kindly handicap
I've been writing like crazy lately. No useful surface is spared when I get that itch to write in spasms. I've been writing so much with pens and pencils & crayons & eyeliners & anything handy that, when I get on the keyboard, I notice that I've regressed into committing whole new patterns of typos. It used to be about errors of brevity, my battles with the space bar and those keys neighboring the ones I intended. I never learned how to type with both hands, nor ever felt the keys to be an extension of all my fingers and their reaches. I just let that shit fly, NO EYES. I'd say I use about four or five fingers total, but a lot of that is accidental aid or auxilliary improvisation; the truth is I use TWO mainly, and I often look down for split-seconds to check the business and progress, because it would be a nice surprise to see if my hands have made gainful use of my other digits or recruited them for use in some specific word; that would be interesting. I'm a barbarian at the desk. I have these rough hands, and it's funny how I've arrived to the conclusion that I was born to write, when my bodily make-up ordains that I should chop wood or wield a shovel.
I started to have delusions of organization for all these loose scraps of paper that I had come to bless with ideas. I bought a large filing cabinet off craigslist.com with grandiose plans of managing all these little epitomies. It's fireproof, so it's composed of some cement (I heard) and weighs literally a ton. The vendor is a supervisor for a moving company and he was left with a bunch of them at his disposal after a lucrative office job. I got it for a bargain, roughly five cents a pound, and I used my tenant's truck and dolly to whisk it from Marina del Rey. All went well until the moment I was to deposit it against the wall in my room, when a fierce and precarious movement on my part, as brief as the snap of a mouse trap, let drop the crushing mass onto my right foot. My big toe got it the worst. The bone didn't break, but the toe was flattened such that the nail was cracked at the root and severed a bit below the cuticle. Since attempting to describe the toe will require me to actually look at it, I'd rather leave the tumescent and misshapen flesh on the plate of your imaginations. My index toe (also smashed) turned dark purple, now black, as the blood rushed beneath the nail and found no outlet. If you work in a hospital like
unaware, you've seen worse, but if you're like me, the sight of blood and a shattered toe will still arouse some wonderment.
They gave me a tin full of a crimson solution to dip my toe in. I dunked it in and out, fascinated by the bubbling fizz that the peroxide would make on the laceration. The doctor winced at my mutilated extremity, pinched it, and remarked that I might have damaged the growth centre of the toe. And here I thought the filing cabinet was going to become an asset for my productivity. A burly medical assistant poked a tetanus shot into my left shoulder and gave me three vials of medicine, for the swelling, pain, and infection. The pain is just enough to amuse me, so I'm hoarding the cheap opiates for later.
These sorts of injuries have a way of altering my general focus. A busted toe will cripple my balance and reduce me to about 70% of active potency, slightly more in excited situations, where I'd grit through the pain to overcome an obstacle, recuperation be damned. I have a habit of thoughtlessly harassing fresh wounds. Much of my confidence in life comes from my being a ready-and-able instrument for any situation, both mentally and physically. One state reinforces the other, so a weakness in either affects the dependability of the whole. The reason that I am overconfident in verbal arguments has a lot to do with my cunning and eloquence, but a strong feeling oversees that I can physically steamroll any ignorant opposition by burst of reality, by knocking the fucker out, should they offer no other respectable end. Nothing empowers quite like having options. I rarely have to resort to brutality in pacific circles, the pussy sections of towns, but I'm intrinsically gutter and I can't shake it if I get a rise from a fellow hood or some street pretender. I don't welcome trouble, but a little dose of action from time to time will cure the stuffiness of everyday monotony. To each his own mode of punishment! but I digress ... what I meant to establish is that this injury has made me more passive and agreeable, at least for a season, which may or may not be debilitating.
I started to have delusions of organization for all these loose scraps of paper that I had come to bless with ideas. I bought a large filing cabinet off craigslist.com with grandiose plans of managing all these little epitomies. It's fireproof, so it's composed of some cement (I heard) and weighs literally a ton. The vendor is a supervisor for a moving company and he was left with a bunch of them at his disposal after a lucrative office job. I got it for a bargain, roughly five cents a pound, and I used my tenant's truck and dolly to whisk it from Marina del Rey. All went well until the moment I was to deposit it against the wall in my room, when a fierce and precarious movement on my part, as brief as the snap of a mouse trap, let drop the crushing mass onto my right foot. My big toe got it the worst. The bone didn't break, but the toe was flattened such that the nail was cracked at the root and severed a bit below the cuticle. Since attempting to describe the toe will require me to actually look at it, I'd rather leave the tumescent and misshapen flesh on the plate of your imaginations. My index toe (also smashed) turned dark purple, now black, as the blood rushed beneath the nail and found no outlet. If you work in a hospital like
unaware, you've seen worse, but if you're like me, the sight of blood and a shattered toe will still arouse some wonderment. They gave me a tin full of a crimson solution to dip my toe in. I dunked it in and out, fascinated by the bubbling fizz that the peroxide would make on the laceration. The doctor winced at my mutilated extremity, pinched it, and remarked that I might have damaged the growth centre of the toe. And here I thought the filing cabinet was going to become an asset for my productivity. A burly medical assistant poked a tetanus shot into my left shoulder and gave me three vials of medicine, for the swelling, pain, and infection. The pain is just enough to amuse me, so I'm hoarding the cheap opiates for later.
These sorts of injuries have a way of altering my general focus. A busted toe will cripple my balance and reduce me to about 70% of active potency, slightly more in excited situations, where I'd grit through the pain to overcome an obstacle, recuperation be damned. I have a habit of thoughtlessly harassing fresh wounds. Much of my confidence in life comes from my being a ready-and-able instrument for any situation, both mentally and physically. One state reinforces the other, so a weakness in either affects the dependability of the whole. The reason that I am overconfident in verbal arguments has a lot to do with my cunning and eloquence, but a strong feeling oversees that I can physically steamroll any ignorant opposition by burst of reality, by knocking the fucker out, should they offer no other respectable end. Nothing empowers quite like having options. I rarely have to resort to brutality in pacific circles, the pussy sections of towns, but I'm intrinsically gutter and I can't shake it if I get a rise from a fellow hood or some street pretender. I don't welcome trouble, but a little dose of action from time to time will cure the stuffiness of everyday monotony. To each his own mode of punishment! but I digress ... what I meant to establish is that this injury has made me more passive and agreeable, at least for a season, which may or may not be debilitating.