It’s not a system. It’s just how I do things. An improvisation on the fly, influenced by decades of lived experience, thought, memory. A personal configuration file. A topography of consciousness. A constellation of synapses. Etcetera.
Every time when I play this little puzzle game of loading the dishwasher, rearranging plates and bowls and cups… it’s all just only so I don’t have to hand wash a single dish, god forbid.
I’ve decided: Clothespins are for closing up something like the wrapper of a half eaten granola bar. Frozen peas and carrots and such get a plastic locking chip clip from IKEA.
The best part about tonight is that tomorrow is still the weekend.
They say you don’t get to call yourself a poet, but you can say you write poetry—or something like that.
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