Sundry, various

Was listening to public radio a short time after noon, and they were talking about a “Nun Study,” wherein a number of nuns aged 75 and up received cognitive tests annually until their deaths. At death, they each donated a portion of their brain to the study. The most interesting facet of this work arrived fortuitously, in that the researchers happened upon the entrance essays these nuns had written as teenagers. When they analyzed the essays for “idea density” and other aspects of linguistic complexity, they found a striking correlation between the simpler essays and later development of dementia. It’s almost as if brains, like livers, lungs, or just about any other organ, have reserve. “Reserve” refers to the excess function of an organ, more than is needed for survival. Redundancy. With regard to brains, perhaps that excess reserve varies directly with intelligence, such that folks with lower reserve have a shorter ways to drop before they’re driving around the block six times looking for their garage.

This was part of a larger story, one that dealt also with Agatha Christie, who was never diagnosed with dementia, but whose biographers had suspected as much. Apparently, one of her last novels (Elephants Can Remember) has been shown to have a significantly restricted vocabulary relative to her earlier novels, as well as more repeated phrases and the use of more indefinite pronouns. The authors of this particular study used this data to suggest that Christie was suffering from Alzheimer’s in her later years.

What worries me is that I fear my blog posts have become similarly restricted. My edge just isn’t there. How I long for the days when my muse provided me with great ideas like camel toe show-downs! When I could actually write a Thursday Thirteen and not have to strain for the last seven or eight items! More to the point, in my first paragraph above, I used the word “fortuitously” out of desperation. “Serendipitously” was the word I wanted, yet it took me 14 minutes to remember it.

The crud is leaving. The crud is not gone, but the crud is lingering on the porch, not quite getting the hint that he has overstayed his welcome. Ooh, bad metaphor: rather, the crud is like the door-to-door missionary who’s got his foot wedged in the jamb. The headache is gone, thankfully, and my coughs are few, far between, and less chesty. I can breathe through my nose, and it’s a nose and not a nobe. All in all, a fast virus, for which I’m grateful. And since Karen’s got it now too, hopefully hers will exit just as speedily.

I dreamed we were moving back to LA, and the only two places I would live were Pasadena or Monterey Park. In the waking world, you can restrict that to Pasadena (although certain areas of LA and Hollywood are cool enough to pass muster). Not sure why the subconscious had to include Monterey Park — the suppressed desire to be walking distance from midnight dim sum, perhaps? But in the dream, I walked the hilly streets of Monterey Park. It was a Sunday and every last family was out on their front lawn, barbecuing, yakking it up with their neighbors. Like a great big Hong Kong flea market, it was, and I have to say that if it were like that in real life, Monterey Park would be the place to live.

But no one does front yard barbecue/block parties anymore, at least not in any neighborhood I’ve occupied. I wonder if there are such areas, or if there ever were.

Am reading China Mieville’s Kraken and thoroughly enjoying it. Refreshing that the worshipers of the Old Ones are apparently the good guys — but then, you should expect that from me. I’m the guy with the “Cthulhu is My Co-Pilot” bumper sticker.

D.

Walnut, January 29, 2011. Category: asides.

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