The sadness of a single plate.

Prior to this summer, my living situation had always been a cluttered mess. I did my best not to have things dirty, but things were never tidy, or even close. Most of it was that I’d never gotten unpacked to the extent that everything had “a place”, so I couldn’t follow the axiom “a place for everything and everything in its place”, nor could I put things “away.” Then of course there were the migraines and depression. And, prior to this move, I lived in a mouse infested slumlord apartment where I literally had to store silverware and dishcloths in Ziploc bags because the mice would shit in all the cupboards and drawers every night.

That’s changed fairly drastically over the past six months, to the point where I wouldn’t be afraid for the landlord to stop by unannounced. Which is great but also sad — in Denzel Washington’s movie Demolition Man it showed him eating alone, a single plate and place setting in the dish drainer after dinner. And then what?! At least when things are not-put-away there’s clearly something to do, and some satisfaction when you do it. Washing your single plate and fork, and having that restore your kitchen to cleanliness, reinforces the loneliness… As it seems everything does.

 

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