Closed for The Season

A hand loses its grip, a leg reduces it arc, and a whole set of possibilities suddenly gets smaller.

December 10, 2017   The autumn was pleasant, one warm day folding into another. Tomatoes ripened into October and kids sat by the river in T-shirts. It was a time of bike rides and pointless journeys in the countryside. Days so pleasant and numerous that outdoor projects were actually completed. Firewood was unburned and leaves hung longer on the trees.

Suddenly it is cold. Not an arctic cold, but a transformative force, an unpleasant nudge. Blood thickened to sludge. And the motor-neurons? The little fuckers are resolutely defiant, not even attempting to mate with assigned muscles.  A walk down Fifth Ave. become a Jack London adventure. The left leg swinging erratically, the foot landing in a mosaic of unplanned locations. Disablement in a very public place is a new experience. I am not ready.

Preliminary analysis points to the chill. The body plays its defensive game and protects the core. The extremities go on short rations. A marginalized system of cranks, levers, and pulleys operate at a quasi-functional level in ideal conditions. A small reduction here, a slight tightening there and this system becomes sub-functional. A hand loses its grip, a leg reduces it arc, and a whole set of possibilities suddenly gets smaller. Cold reduces life.

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