Hi-Yo Silver Away! Pt.4 (A Toe of Two Cities)
September 21, 2018
“Well then, get your s**t together, get it all together and put it in a back pack, all your s**t, so it’s together. And if you gotta take it some where, take it somewhere, you know, take it to the s**t store and sell it, or put it in the s**t museum. I don’t care what you do, you just gotta get it together. Get your s**t together.” – Morty Smith, a Tao (sort of) from “Rick & Morty”
“Forget the past – the future will give you plenty to worry about.” George Allen, Sr.
How’s your day going? Mine has been both incredibly boring and frustrating, due to the fact that the all of my days are blending into each other, and also because there’s outwardly so much to be done in regards to my house, the studio, and my future job prospects, and I can’t do any aspect of it because of this goddamn, useless, jack-upped, schwanzlutscher* foot.
*[Yes, this is a German word. No, you really don’t want the translation, as it would make your mother cry and lose all respect for you. Don’t even Google it. And I’m giving you this advice because my Mom and I have never had a good warm relationship, and I think it’s pretty cool that your Mom loves you unconditionally. That part must be really nice.]
For me, there’s nothing more vexing than seeing a particularly worrisome issue, and then not being allowed (or being able) to just go and fix it. I like to think of myself as a problem solver, when I’m not creating new ones, and granted, I’ve suffered some injuries in my lifetime, but never anything like this toe amputation, or as it’s more commonly referred to among the truly hip and way too cool for med school kids, a Ray resection.*
*[A Ray resection for localized necrosis, infection, and osteomyelitis is an accepted procedure allowing removal of the diseased toe and metatarsal. The traditional approach involves a rather lengthy incision and dissection that can compromise the vascular supply to the remaining forefoot. Oh, great goody gum-drops.]
In my case, my surgeon was providentially able to save a great deal of my metatarsal*, which if all goes well and my Ding Dongs don’t melt, means I might have a pretty good chance of walking without a cane** or some other such human-propping device.
*[The metatarsal bones, also referred to as the metatarsus, are a group of five long bones in the foot, located between the tarsal bones of the hind- and mid-foot and the phalanges of the toes. ** I still may get one though, because my GF Ashley thinks that if I could get one that proclaims my snarkitude, I could rock it as part of my image pretty damn hard.
But regardless of whether I have to walk with or without a cane, at least I’ll be walking, which is more than I’m able to do right now. Having to be remarkably conscious of my limitations is a torturous countdown until such time I can ultimately begin to put weight on my damaged foot, and ditch the walker I’m currently bound to via a Deadite* curse.
*[A “Deadite” is a life-force, person, animal or plant possessed by a Kandarian Demon.They are described as evil demonic Zombie Hybrids, and are the main antagonists of the Evil Dead Movie Franchise.]
And given that hoped-for destination is anywhere from an additional six to eight weeks away, it’s possibly the most maddening thing I’ve ever had to deal with, outside debating who the top three best James Bonds are, which of course, are laid out as such: Connery, Craig, and my big ol’ man-crush number two, Brosnan. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Roger Moore, God rest his soul, but he played Bond for laughs, and that’s not the kind of Bond I tend to dig. And as a side tangent, if you even think about uttering the name Timothy Dalton in my presence, I will stuff you inside George Lazenby, force you to watch the directors cut of Never Say Never Again in Kaixana*, and top it off by physically acting out scenes from Moonraker… naked.
*[This language, officially one of the world’s rarest, was once spoken in a very small reigion of South America, by a core group of 200 people- sadly, there is now only one remaining orator of this unique tongue.]
Sorry about that. I take my Bond-ing seriously, and so should you.
Let’s get back on track, shall we?
Now, the first time when I found myself hospitalized for ketoacidosis back in 2009, I wound up sentenced to a ten day stretch, but four of those hellish days were spent in a medically induced coma, so time just sort of zipped on by, given the situation. But even if you minus the amputation of one of my lesser toes, this inadvertent staycation straight out of Samsara* is driving me up the metaphorical wall, as almost everything I have to face, whether it be minor or grand is a challenge right out of an ANW** episode.
*[Samsara is the endless cycle of death and rebirth that is the result of our ignorance of the ultimate reality of the universe. The word means “to wander across,” as in lifetimes, and samsara is the result of karma or actions taken in this life that will determine the nature of one’s rebirth and the caste one is born into. **American Ninja Warrior (sometimes abbreviated as ANW) is a televised American sports entertainment competition that is a spin-off of the Japanese series “Sasuke”. It features scores of competitors attempting to complete a series of highly-challenging obstacle courses based in various American cities, in hopes of advancing to the national finals on the Las Vegas Strip, in hopes of becoming an “American Ninja Warrior”.
I should also probably point out that despite my all-embracing knowledge of Las Vegas in regard to it’s inimitable culture and social customs, it remains in effect that getting drunk on Mad Dog 20/20, stripping off your clothes and climbing the faux Eiffel Tower located in front of the Paris Paris casino, will not be held up to the same celebratory standards as when you successfully traverse ANW’s Bridge of Blades sober, which I have always felt is somewhat of a double standard.]
You’re probably thinking at this point that I’m being either overdramatic, or possibly seeking sympathy, but you’d be wrong on both counts. I honestly never gave pause to the thought of how difficult it would be to make a sandwich for instance, when you can’t stand up. My balance has never been any good, even with my cat-like stealthiness, so my trying to do even the simplest things can present themselves as a monumental challenge. By way of example, our house has a refrigerator that is insufferably “low”, so trying to get out the yogurt and almond milk for my daybreak protein shake requires a balancing act not performed in public since the last time Cirque du Soleil rolled through town.
Did I also mention I have chronic back problems as well? Add that into the mix, and you’ll understand why I sometimes dream about my icebox hovering like a hummingbird. I used to assume if your hands were incapacitated, you’d be royally screwed, but the more I deal with this, I’m really starting to think that assessment should be equally applied to one’s legs and feet as well. I had to put a chair in the kitchen just so I can make a cup of tea, so it’s a bitch and a half, let me tell you.
Oh f**k it- it’s a full-on bitch, that’s invited it’s friends to squat until such time as they get their collective s**t together.
One of the other impediments other than my injury of course, is the one device I use most frequently to circumvent it, that being my walker. Sure, it’s sleek, collapsible, and lightweight profile for easy in and out of my (or any) car, makes for a truly sexy-looking piece of tech, (just see below!) but shockingly, there are some disadvantages.
This BTW, is what mine looks like, but it’s rendered in the standard chrome. I’m starting to think I should have coughed up the extra dough for this way more snazzy paint finish, which is branded as “Blue Ice”. And don’t give me any grief regarding this- just because I’m injured, doesn’t mean I can’t look stylish, too. Besides, Ashley couldn’t find a walker fabricated of tiny skulls, which let’s face it, has the dual advantage of being both a conversation piece, and really more “me”, to be truthful. I do try to keep it real, y’all.
Originally, I went with crutches, but after three falls, two near-misses, and a memorable but in the future, further un-discussed encounter with a badly-placed zucchini in my kitchen, we opted for the far safer (and way more stable) walking frame from Walgreens. And overall, this four-legged-human-keeper-upper works relatively okay for helping me get around the ol’ house when I need to. While I did opt out of getting the matching basket, due to it’s long-term impracticality and the fact that it’s damn near impossible to put baseball cards between it’s way too small spokes, an old backpack substitutes nicely as my extra set of hands when I have to be outdoors.
What makes it a nightmare outside the house is the reality that since I can’t put even the merest of weight on my stitched together like Frankenstein’s monster foot, I have to lift my own mass. All 167 pounds of it, if the last weigh-in was even remotely accurate, and then “hop” whenever I have to take a step forward. Think about concurrently playing competitive hop-scotch while you’re doing arms day at the gym. Remember, I’m at present suffering from the following: diabetic-related weight loss, which has led to a lack of muscle tone, a severely strained left-side supraspinatus* from a work-related injury suffered last year, and my other shoulder unfortunately starting to go out of whack for having to compensate for the same.
*[The supraspinatus (plural supraspinati) is a relatively small muscle of the upper back that runs from the supraspinatous fossa superior portion of the scapula (shoulder blade) to the greater tubercle of the humerus. It is one of the four rotator cuff muscles and also abducts the arm at the shoulder, for those of you who may not remember me talking about this in an earlier blog].
Every time I go to hoist myself, it feels as if I’m dead-lifting a city bus- American Chicago, not Red London double-decker, that is. Just for those of you who like to keep track of such trivial things. Considering my normal weight fluctuates between 185 to 205 pounds, part of me wonders if I need to stop fretting over my diabetic-related weight loss, and embrace it for a change, because if lifting my severely underweight ass hurts my arms and shoulders this much, I can only imagine what that extra thirty-eight pounds would feel like. My best guess is that it would represent as if I strapped Warwick Davis* to my chest, and then went for a nice relaxing run.
*[Warwick Ashley Davis is an English actor, television presenter, writer, director and producer. He played the title characters in Willow and the Leprechaun film series, the Ewok Wicket in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, and Professor Filius Flitwick and Griphook in the Harry Potter films. His filmography totals 30+ movies. Impressive, no?]
Now, when I’m in the house, this dead-lift really isn’t a problem, as I’m only traveling very short distances- bedroom to kitchen, or to my living room, bathroom, and studio, etc. But when I’m out of the house, the difficulty scale goes way off the charts. Picture having to park your car, lock it up, and traverse the parking lot of a Super-Center, hopping on one foot, and one foot alone. Then when inside, walk (such as it is) through the entire store, trying to find your item, and attempt to not get harassed by store security for putting it temporarily in your backpack, because pushing a cart or holding onto a basket is akin to juggling incontinent flaming honey-badgers when you’re rocking a walker.
Oh, and don’t forget to do all this while lifting close to 200 pounds every two-and-a-half seconds, making sure you don’t trip or overbalance, and as you mercifully leave, doing the whole parking lot experience in reverse… good luck, Chuck. You’re seriously going to need it.
But maybe I’m just being a negative Naomi, an apathetic Abraham, or maybe a morose Morgan, certainly a gloomy Gerard, arguably an unenthusiastic Ursula, perhaps even a pessimistic Peyton, when all things are considered. There does exist the very slim chance that when I’m done using this thing, my guns will not only be toned up again, but my chest as well- heck, if I keep gaining weight as I walk all over God’s rapidly-fading green planet using this thing, I may be cut like a diamond by the time this forced convalescence is done. I’d have a six pack that would make the Spartans of lore not only weep, but might even compel them to drop their free-amphoras and pick up a walker instead.
I could go from this…
*[Disclaimer: there is in fact no way, short of making a deal with the Devil himself, that Wayne will ever look like this. Like a slightly underweight James Hetfield? Sure, not even that hard. As an artsy-Jesus archetype? A bit of a stretch, but still within grasp. Maybe as Zaphod Beeblebrox? Sure, it would be a costume for a friends Halloween party, and at those things you pretty much just get points for coming as the Betelgeusian President of the Galaxy if you get the hair and coat right, but full Jason Momoa six-pack super-cut sexy awesomeness?
Not until they invent both cloning and consciousness replacement to go along with it. For those of you who have bought a Wayne in it’s current condition, you can return him for a full refund. We won’t even ask questions. We all know you were just trying to be nice.]
So, knowing the amount of pain this mobile version of the Rack can bring into being, one can envision why I don’t get out much. It’s fairly difficult not to get depressed given my current inability to squeeze out of the rank air-space that I find myself in, that being between a rock and it’s eternally as rude partner, the hard place*, but I’m keeping my spirit up the best I can. And in regards to the Rock, it seriously needs to clean it’s area up- what, are we still living in the Illiad? Good God, you’re an expression that’s literally thousands of years old- take some personal accountability already, and kindly move out of your moms basement.
*[The origin of the idiom ‘between a rock and a hard place’ can be found in ancient Greek mythology. In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus must pass between Charybdis, a treacherous whirlpool, and Scylla, a horrid man-eating, cliff-dwelling monster. Ever since, saying one is stuck between a rock (the cliff) and a hard place (the whirlpool) has been a way to succinctly describe being in a dilemma. Everytime you read me, you all leave a little bit smarter- don’t be afraid to show it off.]
What has helped me immeasurably in staving off some of the darker moments, past the obvious dedication and unwavering love of my GF Ashley, have been my peeps, my fans, Twitter, and the Internet itself. I’ll break each down, not in order of importance, but in usage of said resource. Despite my tendency to over-share, I’m not going to go into detail about my deeper relationship aspects with Ashley, because that’s a facet that quite bluntly, I prefer to keep private. And you all thought I had no boundaries…
First up, the peeps: aka my tribe, my family, my brothers and sisters. These people are beyond doubt, my bedrock- they have my full trust, my full loyalty, and my full protection.
Whether it’s my friend Chelle posting photos of Wonder Woman daily on her IG account under the hastag of #wonderwomanforwayne to add buoyancy to my day, or my brothers from another mother Cale and Martin making toe loss jokes in order to get me to laugh, these people have been solidly in my camp, helping me get through this most difficult time. As someone who is purposefully separated from 99% of my family, my oldest sister being the lone exception, I have solid faith in the following saying I heard somewhere on the ethereal plain once, and that I’m about to roughly paraphrase: “You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your tribe, and sometimes that’s a much smarter purchase.”
Author Scott Stabile goes one better: “Find people who love you, for real, and who accept you, for real. Just as you are. They’re out there, these people. Your tribe is waiting for you. Don’t stop searching until you find them.” I’m very lucky to be able to say that I have, and if I haven’t said it before or not often enough, I love and cherish you all…
Except you, Gavin… you know why.
And no, buying me a trained chinchilla won’t help, you myopic putz.
The second demographic I’ve gotta throw some mushy squishyness to is my Instagram fan base- while small in number, (708 at last count) you guys have been fierce in response, and I really appreciate it. Between the well-wishes and stories of similar struggles, I definitely didn’t feel alone during my hospital stay in a new town, where I literally don’t know a soul, and that has helped tremendously in the keeping my spirits up department. It’s definitely a nice reminder that in this, the most highly conflicted and divisive of times, there still exists a strong amount of incredibly decent people, and that breeds hope eternal.
And last but not least, I have to give thanks to the Internet, and it’s bastard child Twitter, for keeping me both alternately entertained and horrified at both the depth and shallowness of the human condition, and it’s impact upon the world at large. If you are even somewhat familiar with my IG feed, you’ll know that I spend a good chunk of time cruising Twitter for trolls to snack upon and then mock, and rarely am I ever disappointed in that regard.
In fact, I have to laud Twitter for the victuals, nay the sheer banquet of human idiocy that it presents to the world, 24/7. From our asinine Mango Mussolini to the Deep State cultists, the ol’ Twitterstorm rarely fails to delight my inherent snarkiness. There’s nothing I enjoy more than puncturing a flawed stream of logic, and nothing on this fkd’ up Earth truly brings me as much sheer unadulterated joy as forcing Trumplethinskins, racists, misogynists, and the hopeless anti-science crowd back under their fkng rocks, bruised and chastised, as they should be. And given those parameters, Twitter provides Manna* on a level that God himself/herself could never imagine when he/she created the concept of Manna in the first place.
*[Manna, sometimes archaically spelled mana, is an edible substance which, according to the Bible and the Quran, God provided for the Israelites during their travels in the desert during the forty-year period following the Exodus and prior to the conquest of Canaan. 40 years without pizza? I’d rather be enslaved by the Pharaoh.]
Throw in that I’m pretty much confined to home as of late, and you can see why I’m enjoying this bounty so much. And along those lines, much praise must also be attributed to the badlands of the Internet, where the options for entertainment and intellectual growth are seemingly limitless- if I watch any more educational programs or tutorials on YouTube, I’m fairly confident that I can build that NCC-1701-D Constitution Class Starship in my workshop, using nothing more than a few dilithium crystals*, some plumbing parts, and a few sheets of heavily-reinforced sheet metal.
*[In the Star Trek universe, dilithium is an imaginary material, which serves as a critical controlling agent in the ships’ warp drive. According to a periodic table shown during an episode of TNG, it has the chemical branding of Dt and an atomic number of 87, which in reality belongs to francium, which due to it’s most stable isotope, francium-223, having a half-life of about 22 minutes, provides no uses outside of basic scientific research. In the real world, dilithium (Li2) is a molecule composed of two covalently bonded lithium atoms.
Science. It’s just not for picking up brainy nerd girls, although that is still an excellent use of the resource.]
I never thought I’d ever say this, but Twitter, Netflix, YouTube, and PBS online are actually helping keep me sane through this, the ever-changing maelstrom of my personal mental gymnastics, and thank Kothar-wa-Khasis* for that.
*[Kothar-wa-Khasis is an Ugaritic god whose name means “Skillful-and-Wise” or “Adroit-and-Perceptive”. Kothar is attributed to be a Smith, Craftsman, Engineer, Architect, along with being an Inventor, who creates sacred words and spells, in part, because there is an association in many cultures of metalworking deities with magic.]
Granted, I have been enjoying it almost too much, and for the time being should probably cut it back a tad or possibly two. As the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once opined: “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” What is it about Germany that it always seems to nail the inconvenient truth consistently, yet failed to grasp the overall concept of not starting World Wars? A question for another age, I guess, but the Nietzsche man was dead on with this one.
After a while the ichor associated with these pinheads of molassed philosophy starts infecting how you think, how you act, and more importantly, how you interact with others.
While I always (somewhat) joke about how being a cynic is a great position to stake out in life, as you’re either constantly being proven right, or being pleasantly surprised, I don’t really relish seeing it in my politics, or in the souls of others. I prefer the surrounding populace happy about life in general, despite the almost black Catholic streak of cynicism in mine. What can I say, except that I need something, anything to be annoyed about, just so long as I can comment snarkily about it. So you can just imagine how over the moon I am regarding my current situation, can you not? This may be the single biggest thing I’ve ever had in my life to complain about, hands and one foot down.
After all, I’ve spent close to what would be nine pages griping about it, and not just because I don’t really have anything to write about in regards to the local art scene and the potential drama within- even though I will grudgingly admit, that is a factor. With past scrawlings, my meta-grinder operated best on a steady stream of art-related narcissism, pretentiousness, and general corrupt idiocy for sure, but I’ve been looking for chances to expand past that, and maybe this particular sea-change will be a good jumping off point so as to test that faith in my current abilities to do so.
I’ve long held the personal belief that everybody’s got one first-class story in them, and maybe it’s time to start looking at those untouched resources, as a means to go past my well-established comfort zone, and once again, I tend to find inspiration towards this objective within the words of the late Kurt Vonnegut, one of my literary spirit animals:
“If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” [Excerpt taken from: A Man Without a Country]
Now, since this opinion comes from one of the great Gods of Writing, I feel compelled to follow that counsel, even if it means I make some dreadfully false starts along the way, because there’s no better teacher than extremely awkward mistakes that you make in full view and critique of the public… trust me on this*.
*[See: “Years Ago Blog on Kara Roschi” Subheading: “Uncomfortable Public Apologies”]
And in a blatantly self-serving attempt to affix some fresh wax and Peregrine feathers to my new and optimistically redesigned Icarus rig, I turn to yet another deity of writing, that being Neil Gaiman, who states:
“Tell your story. Don’t try and tell the stories that other people can tell. Because [as a] starting writer, you always start out with other people’s voices- you’ve been reading other people for years… But, as quickly as you can, start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there will always be better writers than you, there will always be smarter writers than you … but you are the only you.”
Oddly, as I was mulling over this quote for inclusion in this particular piece of writing, I received the following email from one Robert Williamson:
I’m on the editorial staff of the Voyage Phoenix Magazine and I’m working on interviews with hidden gems from Phoenix and the surrounding areas. Eric Cox thought you would be a great fit for our Thought-Provokers series.
We’re excited to learn more about you and share your story with our readers. There is no cost involved, but we’ll of course need some of your time for the interview. Please let me know if you would be interested in being featured.
My response? “Of course I would be interested, it is me after all. LOL.” I always say let them know who and what they’re dealing with right from the start- cuts way down on the confusion level later on in my humble experience, and generally leads to clearer dialogue as time and the project moves forward. Also, much respect towards fellow Artist Eric Cox’s recommendation of yours truly for this media interview opportunity- I’m proud to have written about Eric for PHOENIXmagazine back in September of 2016, and I’m even prouder to call him a friend.
Check out my interview with him here, at:
and go scope his fkng amazing and visionary work out at:
Let’s get back to the ego stroking, which is always my favorite part.
Rob’s follow-up went like this:
“Great! You can find the questions I’ve prepared for the article here:
You’ll need one good personal photo and a few (say 4-8) other relevant images – so I’d recommend collecting those before starting the questionnaire. Timing-wise, we’d appreciate if you could have this back to us within 2 weeks.
If you have any questions, let me know. Have a great day! 🙂
I did love how they gave me a two week interlude in which to answer and return questions about my favorite subject, that of course, being me. Naturally, I submitted my responses to their focused questionnaire within a day and a half, because who am I to protract the publication of such an interesting, yet clearly humility-based, read? Plus my cover photo by AZ photog Jim Hesterman [https://www.jimhesterman.com/] was perfect- it is literally one of my favorite photographs of myself ever taken, and you’ll just have to wait to see it., because if there’s one thing I do know how to do, it’s squeeze Oreo filling out of a turnip.
But before we get into all that, let’s answer the pertinent question riding on the back of my Elephant-sized Ego in the room: whom exactly are/is Voyage Phoenix Magazine?
In essence, they’re an online magazine highlighting the diversity of Phoenix’s culture, that being it’s nightlife, it’s food scene, it’s Creatives, and the impact that all of those truly varied partitions create towards shaping Phoenix as a whole in this, it’s golden era of rapid change and redevelopment. What I found intriguing about my interview however, was the free-form approach it took- the questionnaire’s generous structure truly allowed me to break out of the normal confines such interviews typically spawn, and the fluidity of doing so made me view this experience as enjoyable, rather than as an obligatory chore.
For instance, past media junkets I’ve suffered often make me contemplate how many shapes I could fold the so-called “interviewer” into if I could legally launch my furtive passion for human origami into the public spotlight. The answer btw, is seven. Eight, if
you can manage to stop them from screaming for help.
As Creatives, we rarely get to see what we actually said expressed passionately or as accurately as we would often like- sometimes it’s the fault of an ill-prepared writer who cannot dissect the art-speak, sometimes it’s the fault of the Creative who cannot move past the comfort of a long-guarded idiom, which makes translation of their philosophy not only difficult to articulate to the writer, but in the end, incomprehensible to the reader.
Neither of those I am happy to report, applied here. The questions were simple, yet open ended, and allowed for some uncharacteristic depth, versus the standard cookie-cutter queries that forcibly create responses that are just as formulaic, and therefore, truly uninteresting. It’s one of my mantras that if you want someone interviewed, you either need to send someone who’s done their full measure of research, or more simply, just send another contemporary of equal measure to do the interview in the first place.
For instance in my world, I would have loved to see Nick Cave interview Lou Reed, or Hunter S. Thompson being questioned by Anthony Bourdain, or Kurt Vonnegut doing an essay on Ray Bradbury- can you imagine? I can, but these are the kinds of things us writers construct in our heads 24/7 to begin with. But as a Creative, being permitted to give a fully developed rejoin is as rare as a coherent public statement by Kanye West.
At the moment, I don’t have a link to the article yet, as it hasn’t been published, but as an enticement, I will include a snippet here, that being my response to a question regarding how best cities can help support Creatives and the Arts:
“Where cities can lend a helping hand is by supporting their local galleries, art-spaces, after-school and public center art programs, funding public art commissions, and by promoting all of the same. Financial incentives and tax breaks for rehabilitating and the reuse of buildings for galleries and/or affordable housing for Creatives, is also in my opinion, vitally necessary too. You can’t have an Arts scene without Creatives. It really is that simple. The fact remains that Art rewards a community and it’s citizens with beauty, insight, and inspiration. It should be recognized and supported for these realities alone.”
Hopefully, this comes across as well thought-out, measured in it’s depth, and most imperative to me, relatively intelligent. But that’s not my call, that’s up to the masses to decide at some point, and it’s out of my hands as of now. As it should be. Time will tell, I guess, but doesn’t it always? And speaking of time, (is that a nice segue or what?) I think now is the most appropriate moment to take a break until I can figure out a way to make the mundane tasks of my down-time appear riveting enough to write about.
And when we come back…I organize my sock drawer, wonder about… just kidding. I would never do that to you. However, I will discuss what my doctor really thinks about my healing progress, check out the local food scene, and hopefully have a published Q&A for you to read, that’s way more interesting than any that I have done before.
“Change can be frightening, and the temptation is often to resist it. But change almost always provides opportunities – to learn new things, to rethink tired processes, and to improve the way we work.” – Klaus Schwab