Other Stuff

Thoughts on COVID-19

stanarich

Tucked in my home, I appreciate these days spent replicating familiar rhythms.

The midday run delights me. A different path each successive day. Every few days a course will repeat, however with modifications. It feels like replicating an electron coursing around a nucleus. Not being all that savvy about how atoms work, I can say such things and feel confident enough about my claim without having actual awareness of nuances like veracity. An uptick in birds ferrying straw or straw-like materials has been appreciable these past few outings.

A graph of new nest construction might appear to be exponential given how busy these birds seem to be. They call to each other in the greenspace outside of my apartment’s window. Cardinals to cardinals. Blue jays to blue jays. Grackles to everyone. Same with the crows, at least that’s my read on the scene. Flirt and succeed and then construct a home. Not a bad way to spend one’s March and April. May you find good tidings, my avian distractors.

Other forms of physical activity populate my day. Rehab exercises keep my shoulders, elbows, and upper legs intact. Various core regiments maintain my general fitness. Same with squats and lunges, as well as with pushups and pulls ups and other manners of exertion. Books also serve as stimulants and expanders, of another sort.

Ample games keep me entertained. Every few days, I’ll dive deep into Cloudspire, Too Many Bones, 7th Continent, and other games that work well as solo adventures. Additionally, multiple games of Just One, Half Truth (with alternate rules), Scythe, Pandemic, Innovation, Splendor, and others with a rolling cast of players have kept me entertained, social, and busy. Add in walks in parks, the occasional backyard gathering, and other diversions have made the days full so that nighttime feels like it comes too quickly. Never enough hours in the day, seems to be life’s full-time mantra. For, I wish to code apps and do other activities but never am I able to carve out hours for such outcomes. Though, a lot of cooking takes place. So much wholesome fulfilling food has gone from the kitchen into my gullet.

Meanwhile, for most people, I suppose, this sort of scene plays out. We’re blessed in that our daily lives are rather mundane. Whether we view them as full of purpose or as hours spent in limbo, there’s really not much about which to complain. Sure, I wish I was climbing, and there are people whom I’d love to see in person, but, overall, life is rather rich, and everything is fine. But, really, there’s nothing about which I would lament or gripe.

My lungs suck, yes. And, in a better functioning world, I’d probably visit the doctor to get treated with a respirator dosed with albuterol or an equivalent, for I cannot get full intakes of air and I find myself struggling to speak during meetings, sometimes. Wheezing and the like overtake me at times. Congestion is the story, but, again, this isn’t a new narrative for it’s spring and though the flowers are gorgeous and inspiring (e.g., see just about any cherry blossom), and I will confess that I lose it, in terms of being overtaken by joy, when I see the first crocuses of the season, so, whatever, I’ll accept some flailing of breath on occasion. All in all, life is fine, and that is the oddity of our situation.

And, I recognize that what I’m thinking isn’t new. At any given moment in time, I am one of the lucky ones. That people throughout the world struggle against poverty, hunger, war, diseases, and other afflictions. Life, for me, is pretty darn easy. I get to jest and relax and bring in money without too much difficulty (the ease with which it inflows makes me want to label it as lucre, for it feels almost dirty how mellifluous like can be at times for some in contrast to what so many others experience) and everything is smooth enough and most of my problems are of my own making and they can be resolved easily enough and that’s essentially what life has been for me, and, well, it’s sort of astounding how fortunate I’ve been. It’s like being nobility given how things are now when compared with how they could be. So, it’s nothing special or unique at this moment in time to think, holy shit, life is normal here but for so many people who are sick from this COVID-19 or are friends or family of such people or are doctors or nurses or technicians working in hospitals and living frenzied lives where everything is on the cusp of tragedy and reminder after reminder of our mortality remains at the forefront as people gasp for oxygen even while being intubated and, holy fuck, it’s strange to remark on how lackadaisical my days remain as others struggle.

And, sure, nothing is new here. You have Palestinians who have undergone such torments and adversity that most people would go numb were they to experience their lives. Pick a culture and you can pinpoint the oppressed without difficulty. Nine million people die from hunger or hunger-related diseases each year. That number makes no sense. I don’t even want to Google how many people are ensnared by the slave trade, because its surely a deplorable figure that will astound the senses: why must humans be so evil, which is, to say, human? And, so on, go the deplorable sagas we could explore, while here we go each day without needing to face such realities.

Fortunate, I am to be able to see friends via screens. Even though each day I wait for a bomb, dirty or not, to explode and make this world even crazier than it has become. Bombs that other nations face regularly. I envision planes crashing into buildings. I imagine updates in the news about mutations. My dreams, they’ve turned gruesome, full of revolts and uprisings and dismembered animals, beast as well as human. Perhaps a comet shall strike, or some mega volcano will explode. It seems that chaos shall beget chaos and that we’re on the verge of something gigantic.

Yet, then I tell myself, no, no, surely, you’re only in a momentary panic, and life returns to its usual percussions. Morning alarms. Coffee smells. Emails. Meetings. Kisses and play with my partner. So lucky to have her with me, she makes the days magical. Surely, the paranoiac in me thinks, I must be in a coma, that’s the sole way to explain this fusion of beauty—her proximity—with the chaos of the world, must everything wonderful have an opposite equal to its magnificence yet cast in terror? And, then, after work exercises and food and time spent at play before bed. Not a bad existence, not at all, and I’d spend all of my days in such a rhythm, for this entire experience seems more like a gift to delight in things I enjoy than a disaster, at least when I manage to keep in mind the fortunes that have befallen me.

Sure, I am excited to go on my travels, to climb in new locations (to me) and meet new people and do some of the various things that I would love to do; however, I recognize that this strange situation has enabled me to focus on things that also mean much to me, and I appreciate that I have the freedom to pivot and dive deep into pursuits that bring me pleasure.

 

Games

Root

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Root has captured me unlike many other games. When playing, it’s fine, and sometimes the processes can feel a touch mechanical. You handle your faction within a rather circumscribed set of rules; following the flow provided by the three divisions of your turn (birdsong, daylight, and evening), ever feeling a touch constrained by the options. Most turns, you cannot quite accomplish all of your goals. Though, when you do manage to get everything done, it feels magical, like completing any formidable to-do list that might apply to any facet of your daily grind. You manage your cards, you survey the board, and you try to figure out the path toward that breakout moment ahead where you surge on the victory track to become everyone’s punching target.

However, once the game completes, I feel entranced. I want to play again, often immediately. Damned be responsibilities. Sleep, another thing to forbear. Give me some woodland hostilities and a happy man you’ll see. The asymmetry is what creates this allure. It beguiles me. That a game can contain multiple experiences, and then their interplay can further set options ablaze intrigues me. Possibilities as wildfire can spread across the forest landscape, and each of them beckon me inward. The flames light my torch, allowing me to illuminate the unknowns of this charming game.

Together, my coplayers and I discover ways to maintain balance, discovering how each faction best accrues points while trying to pinpoint when to focus on a particular player to prevent that person from surging too far ahead, for it seems each faction becomes near unstoppable upon reaching a particular board state. That the balance derives from the rules as much as the in-game dynamics provides for a nuanced game, especially considering each faction conducts its own operations with unique goals that meet directly in the form of victory points.

I love how each faction represents a common gaming mechanic. The Eyrie function via preprogrammed movement, like a minigame version of Colt Express, Roborally, Mechs vs. Minions, or any of their ilk. The Marquise serve as the typical euro where you manipulate resources and build structures, while maintaining some area control to ensure the flow of wood used for building.

The Woodland Alliance at first glance don’t seem to be as easy to analogize, though their use of sympathy and revolts remind me of realignments/coups from Twilight Struggle and the spreading of sympathy is an engine builder for the more sympathy you place the more cards will be added to your supports stack. The more you spread, the more you obtain. Further, there’s a hand management aspect to this faction in terms of balancing between maintaining the supporters stack and your hand.

The Vagabond is the weirdo that has no warriors, and is conducting a limited Merchants and Marauders experience, in that you’re completing quests and basically moving from clearing to clearing to, in a sense, deliver goods as you might do in Star Wars: Outer Rim. Other factions have little incentive to attack the Vagabond, which is good given that attacks can completely cripple the rascal; however, at some point he must be contained for, like the Alliance, he can launch his points forward dramatically, especially if he has become well-armed.

The base deck provides life-path options, as you tend to craft different powers from game-to-game, and the accrual of points via these cards versus the other benefits they can provide (e.g., decree or supporter) can provide a nice side hustle to manage. It’ll be interesting to see how the Exiles & Parisians deck alters their feel. Same idea with the maps, especially given the ferry being another means to move around the board, and the mountain map with the closed paths and ability to score points via the pass location. Even the winter board, with the randomized suits for clearings would alter the feel and rhythms of the game. Dispersing suits across a changed distribution will vary how the Alliance spreads, the Eyrie move, and the Marquise craft. Overall, I love that I feel a tension between wanting to dive deeper into what I know against blowing up what I’ve learned by springing forth variations. Slowly, factions, maps, and cards will enter my experience of this game’s saga.

I suppose, in the end, it’s that everything together feels bubbly. Scythe, a game I enjoy, feels somewhat repetitive, even if the puzzle maintains its allure for me. Root, even with ten plays under my belt, feels fresh, for I’m eager to try each of the factions another time, and probably another time following this next go. This desire to invent, reinvent, experience, and re-experience continually churns within me. Bubbling up in me asking my friends to play again, and again. And, that a group of us once played three times in a night, switching up our roles each time verifies that my ardor for this game isn’t unique to me alone.

Games

Scythe

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Scythe does a wonderful job balancing the various factions and incentives. Whether each faction is balanced in terms of its overall strength, especially when factoring in the player board combinations, is a different topic. What I’m focusing on here is the design behind the factions.

Some of these elements are obvious. Crimea runs off of combat cards, thus the faction starts with no such cards. This hindrance goes further for the two immediate neighbors from the base set of factions lack a strong path toward enlisting, thus making it difficult for Crimea to receive a steady supply of wildcard resources. Fortunately for Crimea, Rusviet will sometimes want to create an engine to obtain combat cards due to the mech that allows a worker to use a combat card, thus helping to ensure that the faction will have many cards available to provide this often-essential benefit; however, not every game will see Rusviet behave this way.

In terms of balancing ability with need, Rusviet can drop a Mech to then warp their leader to the Factory, but Rusviet arguably least needs a factory card given that the faction can already move during successive turns and moving two, or three pieces with an upgrade, is often superior to moving one piece two or three hexes. Whereas Polania desires the extra move action to facilitate grabbing encounters, especially in games with fewer player counts given that more encounters will remain available yet lacks initial access to mechs and must rush the factory card to maximize its use, which in turns means not grabbing encounters right away. Nordic feel the most suited to adapt to the particular makeup of a game, being able to produce on nearly any resource without much effort; however, their mechs are so-so, outside of the wonderful ability to hide on lakes as well regroup after defeat to return to glory, and often seem to stall when going for the last star.  Saxony can take a little effort and discipline to unleash, and seems to struggle at building power, which can be a useful star to grab before going wild with warfare, yet maintain the best mech power of the base factions,  being able to warp into battle easily via their homeland’s mountain hex.

This interplay of factions while trying to maximize moves by linking top and bottom actions to the fullest extent all while recognizing that to get six stars means you’ll want to ignore certain development paths beyond the lightest dabbling. My games have found building to be one of the least viable paths to victory, same with upgrading all six cubes; however, I suspect there are ways to make such outcomes successful perhaps by ensuring you reach the highest tier of popularity. Trying to maximize moves is the Excel-like aspect of the game, where I’m seeking to find the sweet point that achieves the highest proportion of progress to efficiency. As an example, it seems unwise in most situations to move your leader from the starting faction circle until you’ve deployed the plus one movement mech, unless you’ve upgraded your movement to allow three moves and have no need for the third. Generally, movement without a clear gain is wasted (e.g., putting a worker on a desirable hex, obtaining an encounter or a factory card, shoring up your resources or conducting a quick easily-won battle, etc.), and unless you need the associated bottom action then there’s likely a better move available to you.

Similarly, that production costs power once you’ve rolled out some workers and then continues to get more expensive from there, the magic is determining the calculus to minimize these hits, whether through an early enlistment to have neighbors supplement this loss via their upgrades or hitting enough early upgrades before committing to a production economy. Basically, once all workers have come out, in most situations you do not want to produce more than one or two times from that point onward. Losing a point, some power, and popularity (which can cause massive swings in final points) is simply too much a hit when compared with the benefit received.

I love the ever tension of the possibility of war that Scythe brings, for people can break your game by striking a turn or two before you’re ready to contemplate such conflict. Though, and this aspect of randomness can be a primary driver of pace, that combat cards can simply never align for you is brutal. Most games, its essential to have a five, or even two fives, thus it seems a touch flawed that bad luck can break you by forcing you down an inefficient path of bringing multiple mechs to a battle, though, to be fair, being able to play multiple combat cards is often crucial to ensure that you don’t become a punching bag for stars.

Another thing I love about the game is how dangerous factory cards are, for to bring your character to the factory means that someone could end the game by taking thus hex from you. Many games are won by attacking the center hex, and grabbing the last star alongside a claim of three or four hexes (should you have deposited a worker along the way), and if the opponent with the highest score is the victim then you’re staring down a massive swing of points.

When it comes to battles, the one main problem scythe has is that a wildcard player can throw off the balance of the dance. To be the person who moves after a player who makes questionable moves means that you’re in the prime position to profit from these mistakes. There are many ways to king make, whether by distributing your pieces at the wrong time, conducting reckless battles, leaving resources ripe for plunder, or giving a person resources via unnecessary bottom actions, you can essentially hand the game to a person.

To counter this detriment, I’m always willing to discuss strategy and options with people while playing, to some degree. The line between table talk and apprising people of info to prevent poor moves from upsetting the game can be fine, I recognize. Yet to allow poor moves to upset the course of the game unravels the game. It’s like in chess where a player left a queen easily taken. I’d rather have that move undone and maintain the integrity of the game then to churn through the mid or end game all while knowing the end is likely quite clear, and all due to an error – at that point, why even bother playing?

Critters

Rejected Suitor

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Sad news. The cardinal had seemed to have moved on with his life, for he had vanished throughout the weekend. I kept telling myself, surely,he must require rest. Those vocal cords must require replenishment, otherwise he’d go hoarse and what was once melodic would become raspy before degrading to something more akin to static until it gradually might reach the avian-equivalent of laryngitis (which might be called “syringitis”?). Please, I pleaded to the universe, simply let him take the weekends off. Return him to the community come Monday. The hours swept by. No singing. Given his absence, I have found myself turning to a blue jay for comfort. He appeared today. Perhaps the greenspace can only support a particular level of bird pulchritude? I know not. Fortunately,he is remarkable, even if he’s not the cardinal that has surely delighted every denizen of this apartment building through last week. He’s not as loud. He’s not as talented a singer. I had hoped to photograph him to share with you, but he has refused to perch on an exposed branch, thus depriving me of a clean shot. But,again, don’t feel too saddened by his playing coy, for he has nothing on that cardinal. Nothing at all. However, !!, just now, I walked to the kitchen, passing some windows in my place, and I heard that unmistakable call. Given that it’s a little chillier today, the resplendent song did not pull me onto the balcony for long, but even a second of his talent is enough to set my a-soaring. 😀 And, don’t worry, come tomorrow I’ll move on from this bird…

Climbing

Ass to Face

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When I first started climbing, I hadn’t expected there would be this much ass-to-face. They don’t tell you these things.” — Something I once overheard.

Having blown six or so clips while climbing at the gym, only a handful of people have provided me the opportunity to experience the craziness from the other perspective. This is a good thing for it’d be lovely to not have blown any clips and to not have had to save someone who had headed down such a life path. These are the events where shit can feel serious, and I’ve heard a fair number of stories that involve a level of tragedy that would leave me shell-shocked in the way that crosses my mind when, for example, a motorcyclist zips between cars and I wonder how it would forever impact me to be the person that clips the vehicle, sending the person into oblivion. Regardless of the specifics of an event, like in terms of its origin and extent, things simply happen, and we then we must deal with them, however we can, to whatever outcome.

Fortunately, every fall of mine while clipping has ended up fine. I know that—to some degree—luck plays a role (in terms of my not getting injured), as does climbing with competent people. Further, two times, I have managed to “hero clip,” thereby culling the danger. That is, to make the clip as the fall begins so as to reduce the distance to be traveled. Of the other blown clips, each has found me dangling far from where I had been, but above both the ground and my belayer. Actually, perhaps once or twice, I had been equal to or below my partner in elevation once the explosive force of physics quieted. Yet, regardless of specifics in terms of where each participant ended up physically, the dominant narrative has involved a scream of ‘fuck’ or some equivalent utterance followed by bliss; it is a beautiful thing to remain intact.

A couple of months back, a friend fell at the third or fourth bolt. He had been reaching out to clip when his foot slipped. Down he plummeted. I had been using belay goggles. Something about those devices can cause me to not understand exactly where I’m standing in relation to the climber. If I put a lot of active thought into what’s happening then I can position myself appropriately, but at that moment I had just gotten back into climbing after a hiatus and I was feeling a little bit out of it that day and, well, I was apparently right under the climber. His ass and my face became intimate. Outside of some transitory pain, and embarrassment, all was fine, fortunately.

He was unscathed. Only I, the fuckwit who had failed to belay properly, had suffered from my error. I recall having cried out, “Jesus,” or, “Good lord,” or “fuck me,” or something equivalent (and, yes, a half-garbled, staccato squawk muted by surprise and fear serves as “something equivalent”) as gravity began to accelerate his behind toward my awareness, the center of me, that being my eyes and head, from which consciousness seems to spring forth. Once the fall abated, and ass and face had been separated, we asked each other if we were alright. “Yes.” “You?” “Yes.” “You sure?” “Yes.” “You’re bleeding.” “It’s ok. My ear feels like a cauliflower, but I’m fine.” I saw horrified looks in the eyes of those nearby. It turns out I exclaim whether falling or catching a blown clip; I had done something more than merely mouth my horror. Surely, they had heard my scream, malformed or not, and reacted to that as well as the sight of the fall and collision.

This failure sucked beyond it being namely that, a failure, but also because it dampened my perception of myself as a capable belayer. I had been clinging to memories that had propped up my ego, that now needed to be reevaluated. Most prominently, I’ve been proud of the one prior time that someone had blown a clip, which had occurred several years ago. The climber had outweighed me by about thirty or forty pounds and the drama had occurred at the third clip. In response, I had sucked up some slack and dived toward the ground. As his weight tugged on the rope, my body lurched upward before it reached the cushioned floor, and all was fine. That sort of reflex—calibrated to the needs of the moment—embodied how I’d like to behave consistently. I felt like a superhero. So, it was a bummer for a slew of reasons when I had become a momentary ass-face, chimera-type bodily mixture during this mishap of a catch.

Flickers of that ass striking me would overtake my thoughts during climbing sessions that followed in a pattern familiar to me. As a kid, I had seen a snippet of a horror film via an Entertainment Tonight review where Freddy Kreuger reached through a wall against which a terrified teenager had pressed. His arms around the person, knife-blade gloves magnified in their deathly totality, you knew all was fucked for that character. I recall leaving the living room to visit my brother, and I felt unease as I had my back to his wall as I relayed whatever it is that had prompted me to enter his bedroom. Those blades would flash through the wall to get me. As I spoke, they attacked me within my imagination, repeatedly. I see this memory as a movie, in that I experience it as both the child that I was from those young eyes as well as from a hovering observer in which my brother and I are actors in a scene. For years this fear plagued me. An image grounded by anxiety turned tactile in the sense of uplifted hairs on the forearms, widened eyes, and quickened pulse becomes concrete and like concrete lasts. Similarly, as I belayed people going forward, I could see their asses smashing into me as I feared myself faltering [again] in my duty.

One difference between the stalwart save and the feckless ass-face fiasco stems from the details. I had anticipated one fall, whereas the other came as a surprise. The heavier climber from years ago looked unsure. He had started to move and aborted his action multiple times. Hesitation and notable lack of faith in himself defined his efforts. That he would fall seemed at least as probable as him succeeding with his attempt. Fully alert, contingencies in mind, I rose to an occasion that seemed definite, etched into the tome that defines all that has come and all that shall; the universe determinate, unwavering. This other fall, well, as I already indicated, it was somewhat of a surprise and, as I relayed above, I was not on my a-game at the time. Also, belay specs, which I do not use often, alter my perception. Their mirrored view transports me into another world. My awareness feels disjointed, in two places simultaneously. It’s something to which I can adapt, but the lesson here is to train with the glasses when my partner is on easier routes, and to forgo them otherwise. Though, it might be beneficial to practice with them when the climber is higher, like at least halfway up the wall.

The other night, I was at the gym and my partner got on this difficult route. He is someone who will almost never chance a fall, even when the rope is clipped in above his head. He looked solid as he approached the third bolt, and rather than hit it from low, he moved up closer to it. There he was, to the right of the carabiner, reaching with the rope to make the clip. The instant his fingers approached the gate, he lost control and went tumbling. I sucked up the rope, pulled my upper body away from him, and fought only slightly against the upward force, enough force to prevent me from colliding into him but enough ease as well so as to not spike him. And it was perfect. He stopped above me, above the ground. I went up, but not so far that I could collide into him.

Everything sparkled with an aura of perfection. Smiles. Laughter. He looked to be halfway in shock. His blown clip prior to this iteration, with a different belayer involved, had resulted in a damaging ground fall. Surely, he had found himself transported back to that moment as he fell, as his brain took in all of the details as it does when it’s terrified and had led him to the thought that this event would be, like the prior one, dismal. There’s an appreciation of life and happenstance that overtakes you when danger has been dodged. That rush took him back to the sharp end, and he managed the clip and later went home with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there when he had arrived at the gym. It’s nice to be reminded that it’s good to be intact, and alive.

This catch provided me a sense of redemption. Going forward, asses began to recede into the distance as I belayed, which is to say they remained attached to their respective climbers, doing the dance that the given climber was navigating rather than crashing down toward me. Sure, at some point some ass will target me like a heat seeking missile tracking a fighter jet. Should that ass attempt to strike, I know that I shall be prepared with chaff flare countermeasures in the form of competent, agile belay skills. Or, perhaps I’ll just practice quick belay escape maneuvers and get the hell out of there! Fight or flight, one way or the other, right?

Critters

Quest for Love Continues

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The quest for love continues. Our dashing cardinal returned with his glamorous attempts to woo. Still unclear whom he’s targeting, though if his goal is to recruit me to the balcony then this fellow should do a TED Talk, for he’s a master at transforming intent into outcome. A maestro, he switches up his vocalizations and cadences. His song produces serenity and invokes bliss in me. Mesmerized I stand staring, agape. Unfortunately for this cardinal, I presume, a female of his species who lurks in the bushes below the tree whose branches from which he bellows his magnificence seems utterly unimpressed by his existence. Shocking. I agree. Whether she plays hard to please or simply dismisses him as a boorish bore, I know not. Given the prominence of her mohawk; I suspect that she’s merely playing it punk-style cool. We shall see. Don’t worry, I am not jealous or envious of her. Nor do I feel angry that she fails to realize what greatness could be realized were she to show interest in this fine, avian specimen; this Adonis of the bird world. To see these photogenic and gorgeous critters find romance and migrate to better worlds than the concrete of Crystal City, well, that would spark joy in my heart.

Critters

Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker

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There’s an active bird scene outside of my window. Specifically, a rather frisky and vocal cardinal likes to hang out on an adjacent tree. By hang out, I mean that he seems to delight mostly in harassing the lady cardinals. Since Monday, he’s been there, strutting about — looking all cardinal-like and spry. It’s sort of surprising that the authorities haven’t yet been called on him. For he’s persistent and appears to be a bit of a ruffian, from what I can tell, given that the other male cardinals seem to have surrendered the area to him in response to his self-proclaimed glory. Boy does he love to chirp as he gads about. Though, full confession, I’ll admit that when it comes to judging the character of avian folk that I’m not 100% reliable, for they tend to flock to different, well, flocks than I do. Anyhow, while I cannot attest to the positive or negative traits of a given bird, I am a fan of certain species. Label me a sucker for most owls, hummingbirds (saw plenty, including a hummingbird nest while I was in Seattle), and woodpeckers, among others. So, the cardinal was doing his thing; calling out for the lady birds (I presume, perhaps incorrectly), which apparently also entices me (let’s call him Cardinal Romeo or Siren of Cardinal or something along those lines…), for when he alights on a nearby branch, I sometimes find myself at the window remarking on his splendor. Which was exactly what was happening when, to my astonishment, I spied a yellow-bellied sapsucker in an adjacent tree. As any reasonable person would do, given the circumstances, I grabbed my camera, and, well, here you are, a capture of this critter’s glory.

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