Meditation 51

4 May 2020

Post communication culture. I won’t agree with him, so he says he doesn’t care. As if his caring came only after right reception of what he calls his research. What is his caring to him? If I agree, he’s corroborated. If not, he drops his affect, glares at me as I turn to walk away with my dog. In the Fascist Care Home, love is abridged only by difference. The more same you are, the more you are loved, so long as your same remains their same. Recite a pledge each morning to agree with the person who cares for you. Else your caregiver take herself away, move to another patient. The music’s not good any more, but the beat is sure, and there are lots of snare drums. Television testifies to old battles, those won by the good guys. If my caring means nothing to him, who then am I? I speak in words, sentences--try me on paragraphs--but they turn to dust before they get to him. It’s the scene where you thought you’d found your twin, but in actual fact you’d found a mirror image of another kind. My student remembers childhood trauma on her walk. I suggest she describe only what she sees outside herself. It’s maybe a half hour of relief, in the absence of care. So she watched as several men carried a fallen palm tree to the canal and pushed it in. I saw a cluster-spray of palm roots at Lanikai Beach yesterday; part of the tree had washed up. A little girl took its stage, holding her mother's hand, and looked at two large brown dogs walking the beach with a knock-kneed man. The beach was otherwise empty, except for two young white men who tossed their bikes down and walked into clear water. As I left, I saw a sticker on one bike: “A`ole Haole.” “But he is one,” I said to a woman walking beside me. She sounded European, muttered to herself how good the water felt. A line of people stood on one of the bunkers, looking out to sea. The president feels a lot of pity, but only for himself. He says he’s treated worse than Lincoln. I don’t care. Do you?