrimp cocktail showed up, he ate voraciously, then a steak and a large flat potato sort of tortilla, a side of vegetables, and he ate enthusiastically, then a lobster plate, with more vegetables, and he ate, and then dessert. I left before it arrived, so I wouldn’t swipe it from him.

I wanted to say to someone, “The hostages are coming home!” I didn’t. Diane Keaton would have! She lived with squamous cell cancer or many years. That explains the hats and turtlenecks.

ADVENTURES IN TRAVEL

Featured ~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com

I’ve been staying in a hotel during a short interim while I decide where to move.

While I am in the hotel observing guests, their mannerisms, conversations, and facial expressions, I have come to the conclusion that we are not only on a fiscal cliff, we are on a sinking shore of wet sand. I see guests who’ve come for gambling, visiting relatives, exploring Upstate NY, and lapping up a vacation as if it were their first. They are thirsty for living the essence of comfort, congeniality, and the aspirations of autumn. Shed the withered and welcome the wild. I see giddy faces and sluggish bodies weighted down by heavy tote bags. Some seem to shuffle like the very old or weak, from the pathway to the lobby. I was not excluded; by the time I checked into the hotel, my body was withered from having to move out of my home of twenty-five years. All I wanted to do was sink into a bed and hang the Do Not Disturb notice on the door. Several guests are annoyed by too much information, too many alerts, too many scandals, and too much uncertainty. The adventure of livingness has a trajectory marked by misadventures.

In reading the WordPress posts, I’ve discovered the Travel blogs are the ones that revive my interest in the world I haven’t seen. These are the ones I read because they spark my passion for travel, rather than comfort and complacency. The Mediterranean has been stirring in my imagination ever since I researched the coastal splendor of all those portside villages. Thanks to you, travel bloggers, I made the decision. This is the year for Italy. Now that it’s written, I must follow my word.

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FREESTYLING SINGLE

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THE GYPSY CHRONICLES – Day 10.

Scintillating in luxury and comfort is therapeutic if mastered with moderation. So, my second week here in the hotel, I opened the thruway to discerning tasks: a deep dive into publishing my book, rewriting the ending so art isn’t imitating life, but the other way around, searching for part-time employment, a seriously pragmatic approach to where to move, and writing my pop-up columns.

It is tremendously easy to write from this hotel room, without those damn barking dogs next to my home, the constant vibration and noise of mowers, blowers, and city works.

On my desk is Henry Miller’s book, On Writing, and every page moves the mental nerves in some way. “The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds: he takes the path in order eventually to become the path itself.” From living in isolation in my home, my tenants are cordial but reserved; I am now swept like a surfboard into a wave of public swells. It is their stories that come out of this experience.

I begin with the Casino, attached to the hotel lobby, and open at 11 am. Arrivals begin: gamblers shuffle inside, some in wheelchairs, younger men with speedy strides, couples, single women, a plethora of humanity in common, with one mission: to win. I take a seat at the bar, and eye wonder at the slot machines. I haven’t counted them, but the room for walking is limited. There is one machine with the motif of a bull, and when someone sits, the bull grumbles loudly, so I pull out my earplugs. I watched one man win, and after he left, other players who heard the winning clang took his seat. It is a popular machine.

The casino looks to be around eight thousand square feet, with seventeen hundred gambling options. The path to get back to the hotel, I have to navigate around and around. The first time, of course, I went in circles as my sense of direction is like a butterfly’s.

“ Excuse me, can you tell me the most direct way back to the hotel?”

“ Lost are you? Follow this carpet pattern, the one in the middle, and it will take you back.”

Off I trot, staring at the paisley pattern, through six different arenas to the hotel. I went outside and took a seat on the bench. A woman passed by and stopped, “ How are you?’

“Adapting, I’ve not been here but a few days.”

“ Oh, we’re just checking out. I can’t wait to get home to my Pomeranians. I have two. I rescued them, and they are my babies,” she continued, talking about the dogs. As she spoke, I noticed how immensely liberated she was in conversation, and how her hair matched her outfit. She smiled while talking.

“ I’ve seen you before. I noticed your style; you were wearing such a pretty outfit”, she said earnestly.

“ Well, thank you, and so are you.”

“ Are you alone? I think you are, but don’t let that get you down.”

“ I wasn’t ready for a very long time. I’m crossing over that mountain, only I’m not like you. I can’t approach people the way you just did.”

“ I used to be like that! Now I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either. God loves you, we are all his children, and we need to love each other.”

I let her go on and thought any minute she might bring out a bible or a cross and start praying for me.

“ I bet my husband is looking for me; he’ll be mad, not really, he’s used to it. We’ve been together forty-five years.

“ Remarkable. What’s your secret?”

“ Love, respect, and compromise, it’s really very simple. You’ll meet your honey, I feel it, you want that, don’t you?”

“Yes, when a man tells me everything is going to be okay, I settle down. I’m emotionally overweight.”

“You’re funny, see that is another quality that gets you through life.”

“ I see a man approaching, and she introduces her husband. He is tall, and emulates a calmness and contentment as he hedges into the conversation about going to Lake Placid.”

“ Have you been there?” he asked.

“ Years ago. It’s beautiful.”

“ I turned towards his wife. I didn’t get your name.”

“ Donetica, Italian, my friends call me Dee.”

“I’m Loulou, and thank you for stopping by my bench.”

She giggled, blew a kiss, and said in parting, “ I love you.”

As she left, a woman exited the hotel in a state of exhilaration.

“ It looks like you had a good day,” I said

“ Yes! I won eight hundred dollars. She swung her purse and skipped off.

Hmm, I wouldn’t mind winning at all, but I’m in enough ambiguity to play against those odds. To be continued.

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