Brain fog

I sit at my desk and write this in the waning hours of February 2022.  What am I writing about, and why?  To be honest, I'm writing because I've posted only five essays this month.  This travesty will be my sixth.

I wrote six essays last month, too.  I suppose February's short 28-day length would excuse me for writing fewer this month.  Right?  

Of course not!  Eleven essays, total, for January and February combined?  I posted eleven essays in January alone last year.

What's wrong with me?  I bragged last March that I had posted 148 essays during calendar year 2020.  That was, for me, by far a new record -- but then each year beginning with 2018 had set a new all-time record.

I won't be bragging about new records for 2021.

Yes, I realize that quality counts for far more than quantity.  But quality's a different, more subjective issue.  Quantity is mathematics, easily examined statistics.  And the statistics indicate that while the first three months of 2021 were up there in numbers -- eleven or twelve per month -- not one month after March 2021 has totaled more than nine posts -- and every month since July has come in at fewer than eight.

What's happened?  I can't give you a clear reason, let alone a justification.  Subjectively, I feel that not much interesting happened in 2021, or, for that matter, in the first two months of 2022.  But that's no excuse.  My talent, such as it is, has been to take uninteresting events and find reasons to make them interesting.  Of if not interesting, at least funny.  Interesting or funny, at least to me, which -- God knows -- is all I need as a reason for writing.

Maybe I suffer from mild depression?  Possibly.  But I still bounce out of bed in the morning; I still find daily ways to keep myself amused.  

Maybe the pandemic?  That has some plausibility.  The two years of the pandemic have kept me cooped up at home, although in 2021 it hasn't prevented me from traveling on occasion.  Being cooped has limited the number of things available to write about, and by the end of 2020, those topics may have been exhausted.  How many times can I write about long walks around my neighborhood?  Or the quality and/or quantity of Seattle rainfall? 

Of course the relationship to the pandemic that I don't care to consider is "brain fog."  Maybe, after being immunized, I unknowingly contracted a case of Covid, one that was asymptomatic, or accompanied by very minor symptoms -- but a case that eventually resulted in an inability to think critically, focus attention, be imaginative?  Brain fog?  No, let's not go there.

Let's just call it idiopathic writer's block.  That's a safe diagnosis, one that has a certain distinction by its association with many great writers.  A symptom that comes, but then -- usually -- goes.

Also, I should note that I lost a childhood friend in September -- a guy who himself was a professional writer and a retired newspaper editor.  He was one of the few known regular readers of this blog.  He generally emailed me some clever remarks about each essay as it was posted.  He rarely met the intended point I was trying to make in my essay, but instead remarked at great length and with savage humor on his reaction to some obscure reference contained in the essay -- often something that reminded him of some weird event in our mutual childhoods.

I never wrote consciously for his sole amusement -- who knew at what, in any given post, he would find reason to be amused?  But I suspect that my awareness that he would be reading each post with critical eye and bizarre sense of humor prompted more posts from me than might otherwise have come forth.

But maybe not.  I'm not sure his death had any real effect on my ability to find blog-worthy subjects.  But he would be the first to tell me, with a twinkle in his eye, "Yes, but isn't it pretty to think so."

War in Ukraine

Unless you're a fervent nationalist, most international disputes require careful, scholarly analysis.  An empathy for both sides.  A study of the pros and cons of war, from both nations' point of view.

The Ukraine War is different.  This is a war that was unprovoked -- not a retaliation against hostile acts by the other side.  It's an attack on a neighboring sovereign neighbor -- not a hotheaded response on the spur of the moment, but a war for which Russia has prepared for weeks, in plain view of the world.  "Premeditated," as we say in criminal law.

A war by a superpower against a small nation.  Unpleasant words come to mind.  "Thug."  "Bully."  

Unpleasant  historical analogies must also be recalled.  Mussolini's attack on primitive Abyssinia.  Germany's attack on Poland.  Wars fought not to right wrongs, from the viewpoint of the attacker, but simply to add some more square miles and human population to a would-be empire.  

After the Soviet Union ended in 1991, Russia had thirty years to develop a more democratic union, as it at first seemed anxious to do.  Russia had thirty years -- and enormous natural resources -- with which to develop a thriving economy, an economy that would give a good life, a decent living, not to just a privileged few, but to the entire Russian population.  

Russia frittered it all away.  It became increasingly autocratic.  We understand autocratic, since Trump is a pale avatar of Mr. Putin.  Russia developed large corporations, devoted largely to extraction and sale of the country's oil and minerals, and to very little else, corporations owned and managed by a small oligarchy, an oligarchy that loved Putin for what he was doing for them.

Russia's people asked for more.  They deserved more.  Russians are not, by nature and by historical experience, an impatient or demonstrative or disruptive people.  But they are an intelligent and well-educated people and -- surely -- were aware that their government did not have their interests at heart.  They watched as the Chinese, towards whom their government had long been condescending, rapidly outpaced them, leaving Russia as almost a client state of China. 

When you can't give your people what they want and deserve, change the subject by starting a war.  That's part of the explanation for Russia's actions this month.  Another explanation is extreme nationalism.  Patriotism may be the last refuge of scoundrels, as Samuel Johnson wrote, but Putin -- to give him his due, for what it's worth --  seems legitimately obsessed with nationalistic fervor, for the Glory of the Fatherland.  Many of our own people share this obsession, viewing national bodies as though they were individuals who were susceptible to insult and hurt feelings by other nations. I'm reminded of the line by a German boy in the trenches in All Quiet on the Western Front:

A mountain in Germany cannot offend a mountain in France. Or a river, or a wood, or a field of wheat.

But Putin sees disrespect and insult from other nations as the equivalent to disrespect and insult to himself.

And, in anger, he threatens the world with the devastation of nuclear weapons.

I have no solution to this war.  No one does.  No one can end it but the man who has caused it, all by himself.  And he apparently is now entranced by war.  He seems not at all interested in "solutions" short of conquest.

The losers won't be merely the Ukrainian people.  Russians also will lose, as many of Russia's citizens have already acknowledged.  But it is the soldiers, of course, who have the most to lose.  As the German soldier in Remarque's novel noted:

While they continued to write and talk, we saw the wounded and dying. While they taught that duty to one’s country is the greatest thing, we already knew that death-throes are stronger.

All Quiet on the Western Front was published in 1929-30 and, together with the film based on it, was an international sensation.  Young men from many countries, including Germany, vowed they would never fight another war like World War I.  

Ten years later, Germany invaded Poland.  I'm not optimistic that reason and sense of shared humanity will overcome the fervor of Russian nationalism.  

Poor kitty

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, ... it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

--Charles Dickens

Tuesday was one of those days.  Throughout last week's train trip, I had an itchy nose and sneezing fits that made me wonder if the Omicron variant had sneaked up on me.  Those symptoms had subsided by the time I got home, but on Saturday and Sunday I found myself sleeping ten hours at night, napping during the day, and feeling generally exhausted.  In normal times?  Hey, I'd say, coming down with a cold, or maybe just not enough sleep while traveling.

But these aren't normal times.

So I trotted off to the University campus for a free Seattle/UW PCR test on Monday.  Tuesday morning, the result came back: NEGATIVE!

But by the time I discovered that I had no Covid-19 worries, I was beset with new worries.  My feline companion Castor, after spending half the night on my bed (in itself unusual -- it's usually his brother), was discovered downstairs at 3 a.m., curled up in his kitty litter box.  Hours later, when I got up, he was still there -- awake, conscious, but not chipper.  

I mulled over how serious this might or might not be, seeking wisdom and knowledge from the Internet.  But then I discovered him trying mightily, to no avail, to urinate in his litter.  That did it.  I'd had a cat years ago -- Theseus by name -- who didn't sleep in his litter, but who strained mightily to pee in the bathtub drain.  It was serious, and resulted in surgery to remove the constricting portion of his urethra. 

I called my vet.  They were booked solid and couldn't see him.  They did send me a list of Urgent Care veterinarians who might have openings.  The first one I called was not too far from my house, and they suggested I bring him in for evaluation.

I did so.  Yup, he had a blocked urinary tract.  Contrary to my former veterinarian's response to Theseus, they didn't like to try surgery as a first resort.  They recommended that he be immediately catheterized, allowing the blocking crystals to escape, and that we then discuss possible changes in his diet.

And so we did.  I nearly required medical care myself when given an estimate for the treatment.  I joked that I'd have to talk to my banker about a second mortgage.  I once more find that receptionists don't always have lively senses of humor.

So that was Tuesday morning.  It's now Thursday, and I've been receiving semi-daily updates on his condition.  Which is improving rapidly, alleviating concern about long-term damage to the poor guy's kidneys.  They intended to remove the catheter about an hour ago, and test his blood to determine his kidney function.  If all seems normal, they will then call me at about dinner time about picking him up.  

His brother Pollux, at first very casual about Castor's absence -- Castor does wander off for hours or more at at time -- has been showing signs of stress this morning.  "What did you do with him?" I read in his eyes, accusingly.  "Patience, grasshopper," I advise him.  "All will soon become clear."

If all goes as expected, by bedtime tonight I'll be able to consider today yet another "best of times."  Even though both cats will be out the door, deserting me to make their nightly rounds.  And even though I'll be left financially devastated.  

Now I have to worry whether Brother Pollux will also have a genetic tendency to develop such an expensive malady.

Crossing the Rockies

One of the marvels of travel is the time dilation effect.   I left my home last Tuesday about 1 p.m., and returned Friday night around midnight.  Staying at home, those few days would have passed in the blink of an eye.  Returning, however, I was almost surprised that the seasons hadn't changed during my absence.  

I speak, of course, of my first-ever ride on the California Zephyr.  I flew to San Francisco on Tuesday, and stayed overnight at a hotel near the airport, a hotel selected largely because of its furnishing a free airport shuttle.  Up early Wednesday morning, back to the airport by shuttle, and caught a BART train from a station located inside the International Terminal.  For those keeping score, the fare was $9.65 plus another $3 for a rechargeable Clipper card (like Seattle's Orca) -- BART apparently doesn't sell individual paper tickets.

I got off downtown at the Montgomery Street station, and walked a couple of blocks to Amtrak's unimpressive bus stop, in front of a Chase Bank at 555 Mission Street.  I arrived over a half hour early, because of my extreme caution, and after having mentally gone over every detail in this series of moves to avoid any miscalculation.  Some folks would have simply taken a cab from the hotel, but they miss out on the sense of adventure.

The bus left promptly at 8 a.m., and carried me and fewer than ten other passengers across the Bay Bridge to the Amtrak station at Emeryville.  The day was beautiful, as was every day on the ensuing trip.  The view of San Francisco from the bridge was fit for a travel poster, glittering in the morning sun.

The train that awaited me was not long -- three sleeper cars, two coaches, a dining car and a lounge/café.  The diner -- as we were often reminded in the days to come -- was exclusively for sleeping car passengers.  The café provided take-out food and drinks for both classes.

I had a roomette, the same accommodation I've had on the Coast Starlight and the Empire Builder.  All of Amtrak's sleepers west of Chicago are identical in design.  I sleep very comfortably in roomettes, and always enjoy the experience.

The train left promptly at 9:10 a.m., with surprisingly few passengers.  We picked up considerably more, however, at various California stations, especially Sacramento.  Shortly past Sacramento, we began crossing the Sierras.  I had been looking forward to the views of the Rockies in Colorado, but had overlooked how impressive the Sierras might be from the train.  It began getting dark not long after leaving Reno, and was light again by the time we reached Helper, Utah.  

Amtrak's meal service has improved considerably, as I discovered at Christmas heading to Southern California.  The dinners especially -- the menu offers a choice of four Appetizers, four Main Courses, and three desserts.  Choice of drinks includes complimentary wine, beer, or limited mixed drinks.  The food is apparently cooked in the kitchen, below the dining area.  I ordered steak the second night, medium rare, and it was cooked to perfection.

Amtrak has abandoned its temporary pandemic practice of not mixing groups at tables.  But because of a rather small number of passengers on this run, I found myself with only one other person each meal.  Everyone I talked to at these meals expressed displeasure with the plans of the former Amtrak CEO to eliminate diners, and serve sleeper passengers only in their rooms.  We all agreed that the people you meet at meals is one of the more memorable parts of the trip.  Nevertheless, I have to admit that a surprisingly large number of sleeper passengers on this trip opted for room service, rather than come to the diner.  

Thursday was devoted to crossing Colorado, and climbing over the Rockies.  I got some spectacular photos, even though they were taken from a moving train with an older model iPhone.  We had a half hour stop in Denver, where I walked around the impressive station, a station that was hosting some sort of black tie reception while we were there.  (No, we weren't invited.)

I can't tell you much about Nebraska.  I woke up very briefly in Lincoln, and totally slept through a longer stop in Omaha.  By the time it was light, we had passed into Iowa.  As I wrote on Facebook, Iowa reminded me of parts of Western Washington -- the farm areas, not forests -- except for the fact that every pond, lake, stream, or river was solidly frozen over.  An impressively strange sight for a West Coast guy.

Finally, we streaked across northern Illinois, arriving in Chicago at 2:07 p.m. -- 43 minutes ahead of schedule.  Don't believe the claim that Amtrak is always late.

My flight home didn't leave O'Hare until 8:35 p.m., so I checked my bags -- free of charge to sleeper passengers -- and walked out into the Big City.  It was 25 degrees out, accentuated by a strong, chilling, Chicago wind.  I first walked a couple of blocks south to the nearest CTA station, at Clinton, to make sure I knew where to go when the time came.  I then walked across the Chicago River and down Adams Street --  a straight shot from Union Station to Chicago's art museum, the Art Institute of Chicago.  I stopped for a snack and a bit of warmth on my way, but was quite cold by the time I reached the museum.  Admission was $25, and I decided I didn't have enough time or energy to make it worthwhile.  But no fee was required to wander around the museum gift shop, which was almost a mini-museum in itself.  Last time I was there, in 2008, I bought a souvenir t-shirt, one that I still wear.  This time, I just looked.

Back to Union Station, picked up my bags, and caught the CTA to O'Hare at Clinton station (fare just $3 -- N.B. BART!).  Chicago's rapid transit is far older, obviously, than Seattle's light rail, but very serviceable.  It was gratifying to watch ourselves shoot past the stalled rush hour traffic on parallel I-90.

Plane left and arrived on time, and the great California Zephyr adventure is history.  A fairly inexpensive adventure, although I did lose my Kindle somewhere along the way.  It needed replacing, anyway.

Will I ever do a similar trip on another long-distance Amtrak route?  Need you even ask?
------------------------------
Photo -- Rocky Mountains from train window.

Walking the walk

So there I was.  Out on a beautiful mid-February day.  Plants were sprouting, a few flowers were blooming, the smell of an early Spring was in the air.  And I was happy, walking through Seattle's Madrona neighborhood, mid-way through a 5.5-mile walk.

And then a voice boomed out:

Voice: "Hey, another guy who walks just like me!"

I turned my head and saw a guy standing beside his house.  He looked like he was nearing ninety, his wrinkled face grinning at me like a demented jack-o'-lantern.

Me:  "Hahaha."

Voice:  "Well, at least we're both still alive!"

Me:  "Yup."

Well, that brilliant conversational exchange ruined my walk.  My day.  Why, you perhaps ask?  The guy was some kind of nut, right?

The problem was that I'd already been worried about my walk, worried as recently as the first few minutes of today's walk.  My feet, clad in hiking shoes, kept slapping the sidewalk, making loud, embarrassing noises as I walked along.  I'd noticed that more and more recently.

But it hadn't occurred to me that it made me look like an old man.  Old to the extent that my walk caused this guy, himself well into advanced codgerdom, to embrace me as a brother.

When I got home, I turned to the internet for advice.  Advice on how to avoid attracting attention as I pounded the pavement.  I found all kinds of articles describing why people tend to "walk old" as they advance in years.  Often, the blame was placed on pathological sources -- for example, the well-known "Parkinson's walk," where the fellow walks bent over with his arms held stiffly at his side.  More frequently, the blame falls on poor muscle tone in the legs and abdomen.

I suppose the muscle tone in my legs isn't what it was at age 25, but it can't be bad.  I walk briskly five or sometimes six miles every day, part of the time climbing up fairly steep hills.  But, setting aside conflicting advice as to the cause of  "walking old," one result is a tendency to take shorter and shorter strides, and to take them more slowly.  These shorter strides seem to make the feet come down more flatly on the sidewalk, rather than striking heel first and then pushing off from the toe.

After dark, away from the prying and astonished eyes of my neighbors, I decided to experiment with my stride.  I was immediately aware that my stride did indeed seem to have gradually become shorter, which may explain why I was no longer passing as many fellow pedestrians as I had in the past.  So I consciously lengthened my stride.  I noticed that my steps seemed smoother, and that I was avoiding that embarrassing slapping noise.  I walked a mile, using my longer stride.  I felt more comfortable, and -- almost automatically -- I found myself walking faster.

Obviously, it's a mistake to adopt too long a stride -- you'll look clownish and grotesque.  But I felt comfortable with the longer stride I tried tonight, and I plan to consciously use it over the next few days and see how I feel.  I hope I'll look (and sound) better.  And a longer stride may have the added benefit of giving my muscles more exercise per mile walked.

Sibelius and more

The featured work at last night's Seattle Symphony was the Sibelius Symphony No. 1.  A well-known concert standard, but I don't think I'd ever heard it before, at least in a live performance rather than as simply background music on the radio.  

The work was composed in 1899, and -- to my ears, at least -- felt like a bridge between the late Nineteenth Century romantic work of composers like Brahms, Mahler, and Bruckner, and the far less obviously structured pieces of the Twentieth.  The symphony begins, strikingly, with a haunting clarinet solo, and large stretches of the piece are highly melodic.  Other parts, while not atonal, impressed me as loud and dramatic, with rapidly changing dynamics.  Pointing toward later works like those of Stravinsky.

The concert began with a contemporary work -- the composer was present, and took a bow at the conclusion -- entitled, in all caps, "TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY."  The composition was inspired by the composer's emotions during the pandemic lockdown.  It was more melodic and less anarchic than you might expect.  But its fifteen minutes felt -- again, to me -- much longer.  As with the pandemic, one longed for the end.

Yeah, that's me.  I know what I like, and I like what I know.

The wildest applause came for perhaps the most familiar piece, Rachmaninov's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini," and for the pianist Garrick Ohlsson.  Rachmaninov always demands a lot from the pianist, and Ohlsson delivered.  After concluding the pyrotechnics of the Rachmaninov, he wooed his audience with a gentle encore, Chopin's "Nocturne in E flat."  

Intermission and the Sibelius symphony followed the Rachmaninov, but as I left Benaroya Hall and walked to the light rail station, it was the basic Paganini theme that kept running through my head, and that I had trouble not humming out loud.

Large enthusiastic audience.  Once again, I was surprised at the number of young people in attendance -- singles, couples, and larger groups of high school and college aged attendees.  Also, a surprising number of younger children -- middle school and younger, accompanied by their parents.  An encouraging sign in the Seattle world of 2022.