an art gallery in Exposition Park in Los Angeles

With his back hunched over what looked like a dashboard of tasks, he worked diligently, measuring with care and precision, orchestrating an army of plates, bowls, pots and pans. Some had to be rubbed with more force, some needed more soap, but for the most part, the challenge was in how to maximize the use of space of the drying rack. There were simply more dishes to be washed than how much the rack could hold. He spent good five minutes deciding in which order he would wash what, and he rolled up his sleeves exposing big lettered tattooed words on his right forearm. The afternoon sunlight hitting the opaque window created an illusion of making the kitchen seem more like an art gallery with a dimmed light installation exhibited on the other side of the wall.

Strangely, watching him wash the dishes in silence, in concentration and dedication calmed down the voices in my chest.

"In an hour, press down the weight onto your feet, don't lose balance and tuck your stomach in. Be aware of every muscle on the face as to not give away anything to anyone who may have caught an expression on your face."

"In two hours, some work must be turned in so that the deadline is met. This will involve having access to my laptop, which is about a 30-minute bus ride and a 10-minute walk away from where I am now."

"There is a big chunk of cheese to be grated to sprinkle over the scrambled eggs which will contain a mix of diced onions, mushroom, and garlic. The size of the cutting board and the amount of vegetables are such that one has to be smart about positioning the knife that has to be held in a certain way. It would involve bending of the elbows and shifting of the shoulders in an unnatural manner that could take away the attention from the tension on my lips to an awkward pose of my upper body."

Contrary to a multiple voices echoing simultaneously in my chest, his washing the dishes without a trace of worry on his back seemed to be greater than what was actually taking place. There were no questions, no doubts, no realizations or nothingness. Just were. Just was. It wasn't about whether he should be doing the dishes then, or two minutes later. Neither the fear of not washing them thoroughly enough nor having the need to do a better job. No doubts of whether he was being efficient enough, productive enough, and definitely no questions about the dishes, how long they have been sitting there in the sink, no complaints of the water temperature, and most importantly, how still he held his hunched back. The flexing of his forearm muscles. A sense of breath that wasn't noticeable but definitely not without. All at the same time, he did a perfect job of washing the dishes. It was flawless.

After that, he ate a plate of sausages, scrambled eggs that had onions, mushroom, garlic and cheese. He did not drink coffee but took big gulps of water instead.

with a drop of wine, milking lilac wine

forcing out the words,
hitting "delete" "delete"
but not tonight
no editing, no second-guessing
trusting, trusting myself
my words, thoughts, stream of consciousness
flow through, seep onto
the blank page

first snow of this winter
i saw a sign that said
free 1+1 americano on the first day of snow
where's my +1?
when will i hold your hand?
when can i lean my head on yours
when will i let my heart go again
take it raw, make a salad
put it in the oven, cook to the core

dancing and looking ridiculous
but each step must not be wasted
each breath is precious
remember
to remember
even though my heart refuses
even though i cannot see
lose the senses
take care of myself
like i would of my own child

edge of a barbwire
remember her
the fiery fierceness
and contradictions