I am waiting to see a medical doctor. I sit in the windowless exam room. Hard light at the poor people clinic. Had my blood pressure and temperature checked. They weighed and measured me. The effortlessness of placing the hard plastic cover on the thermometer, before inserting it into my mouth. The perfunctory throwing away of it, into the magical garbage can, where everything just disappears, never to be seen again.
All the certainty here, in the clinic, in the structures. Certainty of procedures: the plastic gloves, the hand sanitizer at every doorway, the blood pressure cuffs, velcro, all the disposable goods. We play grown-up, go along with the program, trust the program, believe with solid certainty in the program. This is it. This set-up is real. Not:
We are animals.
That row of shiny coated paper boxes, multicolored vinyl gloves, cabinets with holes cut out for just this purpose: the dispensation of disposable gloves. As if things could go on this way forever. There is nothing beyond the neat, clean edges of this civilization. Nothing doing. The gloves just appear and disappear. The paper, the plastic. Equipments.