An author-owned imprintThe Asking Press

What happens to us when our surroundings stop asking things of us?

Comfort is a design goal that, met completely, removes the demand the body was built to answer.

The argument underneath all of it. Demand is the input the body is regulated against; take it away and capacity falls on a delay long enough to escape notice. For most of human history the load was compulsory. Now the machines are the first force that sets it on purpose, and they are being built to ask less. A clinical book about what we are choosing when we choose ease.

Full manuscript available on request.

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When the job stops asking, what will?

Nobody told you that the job was the exercise.

For thirty or forty years your day charged you for everything — the stairs, the standing, the carrying, the deadline you could not put down. None of it was recorded anywhere, none of it felt like training, and all of it was holding you up. Then it stopped, on a Friday, and they gave you a cake.

What follows is not old age arriving on schedule. It is a withdrawal, and it is invisible for the same reason the deposits were: nothing was ever counting. The help arrives to meet it, and the help is real — the grab bar, the delivery, the daughter who flies in and empties the sink. Kindness is not the opposite of this problem. Kindness is how it happens.

A physiatrist of thirty-two years, writing about the patients who argued back, makes the case for deciding in advance which load is worth keeping — while it is still your decision to make.

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A nerve that can only listen.

The saphenous nerve runs down the inside of the shin and carries feeling in; it cannot move a muscle. Roman, a physiatrist, runs a neural link into his own saphenous and spends three years learning to read it. His colleague Rex takes the motor link, the one that acts for you, for the opposite reason, and is hollowed out by it. Naomi, disabled from birth, makes the strongest case against Roman’s whole idea, and wins it.

What is spent, endures.

What would a day look like if every hour asked something?

Not a day without difficulty. A day in which every hour asked something, and was paid.

One day, hour by hour, shown twice: at thirty-five and at sixty-five, because the same act carries a different price on each side of a window that opens somewhere around forty-five. Every hour is offered at a floor, a standard and a ceiling; every load can be had from what you already own. One measurement, the chair stand, and one card, written the night before.

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Is the help getting smaller, or are you?

What does any help leave for the person to do? And how would anyone know?

Every assistive thing changes what gets asked of a person: a cane, a brace, a hearing aid, a caregiver, a course of therapy that ends, a job that ends, a machine that drafts your work. While the help supplies part of the performance, the performance no longer says what the person alone can supply.

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