Slowly and Then, All at Once: A Pause in My Writing Life to Say Goodbye

Snow on the Spring Blossoms: A Pervasive Cold Sadness

Flowers are without hope.  Because hope is tomorrow and flowers have no tomorrow.  ~Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943,

Spring, the time of life and rebirth, comes slowly and then all at once. The winter lingers, pretends to slip away, sneaks back. The snow turns to rain, the rain to snow, the snow comes hard and then melts. You go to sleep with the wind hard and dark against the windows and wake up with the sun on your face. Leaves are there, of a sudden, and huge blossoms come from nowhere, and the smells of spring nearly overwhelm. A screen door slams, a lawn mower drones, the perfume of fresh cut grass drifts in from across street.

How come then the motorcycle can't stop in time? Can't swerve quickly enough? How come the man driving the SUV, who stops at the stop sign, then can't see the motorcycle and so pulls out far enough so the motorcycle can't miss it? And then, in the middle of the rush of spring life, after the endless winter, there is brain death, instant and final? Brother, where art thou? And where for, and therefor, gone forever?

That's all you can say about it, really. At this time. One must think for a while before one says anything else. It takes time to process sudden death, to decide , yes, you are a survivor through all this, that your life, at least, goes on, despite the odds against snow flakes, and flower petals, and insects struggling free from long-buried cocoons. And you can't believe this simple fact because when you get to be your age you are looking over your shoulder at the shadows that seem to be following you as stealthily and certainly as one season stalks the one before it.

So, you enjoy the smell of the new-mown grass and the new flowers in their glorious and flagrant fertility, their spread-eagle eagerness, and the rising sap, and the insect larvae crawling from the new-warmed earth and slipping from their crusts and taking wing. It's okay to do that, to enjoy it all because you waited so long for it and who waits with such longing for death? Who sits at the window for dreary months on end watching for the merest glimmer of doom?

Goodbye, Chris Voit, my wife's loved and admired brother. You were a hard man, a challenging son, tough, a contrarian, oppositional, defiant, a loving father, a faithful husband, hardworking, skilled and smart.

Before the Master I Learn the Secrets of Traditional Navigation: The Sea, the Universe, and Humankind are One but the Universe Doesn't Care.

                                                                           ( Photos by Maria)

"There is a lurking fear that some things are 'not meant' to be known, that some inquiries are too dangerous for human beings to make."  Carl Sagan

Here I am last week on the island of Guam asking questions. That's me on the left. On the right is a man I admire very much. His name is Manny Sikau and he's a seventh generation master navigator from the tiny atoll of Puluwat. He can, and has, steered small, marvelous, fragile outrigger canoes across hundreds of miles of open ocean using only the stars, the waves, clouds, and sea life to navigate; no compass, no sextant, no radio, nothing but his bone-deep knowledge of the sea and its relationship with the rest of the universe.

I admire him because I've been out there with him on the open sea. And there are few experiences that can match the feeling it gives a sailor than to be on the ocean, at night, in a small boat, alone on watch with the utter loneliness of deep space arcing above you. Even in the tropics, the stars, the very things you are depending upon to guide you, seem cold and unfathonable because you know they are, in fact, profoundly uncaring.

And so the sailor inevitably gets the answer to this, the ultimate question: Does it matter to the stars if I continue to live or if the sea chooses to swallow me up and cause me to disappear? It quickly becomes obvious: No, it doesn't. The life of the sailor matters only to the sailor himself and to those who love him.After that, there are no other questions worth asking.

In this picture, though, I'm not asking Manny about such impractical, existential nonsense. Each of us has to find those answers for himself or herself. Don't bother the master with such things. Ask instead, which star path do I follow to get from, say, the nearly invisible atoll of Pikelot to tiny island of Saipan when there's a big sea running? Ask instead, what oceanic swell does one learn to feel as it passes under the hull of the canoe to steer this course? Inquire as to which of the sea birds will not spend the night at sea and can be relied upon to lead the navigator to land as the sun goes down.

I'm asking because I have before us the loose leaf-bound draft of my next novel, a book I'm calling, Brothers of the Fire Star, and I'm picking at the master's brain. I have too many questions, it seems, for one afternoon. I've finished writing the book--the story as been told, the characters have met their fates--but in this case, the details matter very much; I want to get them right and I  must have answers before I can truly be finished.

We sat in the dark shade of the sacred canoe house, among the hulls and spars of at least five equally sacred proas and as I probed, Manny smiled and answered in his soft voice: Yes, there is fresh water on those small islands, but one has to dig for it. Yes, the first thing an island sailor does upon landing on an atoll, is search for sea turtles on the beach. He then flips them over on their backs so they can't escape. Later he will eat them, cooking them in their shells over an open fire. Yes, there are maybe five ocean swells one must be able to understand simultaneously to be truly a good navigator, and some swells are nearly impossible to see or to feel yet one must feel them or die.

For men such as Manny Sikau, this knowledge was learned as a boy and he was steeped in it as a man; it is second nature. For me, a farm boy from Massachusetts, other things are second nature, but not this. I understand its significance but struggle to grasp the technique itself. Only more time at sea will reveal that to me and I don't have much time left.

Instead, I will write my books and remain awestruck by the courage and skills of these islanders. And that may be enough. I guess it will have to be enough.

What Happened to All the Great Russian Writers? What Have I Been Missing?

Any idiot can face a crisis - it's day to day living that wears you out.  Anto Chekov (1860-1904)

Ah, Dr. Chekov (he was a medical doctor), I'm sure you were well worn out by your patients, your writing, your tuberculosis. Tuberculosis? Yeah, it was the AIDS of his times, killing untold millions, and he contracted it early and died young. More about that later.

First though, now that I'm 64, I feel mature enough to deal with great writers and I'm finding Chekov to be accessible and--how to I say this?--Charming? No, but there is a fine touch of innocence to his writing. I doubt if The New Yorker would pay him for his art these days, modern readers having been steeped in such great vats of violence, deceit, and cynicism for so long, but his lessons are universal and were original for his day. According to my Google research, he was the first to pioneer what has become 'stream-of-consciousness' writing. He is famous for what has been called his lack of a dramatic instinct and his stories tend not to have the usual arc of rising to a dramatic climax and a denouement. Instead, he gives of poignant, slice-of-life portraits of Russian life in the 1880's and from these portraits emerge those universal truths written in a simple, straightforward prose. What is most fascinating is the view of Russian life as it was lived--fully human and affecting.

Now, as for the tuberculosis, I was intrigued by the number of great artists that died of tuberculosis, even in the 20th Century after the introduction of antibiotics. When I Googled it, expecting a short list,  I was supplied with pages of names. Chekov, Kafka, Modigliani, Washington Irving, John Keats, Samuel Johnson, Stephen Crane--the list goes on and on. Even Gone with the Wind star Vivien Leigh died of it in the 1960s. Tuberculosis was the AIDS of the time. Interesting.

Anyway, here are some Anton Chekov quotes. I love quotes. They're small wisdoms boiled down from the big ones. Bumper stickers you can believe in.

Man is what he believes.



Only entropy comes easy. (Oh, so true. Things will fall apart all by themselves if neglected long enough. Anyone who has owned a sailboat knows this.)


To advise is not to compel.


It's a long time since I drank champagne.


The more refined one is, the more unhappy.


Advertising is the very essence of democracy.


If you are afraid of loneliness, do not marry.


Knowledge is of no value unless you put it into practice.


When an actor has money he doesn't send letters, he sends telegrams.


People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy.


I'm off to Guam. I hope real spring is here when I get back.

A Snowy Spring Morning: A cold, damp, starving artist and cold, damp, starving birds

(Credit: Peter Schjeldahl in The New Yorker Magazine, March 7, 2011)

"Starving artist" is acceptable at age 20, suspect at age 40, and problematical at age 60. Robert Genn

It is through... Art and Art only that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence. Oscar Wilde

I'm an ambitious self-publicist out of necessity. I've never been one to miss an opportunity because I've never had any illusions about how hard it is to survive as a painter... It's been an extra driving force to be able to prove the sceptics wrong. Stuart Pearson Wright

This is one of those crucial moments: It's Sunday morning, it's snowing, the birds are ravenous, and I found just the thing to make this early spring experience memorable:  in a recent edition of The New Yorker is an article on the perfect starving artist: This guy had consumption, died after a brief, romantically dysfunctional life, and actually had a wonderful talent.

Modigliani! Ah, yes, you're the one we think of when we think of Paris, cold garrets with troubled plumbing, tuberculosis, much alcohol, many lovers, illegitimate children, and early death, but not before, finally, at the very last moment, being recognized as a great artist. In fact, when I was visiting the National Gallery of Art in D.C. last week, I found myself face-to-breast with this very same nude--let's call her the ur-woman--and was self-conscious of my desire to stare at it for longer than my wife would have thought appropriate. What would people think? Everyone else seemed to glance at it, avert their eyes, and move quickly on to something else lest they be thought lascivious--or worse. This is America, after all, land of a lingering, tragic, trickle-down Puritanism.

Never mind. Something about this era in the history of art resonates with me at some deeply satisfying level. So, stare I did, up close and personal. The wonderful thing is that, up close--very close--it not only does not lose its appeal, but it's attractions increase. The brush strokes look like they were made yesterday, the texture left by the artist's technique allow the viewer to imagine Modigliani just stepped back to allow you to take close peeks, first at the model, then at the painting, then the model, then the painting..... Maybe you'll go out and have a drink or ten drinks with him later and you can witness him throwing glasses around the cafe and having a public battle with the mistress who you just watched pose for him. Wouldn't that be a fine thing? But I don't know, I could always go to some city right now and find an artist who is starving and get drunk with him and watch him make a fool of himself and abuse his girlfriend. But it just wouldn't be the same unless someone had already paid a couple of million bucks for one of his paintings and written an article about him in The New Yorker.

 Is the foolish dog, barks at the flying bird. Bob Marley

As for the birds, I'm glad I'm in my toasty house and not in some cold, damp attic in Paris slowly drinking. whoring, and coughing myself to death. I might not appreciate them as much as I do. As it is, I'm drinking my coffee confident that this snow is an extremely temporary interruption in the inevitable arrival of real warm weather and the birds know this, too. As for specifics on the birds, we have juncos, brown-headed cowbirds, red winged blackbirds, grackles, robins, tufted titmouses, sparrows of some variety, and cardinals, all crowding around the feeders and where I spread the seed on the ground. I can't let them starve on this cold, dark, damp day. As Modigliani had his benefactors, I shall be theirs.

I Find Solace in Art and Sunshine, Kids and Comraderie

Here's my quote for the week from none other than President Lincoln. When you hang out in Washington, you are unavoidably steeped in the perennial--and perennially ignored--wisdoms of history. And when you are steeped in history it's hard to avoid that feeling that no matter how bad the world is, we have been here before.  In other words, we have all learned the lesson that we never learn the lesson. Pity Mr. Lincoln, pity Mr. Obama.

As Lincoln said, "We are now engaged in a great civil war....." and yesterday, Obama entered into one of his own, this one in Lybia. Any easy answers? When very smart people can't agree on what to do, what are we, the common people, to think? Is there really any wisdom in the "common wisdom"? Where would we all be now if the 16th President had simply said to the South in 1860, "See ya'll later. Good luck with your Confederacy" and thus saved 618,000 lives? But we engaged in that civil war for the lofty purpose of holding the Union together. We are engaged in this civil war to keep the oil flowing--oh, yes, and to save the common people of Lybia from genocide.

Never mind. I turned away yet again from the madness and found some solace in a peaceful place: the sculpture garden at the National Art Gallery. It was a beautiful day, weather wise, and I found a seat in the sun on a bench and watched troops of middle schoolers out on their spring field trips pass by. I chatted up a couple of middle-aged guys (one in German, which was fun and nice see that I can still speak that language as badly as I used to). The other said he worked in one of those big marble buildings next to the garden and why not come out and get some sun and bring his work with him? He took my picture and I took his. The combined innocence of art, warm sunlight, a cool breeze, easy comraderie, and the chatter of the young people, had the sought after magical effect: I was able to become mindful and this allowed me to stick my head in the sand and pretend everything is okay. And maybe it is.

The writer being mindful in the National Gallery of Art sculpture garden on a spring day. Just like in high school sports, I'm still riding the bench, but now it feels very nice. Or maby I'm part of the exhibit--Title: Man Being Mindful in the Sun

In Washington This Week: I seek refuge from world events in waxy celebrities.

Bill Clinton Waxes Strong in Spirit at Madame Tussaud's

My week in Washington is going something like this: trying to integrate what greets me every morning on the news. You know, the on-going horror in Japan, and the unspeakable cruelty in Lybia, and a stupid presidential candidate wanna-be who thinks the Battle of Lexington, one of the most important events in American history, was fought in New Hampshire.

I'm struggling to mix all that in with my take on what a generally fine world we live in and how pleased I am with things and come to grips with the rotten luck of some of my fellow sentient Earthlings.

What to do? Yesterday, as I was making my meandering way along the busy sidewalks and through the statued parks and squares down to Union Station (seventy pounds of 22-carat gold leaf in the ceiling!), I happened by Madame Tussaud's wax works. I stopped by expecting the worst and the worst would be people who looked like they were made out of wax. Like Bill Clinton. They got him about right, though, but not Hillary. They nailed Jimmy Carter--perfect,

 but made a hash of Lincoln, thus:

 They had Brittany Spears hanging upside down with her breasts heaving (Really, they pump air into them. Oops, I got her all turned around. But, she's got her hang ups as we all know).

 and they put Opra on a diet, removing at least 100 pounds of the famous flab, so:

Johnny Depp, well, he was okay, and he did catch me off guard with his eyes. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, spun around, and just for an instant thought he was--well, not made of wax.

Nearby to Mr. Depp was Madonna, sprawled on a couch. Wait, is that Madonna or just some woman who doesn't really look very much like Madonna?

And maybe, even if you were drunk enough, would you think this looks like Bob Dylan? Really? What about the hair?



The eeriest of all, though, were the old presidents, the ones we never saw on television and didn't know what to expect. Like this one here--but I can't remember who it was now--oh, yeah, James Buchanan, I think. He spooked me, though. The eyes again, I guess.

But I did get to chat up Barack and Michelle. Boy, are they tall. An impressive couple.

As Spring Struggles to Get In the Door, the Writer Comtemplates the Wisdom of Mindfulness

Mindfulness is the cultivation of open-hearted awareness of one's present-moment experience.The practice of mindfulness is beneficial for people experiencing anxiety, depression, chronic pain, and physical symptoms related to stress or disease. Through mindfulness we can see clearly, accept, and gain freedom from the suffering brought on by our automatic thoughts and assumptions. We can experience the joy of being fully present in our lives, learn from difficult times, and be open to compassion for ourselves and others. Vickie Fine

Yes, yes, yes, I'm a skeptic. In fact, let me write that with a capital S--Skeptic. But there is this thing I have about Buddhism. After spending a lifetime scouring the world for religions that make sense, and finding none, another look at this ancient philosophy reveals some common ground--some, just some.

While Buddhism does not embrace the irrational beliefs of other religions (holy ghosts, devils, spirits, etc.) Buddhism does include the notion of reincarnation. There is no rational evidence to believe in ghosts or spirits or reincarnation either, period, and I challenge you to provide it. And the other unfortunate irrationality that Buddhism shares with other religions is their negative take on sex.

Yesterday, I was listening to an NPR radio program on which a woman, who had spent years traveling the world's exotic places studying Zen Buddhism, described her adventures. She said that while spending a year meditating, she was instructed to forgo the following: stealing, cheating, lying, and sex. Seems to me it's counterproductive to vilify the reason we are all here, but most religions seem to do it.

Back to the point at hand: Where Buddhism gets it right--really right--is with the theory and practice of mindfulness. No spirit-ghost-afterlife mumbo jumbo here. No worshiping of some fearful, vengeful god, no praying for forgiveness for sins (lying, cheating, stealing, and sex, mostly). No, mindfulness is something real you can wrap your brain around.

There are lots of books out on this topic, all offering relief from your particular neurosis via mindfulness, but the wonderful thing about mindfulness is you don't have to be a bull goose looney or a Woody Allen-type neurotic to benefit from it. Even the emotionally fit among us will experience a pleasant rush of relief in taking your mind off autopilot for a while and focusing on your awareness of your awareness of your awareness--of the moment, that is. Your breathing, the feelings in your body, the sounds around you, your heart beating, your....It's a huge relief, in any event, to slow down and become, if only briefly, a part of your own life, a life that is screaming by at warp speed and will be over way to soon

                                                                          Move slowly, smile, breath.