On the way to the vein clinic for what I had hoped would be the final follow-up on a series of procedures performed last year on my legs, the mighty Scion once again displayed a suite of warning lights. It did this two weeks ago, and that episode priced out at $2G. The lights came back last week for another touch from finite resources. “More than a nuisance” describes this third occurrence, which set the stage for the surgeon’s determination that, despite having followed every instruction to the letter, I am not restored to perfect health and ready for release back into the wild. In fact, another procedure is required for each leg, at the ankle. They’ll be in touch about scheduling. Scheduling was easier for setting up repair on the Scion. A three hour wait led to a diagnosis of unsated appetite for another chunk of change. Parts will be in Friday morning.
Experience has shown that an effective way of processing such a coincidence of sling and arrow is to lay hold of an Irish bouzouki and hammer until either it surrenders or lances the annoyance and the pressure flows away. But that was, as Duchamp had it, in advance of the broken arm. Broken wrist, truth to tell, from a fall just after Xmas, cracking a scaphoid bone that has been reluctant to heal. The arm is weak, the tendons have stiffened, and the plastic splint is very much in the way, but who ever claimed passage was going to be comfortable? Here’s the artist, his zouk and a stinko wrist, looking for equilibrium.