November 2004

Dear Readers,

Years from now, I hope to re-read this particular blog and laugh, picturing myself propped up on pillows trying to balance my keyboard on my lap, cursing over not breaking down and getting the laptop which would come in so handy now as I try to type without throwing my back into another painful spasm. I have restricted myself to ibuprofen until this column is finished, but my head is nevertheless filled with fog from the pain in my back and leg. I shift again. I cannot get comfortable. I should see a doctor. Maybe I can wait until tomorrow…

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I awoke before everyone else and, as is my wont, began thinking about how I could maximize a few stolen moments of “alone time” before the demands of breakfast and soccer and an all-day production marathon took over the rest of my waking hours. I was feeling a little toxic after a long week of work, and decided a nice bike ride to my local coffee shop on North Ave. would be just the thing. I’d pick up donuts and be back before anyone even knew I was gone. It had been raining earlier, but it was fairly warm, just a little misty.

I live on the east side of Wauwatosa. The residential streets in my neighborhood are quiet and mostly level, perfect for an easy ride. I took Meinecke west about three blocks past Cranky Al’s, then headed back east on North, riding in the bike lane. As the lane came to an end, I tapped the brakes. I remember my wheels locking up on the wet pavement, then the quick realization that yes, I was actually going down, then a full spin in the middle of the normally busy street, my body twisting most unnaturally. My right cheek kissed the pavement as my bike landed on top of me. I lay there for a second. A nice older lady was standing over me, trying to lift my bike and urging me to get out of the street. At first I thought the cuts and bruises on my leg were the worst of it, but as the minutes wore on, it grew increasingly difficult to breathe. Every inhale brought a stab of pain and not enough oxygen. A steel band formed quickly around my torso. I had seriously messed up my back.

Like an idiot, I still stopped at Al’s for donuts, refusing rides home from several of the good neighbors there, insisting that I could make it on my own. Stupid. By the time I stumbled in to my house, I could barely stand. Eight hours later, I am sitting up for the first time.

Call it instant karma. Three days ago, my art director, Tony, flipped his truck on the same off-ramp he takes every day. He’d realized too late as he took a tight turn that he hadn’t compensated enough for the wet road conditions. Fortunately, he walked out of the emergency room on crutches that same evening, but he’s pretty messed up. I’ve spent the last two days fussing over him while trying to keep myself from asking out loud why he didn’t slow down if he knew the roads were wet. He and I are both Italian, this is how we love: a combination of coddling and guilt, raised to an art form unique to our ethnicity. Those same cultural propensities may also inform my thinking that somehow I deserved to take my own tumble. After all, who am I to judge?

And speaking of judgment, let’s talk about working artists. Those who actually focus their efforts on specific, sometimes lofty goals leave themselves open to endless critiques of not only their work, but how they’ve managed their careers. For every finished film, collection of canvases and full-length novel that doesn’t propel the artist to fame, there’s abundant input offered by so-called well-wishers as to how the whole process could’ve been handled to a more successful end. But most of the time, we needn’t bother. For even the most savvy artist, any fame achieved is as much luck as brilliant work. And when the work is actually lacking, the artist doesn’t need to be told. Artists are their own worst critics. In the coming months, Vital Source will offer personal essays from local artists who’ve crossed that first hurdle and are left with a burning question: Now what? Tea Benduhn, author of Gravel Queen, starts the series on page 15.

For our cover story, Frizell Bailey took a trip to three of Milwaukee’s most prominent charitable organizations. He writes about how they have coped with rising need in the face of a three-year decline in resources. The answers are not surprising: hard work, resourcefulness and dedication. “Challenging Charities” (p. 18) inspired us to extend an offer to you: instead of publishing a typical “gift guide,” Vital offers a Giving Guide (p. 26) – a directory of organizations that rely on your help. Consider this: if your family, friends or workplace do a gift exchange, make a small donation in someone else’s name to a charity of their choice. Encourage others to do the same. It beats scrambling around for that “perfect gift under $10.” Everybody gets to be a hero, and your Hamilton really makes a difference.

Peace,

Jon Anne