OPERA OF THE NIGHT.


https://www.pandora.com/station/play/1486524031572378132.

I understand how to harmonize with tragedy. Tomorrow I may be Loulou, but tonight I am all adult.  The crashing of my life is cushioned and softened by music. Thank you, Puccini. Photo of my Malibu residency, it just seems to fit the opera. Or it could be Stairway to Heaven? I can’t write any more now, the music has modified my sadness so I’m going to say goodnight and pray for South Carolina and all my fellow Americans in the path of more disaster then me.

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DRAFT WAS PUBLISHED


THE MOST RECENT POST WAS A DRAFT.  Please don’t think I lost my mind, that was a draft of notes for a post. I don’t know how to spell parallel when I am speed writing.  Now you know!

 

 

WORLD VISION


politics+cartoon+power+of+people
WORLD VISION
By Luellen Smiley

I made a list of the horrors, corruption, and confusion that dismantled the ordinary into extraordinary. The notebook is on top of my desk, on top of the entire works-in rewrite documents. All the other tributes to my success or failure are stored mentally; I have to look and hear the world. I am addicted to news alerts, commentaries, panels, and interviews. Along with the experts and analysts I listen to, my own voice and opinions are exploding.
I am not Charlie, Kayla, or Kyle’s wife. I am a writer of interior battles. My writing has never steered towards Politics. It is a freeway I never understood; a freeway my father told me at a young age was not to be trusted. A subject I avoided in college, and a topic that fumbled my thinking during my young adulthood rap sessions.
How faraway those years grow everyday. We chanted peace and love, in our kooky outfits, and our imaginative minds. I was full with Lennon, Dylan and Joni.

How much longer can I remain silent? There is a blockade of conversation about politics; it goes up like a digital wall, as soon as I meet a stranger. I was in La Posada Hotel the night the terrorists captured the Kosher Deli and Coffee House. I went to record by hand, the reactions of people I pick out very impulsively. A sort of lightning rod hits when I go into public and select my conversations. I may meet someone I have to write about.

No one had time to really absorb the truth of this historical moment. We may read, or watch the news, shake our heads, and then tuck our children into bed. I feel that our lives our complicated more with finances than any other single threat. Most of us just want to take a vacation. So what can they expect of us. Do we have a voice? Do we have a fax number to the Administration? Sometimes I dream of one representative in every state of the Union grabbing the microphone, and all digital devices, and shouting out, “Stop the war Republicans and Democrats!  IMAGINE IF WE WERE UNITED… JUST A LITTLE.


London

London (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

 

Snowflakes, and charcoal sketched clouds soufflé the sky. 

 

 

 

“Darling! Please shovel the front porch,” I say to no one as my hand lazily grips
the handle, carelessly moving the shovel.

 

  • I watch the street. There are suits
    and skirts straddling terrorist chic back packs, and tiny children dressed in
    wool coats with tied hats prance behind Mums, on their Saturday shop day.

 

  • SOME musicians are playing on
    one corner on the other side of the street is the Symphony Hall, squared between a paste
    up pattern of colorful ancient theaters, opening doors to restaurant windows  lit with
    candles, perfumed air, and smoky pubs pack and push blokes and chicks.
  • I
    am in London.
  • In my home; in Santa Fe, New
    Mexico a muscle of winter has squeezed the
    noise of street life.
  • I chose between ribbons and bows sipping and sliding down Palace Avenue,
    to eat Chocolate pumpkin cream in zippered toes, on the rug, next to the
    fireplace.

    Huggin and kissin the Prancers and Dancers of my gang

    ITS HOLIDAY SEASON SO  SWING, SING, ROCK, WAVE,
    SMILE, GIVE

  • BAKE, READ, CREATE,
  • KISS CHRISTMAS.

 

when THEY Leave


Cropped screenshot of James Cagney from the tr...

Cropped screenshot of James Cagney from the trailer for the film Love Me or Leave Me (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I do remember what they gave me. THE MEN always bring something you didn’t have before. LOVE THEM

THE POST OFFICE AND FACEBOOK


Post Office. St. Louis, Missouri, by Boehl & K...

Post Office. St. Louis, Missouri, by Boehl & Koenig (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

About the post office, it’s a relic, a dying old fortress of communication, where we all stood in line at one time to send our letters, the ones that took us a few more minutes than we can afford today.  I wrote a lot of letters, long five page letters written on delicate stationary, and art cards I bought in museums and boutiques.

The Post Office loses 96 million dollars a day according to a reporter on television.  We have stopped buying stamps, because we don’t mail letters. We don’t even need to send packages, because we  buy it online and let them ship it directly.  The cards are printed by the shipper, and impersonally attached to the gift. The type is formal, and even though you know that person, had his mind on you for the minute they typed out that note, well, it’s not the same really.  Progress is raping  us of the personal touch.  People like Zuckerberg are reinventing the way we share our thoughts, our photos, our everything.

Letters, of people that acquired prominence in the world of literature, art, and science were  adapted into books.  I wonder if their emails will be considered for a book.

The postman still comes to the house, he’s usually talking on his cell phone, or listening to his iPod, when he drops the mail off.   There is no need to rush to see what he’s brought, it’s always the same, a stack of bills, a few discount fliers, and a real estate brokerage announcement that they can sell our house in thirty days.  The postman has changed too.  They used to say hello, and have a nice day.  I suppose if I wanted to have a conversation with the Postman I could go to their Facebook page.

I’m going to check, and see if they have a Facebook page….  The first three  Facebook post offices:  one in the UK, one in St Louis, and one in Pakistan.  Clicked more, and there they are. You can Facebook the Post office.

LIVING ON THE EDGE


Fifteen years ago, the summer of 1993, I was having lunch in a restaurant in Los Angeles. Across from me was the only other woman of importance in my father’s life, besides my mother, that I had known. Sandy Crosby, a leggy brunette with bark brown eyes, arched brows, and a showcase smile.

She always had a response that outwitted her opponent, including my father, who relied heavily on, ‘don’t be so smart.’  Half-way through the first course at Jimmy’s, she looked at me and grinned.

“You’re so much like your father.”

“I am?”

“Oh yes.”

“Your father loved living on the edge, he really did.”

I rested on that thought for a long time. I was temporarily living with a friend in Los Angeles. I lived out of a suitcase, with a broken down Cadillac, and a folder of resumes.  My dad  never lived out of a suitcase, or needed a resume to find a job. After he met Benny Siegel, he had multiple offers in organized crime.

What I discovered, is Dad didn’t truly settle down until he had to raise my sister and I. He was 56 years old when Mom died, and we were tossed into his lacquered bachelor pad in Hollywood. The same age I was two years ago.

Living on the edge is a term used to describe infinite lifestyles. The momentum, or ignition that fuels that lifestyle, is uncertainty. We live by impulse and imagination. Our plans are last minute, we never buy in bulk, and we are always dreaming of the voyage. We run from stationary life because at heart, we are gamblers.

This time, the edge is the very place I spent two years creating, the photography gallery and home in Santa Fe. Up until this winter, it operated as a gallery by appointment, while I polished my memoir proposal. After several months, I went to the edge and decided to convert the gallery into a vacation rental. I needed to roam; I longed to gather new material.

The winter climbed back into bed, and then spring ripped through the ground, and the roses and poppies bloomed. The memoir remained unpublished, and the house began to transform from gallery to a real home. The long uneventful winter punctured my prudent habit of writing, remaining secluded, and avoiding everything but the essentials. By May, I made a silent vow under a stream of sunlight, to enlist into the human race.

The reinvention resembled nature, like today. The day began with  a feverish sky of culminating clouds, a long dreary silence, and an absence of light. The street was empty, just the valet from La Posada running to the garage to fetch the cars. They were bundled in winter coats, while the party rental truck loaded the furniture from last evening’s wedding. The storm struck with impetuous force. The valet’s ran with umbrellas, small children yelled for cover, and I took a seat on the back porch. Suddenly, the storm rescinded, and the sun burst through the cloud cover.

My emancipation back into the flow of mixing strangers and friends was alchemy to the house. Now it’s a home; to cook, entertain, and fill with music, laughter and conversation.  I can see the faces of the people I’ve met, imagine the next meeting, and anticipate the next outing. The windows and doors are opened, the people who pass by look in. I was cooking dinner one night this week, and noticed a man peeking in the window. He looked like Harrison Ford, just back from the Lost Arch.

“ Is this a museum?” he asked when I went to the door.

“ No. It’s a gallery, a home. Well come in, and take a look around.”

Opening the door to a stranger returned the affirmation that impulse socializing is still possible in the banal and sterile world of FACEBOO.   You don’t have to be a teenager to recognize a good time, but you need to be an adult to recognize a good fellow.

Some of us lone roamers cannot reverse the inclination to retreat from life; because we find too much confusion, agitation and adversity in the world. Between all of those elements, there are treasures waiting to be discovered: opportunity collaboration, adventure, and most of all companionship.

Even though the comfort of this home has replenished my spirit and temporarily produced a yawn of security, I am preparing to go to the edge. Though I imagine it is another place of endearment, another address, and another gamble, it may be the inner voyage that will transcend.

When I tell people we’re renting the house, they ask me where will you go?

I don’t know yet. Sandy was right; I am like my father. The edge I picked wasn’t a green felt jungle of dice and chips, it’s an artists’ life.

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com