Dirty Dishes
It seems to me that everything I write here sits in the sink until its time comes. A dirty dish left to soak for later. A fragment of something which aspires to a future purpose. Sometimes it has remnants of things I’ve eaten. Chewed on. Spat out. Smeared and abandoned. Sometimes they’re left by others for me to clean. Other times they pile up, the traces of a busy schedule or the lethargy of a procrastinating soul. They contain the traces of sustenance, life-giving crumbs undigested and untasted. Documentation of meals in archival form. Each one of these pieces a plate upon which once sat a fresh meal. Only through the ritual of cleansing can they return to a state of re-use. But the more they pile up, the more anxiety-inducing they become. Further from the clear mind of the empty sink. It’s always my turn.
The dishes are attached to me. In me. On me. Cleansing them only provides the temporary medicament where I am able to bask in a station arrived rather than a destination reached. The dishes are as much self-portrait as they are co-pilot. Portraits of the stuff of life, but also a reflection from the inside out. Sometimes they tell anxiety-inducing stories left behind by others. The smears and stains which just won’t wash out. The stubborn traces of corrosive relationships which refuse to wash whiter. The ritual is a cycle. The more I write, the more the dishes pile up, but sometimes I get to empty the sink. The catharsis which comes from telling the truth. The kind of satisfaction which comes from the plates neatly put away, the cutlery organized in drawers, and the effluvia conveniently washed down an ever-welcoming drain.
Over time I’ve come to a place of peace with the kitchen chaos. I can’t control it, but I can accept it. It’s as much a metaphor for anxiety as it is a means to come to terms with the past. Some plates have been in the sink for years. Some get wiped and set aside to drain. Lately I’ve been digging deeper into the bottom of the pile, and drawing out some of those older dishes. Youthful meals turned to crusted mold. These are the stories which always take the longest to clean, but often are the briefest to dispatch. These are the ones I tell my daughter. These plates are the ones with often the most painful of memories. The dishes which are at the bottom of the pile for a reason.
The form of this needs longevity beyond a long-running reverse-chronological feed. It needs its own digital sink. A place to be able to recall each dish, clean or not. Second, third, fourth generation cleans. A place of recollection as much as a place of catharsis. A specific anthological wing which affords the space for more daily habit. Less precious. Not a place to neatly arrange the dishes as they soak, but a place to put the dishes and get on with something else. Only in the future does it become a means unto itself. A savings account into which one pours a habit of writing but which benefits from a generous rate of compound interest over time. It’s time to start investing.
Let’s get to work.
