Category: Journal

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Dishes, Dry Yourselves

I’m not quite sure what psychological phenomenon happened to me when I was young, but I hate drying dishes.

When I was younger and would have to wash the dishes at home, I think I hardly ever dried the dishes at all. In fact, I think I could probably count on my fingers the amount of times I dried the dishes. And I think I could even carry that over to putting the dishes away. How did that happen?

When I recollect my various times of doing the dishes, I remember someone would always clear the dish rack for me while I ran the water. It was not because I was unable to, but I always remember wither my mum or my dad telling me that they would clear the dish rack for me while I started. I can hardly remember a time when I actually had to put the dishes away.

Another factor that played into my strange dish-washing psychology is the fact that we have a huge dish-rack at our house. Large, and with three levels, one hardly had reason to run out of space for dishes and, if planned well, one could cram a piles of dishes into the space that was there. Besides, on rack, the dishes simply dried themselves, by no effort my own.

And so, somehow, from these various elements that made up my dish washing history, I spawned an aversion to drying dishes. I really don’t mind to wash them – in fact I find it a relaxing, almost therapeutic exercise – just don’t ask me to dry them.

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The Choices That Make Us

I yearn for pieces of my past – perhaps because they are pieces of me. Something as simple as eating my rice with my hands while sitting cross-legged on the couch – I love it.

These things never had this much importance to me. I certainly didn’t eat with my hands every day in Pakistan. But there’s something about it – something nostalgic that transcends experience. I find that I feel a greater desire to live stereotypes – to fulfill every expectation of the displaced immigrant, pining for home. I become that person. I choose to become him.

Everyone has their aspirations. Everyone wishes they were different in some way, whether for better or for worse. And there comes a time, or we can make it come, when we are faced with a choice to live that person. In many ways it really just comes down to that, a choice. Some people make it. They dress as if from another world, or act like they are from another time. They live and breathe a persona that they themselves invented, and eventually chose to live. They become that persona, that character.

I’ve never quite understood those people. The people who cut a path apart from everyone else. But I see the method in it. I too make choices that comprise who I am – we all do. Sometimes I even shape my surroundings with the hope that somehow they will bring me to be the person I want to be. That perhaps surrounding myself with books will make me read them, and that putting notebooks on my shelves, I will be forced to write in them.

Ultimately everyone makes choices of who they are. In many ways we are shaped by the world around us, but in many ways we are really shaped by the choices we make – the things we let in, and the things we leave out. I don’t have the flame-red hair, the 20s wardrobe, or piercings all over my face, but perhaps that just makes me who I am as well. I am a simple guy. I like books, and sometimes I read them. I keep a lot of notebooks, and sometimes I write in them. I like chai, rice and I eat pie for birthdays. I like international relations, cultures and colours. I serve a great God and I don’t belong in this world. I live because of something I had no control over, an act of incomprehensible grace – but I made a choice, and I live each day in the grace of that choice.

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The Bands Face West

People like order. I know that some would argue there are many who hate organization, and would rather live in their own mess, but usually these are younger adolescents who really aren’t sure what it is they want.

I was recently hanging clothes on the line with my grandfather when it struck me once again how much order matters to so many people. Having spent some time in the US Navy, my grandfather with his military style neatness is no exception. Everything around the house has its own place and function, and after an article or tool is used, it goes right back to the exact spot from which it came. Everything is labelled and put away in boxes to ensure that it is always there when it is needed. 

And so it was, that as I began to help him hang the clothes, we got to the underwear, and he reminded me that “the bands should face West.” Each pair of underwear had to be hung on its side, and all in the same direction, with the elastic band facing West, toward the old garage. I’m not quite sure why that orientation was chosen, but regardless, that was the way they were hung. The result, was a neat string of underwear on the line all facing west with no discrepancy between them. 

And the tendency towards order doesn’t stop there. The very fact that roads run in straight lines and rules are made to keep cars on them are testimonies to the value of order in the running of infrastructure. People shuffle along in lines, waiting for tickets to football games while others wait on a bench for the bus to arrive at its designated stop. We live in a country where things work and are designed to work like clockwork – and for the most part, they do. Buses and trains arrive and depart almost precisely when they were scheduled to. Even engines and machinery have to work according to a certain order and system, and if they don’t, they’re usually considered broken or finicky.

However, there are places where order is not the rule of thumb. It is there that you find all sorts of creativity in transport, from how much is transported, to how many are transported.  Buses tend to come at whatever time they arrive, and cues are usually replaced by mobs of elbows and fingernails competing to get to the desired booth or door. Electricity goes out for hours, and traffic lights are often dim poles that hang over the demolition derby below. Things do get done, but when is usually a mystery and how is usually a miracle. So, unless people would rather move and live to these places where life is generally a colourful chaos, which personally I enjoy – they should buckle down, clean their room and make sure their underwear band is facing West. 

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Galvanism is no Myth

I think Dr. Frankenstein had something going with his ideas of electricity bringing life through galvanism. Though Frankenstein dreamed big, wanting to animate a body and create a human, I think perhaps he would have done better to start small, and to choose a subject somewhat less destructive.

For me, this subject came in the form of a Danish pastry. Brought on the verge of its expiry date, it was then neglected in its box, left for time to harden its once soft and supple, delicious, sugary middle. To me, this poor Danish pastry was dead, there could be no remedy but the rubbish bin. However, that was not to be. I was quickly assured by Grandma that if zapped in the microwave, its hard and dead body would soon be brought back to life and would be edible again. Sure enough, after a short time of being zapped the microwave, the Danish pasty was soft and warm, its sides easing in as if exhaling from a living breath.

It would appear galvanism is no myth. My Grandma knows of its powers.

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Words

Words are a gift. The power of memory, the ability to change lives, transform minds, and give hope for the future; all these are held within words. How simple is the marrow and sinews of language, and yet how vast and potent is its reach.
Some miss the power of words. Ignorant to the strength that one can wield in the wake of the tongue or pen, they flair aimlessly. Words are a weapon; some know their power. Others hope that with enough strokes and blows perhaps the point will bludgeon its way to the hearts of others.
But for those who know the power of the word; those who know its weight and feel; words are clear. With swift and calculated movements they pierce the heart of those who listen, burrowing deep into the innermost parts, deep into the desires, hopes, fears and memories of others. These are the greats. These are the men and women that hold the hearts and minds of others in their own. These are the writers.

I am not yet one, but I hope to join the ranks one day.