When I started physical therapy after breaking my wrist, a silver lining—or, at least, a silver-plated lining—showed up in the cloud. The therapist prescribed an aggressive set of exercises to recover function in hand and arm after immobilized months. These turn out to be the same exercises new thinking prescribes as counters to a hereditary condition that gradually turns the hands into clubs. The condition also attacks feet, but that’s another plaint of another pain for another day.
Significant for creative work is the condition’s slow erosion of fine motor skills acquired over years of patient practice. Oh, the things I used to make with No. 11 blades and a set of technical pens! Stubborn soul that I am, from appearance of the first masses in my hands, I have resisted. The exercises I learned from the therapist are self-reinforcing, as I have recovered some of the dexterity lost. Techniques beyond recovery, I have adapted.
Now, my eyesight is failing. My right eye no longer focuses as quickly or in full coordination with the left. The practical effect is that I can work at a computer for short bursts separated by long periods away from screens. The easy joy of immersion, of the disappearance of time, has been extinguished. Somewhere in the nether hides an enlarged process that embraces puctuated interruption. Receptors actively listen for the signature of such a workaround, burping peeps to echo from its silver-plated lining. La lucha continua.