I'll say it again:

I don't have a dishwasher.

It's primitive, I know. Almost obscene, isn't it? And yet, I'm not sad. Honestly. I've yet to shed a tear over my dishwasherless state. Call me sick, but there's something cathartic about doing the dishes by hand. It's the ritual of it. iPod clipped to my belt. Sennheiser earphones . . . silverware first, then glassware . . . this is not about washing dishes . . . bowls, then plates . . . it's the comfort of the ritual. It's about following a routine so that the mind can wander and improvise.

Another part of it is about procrastination. Cleaning usually means I'm putting off doing something else I either need to do, or want to do but don't know how to start. Like writing. Every really tough paper I had in college was written in a very clean room.

Ritual. All good art is usually based on it. It's a springboard for improvisation and innovation. Jazz, for example: an extension, a refinement of the blues ritual - Albert Murray teaches this. Breaking the rules means recognizing they are there to break. Blogs have become ritualistic. Most follow certain conventions in form. But it's the little variations and improvisations thrown in here and there that make them interesting. (That and engaging writing.)

Speaking of ritual . . . and blogs: I'm going to try posting little shorts in the Campfire Papers every day. That section started with best intentions, but has really fallen off it's mark. The musings of two separate people, rothko and ghost-faced healah, it was supposed to be a place to jot down quick little ideas. Little episodes. They could take the form of prose, or they could look more like poetry (though I'd caution against using that word.) Incomplete, yes. Underdeveloped, true. Simplistic, sometimes. But keep in mind - the meaning is in the ritual.

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