Boldly Going.

Heart: I've got something to say. I want to put some words together, express myself...
Head: Something creative? That's good. Something to keep you focused.
Heart: That's what I was thinking...I used to write fairly well...A "blog"...I could post a blog!
Head: Your punctuation stinks. You are human run-on sentence. It's called a "gerund"...Are you sure about that, sparky?
Heart: Go fuck yourself, Einstein.

Load.
I've reached a crossroads, and I'm listening to the wind. If you see me looking around, you might think to yourself; "That guy needs a GPS. He's surely lost and needs direction." Except, I don't feel lost at all. I am quite certain I have no idea where this place is, and I am just fine standing here on this spot. That's where I am. On this spot. Somewhere back a few years and miles ago, I ditched the map in favor of wandering, and letting the world come to me. It hasn't always been easy out here on the edge, I've had times where I've had to lighten my load along the way; I took on some weight, dragged an anchor, and had to cut ties. Big dreams were slowly discarded as encumbrances that were too heavy, too unwieldy, and completely unnecessary on my path. I traded some dreams for some experiences, you might say. The pack on my back is full of stories, and I'm listening to the wind.

Wash.

I was once described by my old friend John Orr as "a Sage clothed in the raiment of a comedian." I have to blushingly admit that I really dig the image, because even though it's a little florid and archetypical, referencing the fool Touchstone, he sort of hit the nail on the head on a part of my personality that I have come to understand and trust. Shakespeare's fool in As You Like It, is a court jester, a dichotomy of wisdom and folly, a chuckle-head. Touchstone is supremely self-aware: "The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool." I get that. I have that awareness of myself, with all of my pseudo-intellectualism in balance with actual useful wit. Like Touchstone, I'm a cynical observer of the human comedy, offering up sardonic little zingers, a sort of hit-and-run style of comedy; Think: A less-fey, more-bitter Noel Coward. I practice it on Facebook and a million text messages to my friends. Like Touchstone, I don't really care if it's funny or not, you throw it out and see how the world reacts, a little like throwing a flash-bang grenade into a room...you toss and watch the comedy unfold. I've been criticised by friends and frienemies as a person who doesn't have a filter. That's true. I discarded it. It got me into trouble. My filter was someone else's idea of what's proper and good and "courtly".

Rinse.

I haven't looked at a Playboy in years. Once, the line of demarcation between total boyhood innocence and furious pubescent machinations in the back of the closet, the old boy was the conduit into the world of Sin and Skin. Back in the day, young men of a certain age could gaze upon Miss September or The Girls of the Pac-Ten with reverential awe and appreciation for the female form that was akin to ogling Venus before her arms fell off. This was the stuff that caused men to jump into a thousand ships for THAT FACE. We all knew where dad hid his copies, (under the mattress, his side of the bed) or our older brothers (top shelf, back left of the closet) and would "beat" a hasty retreat when we were left alone in the house, back to the closet or maybe the bathroom. The covers were glossy, and they had that hidden icon that you had to search for, like a pervy "Where's Waldo". The magazine smelled good, like a very expensive perfume. The cover girl promised something unusual and exotic. Inside, near the front, the pages teased you with a table of contents, some risque comics, and some stereo equipment advice. The good stuff was towards the back. Slowly scanning those pages, we looked and leered and imagined. The payoff was always there. Tits. Big Ones. Really, Really Big Ones. These were not found in my neighborhood. These were special tits: not my sisters' tits, or my neighbors' tits. These tits were bigger than my Oklahoma, a clarion call, something like Hamlet telling his old buddy, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Playboy had it's moment with me, and I surely took a few moments with Miss September in all her backlit glory. Seduced by something I couldn't possibly understand, at a crossroads even then, I boldly went where no man went before. How in the hell was I supposed to know that pages could get stuck together?

Spin.

I go in dirty, I come out clean. I walk in over-loaded, socks and skivvies spilling everywhere, a pocketful of couch cushion quarters causing a noticeable bulge in my front pocket, and as a matter of fact, I am glad to see you. I pick out my turf: Four sturdy single-washers with an adjacent folding table, near the magazine rack filled with The Greensheet, The Apartment Guide, and FW Weeklys. On a good day, there may be the best reading material of all: very strange religious tracts from a group that calls themselves "The Inspired Body of Christ". I like the illustrations, especially the depiction of The Devil. He looks a little like Simon from American Idol. Turning my attention to the sorting process, I remember that I forgot the pre-treater. The collars of my white shirts will have to be scrubbed by hand. I check my jeans pockets and turn out my socks, and debate tossing out the Worlds Oldest T-Shirt. Not this time. I may lose an inch or two in my chest and be able to wear the Red Shazam outside of the house. It will be VINTAGE and people will pay twenty bucks for a shirt like that. Suckers. I notice in the corner that Su is there, folding someone's clothes, and she really stinks at it. The t.v.'s in each corner are blaring Sabado Gigante, which is strange because it's a very insignificant Friday. Quarters in, soap and rinse in, and Hot or Cold? Cop a squat, take a breath, and listen... Spanish. Viet Namese, Incoherant Rambling of the Old Drunk Guy...Su laughing, Baby-Talking the occupant of the car seat, washers agitating, water lines pressuring up, a burned-out ball-bearing squealing. Metronomic tumbling of twenty driers laced with the thump-thud of someone's tennis shoes being burned to a crisp. Time passing. I glance at my machines. Two done, two finishing. I track down a cart and do the turn, one after another, and step out to cool off. Twenty minutes later, and after a quick "how's everything" chat with Su, and a few moments checking out Sorta Hot-Mom before remembering not to ask out laundromat girls on account of they're too poor to afford a washer...my driers are chiming and I'm furiously folding. Meticulous, straight-line folds. Just like my ex-wife taught me. I load my basket and notice that it looks like it's lighter than when I came in, yet it's all there, everything orderly and neatly stacked. One last look in the driers for the disappearing sock trick, and I'm out the door with a wave at Su and a wink at Sorta Hot. I go in dirty, and I come out clean.