A How To Guide on Ripping Your Heart Out (so no one else will)

Welcome! Today is going to be a painful and interesting class, so let's dive right in! No pun intended...Well you see its a pun because you'll be plunging your hand into your own sternum in a matter of moments...No? Okaaaaaay!

So everyone stand over a tarp. This is to keep the blood from flowing all over and making a gross congealed mess. Good. Feet shoulder width apart. Deep breath in. Exhale....Good.

Step 1: Feel what is aching inside you.

Feel the itch.

Good. Think about it deeper.

Feel all that is pushing and pulling beneath the surface there

We are going to get at that tonight. Right now.

Feel the pain that emanates out that you can't get rid of

This pain is most often visualized or described as weight.

How much does your pain weigh? Clearly you can't lift it anymore because you're here.

Good. Feel it growing under your skin.

Now take your fingers, hold them together flat.

Some call this a knife hand. I think Karate or something.

Make them nice and strong and stiff.

Place them just to the left of the center of your chest.

Good.

Now scratch the first layer of skin back.

It stings. We know.

More is to come! Get excited people!

But this is hard too.

Dig.

Deeper. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Like a little mouse! Little little!

Nice.

Bring up one flap of that skin

Take it between your fingers and peel back.

Its a thin piece. So be careful not to break it.

And if you don't have a flap yet, take that nail, curve it down and try to slice.

And again, between the tips of your finger, that skin, and PULL!!

Not like a bandaid. Bad idea. Quick is bad here, people! Quick is bad.

Great, this is an open wound. Good Work.

Step 2: Now that you've done that, start burrowing a hole there.

You should feel the blood on your finger like the zest of a tangerine.

It might sting. A lot.

Keep going.

Keep scraping back. Scratch deeper.

There you go. Keep pushing your finger down, like a drill.

Circular, burrowing motions help. The muscle is easy tissue people. Rips like kleenex.

--Oh, we have a few falling behind...Or quitters. They are quitting. That's fine.

HEY DONT MIND THE PEOPLE LEAVING!

Just keep focused. They left because reaching into themselves is too hard.

It's not for everyone. Im proud of you. Keep going.

Step 3: Yes, this is just the third step!

About now you are going to come across something hard.

Like oak. Like an old branch.

This is your rib.

Don't be deceived, it no longer bares leaves.

So break it.

Reach one tiny finger behind it and begin to pull forward.

It will be strong at first, but as you pull harder its rough bark will snap off into small shingles. It will come off like loose pieces of dry wall falling from a hole.

Good.

Now two quick things:

1: Don't stop.

Keep pulling back.

Eventually it will snap

Underneath the frail pieces is the core.

This is stronger. Its fresh. Its the trunk of your bone.

The sap is underneath, so it is sticky and young.

This is the strength you didn't know you had.

This is what got you here. To this point. The strength in your bones.

Break it.

Go ahead.

2: Right now you're in a lot of pain.

Look at yourself--!!

--Or don't if you think you will pass out

But you should be in a lot of pain.

You've got your finger an inch deep in under your skin.

In your chest!!!!

You are leaking blood like a bad, old dam.

Your wrist has a literal stream coming down, staining your shirt.

Its like watching a ruptured juice box.

No! For God's sake don't pull your hand out!

Because if you do, you won't like what comes out.

So it's gonna hurt.

But you are following instructions well.

It hurts because you've punctured your self.

Im proud of you. You're going deeper into yourself than you ever had.

That is hard. Good job.

Step 4: That feeling of not breathing its gonna last a whole lot longer

Its like some one is stepping on your chest.

Smothering your diaphragm until it looks like a wasted, useless balloon.

Its gonna stay this way. Shriveled-like.

So lets keep going.

BY NOW you've definitely got to be about ready to break those suckers! YEAH!

So lets take a deep inhale; dig your fingers an inch deeper,

Wrap them better around those two or three ribs.

Get a good handful here.

Good. Inhale. Now on the exhale YANK as hard as you can.

Out and Upward.

Now upward gives it a better break and keeps it from the lungs.

AAAAAANNNND GO!

…

Okay. Okay. Good.

Now I see you've pulled your hand out and blood is literally pouring on the floor.

Sooo, I want you to quickly stick your hand back in there.

Quickly now.

Good.

And now you're no longer breathing really.

Your throat has closed itself. Because its pissed.

You've just broken your own ribs back. Your body is going to be mad.

We're gonna keep going.

Step 5: It looks like you're bleeding less. Which is good. We need to see this next part.

You're going to lift your sternum now. Yeah, that big bone in the middle.

Lift it like a car hood. Good. Also keep that flap of skin back.

Can you feel the air rushing in around inside you.

Your insides are actually feeling things now! EXCITING!

The air feels cool and crisp. Its swirling around your lungs.

Not in. But around it. Its nice, huh?

Now that, kid, that's breathing!

Step 6: Now reach in.

At this point you should be able to feel a small rhythmic tremor.

Yes.

That is your heart.

That is what your heart beat actually feels like.

Its probably sharper than you thought it would be. More abrupt even.

But it's really strong, isn't it? Yeah. That's it.

See, you're stronger than you thought.

Step 7: Now this next part stings.

You're probably tired of hearing me say that.

But push just a little deeper and find where the pulsing is coming from.

It shouldn't be too far.

Feel it?

Now feel how far the pulse goes.

What I mean is, find the distance the heart expands out after it contracts.

Good. Feel out where that is. Everyone's is different.

But find the width and stay just outside where the wall extends.

You might feel the Aorta bump up against the pads of your fingers.

It's like mini high-fives!

Step 8: Now once you have a feel for that, see if you can find the rhythm.

Find the contractions of your heart. Find its pace.

Now bring your hand, very lightly, very gently closer in around it.

Now pulse your hand with the pulse of your beating heart.

But be very careful, this is the thing that keeps you alive after all.

Feel that? Good.

Now it should feel like you are pumping your own heart.

You're sending blood out, streaming it through your arms and legs and lungs and brain.

Good.

You have your life in your hands now.

Step 9: Now listen closely.

I don't want you to pull it out or change it.

I know that is how the class was described, but listen to me and do as I say.

Don't move it. Don't adjust it. Don't play with it.

You are feeling its natural rhythm.

Just hold it.

Keep your hands clasped around it and feel that little monster move.

Hold it.

Its beautiful.

This is the thing that keeps you alive. What powers you everyday.

Do you feel how beautiful each slight movement is? The machinery of it?

The liveliness to it too though! Its like churning inside.

Do you feel how gorgeous the music it beats out as it drums inside you?

Do you feel the beauty of it? Do you hear it?

This is you. This is yours.

This is the beautiful muscle that is grinding away in the depths of you.

In the darkest places this little gem keeps going. Knowing its own worth beneath all this blood.

You've just now gotten to it.

It's pretty, isn't it?

..

..

..

Thats you.--

Feel it again.

..

..

..

Don't take it out. Don't change it. Don't do anything.

..

..

Just hold it.

..

Feel it move.

Know its rhythm.

Memorize it.

..

..

..

And let it keep going.

Keep It

Keep the faith, Child

All in all keep the faith

You'll see the struggle in your own bare bones

thirsting in the desert of your chest

dry sandy blood

gritting and teething its way through your veins

Child, keep the faith

When you can feel the hot water wanting to cleanse you---

WAIT.

Its not good water, Son.

Its not.

Its empty and keeps you coming back for more

Son, look closer at the water being offered

I dont care how cracked your lips

How dusty your tongue

or the salt stick of your skin

I dont care,

Look closer at the water child.

It will not save you.

That water, she is dangerous

She is offering to quench you

but not take the desert out of you

She is a fucking wavy mirage image, Son.

watch the heat rise off her bare shoulders

and full lips

Boy, those lips are wet, but not full of grace

Child, keep the faith in the desert inside you

It burns and scorches,

chars the walls of your heart

but Child, only you can turn that into something better

Not the water. Not her.

Careful Child.

Keep the faith

The sand between your toes will stay

and the grind of dirt in your teeth may be forever

But its better than thirst her water will inflict.

Keep the Faith, Boy.

Your desert is long and scarring.

Keep the faith as you walk

I dont care how burnt your feet

how red your face.

How dry the throat.

Keep the Faith.

Ill be there for you.

At a distance.

But dont drink the water, Boy.

Dont drink the water.

Where I Was

You never took my breath away

but I took my own to give to you.

Do you know what I did for you?

I did what only God can do

I parted my ribs,

grabbed all skinny skin and muscle off this ragged thing

tore at myself

ripped out lungs

pulled at bone till it cracked with a snap of my fingers

I pulled for you

and I gave you what only God really gives.

Do you know what I did for you over and over again?

Because this body can only handle so much snapping it turns out

I didnt know that.

But my body did.

So do you know what I did for you?

Because my left shoulder aches from carrying you

My fingers have no skin from wiping your leaking tears

My feet barely walk for the miles I chased after you

My lips crack from all the dry kisses we had

My stomach couldn't swallow all the frustration so Im doubled over

All of me shakes to the ground

disassembled on my accord

At most, I gave you my best

At least, my best even if it paraded my worst

I gave you a home

I gave you a heart

I gave you a way away from yourself …

So.

Well.

So, keep it all.

Just keep it.

I've got more some of me somewhere.

What He Meant.

“It's okay. No one knows what the hell they are doing”

This was his way of comforting her. He thought it was a great idea. By equating her position, her existential problem, with the rest of the world she would find company. And in company there is relief or comradeship. Or something that would at least help. Yes, this was a good idea.

“Horse shit! A ton of people know. You do. What bullshit! People know what they are doing”

“Not true”

“Well you fucking damn well seem like you do”

“Okay...Okay”

It was a not a great idea to comfort her this way. Though his philosophical speculation may have been accurate it was poor in counsel.

She was experiencing so much. Doubt dressed her everyday and a cloud, convoluted as it was, left her mismatched and she flapped about. Poor thing. Her situation grew more grave everyday. She buried herself further down, below self speculation. She didn't seem to be coming back.

He tried something else, “It turns out you can't do both, can you?”
“What?” she retorted

“You can't find clarity by adding more stuff. More clouds, I guess. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, I guess. Kind of. What do you mean?”

What did he mean? He asked himself. In his head. God knows if he said it aloud there might be hell to pay. What did he mean? He sat, thought the thought one more time--

then he walked out. He left her there, in her deepest need for relief. The fidgeting of her hands was like trying to ring the doubt from her clothes. Maybe she could squeeze hard enough, she could twist the cotton, make it bleed out all the feeling she had. Get rid of it, get rid of it, she thought. She was a mess. And what did he do? He left her. He took all his stuff, all his clouds and left...

Her hands stopped and she stared at the air he was just occupying only a few heartbeats earlier.

What? she thought.

In between the echo of his steps down the hall he thought, That's what I meant, right? I meant that more clouds means more confusion and when I see myself, at least in there, in that room, in that time and space, with that person I am a cloud. That is how I see myself to her. Or in relation to her, rather. So I am a cloud. That is what I meant. Right?

It was too late to question; the hallway no longer held the bouncing sound of his footsteps. He had released them to the city street, filled the sidewalk with his shoe clacking now.

Sure. That is what I mean. Sort of....God, she's beautiful.

She was a Dam

I didnt edit this! yikes.

----------

The way she unraveled was magical. The whole process worth watching. Truly a work of scything furry and fists clenched ready to punch whole troves of air. She, tooth and nail style, fought every bit of herself. –Why are you so strong? Why do you want this so badly? Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. She was strong. She could never see herself in this position. Ever. She knew better. Well, knew she could be better (was better) than slinking to the floor like a loose dress, wrinkles stacked on each other, offering the full give up. Her chest was bear-hugging itself. She couldn’t move her lungs past her ribs. All was heaving with spectacular confusion. The walls of her tiny bedroom pulsated, shuttering her eyeballs and causing her whole face to scrunch. Was this an actual physical pain? No. She had trained herself to fend for herself and push past sadness. For years she had accepted it all. She dealt with all. She was a grownup trouncing around with openness and patience and a stellar heart. No, no. This couldn’t be heartache. No way. Something else. Maybe heartburn! Hahahaha…The thought of her heart scorched and toasted by a spicy salsa or lightly burnt on the edges by a heavy meal was much more appealing. Not to mention the imagery lent itself to a few brief moments of distraction. Her legs now felt the pull of gravity. She fell to her lavender sheeted bed, the temperature matching the cool color tones of her comforter. What the hell? This was laughable, being this week. Okay, it wasn’t being this weak, but really feeling so deeply like this. And especially about something as silly and as small as this. How is it possible? The bed swallowed her now. Or she wanted it to. Take me away. Just for a bit. This is so…ridiculous.--

Trevor Maylor. 6th grade. That little prick. He tried kissing her once before and she avoided it. The toss of her head made a perfect hair slap in the face. But she could not avoid it this time. They were by the vending machines after school. She just wanted a Sprite. She didn't want to kiss him. So she told him. Loudly. With wild gestures and verbal ridicule that only a 12 year old girl with mountain sized self-dignity could produce. And what did he do? He grabbed her and kissed her anyway. His big wet lips, much bigger than hers, right on her face. Right smack dab in the middle of her mouth with force and gusto! It was warm and she felt the smash of faces. His little prick nose smooshing her adorable little one. Yes Yes. –

“no!”

And in an instant her first kiss was stolen by a little boy with more freckles than hair in his armpits. That was not the way she wanted it to be. No this way. Not so…gooey. Why? Why did he do that? Why would he think it was okay to steal what was not his? What a little prick! So little!

She actually ran away. One of the only times in her life she ran away and not into the trouble. But this was different. This was truly personal. This was deep. This was her first damn kiss and it was stripped away. She was so exposed and violated and destroyed. She heaved. She scraped the air around her, desperately trying to gather oxygen for her lungs. Her ribs, like fingers or tree roots, began to wrap themselves around her heart---

Was the blackness getting lighter? Is that possible? Her room was now more visible. Everything had a slight tint of blue. or Gray. Grayish blue and splatters of black. The only warm color was coming from the light post 20 feet outside her window. With the blinds open her face was lit in slats, giving her a mysterious and movie-like quality. She liked that. Maybe she could go sit out at the lamp post. Sit under it. Just to the left of it. And someone could see her from her window or from about 20 feet away and take a picture and say ‘that looks like a movie. Man, that girl must be troubled. She must be going through it’ She could be noticed like in a movie and all this heaviness would make sense. These dramatics would be justified by the scenery around her and the simple mood the misty light set. Her real loneliness exposed under a lamp post at night. How cool. Stop. Stop it.

This is a problem that can be felt and solved. She was certainly not a robot. She felt. Oh, did she feel. She had trained herself to feel. Feel all that passed in front of her. Strangely enough, she always felt, but never lost control. Never wanted to scream. She had nothing to scream about. She made sure she had nothing to scream about. There is nothing to scream about. She wasn’t losing it. No. She was feeling it. She was feeling the loss. She was feeling her loneliness. That is all. He didn’t mean that much. Really? He meant a lot. Don’t say otherwise, please. Okay, he did mean something, but not enough to cause a whole earthquake. She sat up and pressed her back against the wall her bed was positioned against. It cooled her whole body. She leaned harder, letting her skin stick---

What would he look like without hair? He’d still be cute. She told herself that he would still look really really cute. Oh no, maybe he would have a peanut shaped head. Or worse, it’d be pale with a giant divot. Could she still be attracted to a man without hair? He was supposed to have hair! that’s why God gave him so much of it. He obsessed over it. Hair everywhere! He’ll look good… Hopefully. Oh no, She’s going to call him peanut head or insult him or something. She'll be dating a peanut head. It's not bad! The first time he walked out of the bathroom without hair, he stood in the doorway, tremoring between laughter and tears and anger. He still looked good! a little off. But very good. But God, that was a huge peanut head---

She hung her head between her legs and slouched the slumpiest slouch. All her memories were falling right here, between her pajamas and on her bed. Oh my God! Her laugh filled the whole room. It cut through the darkness with a warm bright smoke. It echoed and danced off her open closet door and drummed back to her. That felt good. That laugh came from a good place in her body.

The boy she loved was slipping away. And no one had control. Not even him. A sickness. A disease. A growing wedge between him and the rest of the world. All was lonely. Just the mass in his lungs and his mind and the smallness of his body. Oh boy! What fun, he often thought. What a picture, she often thought. She was trying to comfort the inconsolable. For the next few months she would push, with full strength, towards the unobtainable. There was only loss at the end of this race, but she ran into it anyway--

Stop it. Just stop it. I can’t do this.

Can’t do what?

All this. The story telling. I feel like we are missing the point or something.

But this is what is going on. This room. This moment.

Exactly. One moment, all revolving around me. I don’t want that.

That’s kind of what you need.

No. No more crying in a room. No more beds eating me or London-in-the-fog-lamp-post scenes.

But that’s what’s happening.

But what about the story? How should I remember him?

As he was, of course.

Which way is that?

Broken. Small. Weak. A champion of all giving up.

What about before the inevitable?

Broad, sturdy, surprising, witty.

I can’t do both.

You have to. You absolutely have to.

I’ll never heal will I?

That’s too loaded of a question for me.

How? You’re my conscious. My overseer.

Yeah, but not your fortuneteller. I can only narrate.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Narrate away.

She gripped the sheets with white knuckles

Which actually looked gray because it was dark and all that other descriptive bullshit, right?

Excuse me?

Yeah. Why try to hide the obvious? I’m a broken dam. I’ve been letting you out in slow increments and now you are threatening to burst me open. Tear me beyond rebuilding. You won’t even leave me two bricks. Ill become a giant basin, holding all the troubles I’ve been stopping. So why describe it with so much dribble and staunchness?

Because I am more articulate than you and you can’t tell a proper story.

Bullshit I can’t.

You can’t.

Yes I can.

Now, right now, how do you feel?

Pissed off.

Wrong. You’re not angry.

Shit yes I am. You can’t tell me how I feel. I’m irate! You have no control over that one, narrator lady!

Can I say something?

Yes.

You’re right. You’re pissed. You’re furious. No God, no living person, no food, no friend, no parent, no one can ever tell you how you feel. Nor could ever, ever make you feel better. You are miserable. An absolute and positive disaster. You know how I know? Because I see you. I see past what everyone else sees. And I am not saying you are a mask or a cover up. No, you are genuine. Really genuine. But everything you have stockpiled behind those ribs is threatening to split out and splinter your body. Sweetie, you’re done for. Absolutely done for. Maybe you did it to yourself. I am not quite sure. But I do know that you are missing something. In all your togetherness and all your ambition and all your quest you are dying. And for the first time ever we are seeing this monster, this lack of something, come spewing out. You’re falling, honey. I can’t shake you and wake you up to it. I can only say that you are finally there. And I could tell you how to change it; lend you exactly what you needed to fix it. But this time, I don’t think it is about adding on. It’s not about putting the icing on top of the cake. Or whatever the hell that would be. I think it is about peeling away what’s on top. He’s gone. Well, going. And if you remove whatever business or personal wellness you have on top of your heart you might be able to deal with this. Take what’s inside and blindly give it up….

….

….

….

….

She sat there in silence. Puzzled.

Huh?

What?

I’m not sure if I got a single thing you said.

Hm. You may not get it.

Then help me.

No, no. I don’t think that is a good idea. I’d rather let you go on your own.

My own?

Yes.

Like how?

Like this--------------------------------->

The annoying second conscious left the room. Walked right out the door like it were a real person. It didn’t slam the door or anything. It just kind of softly closed it. That was a more lasting impact. To slam the door would have showed impatience or anger and would have lost the point. But instead, it was a gentle walk out, leaving a lot of room for correctness---damn.

She folded her legs. Indian style. Or criss-cross-apple-sauce or whatever was politically correct now. She didn’t really care either way. It was a way to sit. And from here she thought about him. Thought of all the fairytale moments. All the kisses on the forehead. All the bald head/penis jokes. She melted away into all the warm thoughts she had of his controlled and purposeful hands. Or his incessant need to open every door for her. The road trip to visit her family that consisted of lots of car radio musical ballads. She thought on all these things and her feelings of loneliness ran away. Far far away. Nowhere to be seen. So far that the small, flea like specks that were their figures had disappeared. Almost as if they never existed. All her troubles. All her pains of seeing him skinny and frail. All images she ever had of holding his hand. All plans she had secretly made. Or at least thought in her head. All the times she thought of him when he wasn’t around. All the times she was sad that he was leaving and there was no way in hell to stop it. All the times she watched him shave his head in the mirror or she shaved it for him. All moments spent in the grocery finding the right flowers that wouldn’t make him feel like a sensitive little girl, but he would still really enjoy. All the times they went out to dinner after he was diagnosed and every time they ordered the same drink because for some stupid reason they liked the same beer. Every chance they got to kiss when he was in the hospital. All the times he won her that stuffed animal, the one at the state fair, the one he got from tossing a softball in the titled basket and he said he was made for carnival games and she laughed and was so stupidly proud of her stuffed rhino and the man who had won it for her. All those times. All the attempts to play the right song at the right time because he loved music and the mood it set and she wanted to set it for him. All the finger playing across the table. All the jokes about her giant apple cheeks and how she had an apple orchard for a smile. All the compliments he ever gave her after he was sick, because, quite frankly, he had no reason to lie at that point. He became a truth teller. So all the beautiful and hurtful things that amazing man, that incredible and passionate and loving man every said to her. Every last painful memory that she could conjure in those few moments, all tiny, puny thoughts of his pain and her pain and all the pain that had swirled, linked, chained and bonded them together, all of their shared heartache, all of it slipped down the drain of her mind…all of it. All of it. Every drop of it…...

…..

…..

….

….

Do you want my help again?

Yes. Please, yes.

She cried. Right there. In her bed. She cried.

Just finish it. Finish it the way it should be and not the way I want.

I don’t know what that should be.

Yes, you do.

I don’t. I mean it.

End with me collapsing into the pile of rubble you always saw me as.

Yeah. I should. But you’re more than that, aren’t you?

the beginnings

These are just bits i started. and might finish.

---

He thought his soul looked more like a snowball than anything. It wasnt gaseous looking. Not a jelloey substance being inside lit white. It wasnt rippling or pulsing. No no. Not his soul. It did not look like how anyone had described it ever before. His soul was crisp. Unsoiled. Perfect and circular. So why was he looking at it? This seemed so unjust to him. Why now? What did he do?
---

She often imagined she could fall asleep in God's palm. To rest her head on the pad just below His pointer finger, curl up with his thumb and let the deep gorge of the hand engluf her creating unending security. Tonight her eyes swallowed the black of the room like a drain. She ripped wrinkles into the sheets with her ringed hands, her pulse sent shockwaves through the matress and heaved her stomach. She was nervous for what was to come.

---

Father, we typically gather to pray for healing or miracles. Tonight is no different.

Thoughts on Doing Laundry

It had been 6 hours 23 minutes and roughly 14 seconds--15 seconds-16 seconds--since the laundry had been rescued from the dryer. The batch had gone cold. It was colorless. Whites dried at a low temperature and left to cool further. Michael, being neglectful, felt bad for the wrinkled v-necks and collared shirts. The underwear he had no sympathy for. They did not need to be presentable. He had no one to present them to. Not right now. The idea of pressed underwear was amusing. He began to sort, he in the chair, underwear and socks piled on the ironing board. Shirts (collared, long sleeved and all else) draped over the back of the chair waiting to be hung lightly.

Beside him sat a styrofoam container containing scrapes of refried beans, fragments of Mexican rice and two shreds of lettuce. The Taco/Burrito Palace. Michael had been seven nights in a row to the small food joint. Six of them alone. One with the father of a friend. The place reeked of foreign joy constantly. The light was always a warm, open and noticeably yellow. There was never any obnoxious music, not the cliché mariachi that often seemed to make fun of Mexican music rather than be it. No, it was always the rising and falling inflections of sports commentator excitement from the television. And when the right thing was ordered the best sound was ssizzzzzle of the grill.

Going there was Michael’s way of visiting a different country; his way of leaving. He sat among two Mexican policeman and the passing of white drunk people looking for booze food. But the only people that stayed for longer than 15 minutes were Michael and the two men in uniform. They watched soccer games together. Michael never thought much of soccer, but viewing its fast and enduring pace in this place made him excited. He made eye contact with the other two whenever there was a near miss at the goal or when the smack of two running bodies sounded. He could be a soccer player. He was always athletic. It was strange; he was not a work out junkie, just genetically blessed he guessed. Michael could always keep up with others, maybe even be faster, not stronger, but definitely just as quick. He could do it. This was the kind of thought Michael often had. He could forsake the years of schooling and job training and simply go into another field. Age was no issue. It would be a matter of money and finding a specialist to train him. Things like this didn’t seem easy, but he thought he could do them. Really do them. Be good at them. He could learn to juggle the soccer ball. He learned to correct his two left feet and danced the salsa in a Christmas Eve service at church once. Or maybe basketball. It would take time, but if every day were spent in the gym, specifying mechanics and sharpening instincts then there would be a chance to make a career out of it.

Ssi zzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle.

The television flashed shots of screaming fans. These people were nuts. A baby dressed in a demon costume. How does that happen? Pan out to the mother wearing a devil mask and dressed in shadowy dark robes. Oh. Never mind. The players moved with electric grace and spun the white ball with ease. He wondered how the ball curved like that when they kicked it? He could do that. He could bend it like Beckham. It would take some time, but he could do it. Maybe it wasn’t being a soccer player but rather, emulating one. He could do that well. He emulated writers in high school. Wrote poetry like E. E. Cummings. This one time he emulated Gene Kelly in some play he performed in college. He could emulate confidence when he needed it, patience when the situation called for a cool head. He spent half his damn life emulating his older brother. He emulated the perfect boyfriend role for six years of his relational life, pleasing the others and never actually able to be himse-

Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle. Scoop.

The place was always friendly. It was more of a heaven than a palace. They should rename the place. It was a safe ground for all those wanting to escape. You could come here to get away from bustling streets or bickering mates, gargantuan assholes hitting on you at bars. You could run towards well flavored chicken and authentic flour tortillas. Michael was escaping. This sharpened him, sprung everything good in him, relaxed him. Michael sat for an hour each night among Spanish television shouts and sideways glances. That’s all he did. He didn’t have to think about her--or about his feelings. He especially didn’t think about where he was going in the future or what job he needed or what apartment he was supposed to move into next. And this was his problem. So many-

Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. “Dos Quesadillas, amigo”

Not for Michael. He was a taco kind of guy if that makes any sense. Tonight’s game was Mexico versus Hungary. Are you serious? Hungary? This is a tad ridiculous. Is there really no small way to escape this, God? He didn't want to watch this game. Tonight’s order would be to go. The selection was met with a crooked eyebrow from the register Mexican twin. The cook Mexican twin mirrored his registered brother when he stuffed the order into a large paper bag with the accompaniment of Michael's two favorite salsas.

"Hasta manana, cabron," the register twin hollered at Michael as he left. He knew he was not really anyone's cabron.

Michael passed seven bars on his three block walk to the palace. The way back was always worse. There was something about colorful lights inside tinted windows and globs of gyrating bodies that promised Michael something he half wanted. He didn’t look down on or despise that life-style. He wanted to partake in the ritual of it all. The shirts and the flirting and the drinks. It just didn’t seem like one hundred percent him. He felt that was a life style that took real commitment. A dedication he was not willing to put forth. Not towards that anyway. Some of it looked really fun. Michael often wanted to be inside the bar, talking to new people and smelling sweet liquors. His mind was constantly on other things. Well, really it was one thing that lead to many things that caused reflection on a lot of other things. All these things. Subjects. He often referred to them as problems. A term that most of his friends told him to ignore. It was their way of keeping him from himself. The walk back consisted of drive-by flirting with girls in his head. Tonight a girl who took an extra long drag on her cigarette was the subject.

-Hi, girl standing outside of club that I would never really go for, but still wouldn’t mind talking to.

-Hey, boy strolling by club that wants me but would never have a chance because we just don’t really match.

-I know someone prettier than you.

-Ouch. Why would you say that?

-it’s not your fault. She’s all I can think about.

-Tell me you won’t think about me later tonight.

-I won’t think about you tonight.

-Have a good night, boy.

-You too, girl. Sorry it couldn’t work out.

-I know you have something better than me.

Tonight he abandoned the laundry and was now going back to it.

Socks. They never evoked any memory. Not really. This is how he treated laundry, like a big sack of memories that he could reach into, pull out something warm, not visited often and could be accessed for entertainment. Each handful brought out a story or a person. He began this game when he folded clothes for his mother. He made chores exciting that way. Sweeping became hockey and mowing the lawn was like painting with light and dark shades of green. Laundry was about memory and story. Socks, however, were tug-of-war fights with his childhood dog and not much more. Maybe winter. Double socks in the winter. But this was something to do. Folding, smoothing, cleaning up his life in small ways. Pairing socks was like figuring out his problems. A search for the match required work and thought. And always the answer. The beauty of chores, the solving of problems. So Michael folded. Grabbing each item, finding a memory and folding it up in his mind. The white collared shirt with a gray windowpane pattern. This was a dancing shirt! A wedding, a hardwood floor and 200 other bodies packed together, celebrating the love of two people. Strangers to most except themselves. This one had to be folded with pizzazz. So flare it would be. Michael grabbed each sleeve at the end, draped it against his body, held it close in the best slow dance position. Faces pressed closely at the cheek, hands cupping each other that feels like spooning for palms and tummies securely fastened to each other; everything resembling intimacy. And he swung that shirt in one complete circle with show and flash. The circumstance was the dance. It was about the closeness and the feel of 70 percent cotton, 30 percent silk blend. The umbrella whoosh of the unbodied cloth. And then the dip, oh the dip. What a dip! The neck line and collar simply falling open, succumbing to the music and mood and irresistible partner. Thank you for this dance, good sir. Whoosh, whoosh, slip, slip. The shirt and memory and wood floor now folded and fluffed ontop of the pile of others. Daydreams and basketball games, car rides, late night dinners and Christmases all crisply compartmentalized into squares and buttons facing up.

Blue sock. Two black socks. A match.

A white shirt with a vintage MTV logo on it. Hand-me-down. Fake big brother. Guitar lessons. Quitting guitar lessons. Love for fake big brother. Love for real brother and fake big brother being together.

Other blue sock. Whoosh. Match.

Oh my. Tie-dye shirt. Whoosh. Flip. Flip. He’ll ask for no memories from that one. Just a weird night of outdoor grilled food, bad movies and a strange attempt to fit in.

Get back here. Last black sock. Final Match.--

--And the sweater. A dark grey cardigan sweater. He wore it all the time. Over t-shirts, v-necks, collared shirts if he wanted to dress it up more. It was a comfort article. Bought with hesitance, but now kept forever on his shoulders. It was his, but he wanted to give it to her. It was one of those ridiculous couple things that he actually did buy into. He felt more like a man if she wore his shirt. He would never want to lay claim to her, he just wanted to be with-

Whoosh. Flip. Pause.

Too many things. Too many. He gave it his all, but he couldn’t shake the thought of her. It was hopeless. He knew he was hopeless. He held it half folded hoping he would only half think of his feelings for her. He hated how he thought of her. The first ceiling-glances of his morning were filled with her. A stroll downtown was with her, she’d pop in while washing a dish and eating a peanut butter and jelly stood no chance. She was in Hungary and he was just left hungry. There she was. The most beautiful monster curling up the back of his neck, stroking his mind and holding his chest. Did she know this? No. Should she? Probably not. This was not her fault. It was all his things. All his moments. Damn, this sweater. Damn this goddamn, fucking sweater. It was caught in his throat. He wanted to curse his damn throat. For seven months his throat had stopped everything from fully entering him. Or coming out. He couldn’t smell the commercial, homey smell of laundry because of his throat. He couldn’t discover things, couldn’t find the answer to his past, couldn’t cry about his own life because of that throat. There was something in the way. A block. A giant roll of socks holding up his throat, refusing to let him go. And now this sweater was weaving itself into his skin. He wouldn’t be able to shake it. The cotton could overtake his flesh and loop itself around his stomach. He wanted her to ask for it. He wanted her to say I love that sweater and the way it looks on you and I bet it would be too big for me but I would love to know that I own something of yours and I would love to look cute in that and see the look on your face when I put it on. I want that. He wanted her to say something like that. He wanted that because of all these other things caught in his throat. He wished he could throw it all up; rip out his tongue and anything that ever lied. Stupid laundry and all its stupidness and its ability to make him feel stupid things. Just come out. Please. He wanted to get rid of every moment he felt not good enough or wrong. He wanted to finally prove it. Find the one, biggest thing going on in his life, solve it and prove to the rest of the world that he was allowed to be there. He was allowed to live and exist and influence and love and drink coffee and teach and talk to others. He wanted to shred his own heart and throw it deep into the darkness. Anything that stirred down there could eat it and he would never have to see those problems. How can you love and hate yourself? He could build himself a new heart because all these things were too much for him. They were too much. He could say farewell to the overburdened, trying too hard heart that clung to a sweater and the wonderful her. He never wanted to get rid of her, just the things that surrounded her and polluted her. The things she didn’t know about. Probably shouldn’t know about. The things in his life that made him completely and utterly him. To be these things and be wanted seemed like too much. For anything.

Whoosh. Flip. Whoosh. Drip.

Damn. There it was. Part of the sleeve was a darker gray. Now two parts—three. Three splattery circles he hadn’t seen in a long time. A shiver rippled through him like walking outside at night without a shirt. It hit him right in the back of his stomach, where his spine was. Damn, that throat.

Whoosh. Flip. Folded.

It was on top of the stack and now it was staring.

So Michael stared back.

All the comfort he wanted lay beside him, fully eaten and watching soccer. And the things near him were folded. It was one night of many, again, left up too late and searching for too much. He felt so vague. He felt like the soft edges of all his cotton shirts. Rounded, barely defined, worn. They could only know their potential when dressed. Maybe he overreacted. He did that from time to time. He was getting better though. He sat staring in all his strangeness and vulnerability. The night passed three, the sweater still on top and he slept without putting away his things.