/ Site Notes /
A sprained wrist, for my good right hand, is pulling the rug from under my productivity. So sorry.
If I had, if I’d ever had, a budget for my work, an injury might make me limp a bit but shouldn’t halt me all togher. Working alone, despised, interfered with, not published, arrested, jailed, censored … makes it tough. Most calories from my food stamps, most pennies from my SSI, fuel my passion to tell my story, to relay God’s messages, to add my own comments: but it’s all the tougher when I can’t use my right hand to have the mouse make the cursor go straight to its target: do not pass GO, just go where I say, and do it now!
At the moment I have my right arm in a sling, a reminder to try not to use it: every use weakens the wrist further. The other day I eliminated links to my section reporting on my PhD thesis, sabotaged by NYU from the early 1960s onward: construction was not proceeding a pace: the fed had knocked down all my work, incomplete as it was, in 2006-07, I’ve at the Mac most hours most days since the FBI returned my computer to me, trying to put back up what they’d destroyed: and also add to it, new indictments needing expression every hour of every day: but in this area, my sabotaged thesis, my explanation of Shakespeare in relation to Christian (and political) orthodoxy, had ground down from slow to still: fifty years was hard, sixty years was mortal. God will just have to find someone else.
Or maybe God never intended his messages to get delivered: shoot the pony’s rider out of the saddle, roll him in cactus, the mail doesn’t get delivered. Come to think of it, he never promised me success: I’d just sort of assumed it: what I promised him was that I’d try my damnedest. And so I have.
So why am I still babbling? I’m still hurting myself, knowing it. I just can’t help it. Habit. Obsession.
I say sprain: it may well be part sprain, part carpal tunnel syndrome. I told Jan: it’s like working in a coal mine: the miner knows that sooner or later he’s going to get killed in a cave in. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day: guaranteed. Twelve, eighteen hours, every day with the mouse in your hand, fingers flying over the keys, is not healthy.
But again: I wasn’t, much as I love it, doing it for me.
What happened, part of it, is so funny: I’ll try to tell.
Jan has such a beautiful property, such a beautiful home, on the lake, big house, big yards on three sides, I love walking around and clearing debris. It’s pine forest, with some evergreen oaks, lots of shrubs and ground cover too, so it’s not an English lawn: branches break and fall, Spanish moss clogs the sky and litters the ground. In back, the west side, down by the dock, there’s a palm tree that catches a log of moss from the big pine at the water’s edge. Some moss was caught in some of the palm’s gender parts. I’ll pull down some moss from overhead as well as pick up what’s under foot. Every several months, more than once a year, I’ll carry the step ladder around and give myself a few extra feet of elevation.
I’ll aid my reach with this or that tool: an iron rake most often. But Jan’s good wood-handled iron rake broke the other week. She replaced it with one I believed would be just as good if not better, me shopping with her, dear girl. This new rake had a metal handle, with a plastic grip at the end.
Jan had come out and held the ladder for me part of the time, but now she was back inside, on the phone, so many worries. I’d done more that I’d intended already, but like here, I can’t always stop. Momentum, inertia, can be big with me. I know it’s dangerous, extra dangerous, but I keep going. Trust, at least in part, to luck.
So: I set the ladder folded against the palm. I climb like three of the steps. The rake in my right hand, of course, I hook the moss with the tines. Hey, maybe the dead flower bracket will come down too!
I doesn’t come. I pull harder. The flower bracket doesn’t break, the moss doesn’t come free.
You know, I think, my weight would break it.
I’m not worried about the dead palm flower landing on my head. We’re forming a right triangle: I’m well to the side. I may be seventy-five, I may be losing my sight, and my hearing, but I’m in great shape, an athlete, an acrobat. I’ll land among these tree roots, on this knobby hillock of ground on my feet no matter what happens. Go ahead, give it your weight.
The moss remained caught in the brackt. The brackt stayed where it was. But I was falling.
As I expected, I landed on my feet, in balance, never mind how treacherous the ground would be to another. But something was odd, unanticipated. I wasn’t holding the rake handle but I was still holding the rake handle’s plastic grip. It hadn’t been adhered there, it had come off. The grip had come with me, the rake had remained …
Clonk. The iron rake plus handle spiked its way into the ground like a spear. Jeez, if that had hit me in the head I’d been pinned to the ground long-ways.
I repeat, that couldn’t have happened. I was well to the side. And yet what did happen was totally outside my expectation.
Man: famous for incomplete thinking.