A Journal of the Plague Year . . . Week 5

Notes from a thoughtful self-isolator in Week 5 of our new reality. . . . 

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 8

9:34 a.m. — More tactics for maneuvering about your neighborhood in mask and gloves:

— Step out onto the street and go around parked cars, to avoid pedestrians and cyclists on the sidewalks. Try to anticipate the need by keeping an eye open and making your move a block or more in advance, assuming the vehicle traffic will allow it.

— If someone is unloading a truck or moving slowly with a dog, cross to the opposite side of the street if possible, or head up an entry walk or driveway and stand aside to clear the route, if you can.

— Hold your breath in elevators, which often have poor air circulation. Inhale slowly but deeply as the car arrives and doors open, hold your breath once you’ve stepped inside, and if you can’t keep holding it, exhale slowly until the doors open and you can step out.

— If there’s no way to put sufficient distance between yourself and a cyclist or another pedestrian (which happened to me several times on Terwilliger Boulevard), do the hold-your-breath-in-the-elevator trick: breathe in deeply as they approach, hold as you pass, and exhale slowly so they’re at least 30 or 40 feet away the next time you breathe in.

I have no idea whether the above practices raise your chances of avoiding infection, but they encourage you to stay alert while out in public, trying to get your aerobic exercise.

7:17 p.m. — One of the great consolations of self-isolation has been the frequent visits by hummingbirds to the feeder on our balcony. The hummers have also enjoyed sipping from the blossoms of a rosemary plant in a pot at one corner below.

Today I caught more than a minute of video in which one bird chased the other away from the feeder, then followed it down to the fence wires around the balcony to make sure he maintained dominance and drove the other one away (though I’m sure the loser sneaked back to our feeder later!).
I tried to upload the video here to my blog, but it didn’t take. It’s a 123MB file, so the size may have been too much for this site. You’ll have to settle for these screen shots of the two squabbling at the feeder (the victor is still perched at lower left as the vanquished flies off at upper right), and then the victor flying off after having drunk his fill:

8:29 p.m. — For today’s long walk, I took a cue from my host at Rose City Book Pub, where I read “Story Time for Grownups” once a month last year. It’s the birthday of the owner, Elise Schumock.

I trekked across Tilikum Crossing bridge . . . north on Water Avenue and Second ’til I got past the Burnside Bridge . . . then worked my way diagonally northeast across Weidler, MLK Boulevard, and Broadway to continue north on Eighth.

Then it occurred to me that I’d be passing near Dick Lewis’s home (Dick and I were co-founders of the Bridgetown Morris Men back in 1992; that logo patch you see prominently displayed on the team’s web page was designed by my wife, Carole Barkley), so I phoned him from Eighth and Brazee to let him know I was coming, and he stepped out his door to sit in the porch swing while I chatted with him from his front yard.

After visiting with Elise and her two other guests, I headed home. It was a good 9 miles or so.

Selfie at Rose City Book Pub taken at about 3:45 p.m. today. This is the venue where I’ve done my live literature readings, “Story Time for Grownups,” every month for the past year.

Today I did an impromptu reading of the first few pages of Marilynne Robinson’s novel Home, which was the request of the owner, Elise Schumock, whom I visited on site to wish her a happy birthday. I also read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” to Elise and two of her friends at the pub because I felt like it, and the elegiac tone of T.S. Eliot’s century-old poem felt oddly appropriate.

THURSDAY, APRIL 9

9:56 a.m. — During yesterday’s nine-miler, I heard a train whistle blowing while I was on SE 12th at about Lincoln or Division. I glanced to the west and could see a slow-moving freight train headed the same direction as I was.

It was now after 5 p.m., I’d walked at least 7 miles already, and my legs were aching. I realized I might be held up at the place where I’d intended to cross the tracks at grade, and it would be a significant backtrack to find a bridge or viaduct that would take me over them.

At the rail crossing on SE 11th, the train was stopped dead. Automobiles lined up on the street were making three- and more-point turns to find another escape route. I paused at the crossing and watched another pedestrian climb over the rail cars to get to the other side.

As I was making up my mind to do the same, the cars rattled and lurched infinitesmally to the right, and I realized the train engines had reversed to close all the tiny gaps in the couplings and give themselves to start again in the other direction.

By the time I got up my nerve, the train had started to move forward and east, but at far less than walking speed, so I climbed the steps, strode across the train, and hopped down the other side. Once safely across, I turned back and took a photo of my escape route.

FRIDAY, APRIL 10

8:55 p.m. — Today’s long walk through Southeast Portland: north to Tilikum Crossing bridge, cross to the east side, south on Water Avenue and McLoughlin Boulevard to Sellwood, then across the New Sellwood Bridge to the west side again and north along the Willamette River.

Length was somewhere between 7 and 8 miles. I saw many beautiful and interesting sights within a mile of my home (at least as the crow flies) that none of us usually notice because we normally fly past them in a vehicle.

Everywhere I’ve walked in the city this week — southwest, northeast, southeast — it’s clearly tulip season. Here’s a patch in Sellwood, along SE Sellwood Boulevard overlooking Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge at about 9th Avenue, I saw this afternoon.

9:23 p.m. — Carole: “You’re gonna laugh at this, David; we’re getting another Amazon delivery on Sunday.”
Me: “Hope we’re home.”

SATURDAY, APRIL 11

9:27 a.m. — I listened to NPR’s “Morning Edition” 20 minutes. It was the first time I’d turned on the radio in months. Like cable TV, long before the pandemic hit, we’d simply gotten out of the habit . . . in favor of reading, checking news and entertainment online, walking the dog, and talking to each other and reading aloud over meals.

I recognized voices such as Scott Simon, of course, and the reporters were perky or at least matter-of-fact . . . but at the heart of most of the reports were the darker currents of our era: people with substance abuse issues are isolated, and more likely to be stressed . . . clinical trial studies that might have been the last hope for terminal patients with cancers and other deadly diseases have had to be dropped to keep clinics and hospitals available for anticipated covid-19 cases . . . shootings in Portland doubled in April . . . .

How will we count the rising death rates among:

— sufferers of (proximately) non-lethal medical conditions (e.g., hypertension, diabetes, COPD) who can’t get to treatment or are refused it

— substance abuse addicts who can’t take it anymore

— stranger-on-stranger shootings

— domestic violence (including more shootings with “protective” firearms in the home, no doubt)

— suicides by whatever variety of means

None of the above would qualify as an unmistakably direct result of the novel coronavirus . . . and yet aren’t they?

10:55 a.m. — Here’s another reminder of how little we really know . . . how inaccurate the daily stats (and the projections based on them) may be . . . and therefore how foolish are any predictions any of us (especially You-Know-Who in Washington) might make at this point:

A friend of Carole’s in Michigan — currently the third-worst state for identified cases of covid-19 and deaths; it zipped past California earlier this week — just reported that her son had gotten tested for coronavirus and had to wait 16 DAYS to get his results.

That he tested negative might mean the general picture there might be better than it appears . . . but the incredibly long delay could also mean it’s much worse, because health authorities have fallen way behind in tracking it.

SUNDAY, APRIL 12

9:01 a.m. — Part of the pleasure of walking everywhere is the surprise of looking at things you’ve always seen from the other direction . . . how different everything looks when you walk the wrong way on a one-way street for drivers. Try this downtown on Broadway, sometime: Look up at the buildings in the blocks ahead of you, instead of just the storefronts on your block.

This can be as startling as the things you see close up that you’ve missed when you were riding by at 20 to 40 miles per hour.

12:21 p.m. — Nicholas Kristof, Yamhill Carlton High School graduate, reports on the view from the front lines in two hospitals in the Bronx:

“The truth is that the doctors too are frightened and exhausted, overwhelmed by death and their own helplessness. Dr. Nicole Del Valle, 29, told me that what shattered her was treating a 30-year-old woman with Covid-19 whose 23-year-old sister had just died of it; Dr. Del Valle called her own younger sister and ordered her not to leave home.

“All day in the hospital, Dr. Del Valle maintains her reassuring manner as she intubates patients, holds their hands, fights for their lives — and then, she acknowledged, she goes home and cries….”

3:57 p.m. — An ongoing “plague” for many years has been faux certainty: ordinary citizens taking a stand on social media that says “This is what’s going to happen” as if they’re a featured guest on “Meet the Press” or any of an array of Sunday TV talk shows or Fox channel talking heads.

The past week it’s been “Trump is gonna be reelected, Biden can never win” . . . but I’ve seen hundreds of similar flat declarations based on little more than guesswork, far from complete information, as well as the speaker’s biases and guesswork.

People even think they’ve heard certainty — absolute and positive statements — when I’ve merely questioned theirs. Though my response has consisted of little more than “that ain’t necessarily so,” they fire back immediately as if I’ve taken the polar opposite stance from them. I’ve done nothing of the sort.
The coronavirus pandemic has loosed a flood of such behavior, of course — conspiracy theories and predictions galore.

A little more effort to identify more of the unknowns and variables, or a willingness to wait until them come in . . . just a clean, straight, “I don’t know; we’ll just have to wait and see” . . . would be so much more intellectually honest, but far too few individuals seem able to manage that.

9:32 p.m. — Drivers . . . why are you running red lights and rolling through stop signs? Unless you’re running a Covid-19 case to a ventilator, what could possibly have you in a hurry these days? Aren’t you getting to your usual destinations a lot sooner than you used to, given the current traffic?

Cyclists . . . There is so little vehicular traffic on most streets and roads now, why not get off the sidewalks and use the marked bicycle lanes? Why not stay on the streets? They’re probably safer now than they’ve ever been in your lifetimes, and probably will ever be again.

MONDAY, APRIL 13

3:57 p.m. — One of the endless series of ironies I’ve encountered during this strange era:

Here’s an ad for the theater company whose most recent production I was in — my first ever with them, and my first full stage show in seven years. Its performance run was cut short precisely halfway through its run by the collapse of society due to the pandemic.

This is the Trimet bus stop for the #35 line on SW Macadam at the Boundary Street intersection, roughly a dozen blocks south of our apartment.

8:23 p.m. — For days on end, Carole has tried to order frozen peas online for delivery, and it’s never available.
Her theory is that it’s one of the few vegetables that children will eat.

TUESDAY, APRIL 14

8:04 p.m. — Today’s long walk between 2:30 and 6:00 p.m.: across the Ross Island Bridge . . . over the railroad yards via the Holgate viaduct . . . to Reed College on SE 28th and through the campus to visit three different sites where I performed in plays or concerts between 2005 and 2010 . . . back across McLoughlin Boulevard via Bybee to Tacoma and the New Sellwood Bridge . . . and home through Johns Landing.
Likely more than 9 miles.

I don’t like to plan out the routes of my long walks in advance.

Possible infection bottlenecks such as bridges have to be approached tactically. I avoid busy arterials (especially for their heavier bicycle and pedestrian traffic), but other than that, I expect to head through quiet residential neighborhoods and large parking lots that parallel the boulevards.

Public parks can be a mixed bag — lots of other people head to those, especially in weather as nice as we’ve been having — so I tend not to target those as destinations.

Today I made lots of in-progress decisions. One was the choice to veer into the campus of Reed, which I hadn’t anticipated at all. Fortunately, the grounds were largely deserted, but I was surprised by how many striking memories surfaced, given that I had not attended the school as a student.

I acted in three productions of classic Greek plays (Euripides’s “Alcestis,” Aristophanes’s “Peace,” and Sophocles’s “Antigone”) in the outdoor amphitheater, and Shakespeare’s “As You Like It” on the Great Lawn, between 2005 and 2008. In 2010, I did vocal narration and a little bit of singing for the world premiere of then-Oregon Symphony associate conductor Gregory Vajda’s “Gulliver in Faremido,” with Third Angle New Music Ensemble, in Kaul Auditorium.

Read “A Journal of the Plague Year . . . Week 4”

See “A Journal of the Plague Year . . . Week 3”

Go to “A Journal of the Plague Year . . . Week 2”

See “A Journal of the Plague Year . . . Week 1”

Stalking a Stranger - David Loftus

I first saw her when I was waiting for the crosswalk light and she started across the street toward me -- against the light and in front of the cross traffic that had just gotten the green. The cars paused for her to totter to the far side. I looked back a few times before stopping to observe her progress. She was young, and she was weaving.

I don’t think I saw her fall, but I did see her briefly crumpled in the gutter before she got up and continued down the block. I started to follow and watched another couple stop to talk with her briefly before they continued on. She must have told them she was okay, but I didn’t think she was. I was afraid she was going to get hit by a bus, car, or light-rail train, all of which were passing by either next to her curb, across her path, or within a block. Or perhaps a less scrupulous person might take advantage of her in her vulnerable state.

So I continued to backtrack, and caught up with her on the second block where she had stopped to lean against a wall. It’s cold and rainy today, and she was not exactly dressed for the weather: leg warmers on her calves, sure, but a short skirt above her knees, and a thin blouse or tee. She was not wearing her cheap pink imitation fleece jacket against the cold, but had it draped over her head against the rain, and she was lugging a backpack and a shopping bag. I seem to remember a hole in a stocking.

I leaned against the wall next to her and said, can I help you get where you’re going? “I’m fine,” she said, “I’m just resting.” That’s all she ever said. You don’t look like you’re resting, I said, which was not exactly true, but she was so much more. You look like you’re in danger of hurting yourself, I continued, and I’m worried about that, so I’d like to accompany you to a safe place, wherever that may be, but I don’t know where you’re headed. She didn’t say anything or move, so I just continued to stand next to her. Passersby looked at us, perhaps thinking we were together, perhaps even thinking I was bothering this young woman hidden under a pink jacket, but there was no contact between us and no noise of distress from her, so nobody stopped. An older black man was on the other side, almost as close to her as I was and talking on his cell phone, so I kept an eye on him in case he made any sort of move toward her.

She needed a more professional examination. I called home, thinking that Carole would know what to do -- whom to call to get her the proper attention -- but there was no answer. (My wife was out walking the dog, it turned out.) After another moment, I decided to dial 9-1-1. Once she heard me talking and trying to bring more attention, the girl started to move … and I moved with her, keeping the emergency dispatcher apprised of our location for the next 6-1/2 blocks (a right turn, two blocks; a left turn, three blocks; and another left, crossing all the streets in between).

I had a sense of unreality, strolling alongside her, giving a detailed description (dark olive skirt, black blouse, pink jacket, about 5'4", late teens/early 20s, slight build, apparently intoxicated, weaving and walking into traffic, trying to get away from me) on my mobile phone and occasionally moving to block her way and stay between her and the curb.

She walked right into a sidewalk sandwich board on the first block, and would have proceeded into traffic against the light at least once again if I hadn’t stood in her way. At one point I apologized to her, and said I only wanted her to be safe. I remember looking into her eyes and thinking they might be dilated, but I didn't know enough to be sure. I kept expecting her to grab me, shove me, shout at me to leave her alone, but she never did any of those things. She just kept passively moving, weaving, trying to get away from me and whatever else lay behind her.

Finally two police cars pulled up to us and three officers got out to talk to her. I started to walk away, thinking my task was done, then decided I’d better stick around to see what followed, keeping a discreet distance from them, out of hearing range. One of the officers looked over at me, miming a phone call, and I nodded. He came over to note down my name, phone number, and a basic description of why I had called. He instructed me to keep my phone on in case they needed to take her into some sort of protective custody and would require more details. That was two hours ago. They have not called.

I think I did the right thing. Perhaps I’ll phone the police station tomorrow to find out what happened. It’s a hard thing to intervene in a stranger’s life, even a scary one. But what would you have done?

The View From the Sidewalk - David Loftus

One of the things that keeps life worthwhile -- interesting, instructive, and fun -- is regularly changing your perspective . . . also known as getting out of a rut, seeing with new eyes, or just being in the moment.

It isn’t that hard to do if you put your mind to it. The world constantly presents us with new information, a different point of view, but only if we aren’t shut down inside our cocoon of a house and vehicle, plugged into an iPod, talking to the same people and playing over-designed video games on the computer, shouting “look at me!” while simultaneously pushing people away with a boom box or car stereo turned up full blast.

It can be as simple as walking down the street -- something a lot of people simply do not bother to do as often as they might. Even when they do, they keep their ear plastered to canned music or a cellular phone so they might just as well be somewhere else.

If you are used to seeing the city, even just your own immediate neighborhood, from the behind a windshield, it’s amazing how startling a simple thing like walking against the traffic on a one-way street can be. You’ll see an angle of the city you may never have seen before -- if you look up and take it in. One of the things I like to study when I’m outdoors are the shadows of things disappearing or already gone, such as an old faded piece of advertising on a brick wall or the outline of a demolished building as its remnants appear on the neighboring structure it used to be smack up against.

If you live with a dog that must regularly be walked, your pet will force you to see things you wouldn’t ordinarily notice, like the behavior of squirrels (VERY interesting to most dogs!) or the mere fact that a raccoon is tooling around your downtown area. Twice, I’ve seen a hummingbird in operation in the South Park Blocks of Portland, fairly early in the morning when I had to walk my toy fox terrier. I might not ever have noticed them if I had been striding to work, reading a book, or otherwise inside my head while tooling down the sidewalk.

Suburban neighborhoods, where I’ve occasionally had to travel by bus to get to play auditions, rehearsals, or short-term work as a standardized patient for a chiropractic college, are often dominated by automobile culture: sometimes they have no sidewalks at all, and I have to walk on the street or road with an eye out for the occasional vehicle, or on a sloped or muddy shoulder. I rarely see other people on foot in those areas, save for the occasional jogger or dog walker.

Another instructive sight available primarily to pedestrians is the appearance of the drivers in passing cars. You can get a two- to three-second glance at passing motorists, which is cut to half or less if you are driving in the opposite direction. It can be sobering to note how many tight, frustrated, angry, and discouraged faces pass you at the wheel of their vehicles. (Not to mention -- in a state which has outlawed the use of a cell phone while driving -- how many are yakking away on a mobile; I typically count between 1 in 10 and 1 in 4 who are doing that.)

Changing one’s perspective is not just seeing things differently; it’s making an effort to be different, too. The past two weeks I have not been working in an office because I have rehearsals for a children’s theater production of “Aladdin” from 10 to 2 (I’m playing the Genies) and performances of a grown-up production of “The King and I” four evenings and/or afternoons of the week.

So for at least half the week I’ve spent upwards of 12 hours at a suburban theater space either rehearsing, taking a break to rest, read, and write, or doing the makeup, costume, and declaiming bit. This means I have to take a city bus out to the theater in the morning and don’t get back home until nearly midnight, but it also means I don’t have to wear a nice shirt and necktie to “work.” So I’ve dug into my colorful and crazy wardrobe, including shirts and outfits I’ve collected over the years from Japan, Eastern Europe, and Africa.

Thursday morning I got off the bus and walked the few blocks to the theater in a smock-and-pantaloon suit from The Gambia that is striking for its diamond-shaped tie-dyed orange bull’s-eye on the chest, in a field of deep indigo. Passing motorists in Buicks, Cadillacs, and various types of SUV stared at me with expressions of puzzlement, bemusement, or what seemed to be just plain disapproval. Evidently they thought I was a weirdo.

If they were happy with their own lives with their houses and salaries and big cars, why couldn’t they spare a smile for the goofy person walking along the road? Why, I thought as I looked back at them, have you worked so hard to be just like everyone else, only more so?