Perforation Problems

Giving blood is one of those things good people do. I've never done it. I've always known I should—it saves lives, and everyone says it doesn't hurt much. But even in high school, when everyone used the blood drives as a way to get out of class, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Am I scared of needles? Not particularly, though I don't love them (who does?) But I'm not terrified like my grandma always was, crying and pulling her arms away as the nurse tried to do an IV. I let them do it—I just choose not to look. And years ago I learned the trick of digging your nails into the palm of your other hand as the needle was going in—if you're hurting yourself more than the pin prick, you won't even notice it. This seems like some kind of dark, unhealthy metaphor for life. So I'm capable of giving blood. I could handle it. Why haven't I? I suppose it's a combination of fear of the unknown and a resistance to giving up my time—both silly and selfi...

It was a small farmhouse in Atlanta, Indiana, down a gravel driveway. There was no sign, just a name on the mailbox: Gayle Jordan. “Is his last name Jordan?” I asked my mom, parking my Volt near a discarded wheelbarrow. “What? No, Robert.” “Robert Jordan?” As we get out of the car, a blond woman in her sixties steps out, carrying tote bags to the nearby open van. “Are we in the right place?” My mom asks. “If you’re looking for the studio, yes! Just give me one second.” Just then we see a face in the large window above the garage—a man with long, curly gray hair, beckoning us with a hand. He looks like an artist. The woman puts the bags in the van and leads us into the garage and up the stairs, where the space suddenly transforms from a storage area filled with old sets of Monopoly and trampolines and a creepy antique locomotive with carved animals peering out the windows into an artist’s loft. It’s beautiful. A desk chair in front of a wooden drafting table, fille...