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Churches Don't Smile

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October is always a mixed bag when it comes to the weather.  Starts out cold and foreboding, then warms up with a week of Indian Summer, only to vacillate back and forth as the cold and warm fronts try to figure out what to do.  The sidewalks are covered in maple and linden leaves, the two most popular trees in Žverynas, but it is the oak leaves with their rounded edges that I like the most.

The dog has been anxious to go for walks.  The cat follows us part way along Lenktoji St, before ducking into a yard, only to pop back out when we return and follow us home.  She wanted to finish her breakfast.  The dog much calmer now, giving me a few moments of relief as I work at home today.

I've decided to limit my time at the office to three days per week, which is what I'm paid for anyway.  The mood hasn't been good ever since the failed movie night a few weeks ago.  My wife still insists on going to the office everyday, despite similarly being paid part time.  Work picked up.  We now have a handful of projects to keep us busy through the winter.

Too bad as I was hoping to write more.  I have this book idea swirling around in my head and I want to get it down on the screen.  I've made a start of it, but can't get past the first few pages.  I tell myself to make it episodic and write random scenes and tie them together later.  Easier than establishing a narrative.  I was reading that Isaac Asimov started out that way with his massive Foundation series, not that I have such great aspirations.  I just want a playful story of my first months in Vilnius when Daina and I enjoyed frolicking in bed in the afternoon on cold October days.

I had a fourth-floor flat on Čiurlionio St. that felt like an ice box as a new roof was being put overhead.  Just a thin layer of concrete separated my flat from the open attic.  What little heat that trickled out of the radiators was barely enough to warm my hands.  Daina would make excuses to leave work.  The only way to get any warmth was to strip down to our underwear and curl up in bed.  Soon the boxer shorts and panties came off too.  Those were golden moments.

I was working at home then too, but only because I wasn't an official resident in Vilnius.  We had picked up a couple interior design projects on the side.  After we were married I got a residential visa.  We had been traveling in and out of the country, so each time I returned I got another three months of  undocumented residence.  Eventually, it caught up to me and I faced deportation, but her father stepped in and sorted things out.  I paid a 500 lita fine, applied for my residence visa and have been gainfully employed ever since. After 24 years, you might call me a permanent resident, but I haven't applied for a permanent residential visa as it requires a broad knowledge of the language and constitution.  I might as well apply for citizenship at that point.

There's no longer a cumbersome Soviet era drafting board.  I do my work on computer.  I kind of miss drafting.  I still have all my old drafting tools and a smaller drafting board, which I use whenever I'm making models.  The projects have piled up, literally.  I have shelves of old models and Daina keeps all the records of these past projects in file boxes on metal shelves.  Our personal archive.  Each box tells its own separate story, which I too would like to get down in words.

Anyway, I'm fumbling around with the early Vilnius days, which I had recorded in little journals, along with photographs and clippings.  My favorite image is of Daina's daughter jumping up in front of my camera as I took a picture of the Bernadine monastery, telling me "churches don't smile."  She was only 9 years old at the time.  Our daughter didn't come along until a few years later.  Hard to believe she is in London now, studying to be a graphic designer.  Maybe she will illustrate my book?

It's hard to sort out all the images and piece them together into a narrative that will captivate a reader.  I've thought about fictionalizing it, giving it an air of the Talented Mr. Ripley.  At times I feel I'm no more than a huckster myself, although I haven't resorted to such mischievous deeds as did Ripley but nonetheless have my own illicit thoughts.

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