The small hours

It's 3:25 AM on Tuesday morning, and I'm quite wide awake. I'm almost always awake at 3. I usually read when I wake up in the middle of the night, or I scroll mindlessly, and then feel bad about myself.  Yesterday, however, it occurred to me that I could try to write my way through the nightly periods of unwanted wakefulness. And so here I am. Welcome to the insomnia chronicles, volume 1. 

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That was last night, or early this morning. It's 5:30 PM now, closer to my usual writing time. I worked at home today as I always do on Tuesdays. I was not productive. Distracted, scatterbrained, and muddy in my head, I floundered through the day, flopping like a fish from one task to the next, from one idea to another. I need a deadline. Deadlines make me panic, and nothing puts things in focus like a good solid panic attack. 

Did you come here for time management advice? Probably not a good idea. 

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It's Wednesday now, 2:33 AM. I don't have anything to say at 2 in the morning, so I think I'll read rather than write. Good night. Or good morning.

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The small hours can be bleak, you know what I mean?  I've had some of my best panic attacks at 3 AM. But of course I have mental health breakdowns during the day, too. Really, there's no bad time for an existential crisis.

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And don't come around here looking for mental health advice, either. Word to the wise. 

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But the pre-dawn hours aren't always bad. Sometimes I just get up out of the bed and get a head start on the day and then get back under the covers an hour before I have to get up.  Even if I can't sleep, I lie there feeling peaceful, knowing that my to-do list is a few items shorter. When I do sleep in that last pre-alarm hour, it's really concentrated sleep. Distilled sleep. Essence of sleep. If I don't feel like doing chores at 3 in the morning, I read. Either way, the small hours of the morning can be a very pleasant time.

Or not. 

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I wonder sometimes if animals are fearful in advance. Like are they anxious about possibly running into a predator, and do they consciously plan their activities with hiding places and escape routes in mind? Or do they only feel fear when there's something to actually be afraid of. The latter, I hope. 

Anyway, I wonder about this because a coyote - a COYOTE! - was spotted in our neighborhood and now I gotta figure out how to survive an encounter with a coyote because I always feel fear well in advance of an event occurring, whether or not it’s an event that is likely to occur. That I now have to plan a coyote-fighting strategy doesn’t seem reasonable, since I’m in Maryland and not Arizona. Why on EARTH should I have to evade coyotes. I arranged my entire life so as not to ever have to be within 50 miles of a coyote. But of course, I also arranged my life so as to ensure the widest possible berth between me and the nearest bear and look how that turned out. 

Well, yes, of course this has something to do with insomnia. It’s stuff like this that keeps me up at night. 

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I did some research, and it turns out that Maryland has been home to a small but resilient little coyote population for over 50 years. The call has been coming from inside the house this whole time. Not sure if that makes me feel better or not - that I’ve managed to avoid coyote encounters for the entire 24 years that I have lived in Maryland is a good thing, of course, but I’d prefer to have held on to my blissful ignorance about their presence, because now I’m sure that it’s just blind luck that I haven’t been attacked by a coyote yet, and good luck is always due to run out at some point. According to the Maryland natural resources site where I learned that coyotes and I have been coexisting for 24 years, coyotes are the most-disliked wild animal species in Maryland, held in “almost universal disdain” (disdain is the state of Maryland’s word not mine) by human Marylanders. Nobody likes an animal that preys on cats and dogs, let alone small children. Not to mention the coyote’s well-known habit of blowing up their victims with Acme Corporation-manufactured explosives or dropping heavy objects on them from great heights. I’m not a road runner. When that anvil drops from an overpass, I won’t see it coming until it’s too late. 

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So it’s Memorial Day Weekend now, or MDW as we summer people like to call it. Saturday morning, bright and sunny but at least 15 degrees colder than I would prefer the first day of summer to be. This happens now - we have unseasonably cold weather in late May which gives way very suddenly to real hazy summer warmth some time around the middle of June. It happens so regularly now, in fact, that the cold late May temperatures aren’t really unseasonable anymore. 

MDW usually brings with it some relief from the sleepless stressed-out mental health misery of spring. But this year’s crisis feels like it’s going to stick around for a bit. It has some staying power. Intractable, that is the word I would use. Intractable. It’s too cold to swim and despite the pale blue cloudless sky and the clear warm sunshine, I find myself uninterested in leaving the house today. 

But leave the house I must and shall. I have things to do that cannot be accomplished remotely, and I want to feel the way it looks outside. So I’m doing outside things this weekend, cold water and coyotes be damned. 

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I really didn’t think that I was going to swim this weekend. It was chilly enough just sitting poolside with my friends that I needed a sweater. But the crazy children were all in the pool, and then a few adults ventured in a toe at a time. When my neighbor and fellow lap swimmer started on  his usual mile swim (I don’t swim a mile), I thought about how silly it would be to have spent two hours at the pool and not to have actually gone swimming. Then another almost-daily swimming neighbor showed up, pulled off her swim cover-up, stepped into a lap lane, and started swimming. Well, I thought, if another middle-aged lady can do it, then I can certainly do it. And I did, and it was freezing cold, and even after ten laps I was still freezing cold, and even two hours later after a hot shower and dry clothes, I was still cold. Actually, I was freezing cold all evening on Saturday - that might have been hypothermia. But everything that has been worrying me, fueling the nonstop panic and anxiety, was gone, just for a short time in that clear sun-sparkling cold blue water. It was glorious, and I’m going to do it again today. And I don’t think coyotes swim, at least not in the lap lane of a neighborhood pool. 

Spoiler alert: Putin is really bad

Although I was already on board with this thesis, I just finished reading two more “Putin is the worst” books and I’m even more convinced than ever that Putin’s Russia is a giant criminal enterprise and that he is one of the worst threats to peace and civilization and just plain human decency in the world.  

The books are Red Notice and Freezing Order, both by Bill Browder. Browder was one of the first Western businesspeople to invest in Russia after the fall of the Soviet Union. The son of a brilliant mathematician and the grandson of a prominent member of the American Communist party, Browder decided early to pursue a career that didn’t involve academia or politics. Of course, he ended up involuntarily up to his neck in the latter. 

At first, Browder’s Hermitage Capital was very successful. And then he began to learn the hard way that the Russians didn’t play by even the bare minimum dog-eat-dog-but-with-a-fork rules of Western high finance. I won’t go into the details of the Byzantine theft of Hermitage-owned shares by corrupt Russian oligarchs, for two reasons - you might want to read it yourself, and I honestly couldn’t recount all the details even if I wanted to. Suffice to say that Browder learned that Russia wasn’t a safe place to invest. And then he learned that Russia wasn’t a safe place for anything or anyone, including Russians. 

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You have probably heard of the Magnitsky Act, which imposes strict financial sanctions on Russian oligarchs (and now other foreign despots and kleptocrats) proved to be involved in human rights abuses. Bill Browder was the person responsible for getting this legislation through Congress and then getting many other countries to pass similar laws. The Magnitsky Act is named for Browder's Russian attorney and friend Sergei Magnitsky, who was murdered in his jail cell for refusing to cooperate with Russian officials' attempt to frame Bill Browder for their own crimes. Red Notice (named for the Interpol arrest warrants that the Russians repeatedly used to harass Browder) tells the story of the crime, the story of Sergei Magnitsky's ordeal, and the story of the creation and implementation of the Magnitsky Act. 

It's a very compelling story, heartbreaking and infuriating and terrifying and inspiring all at once. Both of the books (more about Freezing Order in a bit) make very clear that once the guardrails are off, and people like Putin are free to operate with relative impunity, then anything can happen and no one is safe. 

If you are a person who hears about an abuse of power by a high government official or a wealthy and powerful person, and  thinks "They can't do that, they can't get away with that," then you should read these books immediately and understand that every time a politician pushes for less regulation on commerce and lower taxes on billionaires and fewer protections for workers and consumers and less support for whatever is left of the the social safety net, what they want is a country just like Putin's Russia, where they CAN do that, and they can and do get away with it, all the time. Given the opportunity, the strong will always use their strength to crush the weak. Always. Without exception. 100 percent of the time. 

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I have mixed feelings about Bill Browder. By his own admission, he exploited the early post-Soviet privatization schemes, buying shares of newly privatized companies that ordinary Russians sold for practically nothing, just so they’d have enough cash for food and other essentials. He represented the worst of exploitative capitalism, and his work helped to enable the runaway greed and polarizing wealth inequality that turned Russia back into a vassal state. And I don’t know that he ever really acknowledges his part in the exploitation of ordinary people. In fact, I don’t know that he ever really acknowledges that exploiting ordinary people for profit is a bad thing to do. He is an unapologetic capitalist. 

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On the other hand, he is a capitalist who believes in a certain standard of decorum and decency in which people who play by the rules are rewarded for their intelligence and hard work. Never mind that he either doesn't acknowledge or maybe just doesn't understand that the rules of this game are inherently unfair and that only the already-rich and already-powerful can really win. That would be a whole different book 

Without giving away too many details (and again, I couldn’t even if I wanted to), Browder’s company, Hermitage Capital, was victim to a stock-dilution scheme that almost bankrupted him. My only knowledge about stock dilution came from watching “The Social Network,” and I don’t know why such a thing is or ever was legal in the United States but as we have established, we’re not talking about the United States and it doesn’t seem that any kind of financial skulduggery is off-limits in Russia. Browder gradually pulled all of his money out of Russia but had already attracted the attention of criminals in and out of the Russian government. They figured out a way to frame Browder for a $230 million dollar tax fraud, and then tried to coerce his lawyer Sergei Magnitsky into testifying against Browder. Magnitsky not only refused; he blew the whistle on the real criminals and was arrested, imprisoned, tortured, and eventually beaten to death for his trouble. 

Bill Browder made it his personal mission - there’s no other way to put it - to avenge his friend, not by violence but by targeting the only thing that Putin and his thoroughly corrupt cronies care about - their money and their right to travel outside godforsaken Russia any time they want. He worked his many contacts in the US and around the world to write, refine, and pass into law versions of the Magnitsky Act, which imposes crippling financial sanctions on foreign dictators and anyone else involved in human rights abuses. The original US Magnitsky Act targeted only Russians, but its successor Global Magnitsky Acts here and in other countries impose sanctions on anyone implicated in human rights violations. 

While Red Notice tells the story of the Magnitsky Act’s creation, Freezing Order tells the story of Putin’s fury in the aftermath of its passage. Putin has been obsessed with the Magnitsky Act since the day it became law, and has worked relentlessly to try to overturn it and to get back at Bill Browder. Browder has been harassed, followed, surveilled, threatened, and even arrested under spurious Interpol “Red Notices.” Interesting fact - as retaliation for the original Magnitsky Act, Putin put an end to US adoptions of Russian orphans. And so when Donald Trump and Donald Trump Jr. claimed that their 2016 conversations with Russians were about “adoptions,” that is actually half true. They were negotiating with the Russians over repealing the Magnitsky Act, which was the price for allowing adoptions to resume. 

Browder’s self-described “obsession” with honoring his friend’s legacy has cost him a great deal. He cannot travel internationally without fear of abduction or arrest under another trumped-up pun-intended Interpol warrant. And at the end of Freezing Order, he alludes to family strife related to his frequent absences and his wholehearted dedication to the Magnitsky case. I’m sure that his wife has endured a lot. It must be hard to be married to a person who pours themself out so completely for a cause. But of course, those people tend to be the ones who get world-changing things done. 

Sometimes, I miss a book when I finish it. I miss the characters if it’s a novel, or I miss the author’s voice. That’s how I felt after I finished Red Notice and Freezing Order. I missed Bill Browder’s relentless intensity, his only-I-can-save-the-world-from-Putin bravado. I don’t think I could live with that level of intensity but I admire his courage, and I respect what he has accomplished. I respect his refusal to back down, and his determination to make sure that his friend’s death was not in vain. And I really respect his refusal to shut up, no matter what it costs him. 

99 problems

After a week or so of bleak and cold weather, we had almost - summer warmth and sunshine today. I walked around the track, which was very well populated after a few days when it was nearly deserted, not because of the weather but because of the bear. They shipped the bear to parts unknown where I very much hope he will remain. I harbor no ill will toward that bear - I wish him all the honey he can eat, as long as it’s at least 50 miles away from Rockville and Naval Support Activity Bethesda. This Navy base isn't big enough for him and me. 

I started to round the corner today, figuratively speaking. Most people love the beautiful month of May but every year I have a mental health crisis that  has May's name written all over it, and I can't wait to see the end of this most Godforsaken of months. Everything is always better in June and June is right around the corner. Less than two weeks really because June begins with Memorial Day weekend as far as I’m concerned. Once MDW arrives, spring is dead to me, and I have no problems that summer can't solve. 

Well that's not actually true. I have plenty of problems that summer can't solve but they don't matter that much in the summer. Everything is bathed in sunshine and things that look like problems any other time of the year look like clear water and blue skies in the summer. Come June, I got 99 problems but a problem ain't one. 

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It’s late Friday afternoon now and I’m contemplating a walk in the 85-degree sunshine. In just over two weeks, the pool will open and if the weather stays warm between now and then, then it might just be warm enough to swim on opening weekend. And I’ll swim even if it’s not warm enough, because that pool is only open for a few short months and during those short months I count the minutes wasted that aren’t spent immersed in clear blue chlorinated water. Just two more weeks, and I'll be free of May and its bullshit. I still got 99 problems but the countdown has begun. 

Suburban bear

A fire drill on a sunny warm Monday afternoon is a nice little break in the day. I work with friendly people so we had a pleasant little social gathering in the courtyard while we waited for the all clear. But fire drills aren't the most interesting thing happening on Naval Support Activity Bethesda. There's also a bear. That's not a joke, nor a metaphor. There was an actual bear sighting last week in the woods between the University and Walter Reed. I yield to no one in my respect for the Navy but they’re not trained to fight bears. 

The bear has been spotted at locations all over Rockville and Bethesda and Silver Spring, all close to one another and all places where bears do not belong. It's unnerving. I keep seeing social media posts offering well-intentioned advice from animal control and the Maryland and National Park Services. Don't run. Don't scream. Back away slowly. The don't run part is easy for me because I know that almost anything can outrun me. Especially a black bear, which can apparently run as fast as a race horse. You’d think that a bear would be a clumsy, lumbering creature, but apparently not. I learn something new every day, but this little factoid about the land speed of black bears is something that I would have been happy not to know. 

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I've been on guard on my walks around the neighborhood. I scan my surroundings and I maintain situational awareness. For what purpose, I don’t know because again, I have no chance of outrunning a bear and even less chance of winning a fight against one. Bear vs. Claire - Bear wins every time. But I’d like to at least see it coming, I guess. 

On Monday, I walked on the track on the base. It was a nice day - a really nice day - but the track was almost deserted. No students playing soccer, no PT, no one walking or running - it was disconcerting. I saw someone’s hoodie hanging on a railing, and I thought “Well, that’s it - the bear got someone, and left the evidence behind.” I thought for a moment about going inside, but then I decided to press on because they might never catch that stupid bear and I can’t stay inside all summer. And then a few other people ventured out and I wasn’t alone on the track anymore. I was still on my guard, but I felt much more at ease. 

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They got that bear (I can only hope it was the same bear and that the Maryland suburbs aren’t bear country now) in the most cartoon storyline way imaginable - they set a (humane) trap next to a beehive in a backyard where the bear had been spotted last week. The amateur beekeeper whose backyard it is apparently never considered that his beehives and the honey they produce might attract bears. And who can blame him? We’re in suburban Maryland not gosh-darn Wyoming. I’d never have worried about bears either. Of course, I also wouldn’t keep bees. 

According to the news reports about the bear’s capture, he weighs about 140 pounds. I saw a very grainy little surveillance camera video, and he’s really very cute. I don’t know much about bears but I imagined something ferocious-looking and Kodiak-sized, in the 500 - 700 pound range. I weigh more than 140 pounds, for crying out loud. I’m still pretty sure that the little bear would beat me in a fight, but he’d have had to work for it. I’d have gone down swinging. Anyway, he’s been relocated to a more bear-friendly location, probably somewhere in the Catoctin mountains. Maybe he’ll show up at Camp David. Then he’ll be the Secret Service’s problem. 

L'Air du Temps

When is the last time you smelled perfume - not from a bottle in a store, but just out and about in the world? One day at work last week, I walked down a corridor and into some perfume, just hanging there, lingering in the air. It hit me like a physical force. It had been years since I had smelled perfume - real, old-fashioned, lady-with-a-spritzer-at-department-store perfume - and it took me all the way back. I think I understand Proust and his madeleine now. 

The scent was maddeningly familiar; heavy on the Oriental notes, and a little bit floral but not rosy floral.  Something like Opium but not Opium. Maybe I should just Google a list of popular perfumes of the 1970s and 80s and then match a name with a scent. 

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Of course you understand that I actually did this, and I promptly ended up in a rabbit hole of mid-20th century beauty culture nostalgia, from which I emerged only days later.

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When I was growing up, lots of women - maybe even most women - wore perfume. The women in my working-class Philadelphia neighborhood wore Tabu or Charlie or popular Avon scents (if you’re young, then you might not know that Avon used to be known mostly for perfume - the cosmetics came later). When I was in high school and college and then a young person in the working world, I learned about expensive perfumes, classics like Chanel No. 5 and Joy and Arpege. Perfume was very popular among young women in the 80s - we favored overwhelming heavy scents like Opium and Lauren and Chloe, suitable for the aspirational luxury ethos of that decade. Every city still had fancy downtown department stores, marble floors and high vaulted ceilings and full-service restaurants and dressed-up salespeople and elaborate Christmas displays that families made special trips to visit. You couldn’t walk into one of those stores without being chased by a young woman wielding a spritzer of perfume. Just thinking about those department stores makes me miss my grandmother. 

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I read Chuck Klosterman’s The Nineties early in 2022, and I started writing about it, but I never finished. Here’s a preview - if you were a young person in the 80s and 90s then you might remember that right around 1991, there was a very abrupt popular fashion 180, from glamor and high heels and big hair to hippie revival and grunge. In 1987, young women dressed up to go out - full hair and makeup, high-heeled shoes with designer jeans and dressy tops, and of course, perfume. In 1992, the aesthetic abruptly changed. This is not to say that young women no longer cared how they looked - they very much did care. But it was no longer acceptable to act or look as if you cared. It really took just as much time and effort trying to appear as if you didn’t make any effort at all as it did to look flawlessly put together. Perfume did not survive this fashion transition, perhaps because it was an obvious olfactory clue that a woman cared about being conventionally attractive. 

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When I was very young, age 5 or so, we lived with my grandparents for a time. I think we were there for about a year, more or less. My grandparents went out most Saturday nights and my grandmother would usually let us sit on her bed and watch her get dressed and fix her hair and put the finishing touches on her hair and makeup. Perfume was always the last step. 

Eventually, I realized that my grandparents’ nights out were not particularly glamorous - they went to movies sometimes, or to VFW or American Legion events, or mostly to friends’ houses to play cards. Perhaps it was that perfume, lingering in the air long after my grandmother left the room, that made grown-up life seem very exciting and romantic.

I never did figure out what last week’s perfume was, even after my internet rabbit hole research. It reminded me of Opium or Chloe, not because of how it smelled but because of how it felt. It was like John Wanamaker or Strawbridge and Clothier, circa 1980. It was like midnight Mass at St. John the Baptist, circa 1975.  It was like my Nana’s bedroom on a Saturday night in 1971. It was like my childhood in the middle of the American century.