Today is St. Patrick's Day--Mr. O'Bama Sure Could Use That Pot of Gold

I'm writing this whilst sitting in my favorite over-stuffed reclining chair, in front if my favorite 47" HighDef TV. I woke up on this very wet, very late-winter day and realized I was STILL RETIRED. Imagine. No reason to get up, none at all. The fat tiger cat, Ms. Puss, even curled up next to me, expecting the best--a long sleep in with the 'ole man.

Then I remembered Terry is off to Atlanta this morning and I needed to see her off and haul her luggage out to the car (in the rain, in my pajamas--the least I could do). And I also remembered it was St. Patrick's Day. The fountain at the White House was to be turned green and there it was, on Morning Joe--bubbling green. I missed seeing it by three days when I was in D.C. I was wandering around that city last week and took this photo of O'Bama's new house (any mortgage worries? Whadyya think?) but the bubbles were pure white. Had I known, I might have hung around a bit longer (Actually no, the hotel is way to expensive). It turns out that Mr. O'Bama's great-great-great grandfather was, truly, Irish. Everyone on Morning Joe seemed pleased by this revelation. I plan on bellying up to the nearest Irish pub myself this P.M. and lifting a pint (of Guinness) for my favorite Irishman. In any event, here's a green-tinged poster of The Man himself. I took the picture in D.C. just after I took the disappointing none-green-water one of the White House.

Meanwhile, the political games in D.C. continue undaunted by the Irish sending a real leprechaun to meet with our Prez. There he was standing chubby and oh, so green, next to O'Bama, and speaking with a perfect leprechaun's brogue and thanking the U.S. for always standing by when the Emerald Isle needed us. You're indeed welcome. Now, how about doing something for us? A trillion dollars ought to do it. Or maybe you can arrange for us to find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Third Morning In D.C.: What, if anything, have I learned?

Still life by Douglas Arvidson

Still Life by Giorgio Morandi

I ask you, seriously, who would you rather be pals with, me or Giorgio? Read on, below:

Yesterday was a way cool day namely because I ordered a pot of de-caf and they gave me high-test. Sitting here on this bed, I found I was as jittery as a pet squirrel---bop, be-bop, be-bop, be-bop. You just can't write a novel feeling that way.

I looked out the window. Not a bad day--some sun, people walking on the sidewalk way below looked comfortable enough in light jackets. So, I showered, put on some spiffy, walk-around clothes including a new, black-leather jacket that was a throw-away gift from a woman friend. I was feeling good--and when you feel good, you increase your chances of being good.

The last two times I was in D.C. I took the Metro to the Mall every day and toured the museums and memorials. This time I laid my plans closer to home: The DuPont Circle area. Good choice. First stop, The Phillips Collection. A retrospective of Giorgio Morandi is ongoing. Famous for his still lifes. I followed a small tour and listened to the guide with great interest.

Morandi lived all his life (1890 to 1964) in Bologna, Italy. Spent his days in the same house as his mother and sisters--never married, focused efforts entirely on painting colorless bottles lined up in tight rows. This is the kind of guy I spent 32 years working with in special education. I opined to the group that Morandi may have been a person with some issues. But then, what artist doesn't have issues. The guide did not appear to appreciate this and came to his defense. I also took a stab at identifying a round, ball-like mystery object seen in many of his paintings: I think its a gelatin mold and expressed this belief to the others in the group. The guide seemed surprised with this observation but did not openly disagree. At least she smiled at me and nodded enthusiastically.

Later, walking the streets, I began seeing Morandi-type stuff all over the place--champagne bottles lined up in a liquor store, newspaper boxes lined up on the sidewalk, etc. etc. Art imitating life, life imitating art? Poor fragile Morandi; imagine spending 76 years painting the same things over and over again and living with your mother, to boot? One hopes he drank what was in the bottles first.

Then, back to the hotel and back to noodling around with this blog and downloading pictures. I found a nice Indian restaurant just off of DuPont Circle and we'll try it out tonight. Maybe we'll order a Morandi still life of champagne bottles and toast the artist.

Caught Between Two Worlds: Writing About Paradise in the Murder Capitol of the U.S.

This is one of the street signs I encountered today in our Nation's capitol. One never knows what to expect in exotic places. I was an innocent in the lion's den, an aged angel in a den of iniquity, 62-year-old man-child alone in hard-scrabble world of inner-city Washington D.C. How does one cope? How is the day lived, hour to hour?

Up at the crack of 8:00. Lay about a bit. 9:00--shower. Lay about a bit more. No need to rush into things. Breakfast. Back to the hotel room. Get this laptop set up, lay back on the bed, laptop on top of lap. Check email. Check Facebook. Check Twitter. Try to figure what Twitter is all about. This is important, cutting-edge stuff: What are you doing now?

Open file: The Spirit of the Voyage, my next novel. 104 pages of first draft done. Re-read the last few pages to remind myself of where I am. Write a few sentences. They're okay, but need to think about where I'm going with this. The boys are sailing on the Pacific Ocean in an outrigger canoe. What would that be like? I've spent many hours/days sailing the Pacific, so I have a good idea what they see, but they're kids.....

....time to lie back and do what John Updike said was the heart and soul of writing: daydreaming. I do this. Daydreaming is something I've always done well but now I can do it legally. I set the laptop on the bed next to me, lay back on the pillows and close my eyes. I picture the boys on the canoe surrounded by blue, blue ocean--endless blue ocean. I imagine the passage of time the way time passes when you're at sea, nights and days blending together until you don't know how many hours or even days have passed.

Then, there it is, land--or what you hope is land. A low, gray smudge on the horizon. Then the smudge becomes the tops of coconut trees and everyone in the canoe is happy. Hours later you sail through the narrow passage into the lagoon and are greeted by excited men and boys in canoes. You've made it. But where are you and what happens next?

12:30--I'm done daydreaming. I close up the laptop, put my shoes on, and go out onto the mean streets toting my Nikon. I'll take some pictures. I'll switch from the story of the islands to the story of the city. Later when Terry is done with her meetings, we'll go out for drinks and dinner to a nice Mediterranean restaurant and we'll talk about all the places we've traveled and sailed to over the past 29 years. We'll also talk about where we want to go next because we're not anywhere near done with this very fine adventure. Then I will come home and put my laptop on my lap and write these words. When I'm done with this, it will be enough for the day.

Today: GOP Held Hostage, Medical Tests are Cool, Spring is Coming On Hard

Can you put the puzzle together to compile an image of Barack's best friend? Best friend, you ask? Well, sure. Say, a Democrat President would like to hold the opposition party hostage and essentially eviscerate it as a viable force, who better to do it than this guy. He gets richer and richer while GOP stalwarts grovel on their knees begging forgiveness for daring to question his way- outta-line, over-the-top extremist "leadership." It's been a wonderful circus to watch. I've loved it, this guy is having a ball, and Mr. Obama cannot be displeased.

Speaking of wonderful, I've been undergoing medical tests and I'm awed by the technical wizardry that medical specialists have at their disposal. Last week they examined my eyes--inside my eyes, sideways--taking pictures of my poor detached retina. The result was a cross section view that showed the fluid that had leaked in and pushed the retina away from the eye wall. No wonder I don't see well out of that eye. It's called Central Serous Chorioretinopathy--or something like that. They said it should eventually clear up by itself. Meanwhile, I got a big, blurry, brown smear across the field of vision of my right eye.

And as if a detached retina was not enough, today I went and had a CT scan of my abdomen. They had me drink a chalky-milkshake concoction, wait a half an hour, and then lie down on a movable table. While they pumped an iodine dye into my blood ("It will make you feel warm, Mr. Arvidson." It did--a nice rush.) the table moved me back and forth through a big doughnut-shaped contraption that had things rushing around inside it, around my body. It's supposed to take vertical, slice-by-slice X-rays of my innards and let us know what's been making my life so uncomfortable and kept me housebound for the past couple of months. I hope that clears up by itself, too. Soon. Now.

Last: This is Virginia, after all, and it's now March. What's with the cold weather? Been in the low 20's with snow this week. The robins and daffodils camped in my yard are questioning all the blather about global warming. But we're promised relief soon--in the next 24 hours, apparently, spring will spring.

In Like a Lion, Vertigio, Home Alone, An Eye for An Eye

Help. I'm falling. Or the snow is. Or it's supposed to. Big storm coming up the East Coast. Even Alabama and Atlanta are involved. Can the Eastern Shore expect any less? Talk about vertigo. The storm is spinning and spinning. Boston in for 15 inches. I loved that city. Once, when I was a college boy. But, it's too cold, too much snow, and way too expensive.

I'm home alone for a week writing, walking, reading and watching tv. I watched Vertigo and now, Analyse This--you know, the one with Billy Crystal and DeNiro, and I feel like writing like a mobster. Like all the pretty women in Long Island talk. The prettiest, most innocent prom queen sounds like a mobster up there. As for the Vertigo angle, it was a good movie--except did Mr. Stewart, pictured above, really just suspect the Kim Novak was not Kim Novak after Kim Novak got murdered? And did Kim Novak really think Mr. Steward didn't recognize her because her hair was a different color? And, did they fall desperately in love with each other in one day? Just wondering.

Last Friday night, for some reason, my right eye went bad on me. It's called Central Serous Chorioretinopathy. Fluid leaks in under the retina, detaches it, and leaves a big brown spot in the middle of your field of vision. Left eye is fine, but it's strange trying to read this way. The docs said it maybe caused by stress. Terry told them I was retired, that I lie around all day, and asked them if I should maybe take more naps. I suggested that I take just longer naps. In any event, I call my left eye Mr. Liberal. It thinks it can see things as they really are. I call my right eye Mr. Hannity, who sees the world through a brown smear. Talk about vertigo. The poor Republicans. The best they can do is Rush Limbaugh? Things have spiraled out of control for the Grand Old (Pity) Party.

A Gray Day in Februrary

There's a reason February is the shortest month and today that reason is fully evident. But those complaints about this most miserable 28/29 days of the year have been filed before so I won't go there. Pour yourself a cuppa strong stuff and get on with it.

Of more interest are the headlines. Among the usual world-wide horrors, I see that Paris Hilton has been rewarded for her no-talent efforts to reach movie stardom. She's been given a Razzie. Poor thing. I wonder how she reacts to such public drubbings of her efforts to be something other than a rich and pretty party girl. How long can one survive the 'unbearable lightness of being?' Even the likes of Paris want to be taken seriously. It killed Marlyin Monroe and she had talent. And if the Razzies have been issued, the real Show--the Academy Awards must be close at hand. Tout ce qui brille, n' est pas or--all that glitters is not gold.

Mr. Obama has been very busy getting his administration off to a rousing start and the American public seems to approve. Those poor cranky Republicans are honking and squeaking and snarling and gnashing their collective teeth. Talk about public drubbings. I heard an interesting observation the other day--Nixon was a moderate compared to the GOP folks that are out there squealing their tires now. Imagine. Where will this polarization of America take us? I suspect that the wisdom of the great middle of us--the vast population of moderates that is the real America and who voted the GOP off the island, will ultimately keep us on more-or-less a steady course (but didn't they vote in "W" twice?).

I'm 97 pages into the next book and have had some very fine luck with it this week. There's nothing quite like it when it flows.

By the way, the picture above is of a sign on the door of a restaurant in Kamakura, Japan. It would make a good title for a short story or a collection of short stories.

Love Letters From the War: Our Parents Teach Us What Is Really Important

Left to right: Me, Dad, my brother John, Mom


We found the letters in a shoe box, where all old letters should be found. They were on a shelf way under a cabinet in the living room, behind a lot of other stuff. Lucky for us. I'm pretty sure Dad would have burned them had he found them first.

They are love letters, every one of them, pure and simple. They range from passionate to playful, gentle to newsy, anguishing to soothing. They tell the story of an entire generation. Soon after their marriage in 1943, Dad had left for war, serving in the Navy on a destroyer in the North Atlantic. He left behind a young wife pregnant with their first child.

In one letter, my father writes, "I want to love you passionately for the rest of my life." He was true to his intentions. Each was the other's first and only love. Here they are in the picture above, taken last week at the nursing home in Massachusetts where they now live--still together. Dad will be 90 in July, Mom 88 in April. It's seldom easy to put your parents into a nursing home even if its absolutely necessary. The only way they went willingly was with the promise that they could still share the same bed. We got permission from the nursing home administrators to drop the side rails and push their beds together. They spend their days together, holding hands and reading, watching TV, and looking out over the New England countryside. They spend their nights lying side by side as they have for the past sixty-six years.