non-solidarity

looking through the face hole in the table at the chiropractor’s office, i reach my arms around to see if i can hold a book under the hole and read while i lie there with the hot compress on my back - but I cant reach. next a crescendo of internal bickering begins: why isnt this table in the middle of the room where the physical therapist can walk on both sides of it, instead of against the wall thatmakesnosensedoesntherrightarmgettired?....but that fades into enrique iglesias on the radio followed by my bad translation of his lyrics. eventually i settle in for the 20 minutes of heat compress i have coming. all i can see is the carpet. it's sorta a blue blend and i start picking apart the colors in it- a typical business or school carpet at home- but here it’s a peace-giving luxury. i can feel a noticeable calm in my chest, just by seeing this carpet.

i havent written lately because like thumper in bambi I’ve had nothing good to say. i've been put through the ringer, but felt i haven't handled it with aplomb, i've been given plenty to learn from, but felt i haven’t learned a thing. and if my high school teacher's poster was true "that your whole life has been a preparation for this moment" then my goodness, what have i been doing all this time? and as for when in rome...well im just not roman and its showed.

but i'm worried about that carpet. well the carpet and the taxis really. i've gone back to taxis, in fact ive become estranged from the bus, i pass her in my taxi and look away. but i think the carpet and the bus are different. what i mean is, i think i drew a line -- though whether i drew it or i simply have it is unclear -- either way its there.

even now i struggle to write because i haven’t figured it out. i think its that i'm comfortable making some choices in "solidarity", more accurately said, some choices of intentional discomfort in order to a. learn and b. live more Simply, but having sub-par healthcare is not one of them and what that says about me i dont care. that may seem an obvious choice, but its been a trying one. the story of the carpet is that i started treatment in a clean, costly but ineffective clinic, then moved to the equivalent of a bring your own resources, dirty summer camp, that actually caused harm, and finally ended up with the carpet.

i can say that the first hand experience of second rate care exposed me to another reality, deepened my understanding of the struggles of poverty and will hopefully lead to greater compassion, but i'll tell you i wouldn't do it again. and after all that’s happened i can justify my anger and after buildings with crumbling walls i can accept my peace at seeing the luxurious carpet. that’s why the carpet is on one side of the line i've found.

but the taxis i can’t justify. not even when the bus is so bursting-at-the-seams-full that my purse gets literally stuck between two people's butts. for all my healthcare confusion, the taxis are simple: "a private railroad car is not an acquired taste, one takes to it immediately."